We became friends after all
Warecka Street was busy all day long. From early morning, running up and down the street were newsboys, who collected the paper “Robotnik” at number 7, where the paper’s office was located. I remember the disappointment on the faces of those busy boys whenever the police poured a greenish liquid on the bundles of papers, making them illegible. That was censorship, carried out in cases when the paper printed some subversive news items which did not comply with the censorship guidelines. Warecka Street was not a long artery. Starting at Nowy Świat Street, it ran a few blocks toward the Main Post Office. At the exact same hour you would often come across postal cars pulled by nice, well-groomed horses. These cars had an overhead protection for the driver and signs which said that they were delivering mail.
If you entered Warecka Street from the direction of Nowy Świat Street, located to the left, just around the corner, was the Bank Zachodni [Western Bank], and an antique shop just next to it. It was owned a man whom we knew, not a very kind man, always engrossed in his paintings and various antiques which were of no interest to us then. This was one enterprise run by a Jewish citizen. Another one was a fruit shop, which always had customers and sold confectionery, so-called rybki, sweet beads, and other small candies, being a decent competition to the Fuchs company, which had a shop just around the corner, on Nowy Świat Street. Working as a clerk in this shop was a nice girl: her prominent breasts, high- heeled shoes, and pretty, long blond hair, on top of her friendly smile, all added to the charming demeanor of a good salesperson. Her father ran two shops, the other one located somewhere in the Pańska Street area. The mother of this girl, whose name was Ryfka, was a kind person and had none of the facial features characteristic of the Jewish families living at number 9 or 11. The latter could be told apart from the other residents, who were Christians. The woman’s name was Rachela and my mother never knew what to call her. The shop managed by Ryfka was often visited by her father, who offered her suggestions or rearranged the interior. Abram, her brother, brought supplies, that is, sweets or fruit, which often included oranges or some other snacks. Together with Abram was Heniek. He was the youngest child of Mrs. Rachela. I was attracted by his bicycle. We were peers, being 7 or 8 at that time. Heniek had a friendly disposition and he would lend me his bike so I could ride around our little yard. During these rides of ours, Abram or his father always watched us. Maybe it was this bike, or maybe the favorable disposition of the entire family and the adults that brought us closer, and we became friends. Maybe this relationship was something more. Heniek would share with me an apple, a candy, or even a slice of bread forced upon him by Ryfka, the oldest daughter of Mrs. Rachela and Henryk’s chaperone. She often dealt with the caretaker and also with my mother, was happy to sell fruit on credit, and agreed for payments due to be made at an appointed future date. Heniek also liked to play with other boys from the yard, but there were only three of them, including myself. His father was a very religious man, who wore a cap and sidelocks. Although they were not long, they touched his greyish beard. At the rear of the shop was a small room which served as a storage. There were a few boxes of fruit there, including those with oranges. Heniek always contrived to cajole Ryfka into giving him some fruit, even oranges or tangerines. Whenever he was off to have a meal, which Abram brought for Ryfka and Heniek on his bike, I was having fun riding around the yard on his bike. We were always laughing and having a good time. Also Henryk’s siblings were cheerful and kind to the neighbors: they were respected as decent people who worked hard and were always at the service of the residents of Warecka Street 1, the customers of Ryfka’s fruit shop.
The September change
The appearance of our street changed in September 1939, during the war. At number 7, on the premises of the Polish Socialist Party, a Civil Guard was stationed. Still before the war broke out, the residents of that house took to the street, chanting, after England declared war on Germany. We stood there with Heniek and watched as a crowd of various orthodox Jews marched with a banner, shouting, “Long live England, our ally declaring war on the Germans!”. The house at Warecka Street 7 burned down, and our premises were then connected by the yard through the rubble with the premises at Nowy Świat Street 49. Removing the beams and also some of the rubble from the collapsed buildings created a passage between our premises and these ruined buildings. Heniek and Ryfka waited out the September offensive with their family at their place, somewhere in the region of Pańska Street, if memory serves me right, where they had the other shop, which was better supplied.
Just as they had destroyed the building on Warecka Street, so the bombardments demolished the houses on Ordynacka Street, beyond the Savoy hotel, and part of Świętokrzyska Street. Our tenement survived. Abram and Ryfka sold a sizeable portion of commodities to the residents of the house, taking some themselves. Also Heniek helped them with transportation with his bicycle.
After September 1939
During the German occupation, things changed in our tenement. Cavalry captain Fuglewicz did not return from the battlefield. The airman’s wife was alone now too, as her husband did not come back (he was an RAF pilot). Next, there was Mrs. Łubieńska, who lived with a maidservant, and living next door was Mrs. Fuglewicz – she was arrested by the Gestapo, having been denounced by their agent, an alleged expellee from Poznań, who had been hired as a housekeeper. They accused Mrs. Fuglewicz of having Jewish origins and took away her dollars, British pounds, and the documents of her son, a cavalry captain of the Polish Army. She died in Auschwitz. Next, there was a janitor of the Western Bank, located in the corner of the building, adjacent to Nowy Świat Street, living with his family. The Fuchs shop resumed commercial activity, selling sweets Nur für Deutsche; nothing changed as regards the other residents.
A family of five from the ghetto was hiding at the Jasieński family’s place. Blackmailed by a szmalcownik, they were forced to leave this relatively safe hiding place. All the residents started to treat Mrs. Jasieńska and her son, who lived together, with reserve. The neighbors feared that if the Germans or the Blue Police were to find this Jewish family, all the occupants in our part of the building would be facing inevitable death or Auschwitz and other consequences which followed from aiding Jews. The “Kosmos” company closed their warehouses because their radio transmitters were taken away and they could no longer sell them. Set up in its place was the “Stradom” company, which mostly traded with the Germans, selling bags and mattresses made of paper fabric. Its frequent customers were some Germans who arrived in a van, with a German officer and a driver who served with the German air force. These mattresses and bags were manufactured in Częstochowa, in the Stradom district, hence the name of the company. Some residents said it was a good thing, because it meant at least a little protection. Others said that it was anybody’s guess what these visits could mean for us. The antiquary had abandoned his beautiful shop and – according to Ryfka – left for the East, meaning he had taken refuge in Russia. The fruit shop (which was no longer as well supplied) was still being run by Ryfka. She often came to her mother and they had hushed conversations, half in Polish, half in Jewish. Often, when the turnover was good, she left us a sack with money. It was her father who suggested this to her because he trusted our family. [She would come by] every time after the shop closed, often with Abram, and very rarely with the father (he avoided the city now because he thought that, due to his beard, sidelocks, and cap, he would be accosted by “them”). Often it was only Abram and Heniek that brought supplies on bikes or used them to cart something off, doing it in haste and avoiding the neighbors. The younger generation took orders from their father. It was a model family where parents were respected and where respect was mutual; it was a family that respected neighbors and other people. Under these circumstances, I could not ride the bike for pleasure. I did not take issue with that: at that time, children understood a lot intuitively. One day, Abram and Heniek came without their bikes. Everybody had been impressed by Abram’s bike: it was greenish, had a wooden frame and shiny nickeled handlebar and gear. Heniek’s bike was nice, too: it was gray, almost fading into white, and had a lot of glittery components as well. Ryfka said that the boys were very upset when their father sold these bikes. He promised to buy them new ones as soon as the war was over. He sold the bikes, and at a reduced price, anticipating that otherwise he would have to forfeit them in favor of “them” – as they were referred to back then – who divested the Jews of everything they saw fit or thought the Jews could do without. The boys came round a few times and at the time when the Jewish district was being set up, they took various items from the shop, bringing very few supplies, which Ryfka had no problems selling. The loss of the bikes hurt the boys really badly. The two of them and Ryfka did not look a lot like their Jewish friends who lived at Warecka Street 9. You looked at the three of them and – as my mum said – you would think they were twins, not just siblings. Heniek had a slim face ending with a little, spiky chin, blond hair, blue eyes shining brightly, and a handful of freckles, which was characteristic of boys in that family. Abram, whose thick, ginger hair was always trimmed, had more freckles, while Ryfka had none, but she had long, fair hair and blue eyes, like the boys. That is why they could not understand that their appearance did not attract the attention of “them”, and that they were also not recognized by the arrogant “Christians” who harassed the Jews.
In our house, there was nobody who thought badly of the Jews, even though before the war there had been boys in the neighborhood who wore black berets and sold newspapers, shouting, “Don’t buy from the Jews”, inciting brawls, and troubling Jewish merchants. You could always find them near the shops of Pakulski, Arasz, or Kuryluk. The old man knew very well the risk the boys would have faced had they continued riding their bikes and did the right thing using the money from their sale to buy food. Fortunately, their house was in the Jewish district being set up, for which the family was grateful to God, and the father and the boys prayed with particular ardency, as Ryfka always emphasized.
Persecutions
The father’s fears soon materialized. At the corner of Warecka Street and Nowy Świat Street, a small group of Jews was attacked by SS soldiers. As if their uniforms did not inspire enough fear already, the three of them began to shout, insulting the Jews who were standing next to the “Napoleonka” café; they wanted to explain something to them. When a small crowd gathered, they started to pull at the Jews’ beards, and then one of them produced a bayonet and tried to cut off the beard of one of the Jews. There were some people at the scene who shouted in German, “Leave these people alone and do not murder them!” Soon, others could be heard putting down the Jews’ defenders, saying they must have forgotten that once they had wanted to seize the houses, saying “The tenements for us, the streets for you”. The Germans, their lappets bearing the SS sign, beat these people, but seeing that the Polish civilians were not with them on this, they chased this group down the street for a moment, kicking and beating them, and one of them even hit them with a bayonet, and then all of them, laughing, turned back and got on a tram, while these people, likely running on their last legs, were already on Świętokrzyska Street.
In the shop vacated by the antiquary, after the Germans took away all that he had left behind, the “Chiquito” bistro opened. What is important is not who was running it, but that Miss Oleńka worked there in the kitchen. Everybody considered her to be unbalanced. She toiled at this restaurant under a chef who was in sympathy with the Germans, a fact she did not openly share, but everybody would steer clear of this man and avoid discussing issues with him that were discussed around a lot.
Ryfka had to post a sign that talking about politics was prohibited in the fruit shop; a similar sign was also posted in other establishments – at the barbers’, soap stores, the calender’s, etc. Next to this sign she also had to post a board, of regulation dimensions, with the Star of David. This meant that the shop was owned by a Jew. The Germans never shopped at such establishments. However, they did not pass by them but instead started brawls, beat the clerks, or looted the shop, taking commodities without paying. Still, the clerks were happy because the shop itself and the equipment – such as scales, counters, and glass – were left intact.
One day, Ryfka burst into our place, or rather dragged herself to the second floor, beaten. Her face was dripping with blood, her eyes were bruised and her hair, which had been evidently pulled at, in a mess, and all over the body she had bruises from the blows and kicks of the SS soldiers. They had assaulted the shop saying it did not have the Star of David. They had removed it themselves and put it back upside down, already torn. Ryfka asked my mother to go downstairs and lock the shop. My mother put her on a bed, found a white towel, and told her to apply wet dressings. In the meantime, she scurried down to the fruit shop. Since nobody was there and the shop was empty, she found the place where Ryfka had said the keys were hidden, stepped out onto the street, closed the shutters, and locked the fruit shop from the direction of Warecka Street, and then she did the same with the windows of the other room, which gave onto the yard at the rear. She locked the staircase door and slowly returned to the flat. The Germans did not let up. It is unclear if they regretted not smashing the windows or not taking everything, but they returned. The caretaker, asked why the shop was closed, said that the clerk had been taken by the Blue Police because she had not posted the Star. This may have done the trick because they did not investigate where the doors other than the front door were and slowly walked away. Ryfka, being cleaned up by my mother, was slowly coming round, but getting out of the bed by herself was not an option. It was decided that her family had to be notified. My mother would never have agreed to my being tasked with this mission. Ryfka remembered the telephone number of a neighbor she knew (a young man from that family later became her husband after the father died), and thanks to that Abram and Heniek came two hours later and picked her up, Ryfka walking slowly and leaning on their shoulders. Next day, the fruit shop was closed. For reasons unknown, the Germans had not taken the money – the tills were usually looted first. The items missing were sweets, a few packs of cigarettes, and glasses for the soda which was kept in a bulb-shaped siphon in a corner.
Another assault next to our house took place at the “Chiquito” bistro, where a brawl broke out. As the clients were leaving the premises and were near the entrance to our stairway, somebody shouted, “That one is a Jew!”, and then the other revellers fell upon him. Some SS-men were just passing by and they pounced on the man, who was almost on the ground. They wore heavy studded boots with metal heels, and with these boots they kicked this man in the face, torso, and head. But somebody called a policeman from the junction of Ordynacka Street, near the market place, and he came in a horsecar to collect this man, who was already unconscious. The Germans told the policeman to inspect the victim’s pockets, and he found a band with a star. The Germans and the Poles who had beaten him smiled with evident satisfaction because they had found a Jew who insolently dined at a restaurant where only Germans were allowed – Eintritt Erlaubt. Assisted by the cab driver, the policeman placed the victim on the carriage crosswise, hunkered down, held the man’s hand, and told the Germans that he was going to the Jewish district. But the Germans were adamant and they wanted him taken where he could be finished off. The policeman said he agreed and promised to carry out the order, and that he was now taking him to the Jewish cemetery.
Soon, our Ryfka was gone. The shop closed down because it was Jewish and could not operate in the German and Aryan district, which our street was part of. The premises where the fruit shop used to be was taken over by some suspicious man who made no effort to be on friendly terms with the residents of the tenement – he did not sell cigarettes to us. He ran a shop selling tobacco. Sometimes, if you bought the “Junak” cigarettes, you could earn enough money to buy a piece of bread by selling them at a higher price.
One day, a German came to the antique shop. He wore a fearsome black uniform, one we had never seen before. He wore top boots and various badges, and a red armband with a swastika. Featuring prominently on his cap was a skull. He ordered the caretaker to take him to the antique shop. She resisted, but eventually, threatened with a gun, showed him the way in, through a window that was easy to open. The entrance from the direction of Warecka Street and the one in the corridor were tightly sealed. Then, having inspected the shop, the “black man” told the caretaker that the Jews were not coming back here, and that he would store some of the items at her place. He threatened that if she blabbed about it, she would be taken to a labor camp or shot. He gave her some paintings, maybe five, and other packages that he had wrapped up in haste. She took these items to the caretaker’s house and stashed them away, out of sight. We were watching the actions of the “black man” from the attic. Even the caretaker had no idea that we were watching.
A few hours later, a van carrying two gendarmes, civilians, and a Blue policeman drew up, and together with the “black man” they got inside through the window and opened the door facing the street. They removed all the items from the antique shop. Eventually, a man came, a Mr. Jamiołkowski, and the “black man” handed over the premises to him, where he opened the “Chiquito” bistro. He hired likeminded individuals, like the chef who sympathized with the Germans and treated the neighbors badly. Soon, he also opened a new bar on Boduena Street.
The cigarette seller, the “Chiquito” owner, and his chef were unfavorably disposed and everybody knew they had better be given a wide berth.
In late fall, it was even worse.
In late fall, the area populated by the displaced Jews from all over Warsaw and other parts of the country, with its streets that were increasingly fenced off, not just with barbed wire but also high walls, started to be referred to as the ghetto. In late fall, Henio came to the yard for the first time. He called me out and I came down to see him. He was emaciated and wore dirty clothes and the cap of an adult man. Instead of the outerwear, he had some sweater, which turned out to have been specially prepared by his mother. Under this sweater he could hide various items, especially groceries. He was hungry and thirsty. I rustled up some saccharine-sweetened coffee and a piece of bread. He ate voraciously, being really hungry. Henio never lied. He began his story: his father was very sick, they had spent all the money, and had to use all the valuables for payoffs. They had run out of options, they had no money to buy food. Now he assumed the role of the father. Abram could not come here because he would not fit through the wall opening near the sewage drain. He stayed home and helped their mother – who was also sick – take care of the father. Heniek asked for help and some food. He said he would maybe be coming more often. What we had at home was not enough even for us. My mother gave me a little food and I gave some to Heniek. I was cautious, so I told him to hide under the stairs, in the cupboard where the caretaker stored some equipment she needed for work. There was an old armchair there and it was rather warm. He sat there and I covered him with the caretaker’s old blanket, and then I toured the neighbors to fill the sweater with groceries.
First, I went to Miss Oleńka at the bar. After I explained the nature of my visit and pleaded with her profusely, she agreed to get me a package. However, she warned me against the chef, who could denounce me and Heniek, and the consequences were known to everybody. Some 20 minutes later, Miss Oleńka gave me a big package wrapped in gray paper and said it was bread crumbs. Standing next to the cupboard so Henio could hear, she said, as if instructing us, that next time we should bring a can for soup and potatoes, of which she had plenty. Heniek could not help himself, got out of the cupboard and asked for a few potatoes. She brought them swiftly and tied this sizeable package with a string. She told us to wait and then brought some warm cabbage soup in a jar. The smell of cabbage tempted me too, but it was not for me. Heniek enjoyed his meal. Having eaten his fill, Heniek, now rested, was getting ready for his journey. I stepped out to the street and when the coast was clear I signaled Heniek, knocking at the entrance door. Henio whizzed like an arrow and soon he disappeared at the end of Warecka Street.
Soon, he showed up again. He did not come to the flat: his father instructed him to call me out to the yard. Again, I told him to hide in the cupboard. It was colder this time, but he did not care. He offered regards from the entire family, especially to me and Miss Oleńka. He carried a container – it was a barrel used for storing cucumbers, reinforced with two clamping rings so that it was possible to roll it, which was crucial while transporting it to the other side, where Abram was waiting, and when Heniek got the signal, he threw his packages over the wall and rolled the barrel. That day, Miss Oleńka brought two pots of borscht to us in the cupboard and I ate it together with Heniek. We gave him a piece of bread that one of the restaurant’s clients had not finished. He was eating quickly because Abram was waiting on the other side of the wall. Miss Oleńka kept us slightly longer. She brought a can of soup with plenty of potatoes. I think that Henio’s smile was reward enough for her. She gave him a package of bread crumbs she had been gathering since his last visit. It was a large package. Heniek measured it and determined that it would fit through the wall’s opening. Finally, Miss Oleńka said she could bring two cans because there were plenty more of other soups and good leftovers, as she put it, and Heniek could take them. Having fed himself, he popped off when signaled that the street was clear, and again I was left with Miss Oleńka. We talked about gathering bread, these leftovers, and my storing them in the cupboard or in the rubble on the edge of our yard. Miss Oleńka was afraid of the chef. He said that the leftovers were to be thrown away and did not allow her to keep them in the kitchen or the storeroom. It was even worse with the soup. Nobody knew when Heniek would show up again. But already when I was gathering this bread I began to collect other handouts from the neighbors.
Not all of them wanted to know that I was asking for bread or biscuits for our Henio, who came from the ghetto. Mrs. Łubieńska and Mrs. Fuglewicz always gave me two slices each, emphasizing that one slice was for me. The pilot’s wife was very timorous. Wearing her bathrobe which she never removed and waving the broad sleeves, she explained that we were not really allowed to help the Jews, that it was punishable by death, but after this lecture she always said, “Here, take a few coins and buy a piece of bread”, and in a paper bag she gave me some biscuits and bread, and once she added a sausage. Heniek was around on that occasion, and he hid it well and took it home, beyond the wall. When I asked him why he would not eat it himself, he explained that they had already forgotten what sausage looked like and that they would eat it together.
In winter, Heniek showed up more frequently. He would come maybe every ten days or slightly less frequently. It depended on who guarded the hole and the wall. If it was the Germans, then nobody would seriously consider going for it. They shot at boys, because that was who most often snuck through this hole. From Grzybowskiego Square, it led almost directly to Próżna Street. Then, the route led through Zielna Street, Świętokrzyska Street, Napoleona Square, and to Warecka Street, and then on to Stefan and the cupboard, while the way back home was through the hole to Twarda Street, where Henio lived with his family and many others who now lived with them.
Next time, Heniek did not even want to eat. He asked to be handed the package, which I had already prepared and tightly tied. Miss Oleńka had been notified and had some soups and potatoes. There were not as many potatoes as before because the chef put aside those that had not been eaten and reheated them for other customers. But there were still some, thanks to the adroitness of Miss Oleńka, who sullied the potatoes with beetroots or gravy so the chef could not reuse them for other customers, but they were just fine for our Henio. The only problem was that he could not take all this, and particularly problematic was passing it to Abram through the hole because there were others waiting by the wall who could intercept the package or the can. Losing the can would reduce the chances of feeding the family. After the sudden death of their father, Ryfka agreed to marry the son of her friends, who was a member of the Jewish police. When he was alive, her father did not acquiesce to that relationship. Ryfka was a pretty lady, and her future husband was a handsome, strong man, according to Henio, who sat in the cupboard sipping a sweet drink – as sweet as saccharine, because I always used it for sweetening and sometimes put some in a bag for Henio’s mother. When Ryfka moved out, their mother, being worried about Henio, limited his winter excursions to Warecka Street. I dried bread in the cupboard, in a paper bag, and already had a rather sizeable portion of it. At that time, it was used for cooking a soup, a so-called kapłon: dried bread was dissolved in hot water and seasoned with caraway seed or some other herb, with the addition of a little fat and salt – back then, it was a gourmet dish, just as carp is today. I remember that it was already nice spring weather when Henio showed up. The neighbors were not too generous when they were giving us some biscuits or bread. Mrs. Łubieńska told Marysia, her housekeeper, to always issue two slices, without asking for her permission. Eventually, I would always gather enough food to fill the sweater. It was bread or vegetables and potatoes. Miss Oleńka filled two cans and Heniek dashed off. Next time, he dragged three cans. All of them were filled and he also had some food hidden under his sweater. A meal of fish heads and warm soup was not enough. I thought to myself, “Henio, how are you going to take all this yourself?” Laughing – and his laugh was really nice – Henio suggested that I help him. I was by the ghetto’s walls and the wall across Sienna Street, but I had no idea what this transfer was supposed to look like. After some consideration, it was decided that I would follow Heniek at a considerable distance and only come up to him once he had thrown his cans and packages over the wall. This is what happened, and Heniek, after speaking to Abram, who was on the other side, threw his cans and packages over the wall. I was watching this commotion, shouting, and people running by the wall. Although I stood at some distance, a boy warned me that a Blue policeman was patrolling the area. He probably did not feel like chasing the boys and was hunting some way off, or maybe he had been bribed and allowed these transfers, but then busted people at the wall and demanded that he be paid if he were to let them go. Heniek grabbed the can in a heartbeat, said “bye”, and disappeared through the hole. When I was backing away from the wall, I was apprehended by a policeman. He caught me by a sleeve, and, tugging at it, he tore it off so that it slipped off my arm and I was free, running without my sleeve as fast as I could. Chasing me, the policeman shouted, “Stop, get him, get the kike!”. I dashed into a courtyard and, without thinking much, ran upstairs. I opened a door which was not locked and immediately bolted it. A woman appeared, wearing curler pins and a bathrobe. As soon as I told her about my adventure, she grabbed me and held me tight, which I interpreted as help. “Calm down”, she said. At the same time, the policeman was banging at the door. “Just a second”, shouted the woman, putting me, in my shoes, under the duvet of a bed where a sick, mute old lady was lying. I curled up so as not to touch her. I heard the policeman
Not only bullets bring death
I was growing restless, so, not minding the danger, I went to Próżna Street, and, watching the part of the street which was not spanned by the wall, I moved closer, maintaining a safe distance and being at all times able to quickly retreat from the direction of the wall and Grzybowski Square.
There was no one by the wall and there were just a few people hanging around in the street. You could see gendarmes walking, rifles slung over their shoulders. They were armed as if they were heading for the frontline. They were accompanied by a Blue policeman, who followed them in a servile fashion. Suddenly, a boy appeared in the hole, stuck out his head and surveyed the area in both directions, looking left and then right, now hiding inside, now leaning out and trying to jump to our side. When he made up his mind and got out, a German took aim but he missed, and it seemed like he would make it into Próżna Street, where he would have had a chance to escape. He was downed by another gendarme’s shot, and then took another, already lying, probably dead already. Whoever was around and had been watching the scene just seconds earlier now escaped into courtyards, shops, or wherever they could. I was dragged into a shop, which the owner immediately locked and together with my accidental guide we were peeping through an opening. The dead boy was taken care of by the Blue policeman, who, assisted by some random people he had ordered, dragged the body to the ghetto’s main gate. After the gendarmes walked away, we slipped into the street and I ran home.
By chance, I ended up in the tenement at Warecka Street 9. In the other yard – it was a huge, six-story tenement with two yards – there was a soap store and other shops. This yard was the stage of a terrible tragedy. A Jewish mother probably threw her son, who was maybe four years old, out of a window. Falling, he hit the children who were playing in the yard. He lay there, curled up, his blue eyes wide open, full of tears, as if crying for help. But what could have been done? Mothers took their children, whom the falling boy had hit, in their arms. Only the victims remained: the boy and his mother, who jumped out of the window and died on the spot. She lay there, her face down on the asphalt and a beautiful topknot sticking up, as if surveying the scene and the boy. These two bodies will always linger in my memory, along with the thought: could the boy have been saved? The caretaker called the police, 10th Precinct on Szpitalna Street. A policeman came in a horsecar and, helped by the caretaker, removed the bodies of those two desperate people who had no other choice but to take their own lives. During the war, I saw many dead bodies, I saw a severed armed which I tripped and fell over, but none of these have left such a lasting impression on me as that boy. He made me think of what might happen to Henio. I got rid of that thought and convinced myself that he was going to be fine and that I would see him soon.
The ghetto
At last, Heniek showed up. He had been running because you would not just walk when you got out of the ghetto. We were sitting in the cupboard, waiting for Miss Oleńka to bring the cans. It was getting increasingly difficult for her because she was being watched by the chef, who maybe did not quite know who it was she was giving these soups to, but – in her own words – was more watchful in order to have more stuff he could reheat for the customers. When I was recounting my latest adventures to Heniek, German soldiers came into the hallway. We did not know then that they were SS-men. One was wearing a helmet and the other had a cap with a skull, the same as the one the “black man” had on his cap. Sitting in an armchair in the cupboard, we saw the faces of these thugs through an opening and calmly watched as they lit cigarettes. The one wearing a helmet entered the yard, looking for a toilet. He took out a bayonet and tried to open the cupboard. We had locked it with a hook in the upper part of the door and with a block below, which prevented the door from opening. But he kept tampering with the old lock, which did not work, and he could not open it. When the other one returned, they started to talk about something and finished their cigarettes. The one in a helmet called out to the other one, saying, “ Karl, lass doch, komm zu Patrol, Sie sind sehr weit ”. Huddled against each other, we feared that the door would be opened and we would be facing these Germans. Their faces were enough for us: long, ominous, with prominent tight lips and piercing cold eyes. The danger was all the greater since Heniek had an armband with the Star of David hidden in the pocket near the collar. That would have been enough to get us both killed, right there, in the cupboard. Huddled against each other, we were looking now at the bayonet which the German wanted to open the door with, sliding it across the frame, and now at their faces and the fierceness they displayed, and we were thinking what would happen if the door gave and was opened by the one wearing the cap with the skull. As soon as they got into the street – the one trying to open the cupboard eventually letting it go – Miss Oleńka came, put the cans next to the door, and surveyed the street. She signaled to us that everything was fine and Heniek, burdened with bread and potatoes which were already wilting, dashed off and ran home.
Soon afterward, he showed up again, carrying three cans, and he was telling me how the noose around the ghetto walls was tightening. The walls were now more tightly watched by gendarmes and it was very difficult to get to our side. There were a lot of boys hanging around and nobody helped anybody else, each person only wanting to get to our side as soon as possible. There were fewer and fewer opportunities to move stuff such as bread and flour over the wall. Anyway, boys 19 years old and older were scaling the wall, in cooperation with older men who did business in the ghetto. Heniek was getting weaker by the day and he wanted to go back, but he could not carry these three cans alone. So we went together, at some distance from each other. When at the wall, he communicated with Abram, who was waiting on the other side, and, having ascertained that that the hole was empty, he slid his two cans through, jumped up, took the can that I was carrying, and disappeared through the hole. On that occasion, it did not work out for me. A policeman grabbed me by the neck from behind and dragged me away, demanding a payoff. I explained to him that I was Aryan and I did not have any money. He asked me if I knew what the consequences were for helping Jews. He was dragging me all this time. I said I had helped carry a can, asked by some boy in the street. He said, “We’ll clarify this in the ghetto”. He held me tight and insulted me, calling me a lousy kike, who should know where he belonged. He dragged me all the way to the ghetto entrance on Grzybowska Street or at the end of Królewska Street (I don’t remember which now) and, having kind of identified himself to the guard, he said he had once more caught a Jüdische Lausbub. When I felt he had loosened his grip, I assessed the situation and dashed toward a group of people standing to the side of the ghetto. The gendarme shouted, “ Halt!” and seeing that he was not going to catch me, he ordered a Jewish policeman who stood by to chase me. He did not let up, he was fast, but I was smarter. I hid under the table of a clothes peddler and, motionless, waited out the policeman’s search. I could see the nice uppers of his boots and I watched as he walked away, still looking for me. When the peddler spotted me, he made a scene, too. He thought I was going to steal from him. However, after it was explained to him, he called out to the children and they took me to Twarda Street. I did not know the number at which Heniek lived. Thankfully, Ryfka was approaching from the opposite direction. When I called out to her, she could not believe it was actually me, and the children from Grzybowski Square had to affirm that I had come from the other side. Ryfka gave me a hug. Worried, she asked why I had come. She took me to the flat. There was a sign on the building which read Tufus [actually Typhus]. Laughing, she said it was just a ruse because the Germans would avoid such houses. I was terrified, despite the fact that Ryfka’s mother was very kind. Heniek was not home. Abram was out with his friends. The mother thanked me for everything I was doing for them, for such significant help that made it easier for them to get by. Their situation was slightly better after Ryfka had gotten married. The policemen enjoyed decent conditions, but Ryfka’s husband’s big family were jealous of any help she was getting. Ryfka and her mother were thinking how to get me out of the ghetto. I got a warm drink. The boys came in for dinner. We joked that now I was going to remain in the ghetto with them. We talked a lot about how the boys helped each other at the wall and how they were assisted by Izzak, Ryfka’s husband. He was to be taken into confidence concerning my stay there and my journey back. Nobody could see me. If my presence was given away, all of us would be facing death.
Once he was apprized and recognized my help, he took matters in his own hands. The next day it was impossible to get close to the wall because it was guarded by reinforced patrols of the gendarmerie and the Jewish police. Izzak told me to steer clear and gave me an armband with the star, which I was supposed to get rid of as soon as I had squeezed through the hole. The route had been agreed upon, and I even liked it because living close on Próżna Street was a friend who had been helpful during the previous escape. Maybe she would help this time, too, if need be. Next day, I went outside with Abram and Heniek to examine the route we would be taking when it was safe by the wall. It was only then that I saw corpses being loaded onto a cart normally used for moving pianos. Otherwise, it would have been impossible to remove these bodies strewn all the way across Grzybowska Street. Now that I could see people dying in the streets daily, I knew the hardships and horrors of Heniek’s life and why he was so committed to his family. Eating some leftovers, Henio’s mother asked me not to suggest to Henio that he stay on our side. She knew that it was impossible for us to accommodate him, and she did not want to send him to anybody else. They would surely be leaving for labor and we would be seeing each other again. After the curfew began, Izzak brought something to eat. Eating, I was thinking about when Heniek would have more of this bread, just as I would be thinking, when I was home, when I would eat my fill and there would still be some bread remaining. I would never think like that in this place.
Next morning, just after the curfew ended, we ran to Grzybowski Square, near the passage that served Heniek so well (and today it would serve me). There were some boys hanging round the hole. The other side was safe. Assisted by Izzak, we approached the hole: Heniek came first and I followed him to our side. The policeman were busy collecting payoff from the boys they had apprehended. We rushed to my house. I do not even know when Heniek took off his armband and removed mine, which I had put on in the ghetto. My mother was not home. We cleaned up with clay soap in a washtub and this time Heniek only took dried bread, potatoes, and something else. A neighbor gave us some borscht and a slice of bread each. In the evening, my mother returned: she had been traveling with Ms. Pelagia and helping her on the way. She now lived in Mrs. Fuglewicz’s place and earned a living as a smuggler. The Germans never took anything from her during round-ups, and she also made some money – though very little – helping my mother transport meat, flour, moonshine, etc. from the Lublin area. I had been hungry during those three days and now that she had returned I could eat some meat and noodles (rather than potato pancakes fried in fish oil, like I used to). I did not tell my mother that I had been out for three days, let alone mention that I had spent this time with Heniek in the ghetto.
It was the last chance to get out of the ghetto. A few days later, the hole was walled up and the patrols were reinforced. It was announced that the ghetto was about to be liquidated and that the people would be issued bread and marmalade and then leave for labor. These announcements were made over the speakers in the Jewish tongue and in Polish.
Memos were also posted announcing this compulsion. Indeed, we could see from our side, where the wall did not reach, that on Sienna Street the little ghetto was being liquidated, its boundaries moved from Złota Street. On the side of the ghetto, Sienna Street was guarded by Lithuanian riflemen in black uniforms: they were snipers shooting at whoever attempted to take a peek to assess the situation outside. A window was an ideal target and the victim often fell onto the sill or out into the street.
Henio’s entire family moved to the big ghetto, helped by Izzak. The families of the policemen were protected and could move to other flats.
It was in the summer. One day, Heniek showed up, swollen. He said they wanted to stay put, that maybe things would change. He was dirty. I took him to the toilet in the yard, where there was running water. The room was clean, unused, and locked. We had the key because we used to hide there, playing. Heniek was cleaning himself up and I dashed from door to door, asking the neighbors for anything to eat for him. Eventually, with difficulty and having to hear a lot of excuses about the danger from the Germans, I somehow managed to fill Henio’s sweater with plenty of modest handouts. Miss Oleńka brought to the cupboard a good barley soup which had been cooked for the Germans. Heniek was forced to eat some – he could not eat as much and as fast as on his previous visits. He was in a rush as Izzak was waiting for him by the cemetery. It turned out that he could barely carry the gifts, and he took potatoes, biscuits, some bread, and vegetables. Izzak and Ryfka were supposed to wait for him by the cemetery. As he was about to leave, he thanked me, shook my hand, and hugged me the way his mother had when I called round their place in the ghetto. He did not expect he would come again, but he asked me to “keep dried bread”. He might come, although it was very difficult to get outside the walls. The only exit that was not yet as heavily guarded was near the cemetery. “Good bye, Stefan”, he said, like he had never said before. What was that supposed to mean? He said that they would leave if Izzak told them to. Ryfka would stay because her husband would be watching the workers who would remain in the ghetto. Henio himself was too weak and surely he would not be able to come to us again, not unless his condition improved and the swelling let up, but that did not look likely.
When the noose around the ghetto had already tightened and, to the admiration of the residents of our tenement, the uprising broke out, I was wondering what Heniek, his mother, and Abram were doing, watching as part of the city was on fire; watching through the smoke or rather through the dark that sucked out the sunlight above that neighborhood. Explosions and gunshots did not augur well – the destruction was already done. Where did they take the people? It was said that they were being burned. They had been taken to Treblinka, where it was certain they would not survive.
I would like to leave these awkwardly sketched images for others. I want them to know the story of the friendship of two boys, aged 11 or 12, who helped each other and also helped others; of kids who stuck together when things were good but also through hardships.
The events described here are true. Maybe I did not repeat enough of his mother’s words – the passage of time has blurred them and I do not want to let my imagination run wild.
May this description be a compensation to Henio and memorialize him and all those days we spent together – especially the days of horror.
Stefan Orczykowski