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| The Geography of Death - Tracing the Rail Line to Treblinka. When examining this German military map of Warsaw-Praga, one feature stands out with terrifying historical weight: the railway line that cuts horizontally across the landscape. Tracing this track reveals the direct, physical link between "Pan Misza’s" place of forced labor and the industrial annihilation of Warsaw's Jews. The railway line begins just off the left edge of this map, stemming directly from the infamous Umschlagplatz located only a few hundred meters west of the river. This was the assembly point where the mass deportations were organized. The track crosses the Vistula River via the strategic railway bridge and passes directly through the heart of Praga. As shown on the map, it runs immediately alongside the heavily militarized zone encircled by a solid red line and marked "Kosz" (Koszary / military barracks). This was the exact site where Pan Misza was forced to work as a construction laborer in 1942, enduring the occupation while under the constant watch of German guards. After passing the barracks, the track continues toward the upper right corner of the map. This is the main railway artery leading northeast out of Warsaw toward Białystok. Following this specific track for 95 kilometers out of Warsaw, it crosses the Bug River and reaches the railway station of Małkinia Górna. From Małkinia Górna, a short 5-kilometer spur track headed due south. That spur led directly into the Treblinka death camp. This very line—visible here as a cold, green-inked trackline, logistical route on a military map—was the exact path the Germans used to transport more than 350,000 Jews from the Warsaw Ghetto to their deaths. Among them, in August 1942, were Dr. Janusz Korczak, his staff, and the children of the Dom Sierot. While my father, Pan Misza, was building structures next to these tracks in Praga, the trains carrying the children he had cared for were rattling past him on their way to the gas chambers of Treblinka. This map is not just a layout of roads and barracks; it is a physical blueprint of the Holocaust in action. |
The document shown in the image carries a vital piece of our family’s history. It is a priceless testimony penned by my mother, documenting the dramatic escape of my father, Michał—known affectionately as "Pan Misza" in Janusz Korczak’s Orphans’ Home—from the Warsaw Ghetto, the people who risked their lives to help him, and the deep, invisible wounds left behind by the war.
By blending my mother’s written words with my own vivid childhood memories of growing up in Warsaw, I have compiled our family's story below. This is the kind of raw material and physical reality of the Holocaust that must never be forgotten, hidden away, or turned into abstract academic exercises.
Michał WRÓBLEWSKI / Waserman / born in Pińsk on October 29, 1911longtime employee of the Orphans' Home (Dom Sierot) run by dr Janusz KorczakAfter many adventures and an escape from the Umschlagplatz, my Husband finally decided to leave the ghetto. He went outside the walls using a forged Kenkarta [identity card]. Someone followed him and saw Misza taking off his armband. A Polish szmalcownik [blackmailer who extorted hidden Jews] took his heirloom watch / which belonged to his father / with a fob chain and 200 PLN. Other Poles helped him: Mrs. Bakalarska and a building caretaker near the place where he worked in the Praga district, when he used to go out for forced labor together with German Jews. Guided by instinct and convinced that he might resemble a Ukrainian more than a Pole from Warsaw, he went to Lwów. There, through a newspaper advertisement, he got a job as a bricklayer's assistant. He acted on information from a coworker that a certain construction enterprise was recruiting workers for Kyiv. He was accepted. From there, I received two letters from him sent to Kopyczyniści, stating that he was working and in good health. Then, silence. When the Germans retreated, he enlisted as a volunteer in the 1st Army of the Polish Armed Forces. He arrived in Łowicz as an officer.Even 8–10 years after the war, my Husband would wake up in the middle of the night with a horrific scream and literally drenched in sweat. He dreamed that he was being chased by Germans wearing leather belts inscribed with "Gott mit uns" and others, as well as uniformed Latvians, while he had our children with him.The reverse gear being engaged [the haunting persistence of the past] gave him no peace. Doctors claimed it was simply neurosis vegetativa maioris gradus [severe vegetative neurosis]. It did not "go with the wind."Misza died of cancer on March 13, 1993.His sister, Niura Waserman – Anna Trzcińska, survived the war and died 17 years ago.
To the history of the Warsaw Ghetto, he was Michał Wróblewski (born Waserman in Pińsk, 1911)—a longtime, dedicated staff member at the Dom Sierot (Orphans’ Home) run by Dr. Janusz Korczak. In our family, he was simply my father, known affectionately to the children and staff of the orphanage as "Pan Misza."
The foundational record of his harrowing escape and survival was preserved in writing by his wife, my mother. It is through her dedicated words, combined with my own childhood memories, that his story remains alive.
In her accounts, my mother describes how, after enduring the horrors of the ghetto and surviving a desperate escape from the Umschlagplatz, my father finally made the agonizing decision to cross to the "Aryan side." Armed with a forged Kenkarta (identity card), he slipped past the ghetto walls. The escape was immediately met with the brutal reality of occupied Warsaw: someone tracked him, witnessed him removing his identification armband, and a Polish szmalcownik (blackmailer) extorted him, robbing him of 200 zlotys and a cherished heirloom watch passed down from his father.
Yet, as my mother recorded, his survival was also paved by acts of human decency. Other Poles stepped in to help him—namely, a Mrs. Bakalarska and a building caretaker. They lived near the military barracks in the Praga district, the very area where Pan Misza had been forced to work as a construction laborer alongside German Jews earlier in 1942.
Guided by a sharp survival instinct and believing his physical appearance could pass for a Ukrainian rather than a Warsaw local, my father fled further east to Lwów. There, he found work as a bricklayer's assistant through a newspaper advertisement. He later acted on a tip from a coworker about a construction firm recruiting in Kyiv and moved deeper into occupied territory. For a time, letters reached Kopyczyniści stating he was alive and working. Then, silence. When the German front lines finally collapsed, he volunteered for the 1st Army of the Polish Armed Forces, eventually arriving in Łowicz as a liberated officer.
My father never forgot those who risked their lives for him. In the autumn of 1944, shortly after the Soviet and Polish forces captured the Praga district, he went back. He tracked down Mrs. Bakalarska and the caretaker near the old military barracks to thank them for the shelter and mercy they had shown him during his darkest hours.
But while the war ended politically, it never truly ended in our home. My mother wrote that for nearly a decade into the 1950s, my father would wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, letting out horrific screams. In his recurring nightmares, he was being hunted through the ruins, carrying us—his children—in his arms. His pursuers were uniformed Latvians and German soldiers wearing leather military belts with the infamous inscription Gott mit uns.
The physical artifacts of that trauma were woven into the fabric of my own childhood. I vividly remember a German bayonet and one of those very military belts—stamped with Gott mit uns—lying quietly inside my father’s wardrobe in our Warsaw apartment.
The doctors who treated him in the post-war years dismissed his night terrors as neurosis vegetativa maioris gradus (severe vegetative neurosis). They treated it as a medical condition, a simple glitch in the nervous system. But it was far deeper than that. The haunting persistence of the past gave him no peace. As my mother poignantly concluded in her written testimony, the trauma of the Holocaust never "went with the wind."
Pan Misza survived the ghetto, outlived the perpetrators, and saw his children grow, but he carried the weight of the Dom Sierot and the physical terror of the occupation until he passed away from cancer on March 13, 1993. His sister, Miura Waserman (Anna Trzcińska), who also survived the war, passed away 17 years ago.
These words—written by his wife and remembered by his son, Roman —are not just to honor their memory, but to ensure that the raw, physical reality of what they endured is never sanitized, intellectualized, or forgotten. The reality of the Holocaust.
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| German map of Warszawa from 1942 - Ghetto borders are marked. |
