Warsaw Memoirs: Childhood and School Years (Part II)
Chapter I: The World of Childhood Symbols and the Great Lie
We would receive some fruit from our mothers. Before eating, we had to wash our hands. We shared a small towel, which we hid in the bushes surrounding the lawn in Traugutt Park in a way that remained completely unnoticed by the adults. We both swore to each other that neither of us would ever betray this secret. Afterward, we would show the grown-ups how clean our little hands were, bursting into laughter while casting mischievous glances at one another. Thanks to us, our mothers also formed a closer acquaintance, and over time, we began to be invited to various family gatherings on Muranowska Street. Sabinka had a brother named Olek, who, however, was quite reluctant to play with girls. My friend spoke with a slight lisp. Once, I tried to mimic her, which left her deeply offended with me. Without saying a word, she showed me her little finger. I did not yet know what this meant; only later did I understand that it was a children's sign for: “I am angry with you and I am not speaking to you.” It was only when, a few days later, she showed me two fingers—the middle and index fingers—that it served as a signal that she forgave me and wished to make up. In this way, Sabcia introduced me to the fascinating world of symbols.
Once, our teacher wrote a sentence on the blackboard: “MOTHER AND FATHER ARE GOING TO THE FIELD,” and instructed us, the students, to draw a corresponding picture. I threw myself into the work with great enthusiasm. I drew the mother with a very distinct bosom, so that no one could have any doubts regarding her identity. The mother in my drawing wore slippers with French heels—meaning very high heels—and held a rake in her hand, because, according to the instructions, she was heading to the field. Father, on the other hand, wore an elegant suit, a proper tie, a bowler hat, and held a giant shovel in his hand. I labored sorely over this masterpiece, but it earned me immense praise from the teacher. Perhaps it was not entirely deserved given the realities of agricultural work, but it marked the beginning of an entirely different story with a long continuation. Admiring my work, our teacher asked me where I had learned to draw so beautifully. Disoriented and excited by the question, I blurted out my very first lie without thinking: “that I had taken lessons.” Her next question followed immediately: “And how long did you study?” Having committed the first falsehood, I waded deeper: “One day,” I replied. Fortunately, that put an end to her pressing inquiries, as I was saved by the sound of the school bell. I suspect that had she questioned me further, I would have been ready to point to our maid, Małpka, as my alleged drawing tutor.
During the next lesson, the teacher handed back my ill-fated drawing, beneath which she had marked a large '5' (excellent). My parents examined this “masterpiece” thoroughly. They were far more critical than the teacher, yet they never publicly undermined her authority. Instead, they began to speak with me calmly about clothing, garments, and how people dress for work, showing me various illustrations and postcards. However, I was haunted the entire time by a profound sense of shame for having lied—and so foolishly and clumsily at that. With age and under the influence of real necessity, a person learns that sometimes remaining silent or attempting to change the subject is a far better approach when, for various reasons, one cannot answer truthfully.
Chapter II: Household Peace and Hierarchy at the Table
Never at home were we punished, not even with a stern reprimand, for any prank, trick, or childhood misbehavior. In fact, in our family home, I never once heard a raised voice, a quarrel, or even the slightest argument between my Parents. Reprimands were always given to us calmly, and most often humorously. Whenever one of us stirred sugar in a glass too loudly, Father would say with a smile: “Oh, that must be a tram bell ringing out on the street: ding-ding!”. Back then, I kept a memory album—such was the fashion, and all the girls took great delight in them. My Mother wrote a beautiful little poem in mine:
“Like streams of pure water
flow across the green meadow,
so may your young age flow
quietly and happily.”
“Like streams of pure water
flow across the green meadow,
so may your young age flow
quietly and happily.”
I no longer remember exactly who authored the other words I wrote down and carried in my memory:
“Truth is a virtue,
the highest power.
Truth is God Himself.
But if with the truth
you are to kill a man,
oh, then tell a lie!”
I was not entirely certain whether the original text said “to kill,” “to wound,” or perhaps “to alienate”—and the difference, after all, is colossal. I simply remained silent about that alleged “drawing lesson” before my parents, but I returned to that story in my thoughts for a very long time. It was clear that this innocent lie weighed heavily upon my childhood conscience. I tried to write as beautifully as possible in school, but it turned out quite clumsily. That first November snow we had written about on the blackboard had melted long ago, yet a permanent trace remained in my memory. Father wrote beautifully and clearly. He often complained that schools nowadays no longer taught proper calligraphy as they used to. He repeated that though those lessons were tedious, they yielded excellent results—thanks to them, no one wrote “like a chicken with a stick.” This, of course, was a direct allusion to my own handwriting.
“Truth is a virtue,
the highest power.
Truth is God Himself.
But if with the truth
you are to kill a man,
oh, then tell a lie!”
I was not entirely certain whether the original text said “to kill,” “to wound,” or perhaps “to alienate”—and the difference, after all, is colossal. I simply remained silent about that alleged “drawing lesson” before my parents, but I returned to that story in my thoughts for a very long time. It was clear that this innocent lie weighed heavily upon my childhood conscience. I tried to write as beautifully as possible in school, but it turned out quite clumsily. That first November snow we had written about on the blackboard had melted long ago, yet a permanent trace remained in my memory. Father wrote beautifully and clearly. He often complained that schools nowadays no longer taught proper calligraphy as they used to. He repeated that though those lessons were tedious, they yielded excellent results—thanks to them, no one wrote “like a chicken with a stick.” This, of course, was a direct allusion to my own handwriting.
At the dinner table, we had strictly assigned seats, and this order was never altered. For about a year or longer, my Mother's orphaned nephew—the son of her deceased brother Abram—came to our house for dinner. On those occasions, an extra chair was placed on my side of the table. Portions were served in a specific hierarchy: first to Father, then to the boy as a guest, next to Sabina, and finally to me. This young man, bearing the surname Polirsztok, was not an expressive or talkative person. He answered questions very laconically and probably did not feel entirely comfortable in our company, even though Mother tried with all her heart to do everything to make things as pleasant as possible for him. Our maid always ate her dinner alone, and naturally in the kitchen. In those days, successive girls working in the house were addressed in a characteristic, third-person form: “Let Anielcia bring the compote,” or “let Andzia hand over two more forks.”
Chapter III: National Identity and Father’s Great Lesson
Our tenement building was inhabited mostly by Jews. A rare exception was the long-mustachioed Mr. Szymański, who occupied a basement apartment. He had two grown daughters—Wanda and Irka. The latter once proudly told my mother that she had intentionally had a healthy front tooth extracted and replaced with a gold one, because she believed it looked incredibly elegant. The older daughter, Wanda, once remarked under her breath in my presence—while I was waiting in the hallway for Mother: “How loudly these Jewish children play.” Offended, I walked straight up to her and said to her face: “I am also a Jewish child, but I never play that loudly!”. Wanda, somewhat embarrassed, replied to me: “Oh, you—that is something else entirely. Your Father is a learned man.”
This conversation gave me a great deal to think about, and I pondered it frequently in solitude. Whenever Father sat on Saturday or Sunday afternoons soaking his feet for a long time in a large basin set on the kitchen floor, I would approach closely, wanting to ask him about it and tell him of Wanda's words. Yet I never found the courage—I simply did not know how to begin without it sounding foolish coming from a small child.
In public school once, our gymnastics teacher, who was a Catholic, instructed me to go to the office and bring a ball for the game. I executed the command with pride and haste. When I returned, she thanked me warmly, smiled, gently patted me on the head, and said: “You certainly don't look like a Jewish child.” In her mouth, this sounded like the highest possible praise, which perfectly illustrated the realities of those times. I retold this incident at home, meticulously mimicking my teacher’s tone and gestures. Father only laughed, and then he sat down beside me and began to calmly explain how beautifully complex the world truly is. He told me then: “Remember, you came into this world first and foremost as a human being. You are a girl, not a boy. You were born in Warsaw, which makes you a Varsovian. Since Warsaw lies in Poland, you are therefore a Pole. Your family stems from Jews, so you are also a Jew. You go to school, which makes you a student. You have many uncles and aunts, so you are a niece to Piotr and Zosia, and a niece to Aunt Lodzia and Uncle Szymon. Finally, you are our granddaughter and a wise, beloved young lady.” My head ached from this avalanche of definitions! I had never realized before that one small person could simultaneously be so many things at once.
Chapter IV: The “Eviction” of a Doll and the Birth of Sister Krysia
Shortly thereafter, it turned out that our beautiful, beloved Mother was pregnant. This was spoken of openly and with great joy at home. I would often press my ear to her belly, and she would ask with a smile whether I could hear my little brother or sister turning and squirming inside. Personally, I preferred a brother, since I already had an older sister, Sabina. We both waited with immense impatience. At last, Father drove Mother to a private maternity clinic at 17 Ceglana Street. This was quite a novelty, as both I and Sabina had been delivered at home by midwives—it was clear that times and customs were changing rapidly. When a third consecutive girl was born, our Father, Gabriel, fell into a state of true despair. From sheer overwhelm, he did not go to work for two entire days! Finally, looking for a way out, he landed on Polna Street at the home of his older, childless sister and shouted from the doorway: “Irena, I beg you, adopt this one!”.
Later, of course, he had to reconcile himself to fate and accept his new daughter with love. For a long time, he discussed with us what name to give her. Mother desperately wanted to name her Elwira, wishing to honor the memory of her deceased father. To our Father, however, it seemed like an old-fashioned name, suited only “for an old maid.” Various childhood suggestions came from our side: Wanda, Zuzanna. And when Sabina suggested the name Krysia, I immediately caught onto the idea and began to sing loudly the words of a popular song: “Does Miss Krysia allow, asks the young uhlan...”.
After a week, our Mother returned home—once again slender, graceful, and radiant, carrying this completely new little girl with her. Krysia lay wrapped in a warm swaddling blanket, which was unceremoniously placed inside a wicker stroller with a hood. It was a stroller that until then had belonged to my beloved doll. With childhood gravity, I considered this the first brutal eviction I had ever witnessed in my life! My dolls in those days were quite dreadful anyway—frightfully pretty, closing and opening their large, glass eyes. The worst part, however, was that their heads and limbs were made of fragile porcelain. On more than one occasion during play, they would shatter, which became a cause of my truest despair. I was firmly convinced that it must hurt the dolls terribly! Besides, every such fall entailed a major household expense for a new porcelain head or leg. Little Krysia cried very frequently. Mother would constantly take her in her arms, carry her, or place her in my former stroller and gently rock her. Once, while Mother was breastfeeding her, I secretly licked a drop of milk, which this new resident found so incredibly delicious that she would instantly quiet down afterward. I must honestly admit, however, that to me, this milk was simply dreadful—bland and far too sweet. In the beginning, there was no joy to be had from the new sister: you couldn't play with her, tell her stories, or sing to her. When I tried to sing a familiar song to her one day, Krysia grimaced terribly and began to bawl at the top of her lungs. Clearly, even then she was fully aware of my musical talent.
Due to the expansion of the family, there was more and more loud talk in our house about the necessity of changing apartments. My parents desired at all costs to move away from our crowded neighborhood and dreamed with all their hearts that the new place would have a real, modern bathing room with a proper bath. Sabina and I were promised something truly magnificent back then: that in this new home, we would have our own, separate room. To dream is easy and pleasant, but finding an apartment suitable for us in a “better neighborhood” was by no means an easy task. First, we had to get rid of our old place on Sapieżyńska Street. However, it possessed one colossal advantage: the rent was extremely low. The entire process dragged on for quite some time, and Sabina and I eventually stopped believing that the move would ever actually happen.
Chapter V: The Courtyard Library and the Matchmakers
My older sister had an incredibly vivid imagination and was constantly inventing something new. One day, she received a toy “printing set” as a gift. But do not think of it in modern terms! These were individual rubber or rubber-like letters that had to be meticulously placed onto a small frame using tweezers to form words. We took great delight in this game until my sister suddenly struck upon an entirely different idea. Since we had a relatively large number of books at home, Sabina cobbled together a sign with the letters: “Do not destroy books from the library,” and thus our grand childhood cultural and educational venture began. We truly started lending out books, and the neighborhood children gladly made use of them. Sabina sternly warned every little reader that if they damaged a copy even slightly, they would have to pay an agreed-upon fine. There was an immense amount of work involved—we had to draw up a proper catalog of the books and a register of borrowers. We treated the matter with utmost seriousness, and Father Gabriel was our constant and patient advisor.
When Krysia finally got her real stroller, and even later when she graduated to a pushchair, we frequently walked together to the nearby Krasiński Garden. Many old trees grew there, making it much easier to find shade than in the new Traugutt Park, and furthermore, the garden lay much closer to our school. Just as in the old days, I would run down the hills there “head over heels,” and as a result, I constantly had fresh scabs on my knees from those numerous childhood falls. I did not belong to the category of children who were physically dexterous, but my intellectual side fared significantly better.
During these strolls in the Krasiński Garden, Mother befriended an exceptionally pleasant lady whose little daughter was the exact same age as our Krysia. This little girl was named Irka Rosengart. We usually came to the garden when my school classes ended. It is worth mentioning that due to the sheer volume of students and a lack of space, the very same classroom in my school was rotated three times a day, as we operated on a three-shift system. While we were out, a provisional maid remained at home. In those years, it was not difficult to secure a girl to help with the household, a reality tied directly to the severe overpopulation and impoverishment of the Polish countryside. The placement of rural girls seeking any kind of work in the city was handled professionally by so-called employment agents (rajfurki). The maid's duties included carrying heavy coal up from the basement, cleaning, and learning how to cook under the watchful eye of our Mother.
Chapter VI: On Jewish Bread and the Lesson of Krasiński Square
One day, while we were sitting peacefully on a bench in the Krasiński Garden, a small group of teenage youths passed by. Glaring insolently at Irenka's mother, they began shouting nasty, antisemitic slurs under their breath. It was highly unpleasant. Once the youths moved off, both women began to discuss the incident with intense agitation. Suddenly, Mother’s acquaintance, Mrs. Rosengart, recalled a crucial detail. It turned out that two of those hostile boys worked in a carbonated water factory located somewhere on Placu Krasińskich—and that very factory happened to be owned by her own brother! After a few minutes, the same group of young men unfortunately passed by our bench once again. At that moment, Mrs. Rosengart launched into a decisive counter-attack. She marched straight up to them and yelled to their faces that she knew exactly where they worked. She added with fierce indignation that it was a horrific and shameful thing for antisemitic slogans to be shouted by the very people who, day in and day out, “eat Jewish bread.” She then firmly declared that she would immediately speak with her brother, point out the aggressors, and ask him to fire them on the spot.
At that moment, both little girls began to squirm in their “carriages,” so the two women went for a walk, pushing the strollers with their little ones. I, however, preferred to remain behind on the bench. Even today, after all these decades, I could unerringly point to that exact spot in the Krasiński Garden. I was extremely agitated at the time, and the phrase “Jewish bread” kept revolving in my young mind. I was trying to make sense of this complicated situation and the terminology itself. The fact that this incident carved such a permanent mark in my memory—as do all experiences heavily tinted with emotion—retains its profound significance to this day. Back then, as a child, the matter of this “Jewish bread” deeply puzzled me, because I took everything literally. The entire event left a bitter taste, and for years it might have seemed to be completely forgotten. Yet, many, many years later, in the Polish People's Republic, when I heard someone complain with resentment about the Jews, claiming that they “had eaten Polish bread for too long,” that incident from my childhood rushed back with its full, original force. It was clear that something long dormant, hidden deep within my subconscious, had been reawakened.
Chapter VII: Terror on the Mezzanine and the Dressmaker Etka
On a bleak, autumn afternoon, Father took me to a matinee screening at the cinema. We returned after dusk. Father still had some urgent business to attend to in the city, so he escorted me only as far as the entrance hall of our tenement building. I headed up the stairs alone. As I reached the mezzanine, I suddenly froze in sheer terror—I noticed a figure crouching ominously in the darkness, seemingly lying in wait for me. I was paralyzed. I could not take a single step. In utter fright, I waited for a few agonizing moments, my childhood imagination instantly transforming the shadow into the terrifying form of a mityczny child-snatcher, standing completely motionless in the dark. I began to cry hysterically.
Fortunately, my desperate cries were heard by the dressmaker from the first floor—Mrs. Etka. She rushed out onto the stairwell immediately and came to my rescue. Without resistance, I allowed her to take me into her apartment, but I was so traumatized that I could not utter a word; I was simply trembling all over and gasping in spasms. Mrs. Etka immediately sent someone from her household to fetch my Mother, while she laid me down and applied a cold, damp compress to my forehead. She tried every possible way to soothe me, tenderly holding my hand. When my frantic Mother burst into the room a few minutes later, the usually gentle dressmaker, Etka, suddenly transformed into a commanding officer. She began barking short, military-like orders. She produced a glass vessel and commanded Mother to make me urinate into it immediately. Everyone in the room obeyed her instructions without question, even though I was deeply ashamed to relieve myself in front of strangers. But that was not all. In an incredibly authoritarian manner, Etka demanded that my Mother order me to... drink it immediately.
I resisted this revulsion for a long moment, but the sheer force of Etka's conviction and authority was so immense that no one in that room dared oppose her. And a miracle occurred—slowly I stopped trembling, my spasmodic crying ceased, and Mother was finally able to take me safely back to our apartment. I was put straight to bed, as the ordeal had caused me to run a high fever. When Father returned that evening and the whole story was whispered to him, his chief regret was that due to his haste, he had not escorted me directly to our door. Furthermore, he was deeply astonished by Mother’s compliance—he harbored resentment toward her for listening to this simple dressmaker as if she were some kind of witch, without offering the slightest resistance. I remembered this incident for the rest of my life as something profoundly unpleasant and repulsive. Remarkably, the trigger for that entire paralyzing fear was merely the shadow of the staircase banister, which, under the dim hallway lighting, cast a ghostly reflection on the opposite wall. This event was inscribed in my memory not only as a traumatic personal childhood recollection but also as tangible proof of the ignorance, superstition, and quackery of that era. Years later, when I finished recounting this story—writing it now on this modern computer during our stay in the countryside at Gabryś’s home—Małgorzata, in connection with her mother’s surgery, happened to mention the use of urine therapy in treating severe kidney ailments. It turned out that these practices stem from ancient, and by no means foolish, folk medicine, and in the modern world, they are objectively utilized by medical practitioners.
Chapter VIII: The Year 1920 and the Ritual of Laundry
Let me now recount another major event from my earliest years, one that did not involve an individual terror but enveloped every single resident of Warsaw. As I now understand with the passage of time, it must have been the year 1920. Suddenly, the powerful roar of gunfire and the deafening boom of artillery erupted, literally shaking the walls of our tenement building. We lived relatively close to the banks of the Vistula River, so in our perception, this cannonade felt as though it were happening right outside our window. A paralyzing sense of mortal, looming danger gripped us all. In our household, this event was referred to simply as “the explosion,” but it entered official Polish history forever under the name of the 'Miracle on the Vistula' (Cud nad Wisłą), when the Polish armies heroically repelled the dramatic Bolshevik assault on the capital. A vast number of terrified neighbors from the building crowded into our apartment—something entirely unprecedented. People fled to our home first to share this immense fear with someone else, and then to frantically explain to one another what was actually unfolding around us.
To make you realize just how much the world has changed, let me tell you about laundry. When it is time for laundry for any of you today, you simply walk into a laundry room, toss the soiled linen into a drum, pour in some detergent, and press a single button—and it is done. In the days of my childhood, laundry was a gigantic ritual that lasted uninterrupted for several days and constituted incredibly heavy, prolonged physical labor. In our kitchen, a massive wooden wash-tub (bala) was set up, which had a special tap installed at the very bottom. It was through this tap that water was poured and drained, and some powder or rather a bit of dissolved soap was poured in. This was the first stage—'soaking.' The following day, the water was changed, meaning hot water was poured in. A corrugated washboard was placed against the side of the wooden tub. Pieces of laundry were taken out one by one, rubbed with soap, and scrubbed hard against the washboard. Next, the water was changed twice, and the clothes were pressed through a wringer—which in those days already represented immense progress—by turning the wringer's hand crank. Afterward, the linen was boiled in a large, specialized copper cauldron. The distinct scent of cleanliness naturally spread through the entire apartment and the hallway. The clean laundry was hung to dry in the attic. Smaller pieces were ironed at home using a heavy iron filled with glowing embers. Large, dried pieces were arranged inside a linen 'runner' that was longer than a bedsheet—it had another name, now I remember: a mangling cloth. This heavy bundle was then carried to a professional mangling shop. I only went to that mysterious place once. Every piece of laundry was rolled onto large wooden rollers, several pieces at a time. Using a manual hand-crank, they were turned repeatedly. When the entire complicated process finally came to an end, it always seemed as though our laundry had shrunk to at least half its original volume.
I also perfectly remember another important activity performed in our kitchen—rolling dough and making homemade noodles. The ultimate ambition of every self-respecting housewife was to roll the thinnest possible noodles. This was done using a large wooden rolling pin. During this heavy labor, quiet sighs or tired groans always escaped the women's breasts. In my childhood understanding—this was the definition of real work. When I was very small and Father left for work in the morning, I was firmly convinced that he spent his entire day somewhere in his office rolling dough, and that was why he returned home in the evening so completely exhausted.
Chapter IX: Diphtheria, the “Polka” Hairstyle, and the Child’s Mind
I do not remember exactly which grade I was in when I fell severely ill with diphtheria. I was choking terribly. Aside from the usual medicines in dark little bottles, I was given an injection for the very first time in my life. In those days, this belonged to the absolute cutting edge of medical treatment. My parents emphasized this constantly, reassuring me that it was just one tiny, innocent prick in the bottom, and that I would soon be cured because of it. I do not know if the recovery was quick, but in any case, I eventually got well and found myself back at school. One day, during recess, someone accidentally pushed me in the corridor. I threw a true, dramatic tantrum, screaming at the top of my lungs that I had just had an injection and that it hurt terribly! In truth, it did not hurt at all; I simply wanted to feel important and impress my classmates, because back then, by no means everyone in the class even knew what an injection was, but I did.
Let it be noted that Sapieżyńska Street was located relatively close to the Warsaw Citadel and in the immediate vicinity of the Vistula River. I also recall that Mother used to have beautiful dresses made for us from real wool plaid—sometimes in red, and other times in blue. We had them tailored by a dressmaker named Julia Widiger, who lived on Zielna Street. She was of German descent. When this was mentioned during the fittings for those blue dresses, I found myself wondering in my young mind: “I wonder if she eats Polish or German bread?”
One day, I went out for a walk with Father. We stopped by an advertising column to read an official notice pasted upon it. It announced that men born in such-and-such years were required to report to a specified location for medical examinations prior to completing their mandatory military service. 'Just think, how many years from now would you have to serve in the military if you were a boy?' my father suggested playfully. I began to calculate the years in my head, when suddenly and with absolute certainty, I declared: “Father, I want to live until the year 2000!” My unexpected proclamation provoked a hearty, loud laugh from my Father.
In various everyday situations, Mother would frequently use a rather peculiar, blunt old saying: “Do me no favors, and don’t sleep with my brother.” The tone in which she delivered it was always highly expressive, but as a young child, I completely failed to grasp the actual meaning behind the words. It would usually happen whenever an aunt or a distant cousin made excuses and refused to visit us for French pastries—which were a grand, homemade specialty of my mother. The very same saying would escape Mother's lips when acquaintances stated with hesitation: 'I will lend you this book, but only in two weeks.' I used to wonder with utmost childhood seriousness: what on earth did any of her brothers have to do with this so-called 'favor'???
Possessing an inquisitive mind even then, I passionately read the daily obituaries and the 'Accidents and Thefts' column in the newspapers brought home to Sapieżyńska Street. I would weep true, bitter tears if I read that a young child had passed away, or whenever an obituary carried the heart-wrenching closing signature: “left in inconsolable grief: husband and daughters”. I also remember reading the heartbreaking phrase: “She died in the flower of her youth,” which I took entirely literally. Another time, when I read a shocking report in the crime column stating that a fifty-year-old man had assaulted a ten-year-old girl, I asked my parents with childhood innocence what he had actually done to her. Wishing to shield my young mind, the adults explained evasively that he had simply attacked her violently, beaten her, and probably robbed her. I took their explanation at face value and felt a deep, profound sorrow for the fate of that completely unknown little girl.
Based on these accounts, it might appear that I was an exceptionally sensitive and tender-hearted child. In truth, that was not the case. I used to catch flies with genuine, almost predatory fervor; there were vast numbers of them in the summer. During the hot months, a sticky flypaper hung from the lampshade in the kitchen, to which the poor flies would adhere and slowly perish. I felt absolutely no sympathy for them. Furthermore, with a calculated childhood cruelty, I would pull the legs off those creatures and watch with immense, almost scientific fascination as those detached limbs continued to twitch and move on their own. I have no intention today of justifying those actions by claiming I was merely guided by an inquisitive instinct; such a narrative would cheaply absolve that naughty little girl. I should have mentioned this darker trait of my character much earlier in the memoirs, but I simply overlooked it. No matter.
Chapter X: The St. John of God Hospital and Mr. Fiszman
Near our public school on Bonifraterska Street, right on the corner of Zakroczymska Street, stood the grim complex of the St. John of God Hospital. It was an asylum intended for the mentally ill—in those days, people spoke bluntly and referred to it as a place 'for madmen.' The windows of the building were heavily barred, and the gaunt figures of the men confined inside would frequently appear behind the iron grates. It happened several times that these poor souls would call out to us from above, waving, and sometimes lowering small amounts of money wrapped in paper on a long piece of string. They would yell and beg us to buy them cigarettes from the nearby kiosk. As children, out of pure empathy, we fulfilled their urgent requests on a few occasions. We would tie those bundles of longed-for tobacco to the string, and they would haul them up to their cells. However, the last time they received a package from us, they began muttering completely incoherently, and then suddenly and shamelessly exposed themselves, showing us their bare backsides through the bars. This deeply shocked and frightened us. From that day forward, we never again lingered beneath the barred windows of that ominous hospital.
I believe I received 5 groszy from my parents for school every single day. With this pocket money, I and a few of my schoolmates would buy various treats on our way home. The other girls received similar sums as well. At a nearby kiosk, after a lengthy consultation, we would buy various sweets: for instance, two irises, three hard candies, a so-called 'Lipiec,' or a Neapolitan wafer. The most important and wonderful thing for us was that we ourselves, completely independently, decided on our choice. The ice cream, naturally bought during warm summer days, caused me a bit of trouble. My classmates would approach and ask with a sweet face: 'dear, give me a lick.' I did not dare refuse them, fearing what would be said about me in class. At the same time, my sense of hygiene made it impossible for me to accept the ice cream back and eat it after it had been licked by someone else. Looking back, it seems to me that our joint expeditions for sweets primarily satisfied a deep need to build classmate bonds. No one from our courtyard attended the same class, and our parents strictly forbade us from playing with the 'rascals' from the yard.
In that very same kiosk, the opportunity to listen to the radio was advertised one day. This was an absolutely unprecedented novelty! For 5 groszy, one could put on headphones and listen to a radio broadcast for exactly 5 minutes. On that occasion, I happened to listen to something about the post office, which—to be completely honest—as a small child I did not understand at all. But I experienced the incredible, technological thrill of listening to someone speaking from a vast distance, whose voice reached my ears not through telephone wires but through the air, and that people gathered in different cities across Poland could listen to it simultaneously.
At last, the moment arrived. I do not know how my parents found someone who decided to take interest in our old apartment. The new tenant came first by himself, and the second time he appeared with his wife. His name was Mr. Fiszman, and he was a pharmacist by profession. We began preparing for the grand move with full steam. For the duration of the greatest chaos, Sabina and I were packed off to Polna Street to stay with our aunt, while little Krysia remained at home with our parents. Yet, at the close of this chapter, I want to note very clearly that our first apartment at 7 Sapieżyńska Street was an incredibly happy place for us. It was there that both I and Krysia were born, and it was there that Sabina grew up healthy and wise. Our parents lived in deep harmony. We knew no financial hardships back then, as Father earned a very good living.
Chapter XI: 11 Elektoralna Street
The move to our new, long-dreamed-of apartment took place in July. I remember that moment perfectly—upon returning from my forced stay at my aunt’s home on Polna Street, I found the new rooms still completely empty, devoid of furniture. Yet, the windows had already been washed until they shone, and the floors smelled of freshness and cleanliness. Our new address sounded grand: 11 Elektoralna Street, Apartment 12, on the second floor. The apartment was vast, consisting of three large rooms with a bright balcony overlooking the street, a massive kitchen, and... the long-awaited bathing room featuring a real bathtub and a modern Junkers gas water heater. This was the absolute fulfillment of my parents' long-cherished dreams. Most importantly, Sabina and I finally received our promised separate room. My bed was placed against the wall to the right of the entrance, and Sabina's bed was on the left. In the center of the room stood a handsome wooden desk with two chairs, where we were to do our schoolwork together from then on. Beside it stood a wardrobe for our clothes. My sister and I were incredibly proud and happy. Little Krysia still slept in our parents' bedroom. The dining room was truly stately—there stood the same large, pre-war table with its chairs and our beautiful, gleaming sideboard.
The apartment on Elektoralna Street teemed with vibrant family and social life from the very beginning. Aunt Łonia lived just down the street at number 30, so our visits were an almost daily occurrence. In the kitchen, the brass taps gleamed.
