TWO MEMOIRS OF WORLD WAR II

ROBERT OSNOS, M.D. MARIA OSNOS

Copyright © 2010 by Robert Osnos, M.D.

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

Book design by Mary Kornblum, CMYK Design Inc. and Naomi Osnos

Produced by Delia R. Mancuso, Mancuso Associates Inc.

Typesetting by Darlene Smith, Colebrook Copy Center

Proofreading by Janice Ronish

THE JOURNEY

Warsaw, Poland until June, 1940

Berlin, Germany 4 days

Belgrade, Yugoslavia (Serbia) overnight

Bucharest, Romania 6 months

Constanta, Romania overnight

Istanbul, Turkey overnight

Mersin, Turkey 2 weeks

Baghdad, Iraq 3 weeks

Basra, Iraq hours

Gulf of Aman hours

Karachi, India (Pakistan) overnight

Bombay (Mumbai), India 3 years

Panchgani, India 1½ years

Melbourne, Australia hours

Solomon Islands 1 day

San Diego, California 1 day

Los Angeles, California 3 days

New York City February, 1944 to the present

CONTENTS

Preface

Family

May 1934-August 1939

Warsaw, September 1939-June 1940

Bucharest to India

Bombay

USS Hermitage

Conclusion

Exodus

Joseph’s Exodus

PREFACE

This is a memoir and reflections on my childhood during World War II until I came to New York City in 1944.

My primary source is my memory. There are significant gaps in the story. I will discuss the many reasons for these.

Wikipedia provided a few details. The letter which is discussed in the “Bombay” section, was saved by my mother and is included in a book about our family “The Garden of Memories” by my cousin Joanna Roniker published in 2001. Joanna is a professional writer whose beautiful book covers the same terrain as I do and won a prestigious book award in Poland. There are no significant factual discrepancies between her book and my story, because we discussed in detail our wartime experiences.

In 1978 my mother Marta wrote a memoir called “Exodus” which covers our lives from 1939 until 1941 when we arrived in Bombay. I deliberately did not reread “Exodus” before I wrote my own first draft, so that I would not rely on it to fill my own gaps. Her description of our obstacles and how she and Joseph overcame them is particularly dramatic. I was not aware of many details as they occurred, either because I did not pay attention, or because I was not told about them. Specifically, I knew almost nothing about money.

There are discrepancies between what I remember and what Marta describes. I will refer to these in my text.

I am particularly pleased that when Marta writes about me, she describes almost the same person I think I was at the time: already orderly and controlling and always playing my cards very close to my vest. Probably I was angrier and more prone to escape into fantasies than either she or I realized.

My profession until I retired was psychiatry. Consequently the tone of this memoir is introspective. I am more adept writing about my reactions to tumultuous events, than describing these events. Consequently the reader will find the description of what happened and all the exotic places I saw rather skimpy.

I would like to thank my wife Naomi, my daughters Gwyn and Jean, and my brother Peter for strongly urging me, sometimes coercively, to write about my wartime experiences. Peter was only four months old when we came to New York, but we had the same parents, so the story is also very much about him.

FAMILY

My parents Joseph Osnos and Marta née Bychowski were born in Warsaw in 1904 and 1906. They met at a swimming pool in the Wisla river in Warsaw, and were married in Warsaw on May 15, 1930. Shortly after their wedding they moved to Paris where I was born on May 20, 1931.

Marta and Joseph were similar in important ways: optimistic, very strong willed, amazingly competent and resourceful (that is why I could write this, rather than being buried in Auschwitz).

As far as I know they were pillars of integrity. For example, Joseph always told me that he did not mind paying taxes because taxes reminded him of how much he was earning. I don’t recall hearing about conflicts with others about money, or being in debt.

They were both sociable, Marta particularly so. She maintained a lively correspondence with relatives and friends, and many women considered her their best friend. She also had life long platonic male friendships, some of whom had crushes on her. My father had crushes on a few women. He was more physically attractive than she was. I am fairly certain that they were faithful to each other. They were rarely affectionate in public. I may have once walked into their bedroom while they were having intercourse.

They were both non-practicing Jews who never tried to

“pass” as non-Jews (except when Marta bought confirmation certificates in order to leave Warsaw legally). Like many European Jews they considered themselves first as Poles, or Germans or French. They were aware of anti-Semitism and were to some extent victims of it before the war, but did not seem to be particularly bothered and bitter about it.

Also like many other European Jews they were snobs who looked down on the “shtetel” culture. Marta was fluent in Polish, French, German, Italian and then English. Joseph spoke Russian, but not Italian. They did not ever speak a word of Yiddish, and neither did any of their friends.

A dramatic example of their anti-Yiddish bias: For almost twenty years they lived in the Belnord, a distinctive West Side apartment house. Isaac Beshevis Singer, the Nobel Prize winner, was also a tenant there. (86th St. Amsterdam Ave. Broadway is now called I.B. Singer Street) Singer was from Warsaw, and though he wrote in Yiddish, probably spoke Polish fluently, as did his wife. None of his books were ever in our house. After Marta died I asked Joseph how come Ms Gregarious never tried to become friends with Mrs. Singer. He said “she was common”.

It is not surprising that my brother and I were given Christian names—I was named John Robert and he was Peter Lionel (Joseph’s father was Leon) Winston (Peter was born in 1943). Joseph was educated as an engineer. He had to go to Prague to get his university education, as did many other Polish Jews who could not get into a Polish university. In Paris he was a diamond dealer. When he came back to Warsaw in 1934 he started an electrical appliance factory. After a few years in New York, he started a successful air conditioning dealership with two close Polish friends.

Marta probably wanted to be a doctor like her father and older brother Gustav, but was not sufficiently disciplined when she was young (she was thrown out of one school because she talked too much in class). Also she probably did not want to live in a foreign country in order to go to medical school. She went to Warsaw University and then worked in a Polish pharmaceutical firm. In Bombay she worked in the censor office reading letters, including letters to and from her friends. In New York she was a biochemistry researcher at the Columbia College of Physicians and Surgeons and then at New York Hospital, until a few years before she died at 84 yrs.

There was a cartoon, probably in the New Yorker, which could have been about Marta: A motherly lady sets up a very elaborate laboratory experiment. In the next frame the experiment is very active, and she is talking on the phone. In the third frame everything explodes and other researchers are staring at the disarray intensely. She is still on the phone. In the last frame she is getting the Nobel Prize.

Marta’s father Sigmund was a well known physician in Warsaw and active in Jewish public health affairs. He attended the first Zionist Congress in Palestine. I am sure he did speak Yiddish. Sigmund was in the Russian army stationed in Crimea. I think that Marta was conceived when her mother Gisela visited him there. He probably was not a “nice” man. When Joseph was dating Marta and came to pick her up, Sigmund always came out and introduced himself “I am Bychowski” as if he were meeting Joseph for the first time. When he was having dinner and there was no salt on the table, he would go to a neighbor and say “there is no salt in our house, may I borrow some?” In the twenties Sigmund, Gisela and Marta went to Italy a few times. He rode in the Pullman car, and they had to sit up all night. As soon as they arrived in Rome they had to spend the whole day in the Sistine Chapel.

He diagnosed his own esophageal cancer, knew he could not be treated and went with Gisela to Palestine before he died. They also visited Paris where he bragged about me: “isn’t he wonderful, only two years old and already speaks French.”

I developed dysphagia when I was 72 yrs. and was certain that I had esophageal cancer. I was treated aggressively and hopefully I am cured.

Gisela was described to me by her nephew Janek who lived with her and Sigmund as an adolescent as “passive”. It was a most unusual trait in her family who were all charismatic, forceful and fiercely anti-Yiddish. Many of them survived the war. I met their descendants at several family reunions.

I have only a few memories of Joseph’s family, even though we saw them regularly and lived in their house during September 1939. Leon was a “merchant” who traveled between Russia and Poland and eventually settled in Warsaw. He died before the war. His wife Olga died in a concentration camp.

Leon had a younger brother Mendel who lived in Berlin. I will describe later our encounter with him in Berlin in 1940. Leon also had four younger sisters, two of whom migrated to USA. Sonia married a prominent Socialist Zionist Nachman Syrkin and had a daughter, Marie. When Sonia died, Syrkin went to Warsaw and married her younger sister Machette and brought her back to New York.

Machette became a psychiatrist and worked for many years at Bellevue. When I was a 4th year medical student I had an externship at Bellevue. Machette had by then retired. I visited her and talked about my externship. She asked “How can you treat your people if you don’t speak Yiddish?”

Machette’s daughter Zyvia is 90 yrs old lives in Berkley.

I speak to her regularly and she had important input into this memoir. We were all close to Marie, who taught at Brandeis and encouraged Peter to study there. Marie committed suicide in her nineties when she had an inoperable cancer.

Joseph was one of seven children. They all died during the war mostly in concentration camps. Joseph’s brother Zeno, a physician, was killed in Katyn. Joseph rarely talked about what happened to his family. His older sister’s son Zarka also migrated to New York and was close to us until he died. Peter and I consider his widow Erica as part of our family and she comes to all family functions.

I mention all these relatives to emphasize that Marta’s and Joseph’s families were always an important part of my life. Of course, this is not unusual. Many immigrants to USA maintain strong ties to their extended families and friends.

Returning to Marta and Joseph, the final chapter of this memoir is Marta’s story “Exodus”. It paints an accurate picture of who she was. Being forceful came naturally to her and she never seemed to have any doubts about what she had to do or what she had done. She liked people but always seemed to view them objectively. She did have a temper; Joseph was usually the object of her wrath, I was only rarely. I don’t recall what they usually argued about.

I think Marta and Joseph were good parents, but like many Europeans of their generation and social class they were not particularly interested in everyday parenting. Marta always worked, and before the war I was raised by “mademoiselles” and “fraulines”. I also spent a lot of time with Gisela, until she died in 1938.

Marta was responsible for my cultural development: museums, concerts (she played the piano very well and took me to many piano recitals, but my own piano playing was very brief), movies, and most importantly, reading.

However, I don’t remember ever just “hanging out” with her. She always purchased my clothing without me and often it did not fit quite right.

Joseph forcefully and correctly pressured me to be a doctor when I started college because he sensed that I would never be a good lawyer or a businessman and needed a stable career. I visited his factory in Warsaw, and worked one summer in his air conditioning firm as an assistant mechanic. I rarely, if ever, spent any time alone with him.

Peter, who is 12 ½ years younger than I, was affected much more by their mode of parenting, because Marta was already 37 and Joseph was 39 when he was born in India. He was sent to an overnight summer camp when he was 3 years old. He did not speak to them when they visited him on parents’ day. He went to a boarding high school in Connecticut-Cheshire Academy. One of Joseph’s workers always drove him there.

MAY 1934-AUGUST 1939

When Sigmund died in 1933 Joseph and Marta returned to Warsaw, ostensibly to take care of Gisela, but mostly because Marta was not happy in Paris. She complained that Joseph, who was then in the diamond business, spent too much time playing bridge on the train between Paris and Brussels. Apparently I refused to speak French after only a few days in Warsaw.

My first clear memory is from May 12, 1934—it was the funeral of the Polish hero General Josef Piulsidski. We lived on Marshakowska Street, which was Warsaw’s Park Avenue I was on the balcony watching the cortege; his casket was pulled by horses.

Most of my prewar memories are not unusual. The pleasant ones were family vacations in a popular mountain resort, Kopniece, and on a beach on the Baltic Sea. I remember feeling once that I was drowning. It did not traumatize me and I have always enjoyed swimming.

My first movie was a cartoon about the three little pigs which did frighten me. Despite that I have always loved movies. There were the ones with Shirley Temple. I vividly remember Snow White and being mildly afraid of the queen. I was particularly intrigued by the posters outside the theater advertising the next movie “Suez”, a “grown up” movie. I must have already known that the Suez canal

was an exotic place. It took years before I finally saw the movie and felt badly for Annabella who lost Tyrone Power to Loretta Young.

I also loved live entertainment. There was a circus: during the climax the circular stage becoming a lake with gondolas.

The bad memories entailed being sick. I was particularly terrified whenever a doctor came to our house and had to look at my throat—I was afraid of choking and asked if he could examine me if my mouth were closed. I was also afraid of going to the dentist (she was Joseph’s sister-in-law). I asked her if I had to open my mouth. When I went to have a haircut I asked if it could be done without my taking off my cap.

Whenever I had a fever I was treated with “cupping”. The cups were placed on my chest and created a vacuum so the area underneath them became red. This is an old Chinese remedy for everything. Either it is a placebo or the suction somehow stimulates the adrenal glands.

I was also terrified of vomiting because of the fear of choking. I decided that I could get over my fear by inducing vomiting. I ate a big slice of salami followed by a cup of sugar. Then I stuck my finger in my throat. I don’t remember if it worked.

My playmates were my cousin Jerzy and Bobbie whose father was a zoologist who had worked in Africa. He showed us movies of Africa and had a big bow and arrow in his study. I was once very cruel to Bobbie. His dog died and he was not told about it. Somehow I found out and then immediately told him. Bobbie emigrated to New York and we saw each other a few times as adults.

During the summers of 1938 and 1939 I spent a lot of time with Joasia who was 3 years younger. She was my

accomplice in the only really naughty act I remember doing. We put our urine in two bottles and tried to sell them as lemonade. I don’t remember how this escapade ended. As I mentioned in the Preface I discussed my wartime experiences with her more than with anyone else. She told me that as a child she thought that we would marry as adults.

Was I aware of anti-Semitism and did it effect me? I don’t remember anti-Semitism being discussed by my parents and their friends. It could have been. I rarely paid attention to what adults talked about.

I was sent to a public school, whereas other children I knew went to private schools, probably Jewish ones. I don’t know how much this was a matter of saving money, or wanting me to assimilate. Religion was a required course, and I left the classroom before the religion lesson started. Instead I had to attend a Jewish bible class. I was reprimanded by Marta for having ordered too many pamphlets during the first lesson. I was the only one in my class who was Jewish so that my leaving was always conspicuous. Probably this weekly routine was an expression of anti-Semitism.

I once cursed during a recess and was blackmailed by some of the other boys. I had to bring toys to school for them, otherwise I would be reported to the teacher. This stopped only after I told Marta and Joseph about it, or maybe they noticed that too many toys were missing. It is probable that the bullying was another manifestation of anti-Semitism.

Very early I was aware of the United States and New York as exciting and special places. There were of course movies, but there must have been other indications.

Marta’s cousin Karola was a journalist who was on the maiden voyage of Stefan Batory, the flagship of the Polish merchant marine, when it sailed to New York in

1936. She wrote a charming book about the experience, including three days in New York. She described a city which never slept, where there were newspapers lying on the streets because everyone threw them away after looking at them. In Warsaw we recycled newspapers to be used as toilet paper, or for wrapping meat and fish.

Karola also once wrote a newspaper column describing a special place where anyone could go and tell a listener about the movie he/she had seen the previous day.

These memories were not in any chronological order and there were many gaps between them.

All our lives changed dramatically on September 1, 1939. My memories from then on are much more vivid and I know when all the events occurred. However, there are still too many significant blanks.

WARSAW

SEPTEMBER 1939

TO JUNE 1940

When I started to think and write about my experiences from the time World War II began on September 1, 1939 until June 1940, when Marta and I left Warsaw, I was confronted with the following dilemma: why did I remember so little of that extraordinary period of my life? I was too old for the memories to have been simply erased, as they would have been if I were younger. Apparently our brains are not sufficiently developed to retain memories of what happens to us before we are three years old. I don’t know at what age almost everything starts to be registered and retained.

My not remembering has many aspects. Marta and I never reminisced about this period of our lives. Joseph, or as matter of fact, no one asked me about my wartime childhood experiences until I was an adult. It is my impression that it was not until the sixties, when the word “holocaust” became widely used that wartime experiences were freely discussed. An older Polish psychiatrist asked me then if I would participate in a project about the experiences of children during the war. I said that I was not in a concentration camp, so my experiences would not be particularly interesting or pertinent. She said dismissively that I was in denial. I should have asked her “denial of what?”

A related mystery: why was there no “Diary of Robert Osnos”? I am not suggesting that it could have become another iconic work of literature. However, many ordinary people, including children, have kept diaries when they lived through “interesting” times. During my whole education and career I have enjoyed writing and did it easily. I think that the explanation for my not keeping a diary during the war is as follows: writing about an experience as it occurs requires both observing and thinking about it, which I did not choose to do, most probably without realizing that I was not doing it. (I prefer not using the word “unconsciously”.)

The usual explanation for not remembering, which was offered by those I discussed it with, was that the wartime experiences were so traumatic that I repressed the anxiety I felt at the time, as well as memories of the events associated with the anxiety. The problem with the “repressed memories” theory is that I remember being very anxious and feeling traumatized only twice during this time. The usual retort to that statement is that this all happens in the unconscious.

I believe that “repressed memories”, when they do exist, can usually become conscious very quickly, if painfully. I have had patients who knew that they had been sexually molested as children, but did not think about it. When they did start to talk about it, after only one or two sessions they vividly remembered what happened and experienced all the emotions that were associated with the events.

After they did talk about these events, they usually could decide if the events had any relevance to their current lives. If they did not, the memories were “stored” again. I think that many “repressed memories” which emerge after

a lot of time and effort deal with events that probably never really occurred.

Apparently persons with multiple personalities can go back and forth between these quite quickly.

I was in analysis four or five times per week for five years in my early thirties. I am quite certain that I never recovered any painful memories of what happened during those months in Warsaw.

Another explanation for my apparent lack of anxiety was that I was never physically harmed, or even came close to being harmed. Also, I never saw anybody die, and was never really cold or hungry.

Yet another reason for my lack of anxiety is that I had complete trust in my parents. This was not just childhood idealization. They were both extraordinarily competent during all our crises and never appeared frightened or discouraged. The two times that I was obviously terrified I felt abandoned by them.

Furthermore I was at an early age very good at rationalization. I believed that I was safe during the month of bombing because we stayed in a first floor apartment and our building was more solid than those around us. (Ironically, my grandparents’ Twarda building was one of the very few in the ghetto which survived until the twenty-first century.)

Closely related to the above was the belief that I was safe if I could do something to protect myself. I always carried my gas mask, even when I went to bed. I diligently helped to cover windows with paper so that our building lights would not be seen during an air raid and the building was then less likely to be a target for planes.

Just to clarify what I mean by “little memory”: I do

remember isolated vivid moments, but not the day-to-day routines and how I spent most of my time.

I believe now that the most critical explanation is as follows: I lived in a fantasy world which protected me from paying attention to what was going on around me. This fantasy world was Jules Verne, Hugh Lofting, Mark Twain, Lewis Carroll, an important Polish writer Janus Korchak and Arabian Nights. I was a voracious reader who daydreamed that I was with Captain Nemo, Phineas Fogg, Dr. Doolittle, Tom Sawyer or young King Michael. I haven’t gone back to any of these books, but was always intensely moved when I saw “Around The World in 80 days” or movies based on the Arabian Nights.

I haven’t done research on this subject, but I am sure there is child psychology literature on how fantasies protect children. I was running away from pain, as well as running toward pleasure.

I need to emphasize why the lack of anxiety is so important. It is generally believed that anxiety always occurs if there is a catastrophe. Even the academic thinking is clear about this. One of the important innovations in the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-3), written in the early seventies, proposes that a psychiatric evaluation should have five “axes”:

Axis I: is there a mental disorder?

Axis II: is there a personality disorder?

Axis III: is there a relevant medical condition?

Axis IV: what is the level of functioning?

Axis V: what is the severity of the stressors?

The stressors are graded from 1-10. The “tens” are catastrophes, such as tsunamis, plagues, major earthquakes and close exposure to war. These stressors are supposed to

be significantly traumatic for everyone. I am suggesting that this assumption may not always be valid.

I am not bragging. I did not make a choice and I did not exert any effort. I simply was not afraid.

In the great Civil War novel The Red Badge of Courage someone makes a clear distinction between fearlessness and courage. Fearlessness means coping without fear. Courage means coping while being afraid or traumatized.

Getting back to what actually happened, rather than how I ran away:

When the war did break out it was not a surprise. I had heard talk of war for months, but did not pay attention to the details. Hitler was a household name in Poland by mid thirties.

I don’t know, or never asked, how much Polish Jews knew about Kristallnacht in November 1938, and understood its implications.

I was keenly aware of the preparations for the war. As I said earlier, I diligently helped in covering all the windows with black paper. We all had gas masks and we practiced daily on how to use them. Most importantly Joseph, over Marta’s objections, stocked up on supplies. He bought all kinds of canned foods, until our kitchen closets were full. I particularly remember sardines, and big chunks of chocolate. He also ordered coal, which was used to heat our apartment and was stored in a separate bin in the basement. Probably Marta bought me more clothing, because I always had plenty of it.

Also, plans were made, if the war started, to move to the Osnos grandparents’ house on Twarda Street in central Warsaw. Kaliska Street where we lived, was close to the airport and everyone said that it would more likely be bombed earlier. In retrospect, Marta also knew that she would have someone to take care of me there, in case she continued to work, which she did.

The summer of 1939 I went to “the country”, Plaseczno, a resort a few hours from Warsaw. I stayed with Gisela’s sister Janina and her granddaughter Joasia.

I think that we were still in Plaseczno on September 1, and we came back to Warsaw either the next day or on the third. I don’t remember if Marta or Joseph came to bring me back to Warsaw. The train to the city was very crowded. I watched and listened very intently to the other passengers, just in case they were German spies.*

One or two days later, in the middle of the night Joseph left. I was awake, but I don’t think I was troubled, because I was assured that the war would be over in a short time and he would be back soon. There was some talk about his joining the army (he was then thirty-five). Most probably it was Marta’s decision to remain in Warsaw. I know now that when her brother Gustav left Warsaw at the same time as Joseph, his wife Maryla insisted that she and their two daughters, Krysia who was a teenager and Monika who was two, must go with him. Their son Richard, who was 18 years, did remain in Warsaw, and we saw him frequently until he escaped late in 1939. He eventually joined the British Air Force and was killed in 1944. Gustav and his family settled in New York, and were always a very important part of my life.

*refers to a page in “Exodus” and critical events which I don’t remember, and those times when Marta’s description is significantly different from what I remember. For instance, Marta says that I was in Warsaw on September 1 when the war started, and went to Plaseczno only two days later with Joasia and her grandmother.

Marta and I moved to Twarda Street to a spacious first floor apartment which belonged to Joseph’s brother Zeno. Several other relatives lived in the same building or next door. My only playmate was Jerzy. I am certain that Marta went to work every day at the pharmaceutical firm Klawe for at least the first two weeks of September. (She explains in her memoir that she had to do this because, as a Jew, she would be fired if she did not show up for work.)

Air raids, several times each day, started a few days after September 1st. They were heralded by the wailing of sirens, at the first sound of which we rushed to the basement which had been prepared as an air raid shelter. There were other tenants there, as well as strangers who were passing by when the air raid started. There was minimal conversation during the air raids.

First we heard the noise of the planes as they flew overhead. Then the whistling of the bombs followed by the booming of explosions—I was always trying to figure out how far these explosions were from us. I wonder now how we could have heard these sounds in the basement. Probably this is how the air raids sounded when we did not have time to get to the basement. Sirens signaled the end of each raid. There was a profound silence when we left the basement, interrupted only by the sound of running and shouting in the streets.

The Warsaw radio functioned almost until the end of the month. The mayor of the city spoke continually, giving us reports on the status of the war and exhorting us to be brave. The only interruption was music, mostly Chopin. The Polonaise Militaire was played repeatedly.

When I looked out of our windows at night I could see light from burning buildings, near and far away.

Towards the end of the month the air raids were continuous. Many buildings across the street were burning out of control.

Jerzy and I played the same game everyday. We made

paper planes and flew them around the living room making the appropriate noises—roaring engines, whistling bombs and booming explosions. I don’t think that either of us left the building during the whole month.

And then the air raids stopped abruptly. The war was over. I am sure I was relieved, but, of course, like most others, I did not have any idea of what it meant to be in an occupied country, and what plans the Germans had for Jews.

In the next few days the silence was only broken by the marching of the German troops and the roar of many trucks and tanks.

I don’t remember if there was water, electricity or phone service after the bombing stopped. (Marta says there was none)

Within a few days after the Germans entered Warsaw, Marta and I went back to Kaliska Street. The building was not damaged and many of our supplies were still there. (Marta describes the dead bodies we saw on the streets)

No one came back with us, and we had no idea of what happened to Joseph.

By mid October Marta became seriously ill. She stayed in bed for weeks, but eventually recovered completely. This period is a total blank—I know now that she had acute rheumatic fever, but I don’t remember the doctor visits, who took care of us, what responsibilities I had, and whether I worried that she would die.

My major activity was reading and fantasizing. My first “grown up” book was a history of the Borgias. I did think that I was really a descendant of Lucrezia Borgia and was adopted by Marta and Joseph.

I rarely left our apartment. When I did, I played in the courtyard with the son of the tailor who had his store on the ground floor. We visited the Twarda building, and the

homes of my two maternal Grand Aunts Flora and Janina who lived in the center of the city. We had frequent visits from a cousin Paul Beylin who used to tease me pleasantly. He survived the war, became a journalist and married a doctor. His son Marek, also a journalist, was very likeable, visited us in New York, and I saw him whenever I went back to Warsaw.

By February 1940 we started to get letters from Joseph who was living in Bucharest. The letters were mostly concerned with how Marta and I could get to Bucharest.

I don’t remember whether I wrote back to him. All his envelopes were covered with stamps and that is how I started to collect stamps. The Romanian stamps were very colorful. Many of them had pictures of King Carol who looked very much like Joseph.

My favorite envelope had ten stamps from one to ten of the Romanian currency. I saved and framed the envelope and it is in our living room in a place of honor.

Around this time all adult Jews were required to wear a white arm band with the star of David whenever they were outside their home. Stories became more frequent of people being picked up on the street and taken for interrogation.

One afternoon I was alone in the apartment when the doorbell rang a long time and repeatedly. I did not open the door and asked who was there. Marta ordered me to open the door and said that there was nothing to be worried about. Next to her were two young German soldiers who had stopped her on the street. They explained to her that this was a routine matter. They only had to inspect the apartment.

The soldiers walked through the apartment and saw a bust of Voltaire. She told them that it was Voltaire and they insisted that he was German. They “inspected” the apartment for a few more minutes, and never came back. I assume that the apartment was not rich looking and they decided there was nothing valuable enough there for them. They did take a small camera and a large bar of chocolate. Hitler’s supermen were just common thieves.

(A brief history of the bust of Voltaire: the original by Houdon is in the Louvre. Voltaire was one of his favorite subjects and he made many other sculptures of him. The reproduction in our apartment had been in Sigmund’s office for many years. We could not take it with us when we left Warsaw.

Marta and Joseph were in Paris in 1961. They bought another reproduction of the bust and brought it to New York so I could place it in my office. It was prominently displayed there for 48 yrs. The one question I was asked many times was: How come not Freud? It is now in my study in our apartment. I will leave it to one of my grandsons.)

This incident convinced Marta that getting out of Warsaw was extremely urgent: a wall was being built across certain streets. The pattern of the closings was not yet clear, but there was increasing suspicion that the Germans were preparing a ghetto.

Marta went for a few days to Krakow, the headquarters of the German army in Poland, to get “papers” so that we could leave Warsaw legally. She describes how she accomplishes this, I read this excerpt of “Exodus” at Marta’s funeral because it describes her perfectly. I don’t recall what she told me at the time. Immediately after she came back she went to a “priest” who converted her and me to Old Catholicism (a division of the Orthodox Church) and also gave her the necessary papers because we could not leave Warsaw as Jews.

Marta never talked about money with me. In “Exodus”

she is also usually very vague about money. She never mentions bribes and how much the “papers” and the conversions cost. I tried to find out recently how much she probably paid, but, as I will explain later, I could not.

She arranged to have a family to move in with us so that we would not leave an empty apartment (Again, no reference to money). The last step before departure was a visit from inspectors who sealed our luggage to make sure we did not smuggle anything. We took several suitcases, but had to leave most of our belongings behind. I was able to take my stamp collection.

I don’t remember the partings with our family, and whether I realized that we would never see most of them again.

We took an overnight train to Berlin. It was the only legal route out of Poland. I had a few brief moments of intense panic whenever the train stopped and Marta left the compartment. I was sure that the train would leave without her.

When we left Warsaw Marta told everyone that she would send postcards from Berlin. If she signed her name fully it meant that Berlin was severely damaged by bombing; if she only signed “Marta” there was little damage. She either signed her cards with M. or did not sign them.

On the first day in Berlin we went for a stroll. I was convinced that we would be watched closely. Instead we were not noticed, and even treated courteously by a passing soldier.

We stayed in a large apartment with Leon’s younger brother Mendel and his much younger wife. He was working for Telefunken and still going regularly to his synagogue. (Soon after we were in Berlin he was sent to Theresienstat, a concentration camp near Prague, where he died.)

The plan was as follows: when we arrived in Berlin there would be tickets at the airline office waiting for us to fly to Bucharest. For unknown reasons there were no tickets. Instead we had to take a train, but we had no money for a train trip. Mendel said he did not have the money to lend us for the trip. Marta took me to the balcony, and threatened to jump if we did not get help. In writing this now I realize how closely I had to keep my feelings to myself.

Somehow after a few days Joseph found an official in Bucharest who transferred funds to the Romanian embassy in Berlin and we were able to leave. Peter thinks that Joseph was dressed so elegantly that he was mistaken for a dignitary and was allowed to see someone important who arranged the transfer.

The journey from Berlin to Bucharest lasted three days. We went through the Austrian Alps, Yugoslavia, stopped in the middle of the night in Belgrade and then arrived in Bucharest. Everywhere the other passengers in the compartment were very kind and we were always offered food. Many thought that we were escaping from France which had just collapsed.

Somewhere along the way Marta asked one of the passengers who was getting off the train to send a telegram to Joseph, letting him know when we were arriving (he did and Joseph met us at the station).

When we crossed the Austria-Yugoslavia border German soldiers checked our papers, and I said that we will never have to see them again. Unfortunately Romania was invaded a few months later.

BUCHAREST TO KARACHI

I eagerly anticipated our annual arrival in Bucharist after the three day train journey. Joseph was waiting for us in the large train terminal. Marta describes how he got the message that we were coming. I wish I could remember how I felt when I saw him after a nine month separation. Unfortunately I only remember that Marta had a major explosion because my bed consisted of two arm chairs in the living room of his apartment. Soon after, we did move to an apartment where I had my own room. It was in a three floor house with six apartments located outside the center of the city, next to the Turkish Embassy—Joseph chose the location because he thought that we would need a Turkish visa to get to Palestine.

Bucharest was a lively bustling European metropolis, not unlike Warsaw.

My only very vivid memory of our five months there:

In November 1940 there was increasing talk of a possible strong earthquake. I guess there were tremors and the area had a history of earthquakes. On a Saturday night Joseph and Marta went out (baby sitters did not exist). I asked Joseph what I should do if there were an earthquake. He said that earthquakes did not happen on weekends. I was satisfied with this answer.

I woke up because my bed was rocking. It was moving up and down and from side to side. The grandfather clock was sliding to the center of the room. I knew immediately that this was the predicted earthquake and I started to rush toward the other apartment on our floor, assuming that I was alone. Actually it was about 3 AM and Marta and Joseph were in their bedroom. One of them rushed in to get me. I don’t remember being hugged or reassured. Everyone in our little building ran out in their pajamas towards the large garden of our next door neighbor. There were many others there. There was no hysteria—everyone stood still waiting for something to happen.

Joseph made lemonade out of a lemon. He introduced himself to someone in the embassy. This led to an embassy visit and eventually to a Turkish transit visa.

The earthquake was for me a much more terrifying experience than the bombing of Warsaw. It happened without any real warning. I did not have my usual defenses: there was nothing I could do protect myself, such as gas mask or an air raid shelter. I could not tell myself that this would not last long and that it would not recur.

Also for a few moments I felt totally alone and unprotected. During the air raids there were always others close by to watch out for me, or help me to escape if necessary.

For some weeks after the quake I was severely phobic. I did not go back immediately to school when it reopened, I would not get into an elevator, and refused to go anywhere above the first floor even if there were stairs. In retrospect, I did not trust my parents to protect me.

(Marta makes the following reference to the earthquake “real help came from God himself. One night a terrible earthquake hit Bucharest. Joseph ran downstairs, as did the Turkish ambassador.)

Gradually I calmed down and again Bucharest became a blur.

Marta describes the six months in Bucharest as a “vacation”. She says there was no money, but there is no discussion of how Joseph made a living.

Germans entered Romania before the earthquake, but it was not an obvious invasion, rather a friendly takeover. And their presence was not pervasive as it was in Warsaw. My first thought after the quake, was whether it destroyed the building which housed the Germans’ headquarters. It was not damaged, but a tall nearby building disappeared into the ground. Apparently the people trapped in the lower floors were able to communicate to those outside the building, but I don’t know if any of them were rescued.

When the Germans arrived it was clear to all immigrants that we had to get out quickly. Joseph had already applied for the American quota, but that would take a couple of years. His back up plan was to get to Turkey and from there to Palestine. We got the Turkish transit visa only after we were able to obtain a destination visa to the Dutch East Indies.

Regarding the relationship between the Germans and Romanians, I recently saw a very fine Romanian film which described the first destruction of a Jewish community in Romania. The film was very clear that the slaughter was carried out by Romanians with some direction and supervision by Germans.

I want to briefly talk about my schooling, or lack of it, in Warsaw during the occupation and in Bucharest. As I said earlier there were “underground” schools operating in Warsaw, but I did not go to any. The Jewish ones were in the Jewish sections and the other schools certainly did not accept Jews. Also, because we were not in the center of the city there was no easy way to get to these schools.

In Bucharest I did go to a school. It was in an attractive old building surrounded by a garden. I don’t even remember in which language the classes were conducted. During my stay in Bucharest I learned only one Romanian word: “dupa” which in Romanian means “of, and in Polish is a crude term for “anus”.

The question for me now is: how come fifteen months of non-schooling did not significantly impair my education, or in any obvious way affect my attitude towards schools? Going to school was never a source of stress for me except for the covert anti-Semitism in prewar Warsaw and my “non-Jewishness” in India. Conversely I don’t remember being excited about going to school and learning. I was always a compliant and competent student but never outstanding. When I came to New York I was unfortunately advanced eighteen months but then was fortunate to go to an excellent high school, college and medical school.

(Marta makes no reference to how I spent my time in Warsaw during the occupation, whether she ever studied with me, and my schooling in Bucharest.)

At an early age I apparently made a decision, without actually being aware of it, that I would work only minimally on subjects that did not intrigue me, or that I did not consider of any practical value. Learning languages is a good illustration. As I said earlier, I refused to speak French immediately after we came back to Poland when I was three. I don’t think it was just anger at the abrupt change in my life, but also an awareness that I no longer needed French. Despite many years of French classes I was never fluent. Also I never had to be as multilingual as Marta and Joseph had to be. I never learned any Romanian. In India, I had to study Urdu (Hindi with an Arabic alphabet) and I never retained anything. Probably we were taught Hindi to be

politically correct; after all we were living in India, and not with the expectation that we would have to use it.

On the other hand I learned English in India very quickly, and even acquired a slight Welsh accent because my first English teachers in Panchgani were mostly Welsh. Also, I always spoke Polish fluently, even though my Polish education ended when I was eight and I rarely read in Polish. I needed Polish because it allowed for intimate communication with Marta and Joseph throughout their lives. They usually spoke Polish to Peter who understands Polish perfectly but can barely speak it.

I am surprised that when I have visited Poland in the past twenty years I start to think in Polish after a few days. Poles are surprised that I speak without an accent but speak slowly and deliberately as if I were a professor.

To summarize: my worst grade in college was organic chemistry (who needs to remember the synthesis and structure of aspirin?) and parasitology (I will NEVER practice in the tropics).

Getting back to our journey, we left Bucharest late in 1940, took a train to Constanta, a major Romanian port on the Black Sea. Then an overnight ship to Istanbul through the Bosporus—Europe on the west and Asia on the east.

The boat trip through the Black Sea was my first time at sea. I was both nervous and excited by the up and down movements of the ship and constantly expecting to be nauseated and to vomit. However, I did sleep well and the sea was calm the next morning.

Our plan was to stay in Istanbul until we could get a ship to Palestine. However, the rules had just drastically changed. The British had curbed or even stopped Jewish immigration to Palestine. When we arrived in Istanbul we were told that we could remain there for only 24 hours,

then had to go to a seaport on the Mediterranean and arrange for passage to Palestine from there. And if this did not materialize, what do we do then?

I remember Istanbul as a crowded noisy city with narrow winding streets and a hilly terrain. It felt like the Orient I had read about. I knew that I was no longer in Europe.

We stayed overnight in a small hotel in a room on the top floor. Marta and Joseph went out in the evening to meet some people to get information on how we could proceed. I woke up and was terrified because I was alone (the sensation was not dissimilar from the night of the quake). I rushed down the stairs in my pajamas and ran out of the hotel looking for Marta and Joseph. Fortunately they were just outside the hotel. I have no idea what I would have done if they were not there, and don’t remember what I said when I saw them.

(Marta wrote a lengthy paragraph explaining why I was alone in the hotel.)

The next day we were on a train to Mersin on the Mediterranean Sea where we stayed for a couple weeks. The train ride through Turkey was another spectacular adventure through an exotic land.

For most of the days in Mersin Marta and I sat on the beach looking at the ships wondering if one of them was meant for us. The real reason for being there was to hide from the police, in case they came to the hotel looking for us.

The other memory of Mersin was a visit to an orange grove, once again clearly establishing that we were in another world — no longer in Europe. In prewar Poland, special delicacies included bananas and oranges, which grew in exotic far away places.

Joseph went every day to the British consulate trying to obtain passage to Palestine. He was not successful, but

eventually he was able to get a transit visa for Iraq so that we could leave Turkey and go to Baghdad. The journey would be on the Orient Express or a similar train but, as usual, there was an obstacle. The train goes through Syria. Therefore we needed a Syrian (French) transit visa, even if we did not leave the train. Joseph put on his best suit, went to the French consulate and obtained the necessary visa. I don’t remember going with him—sometimes it was a better strategy to bring us with him to get sympathy, and at other times it was better for him to be alone so as not to give the impression that they were allowing a big burden into their country. I don’t know how he decided which path to take in a specific situation. However, it almost always got us in the right direction.

(Marta says Joseph did take me to the French consulate because I was born in Paris and was a French citizen. He probably convinced them this entitled us to the Syrian visa.)

It occurs to me now that the consular staff had enormous power and they could use it as they pleased. I have no idea how often they were bribed. However, a great deal certainly depended on how they liked the applicants. Joseph and Marta were appealing because they were never rude, never behaved as victims and did not have a frequent attitude of refugees “you must give us this because we are entitled to it”.

We first took a train going directly north and then transferred to a train going east. The voyage took two or three days. We went third class—so that we were always the only Europeans in the compartment. The other passengers were Arabs. They were friendly and always offered us food.

The window watching was fantastic, and that is all I did —there was no reason to do anything else. The voyage from Istanbul to Bombay by train and boat was like living in the Arabian Nights. I can’t forgive myself for not keeping a diary of that whole experience. There was no longer any reason to escape into day dreams. The journey itself was a beautiful dream.

I remember Baghdad as very different from Istanbul— the streets were wider. It was more tropical and less hectic. I don’t remember seeing any evidence of extreme poverty (Marta describes Baghdad as the most “miserable” capital she saw).

Since money was an important consideration, we went to a small and modest hotel.

When we got there Marta was trying to communicate with the desk clerk who only spoke English. A European man in his mid thirties asked, either in German, French or Italian, if he could help. He was actually Polish. His name was Jan Mish. He was not Jewish and was living alone in Baghdad, having left his wife in Poland. He was a linguist who spoke fluently in at least thirty languages. He was making his living teaching languages and being a translator and interpreter in different consulates.

To get ahead of myself, Mish also lived in Bombay during the war, and then emigrated to New York. He was immediately hired by the New York Public Library and remained there for forty years, becoming director of the Asiatic division. He had endless domestic crises with his second or third wife and an adopted son. Marta was always his primary confidante.

A few days after we came to Baghdad we were invited to an elegant dinner—this was a first for me. I had multiple knives and forks in front of me. After the first course I did not want to give the server the knife and fork which I had used so that I would have it for the next course. I mention this because it was an indication of how careful and tenacious I was, or had become.

Most of the days in Baghdad were spent in the British Consulate trying to find out where we could go next. This scene was dramatically presented in Gian Carlo Menotti’s opera uThe Consul” which takes place in the waiting room of a consulate. Everyone is desperately trying to go somewhere. I don’t think Menotti was an immigrant and I wonder how he got the idea for the opera.

It was soon clear that Palestine was definitely not an option. However, Joseph did find out that if we could get to India with a transit visa, the British would allow us to remain there, at least for the duration of the war. But in order to get a transit visa we had to have a new destination visa, because our visa to the Dutch East Indies was no longer valid.

This is where Mish came to the rescue. He worked in the Japanese consulate, and through his intervention we got a destination visa to Japan. On the basis of this we were able to get a transit visa to India and could head for Bombay.

We took a train to Bassra and then a ship to Bombay. Another extraordinary adventure! (I learned many years later that the word “posh” comes from the way rich English families traveled from Iraq to India—Port Out and Starboard Home—to be in a cabin on the side of the ship which was away from the sun.)

The high point of the voyage was . . . the junction of the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Aman. The ship stopped and we watched the local boys dive deeply to retrieve coins that were thrown overboard for them.

The ship also stopped for a day in Karachi. We took a trolley ride through the main thoroughfare. On both sides of the tracks lived the homeless who begged the trolley riders for money—blind children, lepers, and others with missing limbs — it was the most dramatic poverty I saw in my whole life.

The next day we arrived in Bombay where we lived for the next three years.

BOMBAY

{AND PANCHGANI}

I had no way as a child of appreciating my good fortune that Bombay, the city where I lived for three years, was probably as good as any place on earth could have been during World War II. It was also, in many ways, an excellent environment for the development of a nine-to twelve-year-old boy. Except for the religion issue, it was not difficult. The only defect was the absence of girls in the all-male schools. Females of my age were almost like creatures from another planet.

Bombay was in the early forties a vital, not overly large city, where everything was available as if it were in Europe, because it was the business and commercial center of India. Also it had the graciousness of a major metropolitan center of the British empire. There was an assumption that India would gain its independence after the war, and probably there were less of the tensions of the partition and Muslim-Hindu conflicts.

There was an awareness of the war, but no material evidence of its consequences. There were no shortages or rationing, and no increased security of any kind, or a significant military presence.

I think that there was also the general assumption that the allies would win the war.

Hitler was the big devil, and Stalin less obviously so, but certainly a devil for the Polish colony. There were three major divinities: Churchill (he will win the war), Gandhi (he will liberate India), and Roosevelt (he personifies the promised land). The minor divinities were some of the allied generals and Nehru.

Marta and Joseph adjusted quickly and very well. Initially they had financial help from a Jewish organization. Joseph obtained an excellent job as a manager in a furniture factory which was converted to building life boats for the Indian navy, so there were no financial problems as far as I could tell. Marta had an ideal, for her, job—she worked in the censor’s office which meant she spent all day reading others’ mail, including people she knew. She was discreet so she never got into any kind of trouble. They had a large circle of friends—all Poles similar to them. Joseph could indulge his passion for bridge.

We had a lovely modern apartment with at least four servants: a cook, a cleaner, a laundry person and an ayah (nanny) for me, and briefly for Peter.

Bombay was also very good for me. I learned English quickly so I never felt like a foreigner. After the first few weeks I had complete freedom to go anywhere by myself or with friends. There was much to see and do. Only once a stranger in a park approached me. I felt uncomfortable and ran away. There were sections of the city which were very poor, but I had no reason to go there.

I also had a circle of school friends with whom I had a great deal in common. There were many leisure activities and I was an avid reader. As previously, I tended to live in the books I read.

Soon after arrival I was enrolled in a convent school where all the teachers were kind nuns who took an interest in me. The school was in the most elegant district of Bombay called Malabar Hill. After the first day or so I went there by myself on a city bus which may even have been a double decker.

The city’s main water reservoir was on Malabar Hill. Near it was the Parsi Tower of Silence where Parsees placed their dead ones, to be dismantled by buzzards. This caused a serious problem because the buzzards dropped parts of bodies into the reservoir. Some years earlier Parsees solved the problem by building a beautiful garden which covered the reservoir—called the Hanging Gardens. It was one of Bombay’s major tourist attractions.

I was in the convent school only for a few months. Once again I have no recollection of what went on in the classrooms. I know that I looked forward to going there.

Before I started school Joseph told me that I must not admit that I am Jewish. I was an Old Catholic, according to the papers I was given in Warsaw. I agreed to do so because I respected him and it also made sense initially in order to avoid possible anti-Semitism in the Catholic school. I had to continue this charade in my two other schools, and gradually started to bitterly resent having to lie, especially as I realized that this was nonsense. Other students (those who were also immigrants) kept saying that of course I was Jewish and wondered why I had to pretend that I was not.

Fortunately I was able to compartmentalize so that the “religion” problem did not prevent me from being very happy in Bombay.

At he beginning of the next semester I was sent to a boarding school and was there for a year and half.

The school was called Boys’ European School. It was in

Panchgani a beautiful mountain resort, a day’s journey from Bombay. It was modeled after English public schools, except it was not in Scotland.

All the teachers were men from UK, some quite young and several from Wales. It was academically strict and sports were very important—cricket, field hockey, soccer and boxing. All students had to participate in all the sports. The accommodations and food were Spartan. The war may have been the excuse for the mediocre food—the most despised food was sago. Once a week we all had to take castor oil (given with two sweets). There was no explanation provided.

Why did the British aristocracy favor public schools? I think there were two reasons. First, the parents (particularly the mothers) did not want to be bothered by the day-to-day care of adolescent boys. Secondly, there was a genuine belief that this kind of educational setting would make them into morally, intellectually and physically strong men. There was some validity in this belief. These boys became the men who ruled the most successful empire in the world.

I am quite sure that Marta and Joseph had similar reasons for sending me to Panchgani.

Many years later I had a major revelation about myself. In the course of her research about the family, Joasia went through Marta’s letters and found one that I wrote a few days after I arrived in Panchgani. I was amazed by the intense covert anger in the letter. The last sentence of the letter was “as far as washing ourselves there is a problem in Panchgani—there is always a water shortage”. What better way for a ten year old to upset his mother?

Despite my initial reaction to being sent away I am sure that I was happy in Panchgani and regretted when I had to leave there. There was the expectation that we could and would be self reliant. We were not babied or treated condescendingly. I don’t think that any of the teachers were ever cruel and I don’t remember ever being punished. They were enthusiastic and dedicated teachers. I wonder now why they were not in the army.

I was an obedient student but not meek. Once, one of the other students reported me as saying something foolish, and the teacher said something like “that sounds like Osnos”.

I was never significantly bullied. I once said that “Osnos” meant in Polish: “bees’ nose” and that became my nickname.

I had only one fight and I was not beaten too badly.

Sports: we were required to participate in all the sports. I was mediocre at best, primarily because I was not physically aggressive and did not enjoy physical contact. The only sport which did not require any contact was cricket, but I was not any better at it.

My participation in sports was accompanied by pleasant fantasies of being a star athlete, in whatever sport I was trying at the time.

The exposure to athletics at that age had life long effects. I have always enjoyed physical activities—in college I played 150 lbs football for one year—I was the worst player on the team and even broke my nose in practice. When I went into the USPHS in Lexington, Kentucky, I started to bicycle and it was a popular past time with my older daughter. Then I jogged for many years. At 66 I started to go to a gym and at 78, when I retired, I went back to swimming regularly. Of course I was not unusual. I think that unless athletics are required, very early physical activity does not become a habit, regardless of degree of competence.

I also daydreamed during the frequent assemblies. I imagined coming back many years later as a famous person and telling the students about my accomplishments.

An occasional recreation was movie watching. I especially remember Top Hat with Astaire and Rogers.

We all went to the chapel on Sundays. It was the only time we saw the girls from our sister school. A Polish girl I knew in Bombay was there, but we never spoke because we were not allowed to speak to the girls.

(The girl, Maryla, also migrated to New York. I saw her occasionally, the last time was on Broadway and 99th street in 1996. It was a special day for me because it was a few months after my grandson was born, and it was the first time I took him out for stroll in his baby carriage.)

Near the end of 1942 our quota visa was approved so that we could leave once we had transportation. Since we would have to leave on short notice I did not go back to Panchgani and went to a school in Bombay run by Jesuits.

I was sorry to leave Panchgani, because I enjoyed the independence there. Again I had to lie and say that I had to leave because we were going immediately to America.

(In 2008 Peter and I made plans to go to Mumbai with our spouses. A visit to Panchgani was going to be an important part of the trip. Unfortunately the trip was aborted because of the terrorist attack which included the Taj Mahal Hotel, particularly the wing where we had reservations. In preparation I did some research on Panchgani. It is now a very popular mountain resort. There are sixteen boarding schools there, including the one where I went. It has a big web site, including pictures and history. Two of my teachers remained there all their lives, and one was the principal. I still hope to go back there.)

St. Mary’s was an excellent school. When I came to

New York. I was advanced a grade because of the courses I had there. I graduated high school at 16 yrs—terrible mistake!

The only pain again revolved around religion. I still had to pass myself off as an Old Catholic. This meant that those of us who were not Roman Catholics did not have to attend mass a couple of times every week. Instead we did calisthenics, conspicuously in one of the court yards. However, we did have to take a catechism class.

Father Horn was the school disciplinarian. He met with me once and said he understood my problem: my parents did not believe in God, and he hoped I would have the courage to follow my own beliefs. I don’t remember what I said to him but I did win an excellence prize in catechism.

The great benefit of the day school was that I could enjoy Bombay. Almost every day I went to a beautiful outdoor-indoor pool with a view of the ocean. I swam a great deal but only learned breast stroke and never learned to dive. I should have had lessons.

A very disturbing experience: I once went with a close friend and he was not allowed to go in because he was half Indian—white mother and a father in the Indian army. I don’t recall whether I went in without him.

When I came home the cook always had a wonderful dinner prepared for me: lobster or lamb, yogurt with oranges and limes. I clearly remember that I fantasized that I would get very rich selling yogurt mixed with fruit. While eating I read Dumas.

There were long games of monopoly with a few close friends:

Kurt Metzger was the brains, always the top student. George Szykier was a cut-up. I don’t know what happened to them. Nat Taylor, nee Teichler, migrated to New York,

went to Columbia College a year after I did. We were in the same medical school class and also cadaver partners. The cadaver was Barabas, and the four of us were Futterman, Osnos, Katz and Taylor.

When Nat was a senior he married Dorothy who was a student at Hunter. Two of her classmates were invited, Naomi as a date for her brother Harvey, and Bonnie as a date for me. I married Naomi who became an art director at Random House, Bonnie married a very rich lawyer and became the curator of drawings at MOMA. Nat became a pathologist, was divorced by Dorothy, had a successful second marriage and died a few years ago.

The few girls I knew I saw rarely and did not have any special feelings about them. I did have major crushes on three very beautiful women. We went for a week to a seaside resort hotel, where a recently married couple stayed near us. She was friendly and I followed her discretely and wished I were older.

The two other crushes were Polish family friends. Wanda was married to a much older man—they did not come to America and I don’t know what happened to them. I rarely spoke to her. Kara had been an actress in Poland and was in her mid twenties. Her husband’s brother was for many years one of Joseph’s partners in the New York air conditioning firm, so that they all remained very close friends. Kara always seemed genuinely interested in me and I remained infatuated with her until my middle age. We met about fifteen years ago when she described the joy of her trips to Europe with her granddaughter.

While writing this memoir I decided to get in touch with Kara. She had an address on Park Ave. I wrote a note asking if I could see her. A few days later I received a call from her long time Polish housekeeper and I visited her in her large apartment, where she lives alone with full time home aides. Her accountant is her legal guardian.

She is 95 yrs old, has had two strokes and heart problems. She may have known who I was, but was not able to speak. Her face was immobile and distorted because of missing teeth. She could walk with a walker. The housekeeper said that she only talks when she is tired of her physical therapy: “go home!” I dealt with my feelings by automatically going into my doctor mode. I was examining an elderly patient in a nursing home. The housekeeper reminded me that Kara and her husband were in Bucharest and Bombay at the same we were there. He died twenty years ago and she became less sociable because she was not happy with the way she looked. She was devastated when her physician son died a few years ago. She had told the housekeeper that it cost her a lot of money to get out of Warsaw just a few months before we did. Kara also told her that her husband was frequently unfaithful.

I wanted to ask Kara questions that she would have been glad to answer. How did Joseph make his living in Bucharest? Was it illegal? Was he unfaithful during the eight months we were separated from him?

Getting back to Bombay, I went to soccer, hockey and cricket games but the most important entertainment became the cinema. There were English films—Leslie Howard was my favorite; biographies—Paul Muni as Zola, Pasteur and Juarez; exotic films—Maria Montez, Ian Hall and, above all, Sabu.

I was totally uncritical of most movies. Then some time in 1943 I decided that it was time to be more grown up and so I started to find faults with most movies. I was beginning my adolescence and responding to the prospect of having a sibling. When Marta told me she was pregnant I asked “why didn’t you tell me when it happened?” When Peter was born I was allowed to visit them in the Hospital and I was very excited when they came home.

I have wondered about the timing of the pregnancy. Why would Marta have gotten pregnant right after they received the USA visa and could have left Bombay right away. Was the pregnancy an accident?

Knowing how strong willed Marta was and how Joseph knew when to placate her, the following probably occurred: Marta definitely wanted another child—preferably a daughter. Once it was established that they were going to New York, she realized that she would have more help in Bombay during her pregnancy, and they could leave right afterwards.

When Joseph decided that we would leave Bombay before the end of the war their friends encouraged him to stay, but he knew that once India became independent, white men would lose their favored position, particularly the non-Britishers, and life would be much more difficult.

Some of their friends also came to New York—in retrospect one of the unusual features of the Polish colony in Bombay was that Jews and Gentiles intermingled more than they did in Warsaw.

My reaction to going to New York? I was excited because I sensed that New York was the center of the world, and it was a foregone conclusion that I would remain there for the rest of my life. However, as usual, I played my cards so close to my vest, that I have no idea if I had any trepidations about going to the new world.

USS HERMITAGE

Towards the end of December 1943, we were given a few days notice that we could board a ship for USA. We had lots of luggage, including a crate of Pablum formulas for two and a half month old Peter.

We left Bombay on December 31, 1943 and arrived in San Diego February 8, 1944. As far as I was concerned it would be a new mysterious adventure. We knew nothing about the ship before boarding, had no idea how long the journey would be, what the route would be, and whether we would finish on the East or West coast of USA. This was wartime and everything was a top secret.

The USS Hermitage traveled alone without a convoy. It was on a strict blackout—all the windows were covered with black paper, no one was allowed on the decks after dark, and all lights were shut off at night, except in the bathrooms. Two memorable incidents:

Two passengers, Persian students, went at night on a deck and smoked cigarettes. They were charged with using the cigarettes to send signals and threatened with not being allowed to enter USA.

Every night Joseph prepared Peter’s formula standing in the corridor just outside the women’s bathroom where there was a light. One of the women accused him of being a Peeping Tom. He had a hearing in front of the captain. Nothing happened, but I worried that it would interfere

with us being allowed to enter the USA. Joseph’s analysis of the event: “some crazy woman must have had a crush on me”.

The Hermitage was an Italian luxury liner built in the twenties, captured by Americans in 1942, and converted to a troop transport ship, i.e. American soldiers were either taken to battle areas, or brought home. On this trip we went through the south Pacific, around Melbourne and then to California. There was also a stop at Bora Bora, but we were not allowed off the ship. We were never in a combat zone, and never directly encountered the war.

In addition to the American soldiers, there were Italian prisoners on board. Only their officers were allowed to mingle with the other passengers. There were about a hundred and fifty civilian passengers: immigrants like us, including some Chinese, missionaries returning from Asia, and the group of Persian students.

Sometime after we left Australia, near the equator, we crossed the international date line going west. One evening the public address system announcer told us: “tomorrow will be the same day as today”. It happened on the day of the Chinese New Year, so that the Chinese on board could celebrate for two days. I don’t remember if they did.

The accommodations were probably equivalent to second class—a state room with two bunk beds. Peter had a basket in which he slept at night and stayed in during the day.

We all did our own thing. Joseph played bridge every day. Marta and I shared the responsibility for taking care of Peter. She socialized a great deal and especially conversed with the Italian officers, because of her fluency in Italian. Peter was the youngest passenger on the ship and there was a story about him in the ship’s newspaper calling him “Prince Peter”.

I had a few playmates, and one of our games was “battle ship” played on graph paper. Each contestant drew ships (one to four squares), and the one who first located and destroyed the others’ ships was the winner.

In writing this I realize that this game was similar to the game I played during the bombing of Warsaw. However this time the game did get me into a minor trouble. When we went through customs in San Diego I had to empty my pockets and there were a couple of sheets from the game. I had to explain nervously that it was not some kind of a code.

My favorite activity was the nightly movie. Most of the movies were repeated several times, because the film library was too small for the long voyage. I remember a Kay Keiser musical, but the one I loved best was “All This and Heaven Too” with Bette Davis and Charles Boyer. She is a young governess who falls in love with the master of the house, whose wife is mentally ill. It was one of her martyr roles, and an indication of how I already preferred “grown-up” movies.

About forty-five years after the voyage, Peter was at a party in Westport. An elderly gentleman who was a professor at Yale, introduced himself and said “I don’t think you remember me, but I remember you very well”. Peter did not recognize him and apologized. The gentleman explained: “you were in your basket on the ship”. He was one of the Persian students who remained in USA. Peter invited him to Marta and Joseph’s home where I also met him. Peter says that we immediately reminisced about the movies we had seen multiple times during the voyage and competed as to who remembered them better.

Another regular ship activity was the amateur night. The entertainers included Marta who played the piano and Joseph who sang. Either I was not there because I was with Peter in the cabin, or I sat in the back feeling embarrassed.

During this voyage was probably the only time Marta hit me. I was slapped on the cheek, because I forgot to do a Peter chore, probably to bring hot water for his formula from the kitchen.

Towards the end of the voyage, I announced that when we came to New York I would never pass myself of as a Christian. As I said previously this had always been a source of discomfort in India, because I dreaded being exposed. Also I was justifiably confident that the pretense was totally unnecessary because none of my contemporaries believed that I was not Jewish or cared about it. The conversation with Father Horn was the only time the subject was discussed. I don’t know now why I assumed then that anti-Semitism would not be a problem when we came to America.

The three years of “pretending” ultimately had very positive consequences. I never again worried about my identity—I was a Polish born non-observant Jew, and never wanted to be anything else. I obviously knew what anti-Semitism was, but did not think it had any significance for me. I was not unique since many European Jews thought the same way.

My environment in New York made this attitude very easy to retain. I grew up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan which was one of the major centers of “liberal” Judaism in the world — reformed and non-practicing. Probably we were there the majority, rather than a minority.

Marta and Joseph accepted my decision without any discussion, but they never did admit that the whole business had been unnecessary.

The arrival in San Diego had a few tense moments. I worried if Joseph’s bathroom escapade would be held against him. Also, I had to empty my pockets for the customs inspectors and there were those suspicious pieces of paper.

We stayed in a hotel in Los Angeles for few days before heading east. We visited some distant relatives, who gave me a slew of Life magazines, which I eagerly carried to New York.

Los Angeles was a bustling metropolis which reminded me of Warsaw and Bucharest. Bombay was also a big city but it was more leisurely—no one ever appeared to be rushing, except the messengers who carried baskets on their heads.

On our first day in LA we went for a stroll. A man on the street asked me where I had lost my pants. I had never worn long pants in India, and I refused to leave our hotel until I got my first pair of real long pants.

The three day cross-country train ride was also an exciting adventure, but without the drama and tension of our previous voyages. We were met at Penn Station by Maryla, Marta’s sister-in-law and taken to the Wales Hotel on Madison Avenue a few blocks from Gustav and Maryla’s apartment.

Within a few weeks, we moved to a large apartment in the Belnord, an elegant building on Broadway and 86th Street. I was enrolled in Joan of Arc Junior High School a few blocks away.

Marta quickly got a research position at Columbia’s medical school in the biochemistry department, and Joseph started a jewelry business.

I lived with them until 1956 when I left New York for an internship in Chicago. Naomi and I were married in the Belnord apartment in 1958. Marta and Joseph left the building a few years later because she was bothered by too many cockroaches. This time Joseph did not challenge her and they moved to an apartment in another grand building, the Beresford, where they lived until they died.

As always, their judgment was perfect. The cockroaches were there because the Belnord was very poorly maintained. It became a monumental battleground between a new owner and the rent controlled tenants. It was one of the fiercest and most prolonged tenant-landlord wars in New York real estate history. The cost of the litigation to both sides far exceeded the value of the building.

Once more, and for the last time, Joseph and Marta made a timely escape from a war zone.

CONCLUSION

The purpose of this memoir was to describe my childhood experiences during World War II, my reaction to these, and how they affected and possibly changed me. I was particularly interested in finding out if I were traumatized and developed a “post traumatic stress disorder”, or any other kind of mental disorder.

I am quite certain that this did not happen. I was never physically harmed and never saw someone important to me die or be injured while I was watching. Most crucially, I frequently distanced myself from what was going on around me—this was not something I chose to do, or even was aware that I was doing. It was a coping mechanism that was part of my mental makeup.

Most persons with whom I discussed my wartime experiences did not believe me when I said I was rarely frightened. I hope that those who read this memoir will believe me.

Of course I was affected. I have been told that I am a tough bird. I would like to believe that I became “tougher” in a positive way—more resilient, more adventuresome and more confident.

As far as being controlling of others and my own feelings— I can only infer from my mother’s description of me and the little that I remember of my behavior—these traits were already there before the war.

I don’t think I am particularly unique. I have several Jewish men friends who were born in 1930-31 in Europe and came to USA just before or during the war. I also know women with similar backgrounds but not well enough to draw any conclusions about them. The men are similar in important ways: sociable and friendly but not “cuddly”, confident, and variably arrogant, but devoid of an attitude of entitlement; professionally adventuresome, and very responsible (all have children and only one divorce). None are bitter and never think of themselves as having been victims. After a few years in USA they did not consider themselves outsiders.

In conclusion, I believe that the term “holocoust survivor” should be reserved for those who survived concentration camps. I was not even a “victim”. I was a very fortunate Jewish child who lived during World War II.

EXODUS

We knew already in August that the war is approaching. People were buying paper strips or cutting newspaper in ribbons, gluing them to the windows “to prevent shattering of glass.” Nobody knew that the windows could crumble together with the walls. Joseph made some extra money manufacturing ugas proofed” metal trunks to keep the food in. The first announcement about compulsory blackout mixed over the radio with the famous slogan, “we are strong, united and ready,” and the wonderful news that children from P.S. 166 in upper Barka collected 11.75 zloty for defense purposes. The last two evenings we spend in Ziemiansko* drinking coffee, eating plumcake with whipped cream and talking endlessly, just like blind people discussing colors. Some friends were already called to arms, mostly doctors like Zano, Joseph’s oldest brother.

It started on September 1st, 1939. It was a lovely warm day with clear sky and full of sunshine. The first sirens sound at 6 A.M. and made Joseph run out in his pajamas carrying half-awake Robert in his arms. But after a few minutes in the empty street they came back and a normal Friday started. Joseph went to work, Robert was supposed to go with Helenka to the park—those were still school vacations.

* a popular coffee house

I went to work. The first real bombs came down when I reached the locker room in the pharmaceutical factory where I worked in the research laboratory. Every woman in the locker room, while changing into a white uniform would affirm, “Those are exercises,” or “Those are our planes.” But they were not, as we found out soon enough. In the evening Hanka called to say that they are going to the country; it is so much safer there. We should bring Robert on Saturday afternoon—after work of course. Work was disorganised already, interrupted by radio: “Attention, it’s coming, coming,” and then sirens and finally “All clear.”

The little suburban train going to Plaseczno took us safely with Robert and his suitcase to the villa in the garden. Black fabric prepared for the blackout, lights with the blue covers, splendid provisions in the kitchen. After a real prewar dinner we went back and arrived to an already changed city, most of the cars with lights painted black. Sunday, beautiful, sunny brought so much hope.

England and France entered the war, within a few weeks everything will be over. Monday at work, a most unusual thing happened: Joseph called — unheard of in peace time. I should take off for a few hours. We have to make legal steps, go to the notary, sign power of attorney for me, because Joseph should join the army. All so urgent and important, we found out how important the next few days when the notary’s house was bombed and disappeared with the notary, his books, and my power of attorney. On Tuesday Hanka called. They decided to bring the children back; God knows what may happen. When the taxi stopped in front of the house we realized how good it was to be together again. Zano was called to the army; his wife left East to be far from the Germans. His beautiful apartment was free for us to move in. It was in the Jewish part of the city, close to my mother-in-law. Ours was in the Polish part of the city—maybe not so safe. So we said goodbye to our Helenka and her handsome husband. “Do not leave the house, do not forget to water the plants, do not forget to blackout the windows.” “We will come tomorrow to pick up a few more things.” Zano’s apartment newly furnished, nice doctor’s office, beautiful dining room with the green velvet chairs: It was perfect, though I didn’t like the idea of moving into someone else’s place. It was on the first floor— the safest, we decided. Some of the apartments were already empty, neighbors would grab the accumulated provisions, big wonderful dry prunes and bottles of French brandy. They found these in the house of my former colleague, Dr. Mirski. Also, on Tuesday at work we were given some money in advance and told we could take a few days off, after we spend hours destroying Erlenmayer flasks with cultures of bacteria used to manufacture vaccines. “How terrible it would be if a bomb would fall and the cultures would be free floating in the city.”

We were given gas masks and some fast first aid instructions: “If you have no mask and there is a gas alarm, you pee on your handkerchief and press it to your nose and mouth.” On Wednesday we went back to our apartment. It was empty. Helenka and her husband left in a hurry; breakfast dishes on the kitchen table, butter floating in a clay pot full of cold water. (Those houses had no refrigeration.) Hired hands working in a neighborhood garden left in their wagons and took Helenka and her husband East. We were able to find a taxi and took our new excellent radio to Zano’s apartment. The radio started screaming and the telephone started ringing: Every male should go and dig trenches; every male should consider leaving the city and contact his regiment. Women and children should stay and not add to the general confusion of the exodus from the city. Many people had left already. East, East was the word. Some clairvoyant people had even rented houses already in Lublin*, moved furniture, furs, diamonds, and silver. Around 11 P.M. a call came, “. . . such a chance, those people have a car, have gas but nobody drives, would Joseph be interested to join them.” “Please go, I will stay with Robert.” We are safe — the radio says so—you will join the army, we will be just a nuisance, besides how can I leave my job. ... So Joseph put on plus four, sport shirt, khaki windbreaker, beret. We split our 250 zlotys (Polish currency). He took 200 zl, one kiss, one sob and he was gone. And again the phone, and the radio: “East, East!” and around 4 A.M. a call came. “I am in a garage waiting for some more gas to take along. Please borrow some money and I forgot my watch, the one you gave me before we were married. Please rush!” It was already light, streets full of people on the go, streetcars full to the brim. Hurry up, Robert is alone, sleeping at home, rush, run, get another 200 zlotys from a neighbor and run—finally the garage. “Oh Madame, they left 10 minutes ago, couldn’t wait, were not sure that you are coming.” Slowly going back home to Robert, with only one thought in my head: “May I live to be able to tell that I went and it was too late.”

In the meantime several people from the building decided that Zano’s first floor apartment was really the safest, so they slowly would move down, bringing pillows, covers, food, and advice. In a way it was very good for Robert: He has children to play with all day long and I will try to go back to work.

Since Joseph left I felt it would be better to sleep in the same bed, to be together in case of night alarm — hence his beautiful and frank statement: “Before, I loved to sleep in your bed. Now, when I have to, I really don’t care at all.”

* a town cast of Warsaw

The children played all day with pieces of paper folded like an arrow or aeroplane. Who will throw them further —and one night when I tried to wake him up during an alert he mumbled hiding in the pillow—I will throw only my own aeroplanes. One night when several fires started in the neighborhood a young fireman was brought up by somebody believing the doctor was still in the apartment. The young man was thrown against a burning tree on the street, his back was just a red mess, but I could really help him with picric acid on his wound, some brandy and loving words from everybody—18 people—in the apartment.

The canteen in my factory was functioning very well, so Robert ate there a few times. They also organised a bus service from midtown to the factory. One day when I came to the place of rendezvous it was just a mess of rubble; the whole corner house was bombed a few hours before. That night Karola, my cousin, dreamed of that particular spot in Warsaw—my dead mother was standing on the street and beckoned at her with her hand, and then suddenly waved her away.

One day coming from work, while Robert was playing at home, I found out that the houses next to ours were completely bombed. The street was blocked. When I finally found out that our house was safe and ran upstairs Robert was sitting in the hall, little valise packed for emergency, our precious masks all prepared. But we still could stay and sleep and eat at home.

The Yom Kippur was long, loud—everybody left in the building gathered in our apartment because it was safe — first floor—some people prayed, some wailed, some terrified just sat. One young chemist was afraid to go home, near the river, after work, so she came with me. She had never even spoken to a Jewish person before she met me, a year before at work.

The wailing of the tallhis clad men was for her as frightening as constant bombing. Two young men went to their house on another street before dawn. One hour later the radio announced that the house was bombed completely, their bodies were identified on the staircase.

September 17, another sunny beautiful Sunday, at 4 P.M. Robert was playing with children. I was listening to dance music from Sophia, Bulgaria — our new radio was really wonderful! Suddenly the music stopped and the announcer said in Bulgarian, so similar to Russian, that the Russian army had invaded Poland from the East. I called Karola—she should know; she works on the Newspaper and she said that I am as much of a panic maker as my husband. And really those horrible news stories were only in the Monday morning radio broadcast.

Then it was getting worse and worse every minute. One afternoon somebody screamed that our house is hit by a bomb. We grabbed our few provisions wrapped in a sheet, our valise, our gas masks and ran down. An ocean of flames was on Otwarda Street. Several furniture stores in that street were burning, with tables, beds, mattresses spread on the pavement. We stood for a minute, not knowing which way to run through the fire. To the left would be to reach my mother-in-law’s house, though on the same block out on the opposite side of the street we could not see through smoke and flames if it is still there. To the right would be to run further to the city—several blocks of unknown danger. Suddenly from the right, soldiers on horses appeared as apocalyptic figures, so we ran left. The house of my mother-in-law was intact (it still is—the only house left in the

ghetto after the holocaust). The family was assembled in the tremendous cellar full of tenants, of refugees from other bombed houses, even from the suburbs. My mother-in-law was there like an angel of mercy distributing whatever food she had: soup, tea, good words. Niuta (my sister-in-law) in her last weeks of pregnancy sat in a corner like a heap of fear and misery. It was a very bad night, our first and only spent in a cellar, so at the break of dawn we went back across the street. The house was still standing, the apartment full not only of people but of debris: broken glass and human rubbish.

Zano called from the hospital. He did not know that his wife ran away and was happy that I am in his house, that I will be able to cover with slipcovers his beautiful new dining room and his office furniture; and please could I go out and try to buy him a watch; he has none so he will send his orderly for it. I gave him the watch Joseph forgot on the table. I gave it to him before we were married. It was silver with our initials. It went with Zano to Katyn.*

The last 24 hours before surrender we spent all 18 people in a small bathroom in the middle of the apartment. Somebody had a pocket full of raisins, so from time to time we nibbled some.

When the planes were very loud and machine gun fire very close I would cover Robert’s head with my black seal coat. And then daylight and quiet. A friend came by with a big copper container of soda water “to have a sip and to wash a little.” There was no running water and electricity since several days earlier.

*Katyn, a camp where Russians killed ten thousand Polish officers

We decided first to see if our own house and our own apartment are still in existence. The road was full of rubbish, upturned busses and trolly cars, dead horses and bodies and somehow we came home. The house was quiet, in my apartment the entrance door was broken; a stranger was shaving on my baby grand piano, and said that he spent a few last days there because he was afraid of his fourth floor. But now he will have to vacate the place, so he left. He left the toilet bowl full, the bathtub full of dirty water he collected before, some of my provisions were missing except oatmeal and a can of cooking oil. The big oleanders were blooming pink on the balcony, not even one glass window was broken. So we went back to Otwarda, collected our belongings—in the meantime the neighbors stole the rest of my most precious provisions. We tried to clean up the place—the shit hidden in the rolled-up carpets we found only after the smell in the dining room became really fierce.

And so we went again to see if, where, and how our family survived. It was very hard to describe the burning, destroyed city, the mountains of debris and corpses.

We found everybody well, considering the circumstances. Also Kaloryt—Joseph’s factory—was still in one piece, though the front of the building was bombed to the ground. The next visit was to the pharmaceutical factory where I was working. The factory was undamaged and already active. I was told that I cannot be employed any more being Jewish; I got three months salary and that was it. I wasn’t even very surprised with their decision and I have to admit that all the time through my subsequent illness and almost by the end of my stay in Warsaw the boss, or rather his of-Jewish-origin wife, behaved very well, kept sending me provisions, Christmas presents for Robert, blessings for my trip.

One of the problems, which seems no problem at all in our American way of life, was the biggest of them all — except of course personal safety. We had no gas, no electricity, no water, no transportation, no food but also no maid. I didn’t know how to make fire in the kitchen stove to heat some water brought in the pail from far away. The broken front door had to be protected for the night with a pyramid made out of tables and chairs. I had a very small supply of candles. Robert, otherwise composed and undemanding, was frantic that we will not have enough candles to last until electricity will be restored. At 7 P.M. we will go to bed. He would fall asleep—after all he was only eight years old. I would wait until then, and at 9 P.M. started reading. In most big cities people just started getting ready to go to the opera or restaurants, I will tell him, like a fairy tale.

After the first few very difficult days, an angel appeared in the person of a dear elderly maid Gienia whose employer ran away and left her alone. She agreed to stay with us without salary only to be with a family, to have food and shelter. She was really a God send: bright, devoted and a marvelous fortune teller. I also discovered my school friend in the neighborhood. One day when Gienia went out to try to get some food, (we had nothing left) I decided to look for a doctor, because I felt terrible. Robert spent the day at Nelka, taking with him a cauliflower as provisions for the day. I had pain in my joints, could hardly walk, so armed with a cane started to look for a physician. This trip to the city was very hard, one doctor was in the army, the other one ran away. So finally I went to see my former boss, who after all was also a physician. Since I was not employed anymore I had to wait for him in the hall of the factory. He looked at me and promised that he would come to the house and that I should go to bed and take my temperature. With the greatest effort, I reached the house and collapsed into bed. Dr. K. came and diagnosed it as liver disease, brought me some laxative. I had to crawl to the toilet and with my last lucidity poured salicylic alcohol on my aching hands and feet, and covered them with gauze to keep them warm. The second degree burns that developed took weeks and weeks to heal. The next few days were spent in hallucinations, Robert reading the thermometer and telling everybody on the street, “My mommy has forty degrees.” Dr. K. never came back but a few days later our Rysio appeared on his bicycle like a Greek god, saw me and ran to look for help. By accident, he found out that Dr. H. came back to Warsaw upon escaping from prison camp. Rysio forced him into a “dorozka”* and they made it in time before police enforced the curfew. He prescribed salicylic acid injections, found a nurse but told Rysio it is too late to save me. It was the beginning of October.

Many people were wonderful help. I will have to devote here a few words to my nurse: While she was there in her white cap and uniform, I saw her beautiful like an angel. When I recovered and she was leaving, I realised how good but plain and homely she was. The family Kinderman — he was a tailor—with his wife, mother, and son—Robert’s age —were living in a room behind the tailor shop. Mr. K. carried me in his arms when the nurse wanted to change the bed. Little Joe was helping to light the fire in the kitchen stove. Marysia E., a neighbor on her way to the Russian side, had Mr. K. line her overcoat with her fur coat and trusted her diamonds for Mr. K. to hide them behind the linings. My thanks to the “lady with the feather,” a lovely young neighbor with a little boy Peter and a little hat like Robinhood. There will be more about her and her fate later. My schoolmate Dr. Nelka would come to make i.v. injections— the nurse was not qualified to do i.v. injections. She would also make out of old newspapers little balls to use for keeping the food hot. For my family as for everybody living a little further it was a terrible trip. No public transportation, streets full or rubble, fear of being caught for forced labor, and the anxiety of meeting SS patrols prowling the city.

*dorozka—horse driven carriage

When my health started to improve, the electricity and the water also were repaired. Sometimes somebody from Kaloryt (Joseph’s factory) would come over or somebody from my lab. And again I have to mention a few people, loving, devoted, coming to see me in spite of every adversity. In November it was decided that all the Jews will have to move to one part of town designated for the Ghetto, but after a few days Rysio told me it was postponed. This was the day he came to say goodbye. He was leaving with Marula to Wilno, USA and finally to death over gray London sky. He came loaded with several jars of marvelous strawberries, homemade preserved, and a beautiful edition of Proust’s “A La Recherche Du Temp Perdu.” Since one jar of strawberries broke, Rysio said,—and these were his last words to me— “Swann* sits and eats your confitures.” At the end of November I was already out of danger, still weak but well enough to start worrying where is Joseph. Will I ever see him again, unless he will try finding me, who is still in the same place as before the war, I will lose him forever.

On December 4th, Gienia came in the morning with her pail of coal to start the fire in the stove of my room. I dreamt that night that in our house a store was opened with feathers and down and two big swans were standing in front of the house, as signs. Gienia was enchanted with my dream and started repeating that this is the day we are going to hear from the “Master.” At noon Mura, Joseph’s younger brother, came with a postcard addressed to the family Osnos on Otwarda, my in-laws’ address, signed by an Uncle Mendel Osnos from Berlin asking for Marta and Robert. Afterwards the postal service between Warsaw and Romania was opened and I started to receive some scarce news.

*Swann — important person in the Proust work, “A la recherche du temps perdu”

I started to go out a little, and finally I decided to see what happened to the city.

It was snowing very heavily so I took a sled*. The gay ringing of little bells did nothing to help me. Streets, houses, every place so familiar, close to my heart, to my life, gone destroyed, and already under the blanket of snow they lost some of their horror.

The “shandebande” blue Mogen David on a white background as an armband, were compulsory since November. Many people felt that since it was a German order it should be disobeyed. I felt that too many people in Warsaw knew me so I risked more by not wearing it and taking chances of being denounced, than by wearing it and being picked from the street to wash some floors or do some other menial tasks.

On Christmas day we saw the first real refugees, people from Putawy**, big groups that came to stay with their family in our apartment building. Since the curfew started really early, people became friendly with neighbors and the usual human traffic of love affairs, friendship, greed, and envy started immediately confined to the same address.

My lovely friend and neighbor, “lady with the feather,” came all excited. Her husband, being trapped in Lwow under Russian occupation, sent her word that she should try and join him. She should take the chance since she was born in Lwow. Very excited, she approached the Gestapo and was able to receive a pass to go with little Peter in a special Ukranian refugees train to Lwow. She had a few days to get ready and her husband in Lwow was officially informed of the date of their arrival.

*Sled and horse was a popular means of transportation in winter. **Putawy—a town in Poland

A day before their departure little Peter started to cough, developed high fever, and the pediatrician was against his taking the trip. It was a very severe winter and the child could die. The mother decided to stay, but she went to see the train, hoping somebody would be able to find her husband and tell him why she didn’t come. She came back from the station describing the broken, dilapidated overcrowded, icy cold train. She was glad she decided against the trip. Her husband expected her at the station in Lwow and when he couldn’t find his family, immediately decided to come back to Warsaw. They could not leave any more and spent the war in the Warsaw ghetto. To me this adventure had a very special meaning, because when I went to get the pediatrician for little Peter I had my first real encounter with the S.S. Approaching the house in a very nice section of Warsaw, I didn’t pay too much attention to a big truck in front of the house. While not yet on the steps I saw two very tall, very slick elegant-looking in their capes and pointed hats S.S. men. “Where are you going?” “To fetch Dr. B. to a very sick child.” One of them climbed the stairs with me. We left the address of the child with the doctor’s wife and while coming down, the interrogation started; “Are you single? Is your husband with you? Where do you live? We will go to your house, you must have very good furniture. How far is your house? We will drive there with you.” And so I rang the bell to my apartment, with two S.S. men on my side and a crummy looking Volksdeutch along. Robert opened the door and turned white. I kissed him saying, “Don’t be afraid, they mean no harm.” The Volksdeutch shouted, “You told him to hide your big bed.” I started to laugh, turning to the S.S. men, saying in my not so bad German, “How silly of him. How can you hide a double bed. I never had one.” They ran around the house making noise and commotion not like two men but twenty, trying to play the piano, looked at the

head of Voltaire by Houdon on my little desk. The following conversation, “Who is this? Voltaire. Oh, ‘Malade Imaginaire,”’ “No that was Molière,” “Aha,” ended their visit. They never found the boxes of electrical supplies in my wardrobe. A week later the same arrogant Volksdeutch appeared on a very cold afternoon demanding ransom money the officers would not confiscate my furniture which they liked very much. But I said in the same arrogant tone that if I would have ransom money I would rather spend it on coal to heat the house a little. I got even coupons for coal and was never bothered again. Luck!

In the meantime the letter from Romania was more pessimistic about the future of the world. On February 1st, 1940 I got a registered letter with a “promessa” for the Romanian visa. A promessa was issued to show the German authorities that if they will let me leave Warsaw, I will get in Berlin a permanent visa to go to Bucharest. This promessa was a most important document I could ever get and very few were issued. How Joseph got it is another story. On the second of February was a name’s day of one of the girls from the office. She invited me in spite of my armband. Afterwards I ran across the street to Kara* who was leaving for Romania in a few days. The slow process of preparation started.

I was introduced to a young man, a Mr. Aftergut, who was supposed to be on friendly terms with some people from the Gestapo. He promised me that all my permits will be ready in a few weeks. He looked like Mephisto himself. Tremendous black eyebrows, everlasting little smile, very well dressed in tyrolian hat and camel hair coat. He would come every few days assuring me that everything is proceeding fine, that all I should do is to rent my apartment to some responsible people who would promise to give it back to me when the war is over and I will come back to Warsaw. I met the ideal family refugees from another town: father, mother, aunt and two teenagers, good looks (it means they didn’t look Jewish), good manners, money.

*Kara—a friend who left for Bucharest before I did

They all moved to one room in my house hoping that I will be leaving very soon. The living conditions became very difficult, one kitchen, one bathroom and all those people just waiting for me to leave. Mr. Aftergut became less reassuring. Some of my friends were much more advanced in their preparations for departure. So finally I decided to have a big talk with him. I managed to get his address, and one morning I went to his house where he lived and, thank God, found him at home. Home was one room in an otherwise empty and bombed apartment. A straw sack in one comer, a string with drying socks and underwear across the room, one chair, where the camel hair coat and tyrolian hat were hanging. I was very firm and announced that I shall immediately denounce him to the Gestapo.

In the meantime a travel agency opened in Warsaw, the director of which lived in my apartment house, and I found out much later that he could really help me enormously. I told Mr. A. that maybe, “I will rot in prison, but you will also rot there.” It worked. He started to apologize, to cry that he was completely destitute and didn’t know a soul in the Gestapo and deposited my papers in the travel agency, hoping for some outcome. We went to the agency together and the director whom I could approach much earlier, promised to help. In the meantime the family sharing my apartment were getting most impatient, but by a miracle they discovered that a cousin of theirs was married to a German girl. He had the status of a Folksdeutch and a lot of money and two trips to Krakow, the capital of the province occupied by the Germans. Later, sometime in May, I received my passport and the permit to go to Berlin to pick up my Romanian visa. Of course there were still many more steps to take, but the most important were accomplished. I had to have a permit to take some clothes and 10 marks. I had to have proof that I paid my dues to the Jewish community and also that I am not Jewish. (As Jew I was not permitted to travel by train, the only way to reach Berlin.) In order to obtain a proof of baptism I went with a very good friend—some not so good friends refused to take me to the obscure little private chapel—was sprinkled with water, received the name Irene and for an extra few zlotys received a baptism certificate for Robert. I explained that this would be an honour for a little boy and that I will baptise him immediately upon returning home. I also obtained a certificate for Joseph with the same stipulation, but I didn’t know that in Bucharest you could get those precious papers in every corner cafe. I was instructed by a shipping company that if I was willing I could spare myself some waiting before departure, by inviting the customs officers to my house for a little private eating and drinking and could get my suitcases approved right there. So toward June 5th, having already my ticket and half for Berlin for Sunday afternoon, I prepared a lot of “vodka wyborora pickles and Kielbasa,” set the table and packed my few possessions. Everything went very well, one of the suitcases had a broken lock, so in spite of the stamps and papers after they left I managed to slip through the slit some small pieces of jewelry into the suitcase. Here I have to mention my engagement diamond: 1½ carats. Of course I was supposed to give it to the Germans a long time ago—which I didn’t. It was really the only piece of value real and not sentimental. (“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”) So I deliberated with myself whether to smuggle it with me, or leave it behind in Warsaw. In the morning I would feel brave to take it. In the evening, after hearing many stories of search through all the natural offices, I was sure the diamond should stay in Warsaw. Finally, removed from its setting and wrapped in tissue paper, it left Warsaw in the hem of a winter house coat—it helped immensely in our further travels. Everybody in Warsaw that had somebody in Romania had come to see me, to touch me, to give messages to their loved ones. To add one more complication to all my troubles, I had a day before leaving, a telegram from Joseph. The meaning of it I understood only after my arrival to Romania.

And so this famous Sunday June 9th arrived. We had dinner with some neighbors and said goodbye to crying friends and to my tenants, who started already moving furniture around and went to the station. The trip was fast, the train crowded and Monday morning we were in Berlin full of sunshine, flowers, decorated with flags. It was the day Italy entered the war. We arrived into Uncle Mendel’s apartment. He was dressed, in spite of the early time already praying in front of the lectern in the hall. I am sorry to say that the stay in Berlin was painful and difficult mostly because of the attitude of the lady of the house. She wanted to know whether I brought enough food with me to last me through the few days I was supposed to stay in Berlin. She was much younger than her husband, refused to leave Berlin because she didn’t want to part with her lovely apartment, grand piano and oriental rugs. Besides I discovered that just a few weeks prior to my arrival she had a face lifting by surgery, which was rather amazing considering the circumstances, like for instance that as a Jewess with yellow star she could shop only after 12 P.M. and at 12 P.M. the food stores were completely empty.

I have to do some explaining here in order to continue

with my story. When Joseph arranged for me to have this famous visa, he also paid at the German airline my 1 ½ fare to Bucharest knowing that I would leave Warsaw without money. So when I arrived to the Romanian consulate in Berlin to collect my visa, I was sure that my further travel expenses were taken care of. The Romanian consul with whom I spoke French was charming and helpful. He knew immediately that I am Jewish, because I really didn’t learn yet to pretend. He called from the Yugoslavian consulate. I needed a transit visa, assured them over the phone that I am Catholic, blinking at me humorously at the same time. Then he called the airline only to find out that they have no recollection of ever receiving any money on my account. I still didn’t realize the extent of my misfortune.

We went home with Robert, driven by the consul in his car, and promised to keep him up to date to the further developments. In the afternoon we went to the Yugoslavs for the transit visa, and I knew already to play coy. “Why you asked me whether I have proof of being Catholic?” He replied, “Oh Madame, if you would know how many people have false papers . . . We have to be careful, but not you of course after all the Romanian consul said that you are his special protégé.” Next morning I went with Robert to a travel agent, to find out how much is a train ticket to Bucharest but the ticket agent said, “You couldn’t have brought money from Poland for your ticket.” Then I said that of course my husband deposited the money for me with the Romanian consul. “I will know,” said the agent reaching for the phone. I said, in Polish to Robert, “My darling this is the end, the consul will never say that he has money for me.” But he did and said to the agent that he will give me a letter stating the origin of the money. We went to the Romanian consulate and the consul said if I find the money for the ticket he will give me a suitable letter and when I will pay this money to his account in Bucharest he will immediately pay it back to the lender. We both assumed that I will get the money from the Uncle. But when I came to Wilmesdorf* I was told that there is a war on, money is scarce and they cannot give me the price of 1½ tickets. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon in June with all the windows and balconies doors open. Since the Uncle was deaf, I announced very loudly holding Robert’s hand that I am immediately jumping down with him from the balcony. The aunt was very angry that the neighbors may hear this family discussion. I said, “Of course the whole Wilmensdorf should hear it.” Finally, the Uncle said yes, the cheapest train there is, if I promise and swear that as soon as I get to Bucharest, I will pay it back. So the next morning I paid for the tickets, said goodbye to the consul, my poor Uncle, spent some food ration for a small candy box, took us to the station, even paid for the taxi, so anxious he was to get rid of us. His wife had a few ladies in the afternoon for tea, so we said goodbye in the house. We finished the hard boiled eggs I brought from Warsaw and had as my whole money 8 marks, which had to feed us in the train for 36 hours and to pay for the telegram announcing my arrival. We entered an extremely crowded compartment and started on our way to the Yugoslavian border. In the evening we went to the dining car and when I asked for one mark worth of food for my child they brought two full dinners and refused even that one mark. In the morning a Yugoslav examined our passports, stamped, without searching them, our suitcases, saluted smartly. I said to Robert, “Our troubles are over,” and poor Robert was promptly sick all over the white uniform of the customs officer. We left Germany!

*Wilmesdorf—the district in Berlin

Now we looked at the passing lovely countryside and the sounding names of the stations. One or two hours before we reached Zagreb, a pleasant looking man came to our compartment. He was a lawyer coming back home after a long stay somewhere in the country. His wife was expecting him at the station. He jumped out of the train but before leaving the station he gathered all the little carts selling fruit, chocolate, cookies, magazines and by his blindness and utmost generosity repaid somehow our past misery. Then he told me through the window that Paris capitulated. How right Joseph was insisting that Europe was Kaput! Finally around noon we arrived to the Romanian border. Our papers, visas were checked and there we were rushing to Bucharest. One more task was still to be done and prayed for—for that I kept those last 5 marks. A telegram has to be sent to Bucharest announcing our arrival. I couldn’t find a telegraph office at the frontier station, so I asked one of the officials who talked some French whether he could somehow send a telegram for me, saying gaily that after all I didn’t see my husband since last September 6th so maybe I should try not to surprise him with my arrival. I offered the man my last 5 German marks. He refused the money, promised to wire and he did wire. Poor Mrs. Emil Loebl the lady who was “baby sitting” for many Polish emigrees in her house, sharing her address, her meals with them since the telegram arrived in the afternoon, started to search for Joseph all over Bucharest, and finally somebody told her in the cafe-house frequented by the Poles, that the whole group went to the swimming pool to get a nice suntan for the guests from Warsaw. So Mrs. Loebl took a cab to Bragadiru to get her protege, she packed him back and sent in time to the station, snow white roses in his hands.

JOSEPH’S EXODUS

To appreciate the miracles that helped Joseph, and subsequently Robert and me, one has to know that in 1939 Poland had a population of 34 million persons and about 34,000 privately owned cars. The United States today has about 220 million people and 100 million cars.

Joseph left Warsaw September 6, 1939, during the night when the radio urged every man able to join the army to go East. Women and children should stay in Warsaw— nothing would harm them. A young couple we knew had a car and some gas, but they didn’t drive and begged Joseph, who had an international driver’s license, that they should all go together. I urged Joseph to take this wonderful opportunity, to be able to drive and not walk East as he had intended.

He dressed as for a picnic in the country: bouffant plus-four pants, windbreaker, and beret. We split our 250 zlotys —he took 200—and one kiss, one sob, and he was gone.

When he was in the car, he realized there was room for more people, so he called his brother Mura, who was married and had a son Robert’s age. He was very happy to drive East instead of walk as the radio had urged. Joseph picked him up and they drove to a garage where they were supposed to get some more gas. Joseph called me from that garage, but that story is described at the beginning of my adventures.

To leave Warsaw to the East they had to cross the crowded bridge at Wisla. On the corner of the street where they were waiting, with their car blocked in a terrible bottle-neck of cars, bicycles, horses, and pedestrians, there was a drug store. Mura ran there to call once more to his wife. She asked him to reconsider, so he took back his bundle from the car and went home. All the family perished, Mura first. His wife and the little Jerzyk were deported to a camp in occupied France and were killed there.

Joseph and his two young passengers drove East and arrived in Lublin, the meeting place for everyone who left Warsaw. There he met Gustav and his family. Lublin was bombed and everyone was running to the ditches. Monika, who was two years old, was holding Joseph’s hand begging, uMr. Uncle, let them stop.” As everyone decided to leave Lublin, Joseph asked Gustav to hitch his little Hillman — short of gas—to his big Chevrolet. It didn’t work out, and driving out of the burning city in a complete blackout, with the road full of cars, wagons, horses, and people, Joseph missed Gustav standing near his damaged and stranded car. But Gustav’s is another story.

The parents of the young owner of the car joined them in Lublin, so all five of them were together. The driving was done only at night in complete darkness—the cars didn’t use any lights so as not to become bomb targets. During the day they would conceal the car in the woods. Joseph napped in it and protected it from anybody who would try to confiscate or simply steal the car. Joseph’s firm determination, strong and fierce looks, towering size and arrogance helped him in matching his adversaries, pseudo-officers, or deserters, and he was able to keep the car to the end. His four passengers rested, sleeping during the day as best they could, but their constant arguments and discussions made the trip a torture, so the parents stayed behind in one of the little villages and went back to Warsaw. They were non-Jewish so they probably survived.

After driving five nights in a row, Joseph reached a village in Eastern Poland called Krzemieniec. In a body workshop-garage Joseph was able to have his broken fender fixed. That fender had almost been separated from the car by an army truck that hit them, and it was flapping in the wind constantly, driving Joseph crazy and attracting unnecessary attention. In the workshop Joseph started to talk to the chauffeur of the Romanian Embassy. He turned out to be the cousin of one of Joseph’s employees in Warsaw. The man was happy to share his ample supply of gas stored in his trunk and refused to accept money for it.

Well supplied with gas—the roads were full of cars left behind for want of gas—and still driving only by night, they reached a village almost on the Romanian border. There Joseph met one of the real Polish rich men. The man had a car, a driver, and not a drop of gas. Joseph sold him some of his supply for a gold ten rubles coin, knowing that Polish currency had lost its value.

It was September 14 and Sniatyn was full of people waiting for a miracle or for the opening of the Romanian border. During the night 16/17 of September, the radio announced that the Russians had invaded Poland; the border was opened and people started to cross. The little town was in an uproar and everybody, including the Polish government, leftover army, and treasury, was on the move. Since Joseph had his profession, industrialist, written in his passport, he of course couldn’t stay under Russian occupation.

He looked terrible, having lost about 30 pounds, and his clothes were dirty rags, so he decided he better do something about it. At 3 A.M. he saw a flicker of light in a window of a fabric store. He knocked at the door and explained to the terrified owner that he had the best intentions, and that the Russkies would confiscate his store anyway. So, in exchange for the gold coin, the man gave Joseph enough fabric for an overcoat, suit, shirts, and underwear.

The owners of the car had left already for Romania with some government people and left the car to Joseph. So he collected four young friends and at 6 A.M. they were on their way to Cemauti. This first big Romanian town was already well prepared for the tremendous influx of refugees. The local people were wonderful hosts, giving room, board, cloth, as much as possible. Joseph, assigned to a nice family, remembers fondly that walking through the main street he stopped at a little food store to buy his favorite—a bag of raisins and nuts. The owner started to talk to Joseph — the Romanians spoke German, Russian, or French—and told him that he was a widower and begged Joseph to move to his big house. Since it was Yom Kippur, he took him to the temple, and when next day our five young men left on their way to Bucharest, he gave them a tremendous picnic basket with enough food to last them the 600 kilometers, every item packed and labeled.

During those few days in Cernauti, Joseph made a few dollars in a very complicated scheme, exchanging zlotys into Romanian currency and then finding people, mostly Polish officers, with zlotys to be changed. Recommended to the good graces of a lawyer in Bucharest, they arrived at the nicely furnished apartment of Emil and Clara Loebl. They took excellent care of Joseph and his friends. Their home, their food, their connections were at the disposal of the five refugees.

Joseph started his Romanian life by going to the tailor and ordering a complete new wardrobe — he knew how important his looks would be in shaping his future. The

photograph I received in January surprised me tremendously. It was incredible that a young man—a Jew from Warsaw—could be walking around in an elegant overcoat, dashing hat, no white and blue armband, no fear in his eyes, beyond all the atrocities of January 1940 in the streets of Warsaw.

Joseph started to work in a garage, mostly selling used cars. His first concern was to get Robert and me out of Poland, and it was a long time before he even knew whether we were dead or alive. He went to the still-functioning Polish Embassy and was able to obtain a so-called “note ver-bale” recommendation from the Embassy to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where a Mr. Popescu was in charge of the visas department. Joseph in his elegant outfit and his fluent French reached through several secretaries the office of Mr. Popescu. After listening to Joseph’s request, he explained to him that he happened to be the Minister of Foreign Affairs himself, but would be happy to direct Mr. Osnos to Mr. Popescu-Paschkani, who was in charge of the visa department.

Another elegant secretary took Joseph to the right place and explained that “Monsieur le Ministre” was sending Mr. Osnos. That was understood as “Mr. Osnos is recommended by Monsieur le Ministre,” and the visas were granted and issued at once. No place in the world thrived on bribery like pre-war Romania. No friends, no fellow refugees in Bucharest would believe that only sheer luck helped in this endeavor.

The visas reached us in February 1940, and the rest is described in my part of the exodus. Here I have to emphasise very strongly that Joseph felt from the beginning of the war that the only salvation for us would be to leave Poland. As soon as he found out that we were alive and the postal service was more or less normal, he wrote constantly, urging me to liquidate my belongings and leave at once. Of course not being under German occupation, he could not understand or imagine the difficulties connected with such an undertaking. There were only a few women who left Warsaw at that time.

Our six months stay in Bucharest was certainly a vacation after the German occupation. But we knew all the time we have to leave Europe. Everybody was leaving, Brazil, India, Palestine, but it seemed as difficult as it was difficult to leave Warsaw. The main problem besides money, which we didn’t have, was how to obtain Turkish transit visas while being Jewish. Turkey was separating Romania from the rest of the world so it has to be crossed. On the other hand, though neutral, Turkey was flirting with the Germans and under no circumstance would jeopardize their good relations with the Nazis. With big difficulties we obtained visas for Dutch Indies, with that in hand we could start to bother the Turkish authorities. We were able to rent a room with a family, who lived in a lovely little villa adjoining the Turkish embassy. So at least we didn’t have far to go to do our bothering. But real help came from God himself. One night a terrible earthquake hit Bucharest, Joseph ran downstairs, so did the Turkish ambassador. They met, they talked, and two days later we had the transit visa. With that, we obtained also transit through Iraq and really hoped that during a few days stay in Istanbul we will be able to arrange to go to Palestine, which was really what we wanted. So again we packed. Dear Mrs. Loebl gave us some provisions and were ready to go. Just before leaving the nice little house adjoining the Turkish embassy I decided that I couldn’t leave such a mess behind, so I took again that broom, swept the floor, then washed my hands, got my coat, gloves, muff—it was very cold in the train so I didn’t remove them through the night and only upon my arrive in the morning to Constanta I noticed that I left my rings and watch while washing up in Bucharest. I regained them three years later in Bombay.

Before leaving Romania forever I should explain the telegram I got from Joseph before my departure from Warsaw. The lady I was supposed to travel with had a forged promessa. Joseph was afraid that if we will arrive together to the Romanian consulate, even though my papers were perfectly legitimate, something could go wrong and we will all be arrested. It is interesting to add that this woman arrived safely to Bucharest. Another friend who left Warsaw 10 days later came to Berlin and had to go back.

In Constanta we took a boat and with several other refugees many Poles, deserters from the army, left for Istanbul. The weather was bad, the sea agitated. The trip lasted not even 24 hours but seemed endless. Monday morning we were in Istanbul. The Turkish police came to the boat, checked our visas and declared that we cannot stay in the city more than until Tuesday 6 A.M. They wrote down the name of the hotel we were supposed to stay in. We gave the name of a real rathole recommended by some people who stayed there before. It was already dark, 5 P.M., when we finally left the boat and it seemed impossible to accomplish in a few hours stay all we had to do. One of our friends from Romania who had the permit to stay in Istanbul would come every Monday to meet the boat from Constanta to look for friends and to try to help. He took care of Robert, tired after the boat trip, and promised to join us a few hours later at the famous Park Hotel, a meeting place of everybody in Istanbul. Joseph ran to the Polish Consulate. I ran to a drygood store belonging to a Mister Brod, known among the refugees for his willingness to help.

We wanted to go to Palestine or to be able to stay in Istanbul, but everything had to be arranged immediately. It was raining heavily. The narrow up and down streets of Istanbul seemed a maze. Finally I reached the store to be told that Mr. Brod and the Jewish community is terribly upset and busy. A small illegal boat with refugees perished in the harbor and they are looking for survivals. I was told maybe in the Park Hotel somebody will be able to help. So I found my way to the Park Hotel. It was suppertime, beautiful crowd, music, food, drinks, elegant women and men in colorful uniforms. Mr. Barlas from the Jewish agency asked us to have dinner with him and proposed to send Robert with a group of Polish children to Palestine. We would join later. I wouldn’t think to separate the family. In the meantime the friend who took care of Robert for those few hours decided since the child was sleepy and next morning at 6 A.M. we were supposed to be escorted by police to the Hyadar Pasza, the station from where trains were leaving inland. The friend took Robert to the rathole hotel and put him to bed and then joined us again in the Park Hotel. Around midnight we met my cousin Janek who decided we should all go to a small cafe known for all kinds of guides and “machers” (Jewish for arrangers). So he led the way through black and rainy night. Suddenly a piercing cry “Mamuslu” (Mother). We didn’t notice but we walked across the street from the lousy hotel where Robert didn’t fall asleep, instead put a coat over his pajamas and sat on the steps leading to the street, when he heard our Polish voices from across the street, and I didn’t see him, didn’t stop for him—nothing—total misery and abandonment!

At 6 A.M. we were on our way by train crowded to the brim, heading toward Mersina. It was a small port in the Mediterranean where all the Poles so-called “in danger

from the Germans” were collected and transported by boat to Palestine. We didn’t qualify; Joseph was not yet in the army, not in danger, and we didn’t have enough money for the capitalistic visas issued by the British. The trip which lasted about 36 hours was not very inspiring—except that in the evening the conductor took me to a private compartment. There I met two midwifes going to a post very far away. They spoke some French, had pity on our family crowded in 3rd class; so they asked me to spend the night with them. I did and the whole night I played on their little portable organ which they were taking with them. In the evening we arrived to Mersina; many natives learned some Polish from hundreds of refugees. We found out that the small hotels were crowded, finally a waiter took us to his house about a mile away from the village. He was a good, decent man and so was his wife who tried to talk to me constantly. She tried to feed us Turkish specialties and one day she took us to a magnificent garden. For the first time in our lives we saw trees laden with grapefruit, lemons, and oranges.

The big argument with the police was that the Turks wanted to put us on a boat going to Palestine and refused to admit that without visas we could not board the boat.

One Saturday morning as soon as we appeared at the main square we were told that the boat transporting people to Palestine via Cyprus was there and we will have to be on this boat alive or dead. Since it was a beautiful cool day we decided promptly to leave the town and wait somewhere at the shore until we will see the boat leaving; so we bought some rolls and oranges and went as if for a walk. We stayed out of sight until sunset. The boat from far looked beautiful with all lights on, but we were frozen cold, hungry and desperate, so we finally went back to the village only to be grabbed immediately by a policeman. So I went with Robert home and Joseph to the police where he gave his word of honor that within 3 days we will leave Turkey. How? When he finally came home, he noticed that out of sheer adversity of fate he left his wallet with all the papers, passports, counterfeited baptismal certificates at the police station. So he ran back at least two miles but the papers untouched were there. One could leave Turkey either by boat or by land—to leave by land means going to Iraq.

We had the visa but to go by train we had to cross Syria. Syria had a French regime, Vichy, meaning being under German supervision. Since Joseph was a Pole and in military age we would not be allowed to have a transit visa, because this way he would be able to reach England and join the free Polish army. Turkey had borders with Iraq but the train didn’t go as far as that. It would stop in Diabekir and from there one could take a raft on the river Tygrys. The trip lasted about a week, was very costly and finally reached Mosul already in Iraq. During the winter this trip was almost impossible. Joseph picked up his courage, he took Robert along—Robert was born in Paris—and they went to beg the French consul for a transit visa through Syria. Finally the consul said if worse comes to worse they will stop you at the Syrian border but at least you will be out of Turkish soil.

Within half an hour everybody knew that we are leaving for Baghdad next morning, so we bought some rolls, oranges and escorted by happy policemen to the station, took the so-called “Taurus express.” Of course we had 3rd class tickets but we were told that at the Syrian border Tel Kotcheck we have to change into 1st class; only Arabs in Iraq travel 3rd class. We crossed easily across the Syrian border. The train was very late, the French commissioner was on the train. On several stations they had receptions for him so nobody paid attention to our visas. Only the customs officer put in the passport how much money we have, 2 watches, 3 rings, 2 fountain pens and added it all together as our possessions. At 11:30 P.M. we arrived to Telkochek. I carried the suitcases and then when we were settled he went to the ticket counter to change our ticket from 3rd to 1st class. I see (38 years later) his desperate face in the soft raining darkness in front of the 1st class car. He would have to spend 20 dollars to change the tickets. What 20 dollars? Back we went to the 3rd class. Special cars designed to cross the desert, smolt windows against the coiling hermetically closed and benches narrow and hard in the middle. There was nobody there, when we came with our possessions, but very soon the Arabs started to come and look with curiosity at us. It was really the flight to Egypt! The night passed fairly well, the trip through the desert was fascinating, so were people in the train. Some men couldn’t grasp us, couldn’t locate us, but tried out of sheer human feelings to be good in the only way they knew, they constantly would feed Robert and me by stuffing with their fat fingers their own provisions or buying at the stations little baskets with colored and decorated hard boiled eggs. They didn’t even let us peel them, they would peel them and then only feed us. There was also a man in a little black cap—obviously not an Arab. He spoke some French and followed us after arrival to Baghdad, to the hotel and a few days later came to take me out. But at that time I knew already that he was an Armenian, that I should keep away from him, especially since he wanted to take us for a ride by bus. Buses were only for natives!

At 10 P.M. we arrived at the railway station in Baghdad. Our party was composed of our family, a funny Austrian couple we met at the station and never before, Mr. and Mrs. Abdullah and the faithful Armenian. We had an address of a modest hotel and followed by 10 coolis one for each suitcase, arrived to a small poorly lit hotel. The owner in rich Arabian attire shook his head, Joseph announced to the coolis in Romanian, “am placit” (I payed already). Robert was sleepy, I was desparate, so were the Abdullahs. Suddenly the owner noticed the Polish passport. He made a pacifying sign with his outstretched palms and disappeared for a moment. He came back with a tall slender man who said in Polish, “What’s going on,” then something in Arabic, then again in Polish, then arranged for everybody to have a room and promised to come to our quarters later to explain everything. That was John the savior! He played a main role in our flight and my warmest feelings he will have forever. He was an incredible linguist. The war placed him in Baghdad where he made a very frugal living as a teacher of German in a high school. He spoke 24 languages fluently, mostly oriental ones. He told us that first evening that we should start by getting shots against cholera, yellow fever, typhus and so on. For our traveling activities we will have to wait a few days — it was New Years Day coming and the offices would be closed. We went to the “American hospital” got our shots and Joseph as well as Robert were deadly sick for a few days, running to the bathroom through a long and cold corridor every few minutes. I even went across the street to the most elegant hotel in our town, “Semiramis,” to see whether I could borrow a chamber pot from one of our Polish refugees living in that hotel, but everybody had a room with adjoining bathroom. Finally my men got better and we went to the English authorities to decide something for the future. Joseph talked to the consul, Robert and I played dice. The consul advised us to get any permanent visa—the one we had for the Dutch Indies was useless. Holland was already completely under Hitler’s rule—the consul promised to give us transit visas through British India and he assured us that in Bombay we will be able to stay through the duration of the war. He suggested Japanese visas and tickets to Japan as the solutions. It seems so unreal—but John was very friendly with the Japanese consul. We went together to the consulate, got our visas, sold my diamond, that cause me so much anxiety in Warsaw, bought the tickets to Kobe and we were again on our way.

During our two weeks stay in Baghdad we had many many new experiences, pleasant and unpleasant. Baghdad was the most miserable capital we ever saw. The dirt, the smell of open urinals, mutton grease and cooking turnips on streetcorners. Crowds of fierce looking men, especially Kurds whose matted hair mixed with long fringes of their enormous turbans. Women covered completely with their black robes—as Robert said, uHere everybody is in mourning,” remembering the black veils still used in Poland for the families of the deceased. We were so disgusted with the look of small restaurants that our diet consisted of hard boiled eggs, cooked secretly in the hotel room on an electrical plate, brought as a memento from Poland, and oranges. Only after John took me to a store where for the first time in my life I saw cold storage illuminated cases and was able to buy some canned food. We had 3 good meals while in Baghdad. First—there was a lady-doctor from Poland who was there many years as head of the Jewish hospital. She would invite every refugee family from Poland once for dinner. She sent for us her “arrabangi” carriage with 2 horses, she had a lovely house, Indian servants, serving beautiful food on exquisite porcelain—at one moment poor Robert objected to the servant taking away his “serving plate” saying what for—finally he fell asleep from all this excitement being still weak from the after effects of his shots.

The second meal was a tea at the house of Pasza—Dr. and Mrs. Makowski. Dr. Makowski was a personal physician and friend of the King. A few years before the war he went back to his native Poland to find a wife. He married a beautiful blonde girl, who with her similarly beautiful sister saved from German occupation, looked really like two pale angels of beauty and luxury. John was very friendly with the whole family and told them about us, hence the invitation. The third meal was provided by a local man who spoke some French, who knew that he would not make any profit on us, but still was every day at the hotel and once brought us a big platter with a delicious grilled fish from the Tygrys, it was wrapped in special leaves, a real treat.

The one moment of real fear I had only once, when Joseph was still in bed; I went to the general post office to find out if there was any letters at the “Post Ristorante” as Robert called it. I got lost and found myself far from the main street, “Harun El Rashid,” surrounded by a hostile crowd—I certainly couldn’t afford it but still I took an “arrabangi” and came back to the hotel.

Finally the day of the departure arrived. As advised by John we bought first class tickets to Basra, we were able to send them back to him, he resold them so we saved a little. We went to Basra together with Mr. and Mrs. Abdullah, they had visas to Mautitzins (I never heard of that place before). We arrived in the morning, since our boat was leaving in the afternoon we sat for a few hours at the lobby of a modern hotel, “Chatel Arab,” where in the “ladies room” I saw the first air conditioner in my life. Basra was dirty, gray but full of the most brilliant red hibiscus and palms. Basra is the world center of dates, the palm trees border miles and miles of Chatel Arab.

The boat was our first contact with India. It belonged to a British Indian company, all the help was Indians mostly Goanese. We didn’t know this means Catholics from Portugese India. I shared the cabin with Mrs. Abdullah and a nice Polish lady, her son was one of Joseph’s bridge partners. They let me sometimes share my bed with Robert, who had a little deck chair and slept on the deck with his father, many other refugees, many goats and chickens traveling with their owners. But at 5 A.M. they had to be up because the decks had to be scrubbed and washed at this time. So Robert sometimes just had to cuddle toward the wall, it was very hot but this trip was like a beautiful fairy tale, like Sindbad the sailor—he took his camels from Baghdad to Basra and then traveled by Chatel Arab, straits of Omar through Indian ocean to Karachis and then Bombay. We had this wonderful feeling of suspension in time and problems. This trip was payed, we had shelter, food, company, real life will start again in Bombay. But this few weeks spent very often near land, Abadan in Persia, Sultanate of Muscat, Bahrain Islands, marvelous nights with the ocean phosphorescent like green gold fire and stars as we never saw before. On this boat as always before and after, some people offered us real milk of human kindness. There was a Secretary of State from one of the Arabic countries. He came on deck everyday around sundown with his retenue of body guards. Their beards were dyed red, fancy turbans and big black robes. Never a look at a woman, especially this one. One morning the boat stopped for several hours at the Sultanate of Muscat. Everybody went ashore, except Poles with their Polish passports. Also our mahometan saint with his retenue left, and we could see the caravan of carriages waiting for him. Though a little jealous, we still had a wonderful day watching little boys diving for pennies, watching the little harbour, buying even a big shell. Around sunset everybody came back, the mahometan followed by a little boy with a basket of pomegranates. Before I knew all the pomagranates were in my lap. I didn’t know even what they were and how do you eat them. It was a beautiful gesture.

The first stop was Karachi. We arrived in the evening, went for a walk around the harbor, we saw our first cow, decorated with garlands of flowers with a full moon as a background. We spent the night on the boat, a whole next day sightseeing, everything so strange and different. In a few days we were in Bombay.

When ashore we saw a friendly soul, a young man who would come to meet every boat to look for friends from “Drohobyez,” his home town in Poland. He immediately helped us to get started. He took us to his little room, packed his belongings and moved into another room with a friend, went with me to a Mohametan furniture lender, we rented 1 table, 4 chairs, 1 double bed and one wardrobe. All this within minutes was transported by several coolies into our room. Robert took our Muskat bought big shell, put it on the middle of the table and said, “This is our new home.”