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| Sylvia and her mother, D.P. camp, Kassel, Germany |
By Sylvia Hanna
I was very little when the Germans invaded Poland and our town, Jedrzejow. As the bombs fell, we fled to nearby fields, where my father covered my sister Jean and me with his body to protect us from the planes’ strafing. The bullets did not harm us, and I came to believe my father was the bravest man ever.
Educated as a professor of mathematics, my father spoke five languages, and played the violin. But as a Jew, he had not been allowed to teach at the university even before the war. He worked alongside my grandfather, who owned a large clothing store and tailoring shop in town.
After the invasion, all Jews were forced into a ghetto, where we were no longer allowed to own businesses or to participate in any form of livelihood. All valuables were taken from us. People with money or jewelry hid their assets as best they could — cash and coins in the hems of clothing, diamonds in teeth cavities, and so on. My parents had money and jewelry, so they did the same. This saved our lives.
My father and grandfather were required to give away their merchandise to the Poles, but the Germans kept the very good furs and suits for themselves. How devastated my father and grandfather must have been to see all their possessions taken from them. Yet they were allowed to keep two workers to accommodate the German soldiers with uniforms, furs and coats. Because of this, we had more food, and we did not starve as others did in the ghetto.
After some time, the Germans rounded up all the women and children, including my mother, my sister Jean and me. We were not yet aware of the peril we were in. I wore my favorite little coat and hat, and carried a small knapsack on my back. As we stood in the town’s big square, people were lugging their bedding, pots, pans, food. They believed they would live!
My father ran from one S.S. man to another, trying to bribe them, promising them everything. After several beatings, leaving him bloodied on his head and body, he finally found someone who took the bribe, and my mother, Jean and I were allowed to return to the ghetto with him.
But this was short-lived. Before long, we were seized again. This time, my par- ents knew our intended fate. A few people had escaped the first transport, and had come back to speak of the atrocities of the gas chambers.
I remember sitting in a horse-drawn wagon with other women and children, when suddenly, a man pedaling by on a bicycle asked my mother to quickly hand him either Jean or me. My father had not given up! Again, he had given a man a lot of money to save at least one of us. My mother was afraid Jean would carry on, so she handed me, her younger and more placid child, to him.
Covering me, the man put me in the front of his bicycle, and took me to his friends, or perhaps his family. I only remember crying bitterly. I was so lost and so afraid. The people were very nice, and there was a little girl who wanted to play dolls with me. Although they all tried to comfort me, I just cried for my mother and father.
When evening came, the man took me on his bicycle again, telling me he would take me to my father. He left me in a cemetery, saying my father would come to get me. It was dark and cold; my teeth were chattering and I was so terribly frightened. It seemed like forever, but my father came. He hid me under his coat, and took me back to the ghetto. When he put me to bed, I had a high fever, and in my delirium, I kept screaming about a hole in the ceiling. When I think back on this, I still cry.
The next morning, as sick as I was, my father hid me in a closet because the Gestapo came. He told me to be very quiet. I stayed there until they left. Two days later, my mother and sister returned in the middle of the night. My father had hired a car and bribed a man to get them out from where they were. My mother, my sister and I were no longer legal in the ghetto. By then, all women and children had been sent away, and we all knew the consequences of being found: we would have been shot on the spot. So, we stayed below ground in a horrible cellar, while my father arranged for forged papers for us.
At that time, my father was still allowed to stay in the ghetto. He found a former business acquaintance who owned a big farm, and he begged the man to hide my mother, Jean and me until our papers arrived. We were taken to the farm at night in a wagon filled with hay.
But before we could get our papers, the Germans liquidated the ghetto and my father was taken to Buchenwald. My mother pleaded with the farmers to let us stay with them, and she gave them all our money and jewelry. The farmer built a bunker under the house that could be accessed through their pantry. As the smallest, I was the only one able to stand erect in this cold, damp hole. We were fed when our rescuers remembered, or perhaps just when they felt it was safe.
Only the two spinster sisters, their brother and his wife knew we were there. We hardly washed. Sometimes the brother’s wife would bring us some sudsy water left over from their wash. Mom kept some bread, often moldy, hanging in a bag. We could only eat it at special times. I kept asking if it was time to eat my little piece of bread.
Under these trying conditions, Jean and I quarreled a lot. Once, my sister had hated beans, and she would cry bitter tears when told to eat them. But with the little food we were given, and our constant hunger, she would forget any such dislikes and insist, screaming, on eating all that was brought to us. Mom was so fearful of her screams that she would say to me, “You are the good one; you’ll see, when she’ll have enough, she will share with us.” And that’s what happened.
I often dreamed about my father. I remembered him as tall and handsome in his tweed coat. How I wished he would come and save us from our filthy hole. Jean and I also fantasized about what we would do to Hitler if we ever found him. Somehow, it made us feel better.
We would whisper to one another, and if we had to cry, we did so, quietly, into a pillow. Our main distraction was to listen to Mom’s stories about how it was when she was little, and about her family. Sometimes, she told fairy tales, and we would beg her endlessly for more. It was her storytelling that kept us alive during our two years underground. This was our only real- ity and our sole sense of feeling human.
Our bunker was directly under the living room, and at Christmas, when we looked through the cracks of their floorboards, we could see the tree. The colors on the tree, the smell of the food, and the fun they seemed to have made me so envious that I would cry in my pillow and ask, “What is wrong with us that we have to be cold, hungry and miserable like this?” To this day, Christmas makes me feel very sad.
Only twice over the course of two years did we get some relief by going outside. With no one around, we climbed a ladder and went on the roof, where we could breathe some fresh air and stretch our limbs. On our second outing, we enjoyed our venture immensely. We found some rotten apples and ate them. Mom didn’t let us eat too many. Then we found a little baby bird and wanted to nurse it back to health.
Suddenly, one of the owners rushed upstairs and told us to hide. Partisans had seen something on the roof and thought that Germans might be hiding there. We had no time to reach the bunker, so we were told to hide inside some old straw mattresses. While we laid still, in terror, the partisans stuck their bayonets into the mattresses. It was only by sheer luck that they did not poke those we were in.
After this experience, the owners of the farm didn’t want us there anymore. They felt that their lives were too much in danger and that Mom had given them all the money she’d had. Mom said we would most likely get killed by the Germans in the woods. She tried to persuade them not to throw us out, telling them she still had a diamond in one of her teeth cavity, but they no longer wanted us at any price.
The next morning, they took us into their wheat fields. The wheat was high, and the sun was brutally hot. We had to wait for nightfall. With no water to drink, we felt scorched and parched. My sister and I cried a lot, but we had to stay. At nightfall, Mom was completely despondent and we didn’t move. I am sure she was paralyzed with fear, because she knew that going into the woods meant imminent death for us all.
Even as I write this, I can feel the fear, and above all, the question, “Why me?” Are we so bad that they hate us so?
Somehow, the owners of the farm had a change of heart. Perhaps they pitied us, or maybe the diamond had enticed them, but they came back for us. The next day, one of the sisters came down with a pair of pliers and pulled out Mom’s tooth with the diamond. We learned then how cruel life can be.
After two years, the war finally ended. Our rescuers told Mom, and we were overjoyed. Still, we couldn’t come out because they didn’t want anyone to know they had hidden Jews. So, Mom went to town to look for other survivors, and to find a place for us to live.
We stayed in the bunker by ourselves, and it was terrifying to be without Mom even for a moment. We were so scared, but there was no choice. It seemed like an eternity until Mom came back. Then at night, we left in the hay-filled wagon, so no one could see us leave.
We went to a house in Jedrzejow where many people were packed into one or two rooms with only makeshift, double beds. Everyone was worn out, dirty, hungry, and covered with lice. Those days seem like a blur now. I don’t remember how long we stayed there. Then we moved to another place, not as crowded, where Mom found an old friend, who delighted us with song and dance.
We were free, but we were still Jews! The Polish children made terrible fun of us, calling us stupid, dirty Jews. I was given a doll, and the Polish children took it away from me. We still lived in fear, this time of the Russians. It was during this time that Mom got sick and had to go to the hospital.
Jean and I were left with a lady, but we were mostly alone. We would go to the hospital to visit Mom. Our clothes were terrible, our shoes had holes and no backs. Jean would tell me to be careful, because there still were land mines on the roads. So, even after the war, I remained fearful.
When Mom came out of the hospital, she sent us to school. At that time all schools were run by the Church. Prejudice against the Jews had not diminished because the war had ended. The Poles still hated the Jews. The children still called me those same terrible epithets, and pulled my hair. I truly felt like an outcast. The nuns did nothing to stop it: they simply snickered under their cloaks. I would come home and cry bitterly. In some ways, this hurt even more than being underground. My voice had not yet come back, and I still spoke in a semi-whisper.
Then one day, a miracle happened! A man stood at the door, tall and thin, and crying. It was my father! After six months, he had come back to Poland to look for us, not knowing whether we were alive. And we had no idea that he was alive. He had survived Buchenwald, one of the worst concentration camps in Germany. It had taken him six months just to gain enough strength to travel back to Poland.
When I first saw him, I hid behind a door. He didn’t look like my robust, tall, strong father in his tweed coat and hat. He looked like a thin, tortured being—like no one I knew. It took me a while to get close to him. We must have looked just as scary to him.
Shortly after my father returned, we were confronted with a new dilemma. The Russians arrested him, claiming he must have collaborated with the Germans since all of us had been saved. My father had some friends, prominent Polish people from his college days, who testified on his behalf, and he was released. Then we had to run away from Poland. I was only too happy to leave the school and the misery behind me. Still, I was confused as to why we were running again.
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| Bela and Israel Strumpf |
ugly outhouses. We had plenty of food and clothes brought from the U.S.A.
I explored the woods with other children. We did acrobatics on frames of old army trucks. We created all sorts of games. I learned how to dance, and wore a beautiful costume in a school play. I was told I was the best dancer they had.
I went to school and loved it. No one made fun of me, and I discovered that I really could learn. Hebrew was fun. The teachers were very nice, full of hope and promise for a better world, primarily in Israel. I worshiped Israel. Although it was still a very dangerous place, most of the Jews wanted to go to Palestine.
Upon our arrival at the D.P. camp, my sister and I could only speak Polish. But any language other than Yiddish or Hebrew was frowned upon, so I started to speak Yiddish, and learned Hebrew in school. No one wanted to be reminded of the hate and prejudice they had experienced through- out the years. Although conditions were not fantastic, I had a sense of freedom and belonging I had never felt before. I was not ashamed of who I was. I was Jewish, and it was grand! We sang Hebrew songs; I learned how to read and write. I was not stupid, as the Polish children had said, so this was paradise!
I recently had a dream that I lived in a place where all people were Jewish, the butcher, the baker—everyone. It seemed like Heaven. I was looking for safety, and this is how I resolved it in my dream. I still battle with who I am. Yet somewhere deep inside, I am Jewish. It shows up constantly in my life, like an automatic reflex. I know my utopia doesn’t exist anywhere. But even now, when I get frightened or unsure about something, I still think of my Jewish utopia.
While we were in the D.P. camp Mom found out that one of her brothers, Uncle Henry, had survived the war. Everyone else had died—her mother, father, two brothers, their wives and their children. So many aunts, so many cousins, and of course, so many friends were also killed.
Life in the D.P. camp was the best I had ever known. After my horrible experiences from early childhood on, this was paradise. I didn’t realize how poor we were, or how awful our living conditions were. We were free!
Nothing seemed harsh. I was outdoors almost all the time. The second-hand clothes and shoes were a joy to me. Mom cooked on a makeshift stove, and everything she prepared was delicious. She made her own noodles, and baked her own breads and cakes. She worked so hard!
Compared to their wartime experiences, this should have been a paradise for my parents too. Yet, it was very sad for them. Before the war, they had large families; they were rich and proud. The loss of their families and their means was a terrible realization. The sadness remained with my mother, and the anger with my father. It showed up relentlessly throughout their lives. The terrible fears and anxieties caused my mother to have two nervous breakdowns. In her old age, she became withdrawn and depressed. But how I admire the courage and strength she showed Jean and me during the war!
Sylvia Hanna, née Strumpf, came to the U.S. in 1949. Now retired from a successful career as a fashion designer, she enjoys life with her husband, Jim. She dedicates her story of survival to her children and grandchildren, so that they may remember and help to create a truly better world.
Źródło / source:
The Hidden Child, the Foundation’s Publication, Vol. XXVI 2018
https://www.adl.org/search?keys=Jedrzejow
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