Today is the 50th anniversary of the death of my grandmother Kazimiera Żuławska. Below is a translation by Lauren Dubowski of the essay Kazimiera wrote for the remarkable “Ten jest z ojczyzny mojej” [“This One’s from my Fatherland”, info in Polish about it here], a compendium of first-hand recollections by ethnic Poles who helped save Polish Jews during the Nazi German occupation in World War II. My grandmother was a remarkable woman, and I’m very grateful to Lauren for bringing her words to English readers.
p.s. Eagle-eyed readers will note this is the first TM post in 6 years! I’m a bit rusty on WordPress since it’s begun trying to become Notion, but I hope this looks passable.
I dedicate these memoirs to the bereaved memory of Jadwiga Korngold-Kwiecińska
– The author
When I think back on those terrible times – the times of the German invasion – a series of shadows passes before my eyes: the memories of people who today, are for the most part missing or no longer with us – their movements, gestures and words take shape, involuntarily, in my mind… My former apartment, which no longer exists today, appears before my eyes, the way it was in those years. Our one and only ‘asylum’, a house for myself and for ‘them’. A kind of fragile boat on the waves of an enemy ocean, which was, however, able – for some time, at least – to give us all the illusion of certainty, peace and quiet.
I was brought together more closely with ‘them’ from the beginning of the year 1941. I had known many of them already, before the war. These people belonged predominantly to the artistic and intellectual sphere of our city. They had been esteemed, admired in their circles, often occupying outstanding roles within Polish society: painters, writers, architects, theatre people. And suddenly, as a result of their non-Aryan backgrounds, they had been plummeted to the level of hunted criminals. Many of them lost the very ground under their feet, along with their faith in the chances of any fight. They broke down, committing thousands of indiscretions and mistakes… Too well-known and ‘visible’ in their neighbourhoods, they were forced to run and hide between the hovels, attics and most abject barrooms of Warsaw – with their families, with their children…
Having been raised on the principles of 19th-century humanism, we simply could not believe this. It awakened the desire to stand up against it, and gave way to a purely human form of outrage. To offer help to those persecuted seemed yet another way to fight the occupier and his intolerable commands.
I had a spacious apartment at 62 Marszałkowska Street, and I decided to use it in the best way I could think of: to offer it in service to a society caught in a struggle and to all those who were the most vulnerable and in need. And so it came to be.
For that entire period, our apartment supported the work of the underground organisations (as a meeting and collections point, as well as a place for the distribution of the press, and sometimes weapons). It also became a shelter for those fleeing and hiding from persecution – Polish Jews.
First, a wave of escapees came from the eastern provinces – Lwów, Stanisławów, Jasło… They fled their homes, believing that it would be easier for them to hide and survive in the so-called General Province (which maintained a distinct and officially recognised Polish character). Often, whole groups of them would come, from several families – someone they knew would have given them the address. At 62 Marszałkowska, they would find short or longer-term accommodation, as well as assistance in searching for other places and acquiring the necessary contacts, and above all, with ‘left papers’ [false papers]. In spite of their difficult journeys and the dangers involved, they managed somehow; they held up well, and many of them, mercifully, survived to the spring of ’45.
Then, various dear friends and acquaintances began to come in from around Warsaw and the surrounding area – but all in all, people for whom the ground was already burning underneath their feet. They would come, stay for a longer or shorter time, move someplace else and come back again. Some stayed there the whole time, never even leaving the house; while others would leave at dawn; others would come for a night, and would have another place set up for the next; or they would only linger during the day…
The long-term group of residents was usually made up of about 10, and sometimes up to 15 people. They all needed – besides a place to stay – something to eat, so we all cooked lunches, kept a modest garden, bought groceries in town and did the housework. We couldn’t have a housekeeper, of course: first of all, there would be nowhere to put her; second, anyone could become a dangerous person, whether through ill will or carelessness. And so we worked alone, distributing the tasks amongst ourselves. I will point out that I was never given any reason to complain about my ‘compulsory’ guests. They helped me as much as they possibly could, and they tried to go about as gently as they could… and as quietly, which didn’t come easily to all of them.
Well, who wasn’t there, at our apartment on Marszałkowska!
There was a certain capable painter, Miss W., drawing attention with her beauty, struggling with the restrictions when it came to freedom of movement and the constant necessity of looking out for oneself; there was a brilliant doctor of medicine – a woman (the sister of a renowned Polish writer, the most wonderful man), with her foreign mother, who hardly spoke any Polish; a student from Stanisławów with his 10-year-old brother, who was recommended to me by a friend of mine; the always tactful and refined R., the wife of a doctor, from Jasło; a well-respected Warsaw dentist from Zielna Street; the wife and daughter of one of the members of the former British government; the family of a painter named G., known both in Poland and abroad; a talented theatre director – a woman who works to this day, with great success, on the stages of the Recovered Territories; a certain older gentleman – a certain shopkeeper from Pańska Street, who escaped the ‘ghetto’, hiding in the ruins and basements during the day, crawling the canals at night… There was also, if only for a short time, a ‘learned’ representative of Palestine, a Zionist, who would launch heated discussions on ‘anti-Polish’ topics with a passion, perhaps out of habit… But she was laughed at – that’s how irrelevant it was.
All of these people, brought together by ill fortune – caught, against their will and through no fault of their own, in the monstrous, ongoing wheel of history, somehow managed to live with each other and with us.
In real harmony, without a hint of being forced to do so, we prepared a Christmas Eve dinner together, and we celebrated together, in the Polish way – sharing the wafer, making wishes, singing carols by the lighted Christmas tree. Christmas Eve 1942, I remember, was an especially festive occasion. It was still relatively calm, and about 20 people had sat down to supper. Besides the residents, guests had been invited – people without families or homes to go to. We lit the Christmas tree… Then, conversation, wishes and the breaking of the wafer. Everyone’s spirits were lifted, joyful; we felt a great wave of emotion. Under those conditions, in such an environment – this common gathering, this breaking away from the grim reality, was a truly great source of consolation and encouragement. We remembered that moment for a long time; we spoke about it at length, we recalled it many times…
Here, I’d like to mention, with appreciation and gratitude, the groundsman of our house, Mr Antoni K., to whom is owed, in large part, the fact that we felt safer in our apartment than others did at the time. Today, Mr Antoni is no longer with us. He was a brave, courageous and good Pole and patriot, and he lost his life in the Warsaw Uprising.
Although he was required to report everything that happened in the building to the German authorities, not only did he never betray anyone – not once taking an interest in the number of registered or unregistered ‘guests’ at our apartment – but he also tried to warn us of any threat of danger. In fact, as we found out later, he was hiding Jews in his gatehouse. After all, there are a great many examples to be found of such deeply human acts of mercy and sacrifice, made by the residents of the tortured city of Warsaw from all walks of life, from the most elite to the most humble.
Besides the long-term residents of the premises at Marszałkowska, as I recall, there were also the ‘non-residents’. They would come for messages, for letters, for advice… The sweet and brave Stefa, from Lwów, would look in often; despite her young age (she was maybe 17 years old), she grappled heroically with the dangers and difficulties of day-to-day existence at that time. With courage, tact, and the bright gaze of her blue eyes, she could stave off the threat that hung over her constantly. As well as save, hide and resettle not only herself, but her whole family, of five people. And she succeeded! She saved them all.
And Mrs Goldberg? She was a quiet, mild-mannered, modest little woman (the wife of a tradesman); to save her husband and daughter from starvation, she would smuggle various goods from the ‘ghetto’ every few days, so as to buy food for them: semolina, flour, butter. When she came by my place, she would dress herself in the bathroom, and sometimes stay the night. She would stuff the bags of groats into the dress and jacket she was wearing. She was so thin that she could carry a lot. More than once, she fainted from the exhaustion, the fear.
‘Mrs Goldberg,’ I would say, ‘aren’t you afraid?’
‘I’m afraid, I’m so afraid. I know they’ll shoot me in the end. They’ve already harassed me a few times. But my daughter is sick with hunger…’
And she would pick herself up again, and after a few days, she’d come back – she would trade more, leaving whole sacks of different goods at my place. One day, she didn’t come. A German sentry had shot her at the border of the ‘ghetto’. Was her daughter able to save herself? …
And Elżunia? The 10-year-old martyr, the youngest of a poor stallholder in Mokotów, who was mother to six girls. All of their belongings had been taken from them; they were all taken to the ‘ghetto’. Elżunia would often escape, in order to buy and lug back potatoes for her family. I ran into her a number of times on Marszałkowska Street in broad daylight… she looked well and wasn’t afraid. But sometimes, her face would flood with tears; she often lacked money for these purchases… but she wouldn’t humiliate herself; she couldn’t beg like the other children. If she didn’t find anyone she knew who could help her, she wouldn’t ask. She would go back under the wires – empty hands meant death.
There are so many stories like these to single out! How many of these each and every one of us witnessed! No literature in the world, no film, even the best – none of them can fully express this sea of unwarranted pain and suffering, in which we all played a part, whether directly or indirectly.
The situation was becoming more and more dangerous, however. The network around my apartment was growing tighter and tighter. Some rumours, a careless comment or another at the presser’s or at a gathering of ‘aunties’ at the gate had caught the attention of the police. There was the first search, and then, they started repeating them. Often, the driving force behind a search by the police, as well as by the various ‘kripo’ [members of the Kriminalpolize, a Nazi criminal-investigation police organisation active in Germany and the occupied territories] and ‘szuców’ [members of the Volksdeutscher Selbstschutz, a paramilitary organisation of ethnic German Volksdeutsche mobilised from the German minority in Poland], was the desire to make some money. The buyouts began, gaining increasingly fatter sums each time. We had to collect them, to pull it off somehow, because – for the most part – no one at the house had enough. So the money would be put together in time for a deadline which the thugs would set. I must say, as far as I am concerned, I never once encountered a refusal: everyone who could give did, and it would sometimes add up to a very serious amount. In this way, we were able to protect ourselves for some time. After a few months, however, when the matter reached the Gestapo, the situation became quite dangerous. The Gestapo searches were made with the assistance of accompanying ‘szpiclów’ [narks] and ‘naganiaczy’ [beaters] , of Polish and Jewish backgrounds, or ‘Volksdeutsche’, who spoke excellent Polish. With them, there was no hiding anything; no ruse could be of any help. The only way to win, of course, was with composure and presence of mind, as well as skill in suggesting a bailout. As soon as they swallowed the hook, it was possible to make deals and haggle. When the Gestapo entered the game, any such proposition, if put awkwardly or at an unsuitable moment, could also make matters worse. And then there would be no help. From Szucha Avenue, after horrendous trials, things moved to Pawiak Prison, and then – for liquidation – to Majdanek, Treblinka or Oświęcim [Auschwitz]. Often, those suspected to be ‘non-Aryan’ were killed on the spot, together with those who had given them shelter.
We endured these kinds of searches about eight times. This was in 1943 already – in the spring, which saw the greatest increase in the raids and persecution of Jews. The ‘ghetto’ burned and battled. We all understood that the state of danger at our apartment, which was hanging by a thread, could not last for much longer. Catastrophe was threatening at any moment. This state of affairs necessitated a radical change in the group of residents at our apartment. Some removed themselves to the other end of Warsaw,while others succeeded in setting themselves up in nearby villages (Anin, Wawer, Grochów, etc.), and it worked out for the best for them. Still others (four people) decided to take advantage of what were known as the ‘transports,’ whose base could be found at the Hotel Polski, by the official headquarters of the Gestapo, on Długa Street.
These were an operation of the occupying government, through which citizens of the General Government who received foreign passports from overseas relatives could register themselves (for very large sums of money) to special ‘exchange’ camps for citizens of those countries. Because it was possible to sign up with the passports of family members, of relatives both close and distant, and even of friends (with many having facilitated this by financial means), a large number of ‘willing’ participants was gathered, and three transports took off, at various intervals, from the hotel on Długa. The last one was headed for the camp by Hanover.
At first, the participants of the transports did not fare badly; they were treated and fed well enough, and they wrote postcards home. Unfortunately, it soon turned out that the German assurances and guarantees were simply ‘bluff’… with a change in Himler’s decree, the unlucky ones by Hanover were transported to Oświęcim – and liquidated. At the time, no one could have anticipated this sad outcome, and many had believed it to be the best way out of a hopeless situation.
My apartment was almost completely ‘cleaned out’; and with the fundamental change in people – besides in the household itself – complete, we thought that we would be able to survive peacefully somehow. And then, in August ’43, things took a turn for the worse. The Gestapo arrested Jadzia Korngold-Kwiecińska on the street, who had lived among us since the beginning of the war and was so dear and close to us that we’d become accustomed to thinking of her as the youngest member of our family. Although it wasn’t proven that she was ‘non-Aryan’ – her ‘left papers’ were perfect – she was imprisoned on Szucha, and after a long trial, she was sent to Pawiak and from there, to Oświęcim. Our very greatest endeavours, our greatest pleas, attempts and efforts were of no help… After a few months, she died in agony, in 1944, just before the Germans’ last pogrom.
We knew nothing of what happened to her – we don’t know how the final months of her life went, how she died, what her suffering was like… She probably passed away with the same smile she had worn throughout life – quiet, full of simplicity, and at the same time, full of some inner dignity.
The loss of Jadzia will forever remain one of the heaviest and most painful of our experiences during the war. It is impossible to erase this pain, and with it, the bitter taste of a suffering defeat… In this terrible war, there were thousands of victims like this. Cases where people were saved were more unusual and unexpected than those which ended in death. Nevertheless, I cannot forget that I did not manage to save just this one from the flood – one of the purest and noblest souls of a woman I have ever met in my life. Small, frail, delicate; how cheerfully and with what humour she bore the daily hardships, anguish and anxieties of our lives; without a trace of selfishness, she worked for everyone and for all; and to me, she was a truly devoted companion, and the dearest friend…
The loss of Jadzia will forever remain one of the heaviest and most painful of our experiences during the war. It is impossible to erase this pain, and with it, the bitter taste of a suffering defeat… In this terrible war, there were thousands of victims like this. Cases where people were saved were more unusual and unexpected than those which ended in death. Nevertheless, I cannot forget that I did not manage to save just this one from the flood – one of the purest and noblest souls of a woman I have ever met in my life. Small, frail, delicate; how cheerfully and with what humour she bore the daily hardships, anguish and anxieties of our lives; without a trace of selfishness, she worked for everyone and for all; and to me, she was a truly devoted companion, and the dearest friend…
Things moved quickly then, for world affairs – and for my wartime apartment. The summer of ’44 passed under the sounds of the approaching storm, victims fell, the executions multiplied, no one was certain of the day or the hour. The Germans fled in panic, to the barely masked enthusiasm of the residents of Warsaw – but once again, the enemies took control over the city – there was the terror of the Warsaw Uprising. And ultimately, the very worst: being forced to leave a Warsaw burning down in flames with this one thought: that there would be nothing left to return to.
But all that is living also has the uncanny gift of rebirth. Wounds stop their bleeding, ruins lift their heads. Today, walking around Warsaw, people don’t think of struggles and misfortunes. The world is moving on, for better or for worse, but always forward. Daily life goes on, without interruption, forging new people and new possibilities.
Only sometimes, in the hour of remembering, do they move in my memory, as if recorded on film – ‘those’ images, which rise, fade away and sink into the darkness of the past, like an agonising, ominous and tragic – dream.
K.Ż.
Warsaw, 20th September 1949
Kazimiera Żuławska née Hanicka, the widow of the poet Jerzy, made great contributions to the rescue effort, together with her son – Wawrzyniec (por s. 114), especially for those from the milieu of artists and cultural workers. The Żuławski apartment, at 62 Marszałkowska Street, was an unofficial asylum for those persecuted. I. Cza Stachowicz writes (por. s. 505): ‘In those days, around 38 people were hidden at Kazia’s – of both sexes; every few weeks, the Gestapo came, and Kazia alone, with her heroism and perseverance, could serve as the counterweight to a hundred traitors and blackmailers: if such a scale were to exist. Throughout the entire occupation, Kazia fought for every Jewish soul and in order to save a human life – nothing was impossible.’ M. Walterowa writes of one of the events seen in the Żuławski apartment: the ransom wound up being 1,000 zlotys per head, wherein ‘as part of a bust by the blue police, the next morning, it fell to him to take 2,000 zlotys’. See also the account of S. A-browska below.
– Memoirs of Kazimiera Żuławska, from the materials of W. Smólski, dated 20th September 19 – Regarding the Hotel Polski affair, see p. 128.
Translated by Lauren Dubowski, 2020
