Krysia

by Krystyna Mihulka

  His words scared me. Could this really happen to us? I looked over at Marysia. She had a puzzled look on her face, as if she, too, were trying to understand if what Pan Kowalski said could ever come true. His words seemed unreal. They sounded like something I might read in one of my father’s history books, not like something that could ever be part of my life.

  This formal portrait of me was taken before I had any understanding of how the war would affect my life.

  After Pan Kowalski’s visit life went on its usual way, but things slowly began to feel different. On October 1 the announcement came that Hitler had invaded Sudetenland, a region of Czechoslovakia. After that, when we went to the Wedel Café, there seemed to be more and more people crowded inside, all talking about the possibility of war. I could feel tension in the air. On March 16, 1939, Hitler marched into Czechoslovakia, and my parents began discussing openly the need to stock food in the cellar and buy bags of sugar and flour.

  One day at dinner I didn’t want to eat what had been served. My father spoke to me sternly: “Eat, because one day you might want food but there won’t be any.” How was it possible not to have anything to eat? I wondered. Was that what the war was about?

  My mother had made me a mask out of cotton, gauze, and elastic, as Pan Kowalski instructed, and I carried it to school every day. For a long time there were no drills. Then one day the wailing of a siren pierced the silence of the classroom, where we were doing arithmetic at our desks. We all jumped out of our seats and rushed to line up outside.

  “Put on your masks!” one of the teachers shouted.

  The newly dug trenches were a short distance from the building. We dropped down onto the soft ground, giggling and pushing each other. If this was war, then it was fun, I thought. Airplanes flew in circles above us, adding to the deafening sound. We stayed on the ground until the siren stopped and the teachers called, “Time to go back!”

  When I got home that day, my mother said, “If the siren blows when we are home, then we all have to go down to the cellar. Will you remember that, Krysia?”

  “Sure.”

  The radio was on, like always. Hitler’s voice now sounded louder, rasping and ominous. It made me feel afraid, but I tried to shake off the fear. I was also filled with curiosity: What would the war really be like?

  2

  The Last Autumn of Peace

  “Don’t run so far that I won’t be able to see you,” shouted my mother.

  “Tak, Mamusiu! Yes, Mommy, I hear you!” I called back. It was late September 1938; the air was cold and crisp, with a light wind rustling through the branches of the tall oak trees. This was the best time of year, I thought, before rainy and foggy November and then the endless snow and frost of the winter months. Antek and I were chasing each other in the park. A few screeching crows fought over bread crumbs somebody had left on a bench. The other birds had all flown to warmer climates. People of all ages strolled leisurely along the narrow paths in the park. Some led dogs that barked and pulled at their leashes. Voices and laughter carried across the park, adding to the happy and relaxed mood of the afternoon.

  The fallen leaves covered the ground like a carpet of vibrant colors: rusty burnt sienna, dark red, mustard yellow, olive green, and bright orange. Antek and I rolled in them, having fun, while our mother watched us, smiling. I could feel the love flowing out of her big brown eyes. A dark-green felt hat covered her wavy, shiny chestnut-colored hair. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  “Children, time to gather some leaves before we go home,” she called. We ran to her, and she gave us two little baskets she had brought along.

  I picked through the cold, damp leaves, choosing only the best-looking ones. Different shapes and sizes soon filled my basket. Antek, being only four, was slower, and I wanted to offer to help, but I knew he liked to do it himself.

  My mother looked at her watch. “It’s almost four o’clock, and your father will be coming home for dinner. Let’s go.”

  “Can we please have some Penguin ice cream on the way?” I asked.

  “Only if you promise to eat your dinner.”

  “We will, we will!”

  We walked out of the park, into the street. The last rays of the sun were still lingering, but dusk was approaching. Passing tramcars made clicking sounds, and one-horse carriages waited for passengers by the sidewalk. Soon we reached a kiosk where soda water, chocolate and lemon wafers, and ice cream were sold. A big poster of a penguin hung on the door of the kiosk. Penguin ice cream—vanilla ice cream on a stick, covered with chocolate—was the latest novelty from Warsaw, Poland’s capital. I loved its sweet flavor, which tasted better than any homemade concoction.

  Antek poses proudly with his new tricycle for this formal portrait.

  When we got home I put the leaves I had collected between pages of heavy books so they would dry. Later I would take them out and play with them, arranging them into different patterns.

  Soon enough the glorious autumn was gone and winter set in. In spite of the cold, I loved December because of its two holidays: Saint Nicholas Day on December 6 and Christmas. Saint Nicholas was especially exciting because of all the gifts. All Polish children knew that after we went to sleep on December 5, Saint Nicholas would sneak into our homes and leave us presents. When we woke up the morning of the sixth, there they were! The year before I had pretended to be asleep so I could see Saint Nicholas, but instead I saw my mother sneak into my room and arrange all the presents on my bed! I was shocked, but I knew better than to tell her what I had seen. I was afraid I wouldn’t get presents anymore if I told.

  When I woke up on Saint Nicholas Day this year, there were crayons and books for me—I loved to draw and paint and read. (My favorite days were the ones when I didn’t have to go to school but could stay home and read by myself.) Sometimes I also got a doll on Saint Nicholas Day, but not this year. The one thing I—and most Polish children—always got was a red velvet devil. The size of the devil depended on how good or bad you had been during the year. I had a really big one this year because I hadn’t been nice enough to my brother.

  Since Saint Nicholas brought gifts earlier in the month, Christmas was not much of a gift-giving occasion. We just had small presents under the tree—little boxes of chocolates or candies, maybe an exotic orange. The fun part of Christmas was decorating the tree the day before. Ciocia Tocha, my mother’s youngest sister, came to help; we wrapped candies, chocolates, and homemade gingerbread cookies in colorful papers. On one end of each paper wrapper we tied a piece of wool thread and made a loop so we could hang the candy on the tree. In the days after Christmas, we ate all the goodies off the tree! We carefully placed small candles in little holders that clipped to the tree branches. When the candles were lit, the room turned magical. I thought our tree this year, with all its trimmings, was the most beautiful one we had ever had. Maybe I remember it as so beautiful because it was the last one we ever had in our home.

  3

  Strangers in the Sky

  September 1, 1939, started just like any other day. My father left for court, my mother went out on some errands, and Antek and I stayed at home with Mila, our beloved nanny and housekeeper. Autumn had barely begun, so school hadn’t started yet.

  “Krysiu, Antek,” Mila called. “We are leaving for the park by 11 o’clock. Get ready.”

  I couldn’t wait to go. I was eager to start gathering a collection of colorful leaves to press and dry.

  At about 11 o’clock we left the house and walked to the kiosk at the corner, where we stopped for some sparkling lemonade. An electric tram passed us and came to a stop nearby. A one-horse carriage carrying two passengers made a clicking noise on the cobblestone street. A crowd was gathered around the kiosk, discussing the latest news about the war everybody knew was coming with Germany. Nobody knew just when, or how, it would begin.

  The roaring sound of airplanes broke the tranquility of the peaceful scene. I looked up and saw five low-flying, d
ark-colored shapes with a strange sign resembling a broken cross painted on each one. I heard someone say, “Our pilots are training—getting ready for the war.” I thought they did not look like Polish airplanes, but children were not supposed to voice their opinions to grown-ups, so I kept quiet.

  Suddenly a loud explosion reverberated in the air.

  “Bombs, bombs!” someone shouted.

  “Boże, zlituj się! God have mercy!” another voice wailed.

  The crowd dispersed in a panic. Mila grabbed Antek and shouted, “Szybko, szybko, lećmy do domu! Quick, quick, hurry home!”

  We rushed home. I had never seen Mila run so fast; I could barely keep up with her.

  We should have gone right to the cellar, but we were too curious, so instead we ran upstairs to look out the windows. From our windows, I could see the Polish army’s military training base up on a hill. The tall gray buildings were visible against the cloudless blue sky. I watched as the planes flew over them, and I saw bombs falling. The sound was deafening, louder than when we were on the street. I dropped to the floor, covering my ears, shaking and crying. Antek screamed and held onto Mila.

  Mila tried to calm us. “Don’t be afraid. Soon it will be over.”

  I heard the wailing of the warning siren. Why did it start so late?

  I looked again out the window at the military buildings, but, to my amazement, they were gone. Instead, a ball of fire met my eyes. The planes had vanished as quickly as they had come.

  A few hours later my mother came home. She was pale and looked very upset. She grabbed Antek and me and held us closely, exclaiming, “You’re okay! You’re okay! I was so worried—so many people were killed today. Germany attacked us without declaring war, and without any warning. When the next attack comes,” she instructed, “we must all go down to the cellar.”

  “Mamusiu,” I asked, “The planes had a strange sign painted on them. What was it?”

  “They are swastikas, the symbol of the Nazi Party. Hitler is their leader.”

  I knew who Hitler was. He was the man who was always screaming on the radio.

  My mother was trained as a Red Cross volunteer for a block of houses on our street. She put a white band with a red cross on her arm and packed her first aid kit. She gave each of us a mask in case of a poisonous gas attack and showed us how to use them. They were the same kind she had made for me to take to school. Then she gave us a warning: “Children, do not pick up any toys or candy lying on the street or in the garden. Germans are known to drop poisonous ones from the planes.”

  I didn’t understand. Why would anybody want to poison children?

  We started getting ready to live in the cellar, which was to be our bomb shelter. My mother and Mila gathered pillows, blankets, canned food, and dry biscuits. I was nine, and Antek wasn’t even five yet, but we helped by packing toys. I was given a small bench against the wall to sleep on, and my brother would sleep in his stroller. My mother and Mila would share an old sofa that stood in the middle of the cellar.

  We carried everything down the narrow stairs. It was dark and damp in the candlelit cellar. Sharp odors from a large barrel of sauerkraut and from a smaller one of pickled cucumbers filled the air. Shelves packed with jars of home-canned peaches, apricots, and strawberry jam lined the walls. A sandbox, filled with potatoes and apples stored for the coming winter, took up a lot of the floor space.

  Awaiting my father, we went back upstairs. When he came in he was accompanied by his brother, my wujcio Tomek, and a family friend. Without greeting us, they locked themselves in the study. I stood near the door, trying to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t hear anything they said.

  When they finally emerged, their faces were sad. My father explained to Antek and me that he and my uncle were reservists in the Polish army. That meant they had to report for duty now that the country had been attacked. He turned to my mother and said with emotion, “Please, take care of yourselves.” Then he turned to Antek and me. “Children, obey your mother.”

  They embraced us and were gone.

  My mother tried to hide the tears in her eyes, but I could see them. I was distressed at my father’s leaving, and afraid of what would happen next. Antek played happily with his toy horse on wheels, not understanding the seriousness of the situation.

  A few days later the Germans attacked Lwów and the fighting began. Whenever the siren sounded we would rush to the cellar. The electricity was cut off, but luckily we still had water. Between the air raids we could go upstairs to wash. When we did, we could hear the bullets whistling outside.

  Sitting in the dark cellar for hours every day, breathing in the smell of sauerkraut and pickled cucumbers, made me long to breathe fresh air and see the sky. After about a week, I couldn’t bear it any longer. Without asking permission, I sneaked up the cellar stairs to the door that led into the small garden at the back of the house. I felt safe there. I breathed in the early autumn air. The leaves were blowing off the trees, covering the ground in brown, yellow, and purple. I had just bent down to pick up the ones I liked best when something whistled past my ear. I froze. I knew instantly. A bullet.

  Shaking, I ran into the house. My mother was frantic. “Where did you go?” She noticed the two leaves in my hand. “How could you go outside? Promise never to do that again!”

  “I promise, I promise,” I whispered meekly. I didn’t tell her about the bullet. Had I not bent to pick up the leaves, I could have been shot. Maybe the leaves saved my life.

  Finally, one morning all was quiet. Mila went out, and when she returned she had several leaflets, which had been dropped by a German plane. “All women and children should leave the city by 4 pm,” my mother read. After that time, the city was to be destroyed.

  It was up to my mother to make a decision. Her face was pale and worried. She sat down on the sofa in the cellar and held us close. Finally, she spoke, in a decisive voice.

  “If we stay here, we will die, but at least we will die in our own home. We are not leaving.”

  Soon after four o’clock the bombing started again, louder and stronger than before. We wore our masks in case of a poisonous gas attack. Jars of canned food began falling off the shelves. The air was full of dust from the walls. My mother held Antek closely; he was crying. I grabbed Mila’s skirt. “Trust in God,” my mother tried to comfort us.

  I was terrified, but tried not to show it. My body was tense, my heart was beating quickly, and I wanted to scream, but no sounds came out. I remembered what my father once told me: “In the face of danger, be brave. Only the weak show fear.” Easier said than done, I thought now.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the bombing stopped. We climbed out of the cellar. Our house still stood, although half of the roof had been destroyed. Glass from broken windows was everywhere, but we were alive.

  The next morning all was quiet again; there were no bombs and no whistling bullets. My mother said, “That’s strange. It’s the 10th day of the invasion, but I don’t see any Germans moving in. Our Polish soldiers must be good fighters.”

  Later that day my father came home, still in uniform. He looked tired, and his usually smiling eyes had lost their twinkle. We ran to him, and he embraced us.

  “Children, children, I am so glad to see that you are safe! It’s a good thing you didn’t walk out of the house yesterday. I heard that those who left their homes were bombed on the road and did not survive.” He turned to my mother. “You made the right decision. It was very brave of you.”

  My mother smiled in reply and put her arms around my father. Then she asked, “But why are you here and not with the army?”

  “The Germans are retreating. I was dismissed, but nobody told me why. Let’s listen to the radio.”

  The announcement came as soon as we turned on the radio. “The Polish government has surrendered. The battle for Poland has been lost.” Then everything went silent.

  “Where are the Germans?” my mother wondered aloud. “Why didn’t they occupy the city?”


  Wujcio Tomek arrived. He was taller than my father, with chestnut hair and a suntanned face. I loved him because he always let me stand on one of his legs while he swung me back and forth. He also laughed a lot.

  This is one of the last pictures taken of my family together. We had no idea that we would soon be separated, or of the suffering and tragedy that we would come to endure.

  Today there was no smile on his face. He told us, “I heard from my commanding officer that the Russians are taking over our part of Poland.”

  My parents looked shocked. “Why? How is this possible?”

  My uncle continued, “I’ve learned that on August 23, Hitler and Russian leader Joseph Stalin signed a secret treaty called Ribbentrop-Molotov. They became allies and divided Poland between themselves.”

  Everybody was silent. Finally, my father said quietly, “That’s unbelievable. We have no idea what to expect next.”

  I listened carefully, growing more confused with every word I heard.

  That night I was happy to be sleeping in my bed again, but in the middle of the night strange noises woke me. I got up and looked out the window but didn’t see anybody outside. The noise turned into a roaring, which grew louder and louder. Soon I saw tanks rolling and soldiers marching. The gas lamps on the street were broken, but the moon shone brightly, illuminating the silhouettes of the invading enemy. The Russians were coming, their boots striking the pavement with the sound of approaching doom.