Memories of Smoke & Ashes: A World War Ii Story

By Andre Pohlman

Stena Wagner and her son find themselves on a train to Warsaw hours before Germany attacks Poland and World War II begins. The train is bombed and they desperately try to reach Warsaw one-step ahead of the advancing German armies. In Warsaw, the Polish Resistance Movement recruits Stena. Then, in the dangerous streets of Warsaw, in the crowded Ghetto, in the clandestine radio listening post, and in the dark forest of the Tatry Mountains, Stena fights for her and her sons survival using her wit, courage, and a medallion for luck.
In Budapest, the Gestapo arrests Stena and her son joins up with a gang of orphan boys to hunt for food. As the Russian armies approach Budapest, Stena escapes from prison, and the son finds himself again in a boarding school. Together they weather the bitter winter and the ravages of war. A Russian captain arrests Stena, and the son runs away from his brutal headmaster to look for his mother. Mother and son find each other outside a Polish camp set up by the Russian Authorities. "I took out all the necessary papers that made me Madam Lattermant and you his son," says Stena, as they travel to a camp set up for the French. In Odessa, the Russian authorities refuse to recognize French citizenship acquired during the war. "Mother slipped into a deep-blue funk. Nobody could reach her not even Michel. Mother the once vibrant self-assured woman was melting away. I kept my distance. I didn't want to add to her misery," says the son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 13, 2007
• ISBN: 9781465320360

Andre Pohlman

Andre Pohlman was born in Poland, and as a child experienced the Nazi occupation of Poland and the Red Army siege of Budapest. He was educated in England, Argentina and the United States. He did his undergraduate and graduate (PhD) work at the University of California, Berkeley and worked as a scientist before his retirement. He now lives in Northern California with his wife Ruth. The novel was inspired by his mother's tales told to him after the war and his own experiences in Hungary during the war years.

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Copyright © 2007 by Andre Pohlman.

I. Poland—Hungary—History—1939-1945—Fiction based on true events.

II. Title

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Preface

Introduction

Chapter 1

Dogs of War

Chapter 2

The City

Chapter 3

The Smell of Fear

Chapter 4

The Calm before the Storm

Chapter 5

Stefan’s Tale

Chapter 6

Deliverance

Postscript

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank my wife, Ruth, for helping me make this novel possible. I’d also like to thank my readers—Carole Leita, Tobey Wiebe, Gordon Gaines, Virginia Phelps, and John Ullman—who made helpful suggestions and encouraged me to continue with their enthusiasm for the story.

Finally I thank my patient editor, Regina Joyce Clarke, for her interest in the novel as well as my other editors from Xlibris, Donald Villamero and Dawny Ebite.

Preface

As I reflect back on my life as a young boy growing up in war-torn Poland and Hungary, fleeting memories appear in my mind’s eye of events that left deep impressions on me. My earliest recollection is of an attack by a German warplane on the train my mother and I had taken one afternoon. The day was September 1, 1939, only hours after Germany had invaded Poland, marking the beginning of the Second World War.

For days, we walked and sometimes rode on peasants’ wagons through the Polish countryside from village to village, from one town to another, desperately trying to reach Warsaw ahead of the invading German armies. I remember quite vividly riding in the back of a horse-drawn wagon, sitting on top of a load of shiny ammunition shells. The wagon was moving slowly, and I needed a rest from hours of walking. Then came the explosions, and the wagon picked up speed. I watched my mother running after me screaming, Jump, jump, but the wagon was moving too fast, and I held on for dear life. Then a soldier yanked me off the wagon, and we fell to the ground. Moments later, there was a huge explosion.

This book is a historical fiction, but I do weave into the story many of my life experiences as well as some of my mother’s tales. I also try to keep the story within the historical context and time frame and to use the actual names of historical figures.

For clarity, I used the anglicized names for Warsaw, Cracow, Three Cross Square, and Iron Gate Square (Warszawa, Kraków, Plac Trzech Kryźy, and Plac Zelaznej Bramy, respectively). Names of other cities and names of streets are written in Polish or Hungarian.

Finally, scattered within the novel are words and phrases written in Polish, German, Russian, Spanish, and Slovak. Some of them are listed below along with translations.

Spanish English

Polish English

German English

Russian English

Slovak English

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts.

—William Shakespeare, As You Like It

Introduction

In 1948 when I was thirteen years old, my mother and I immigrated to Argentina from England. She possessed a spirit of adventure and wanted to get away from war-torn Europe and find a better life.

To my utter dismay, as soon as we arrived in Buenos Aires, I was placed in a boarding school for boys. St. Alban’s College served the Anglo-Argentine community in and around Buenos Aires. The college was modeled and run according to British prep school standards with iron-fisted disciplinary control by masters and prefects over the student population. Participation in sports was mandatory by every student whether they were physically talented or not. Those who were talented in sports were elevated in stature to captains of sports teams, monitors, and prefects.

English was used in the fifth and sixth forms and in general communications with masters. Students in lower forms were taught lessons in Spanish as well as being taught subjects in English as dictated by Argentine civil laws. The result of our education was that we all ended up being bilingual and spoke English among ourselves with Spanish phrases or expletives thrown in here and there for better expression.

Three years after I graduated from St. Alban’s College, we were on the move again. This time, we were going to California. I was reluctant to go. I had a steady girlfriend, lots of friends to play with, and a good job working as a junior auditor for Price Waterhouse. Why go to an unknown land and start over again? But my mother’s enthusiasm was overwhelming. She told me she would start up her own cosmetics business in California and become rich and famous like Helena Rubenstein. And I would go to the university and study whatever I wanted. Well, the idea of going to a university sparked my interest but just a little.

When the time came for me to say good-bye to my friends, I could not utter a single word. My tongue stuck in my throat. I felt as if I was being cut adrift in a vast ocean. I became overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness. For a while, I stood looking down the street as my friends disappeared into the darkness to catch the metro.

I started walking slowly in the opposite direction to the pension where we were staying. There went years of friendship—a handshake, a few pats on the back and good wishes, and a kiss from my girlfriend. What was I expecting—a medal or a cup awarded after a sweaty day on the athletic field? I had a box full of them. What good did they do? It’s nice to have known you. Now start over again.

I shed my morbid thoughts—it was just another exit among so many in my life. I walked down the street and stepped into a café and ordered an espresso. I watched the Porteños go by.

Map.bmp

Chapter 1

Dogs of War

I woke up at 10:00 a.m. and put on my dressing gown and walked into the small living room. Mother was sitting on the couch, dressed in a light blue polka-dot dress and was barefoot, filing her fingernails.

His Highness, the king, has finally announced his presence, she said while continuing to file her nails. She was of medium height, thirty-eight years old, with thick shoulder-length blond hair. Her eyes were emerald green, and she had a fairly long classic Roman nose. To my constant embarrassment, she always wore too much makeup. Her eyebrows were plucked and outlined in black. She wore rouge on her cheeks, and her lips were heavily lined in ruby red lipstick.

Good morning, Mother, I said in Polish, rubbing my eyes. We spoke Polish at home. Is there anything to eat?

You missed breakfast downstairs at the restaurant. The last serving was at ten, but go and look in the icebox. There are some potato pancake leftovers from yesterday. Add an egg and voila. Coffee is still on the stove.

Then she continued, I assume you were gallivanting with your English friends last night. I heard you creeping in at three o’clock in the morning like a thief.

My friends gave me a farewell party at the Claridge Hotel. Nothing special—just seven of us and Roger Winkler! I shouted from the kitchenette.

Hallelujah, I finally get my son back. Maybe we can get to know each other again! she shouted back.

Roger Winkler sends his regards to you.

Winkler, Winkler? Oh yes, Professor Winkler, your history teacher. How sweet of him to remember me.

He told me that you had many chats with him about the war years. Did you go out with him?

Go out with him? You mean romantically—heavens no. She started laughing. Besides, he wears a mustache. I don’t like men with mustaches. She continued laughing.

So when did you start having these chats? I continued to press her because I was curious.

"Well, if you really must know, I met him many years ago. I was walking from Temperly station to pick you up at the school, and he stopped me and introduced himself. He told me he was your history teacher and your athletic coach and how well you were developing in school and in sports. One thing led to another, and we started to talk about the war years. He told me he did a great deal of research into the German occupation of Poland while he was at Cambridge University and wanted to hear my impressions of what it was like. Well, you know me, if someone is interested, I am more than happy to oblige.

From then on, whenever I came to the school to pick you up, or when I came to see you at the sporting events, Professor Winkler sought me out, and we found time to continue our conversation where we had left off the last time.

You never told me about these chats, I said, bringing in a plate of potato pancakes with a fried egg and a cup of hot coffee. I sat down on a chair opposite her and began to eat. I could just imagine Mother talking to Winkler in her broken English or Spanish or both. If she could not come up with the right word to express herself, she would use her hands or invent a word. I almost blushed with embarrassment as I visualized her performing in front of Winkler.

Professor Winkler suggested that it would be best for your well-being not to involve you right away. He told me that perhaps later on when you grew up and were interested, then I could tell you the full story.

My well-being? I’ve already heard some of the war stories over and over again. I practically know them by heart. But last night, I suddenly remembered an event that you never mentioned. We all were discussing politics—Peron, the current government, dictatorship, and so on. And then, the subject turned to the German invasion of Poland. I won’t go into the details of how we arrived on this subject, but Winkler, or Professor Winkler as you call him, told us some of the horrors the Poles experienced under the German occupation. As he was describing the events, my mind drifted, and suddenly I remembered, quite vividly, that we were in a train crash in Poland when I was a small boy. You never mentioned a train crash before, did you?

Mother stopped painting her fingernails; she looked up at me with a surprised expression. Didn’t I?

There was another boy called Andrzej. I was playing with him in the aisle when the crash occurred. Then I ran into the field away from the train.

Mother kept staring at me and then put the nail polish on the side table and stood up. She walked into the bedroom and emerged with a cigarette in her mouth. She went into the kitchenette, lit the cigarette, and inhaled several times. From the look on her face, I knew something had upset her. Mother only smoked when she was upset or excited.

Maybe this is as good a time as any for us to have a little chat about you, me, and the past. So why don’t you get dressed while I get my thoughts together.

I was somewhat taken aback by her serious manner. I was certainly very curious. I wondered what had made her so upset—what had really happened that day? Perhaps it was a relative of ours who had died. Something bad must have happened to someone but to whom? Well, I’ll soon find out, I thought to myself.

After fifteen minutes, I came back into the room to find her still smoking. The ashtray on the side table was full of half-smoked cigarettes. Mother was very upset.

Shall I get you some coffee? I’ll heat it up, I said.

No, too much coffee makes me shake. But be a good boy and get me a small glass of vodka and a twist of lemon. That will relax me.

I fixed the drink and thought perhaps I should have one myself. No, it was too early in the morning to be drinking. Instead, I got myself a cup of coffee. I gave her the drink and sat on the chair facing her.

Where is Bolek? I asked.

Bolek won’t be back till this evening, she said. He went to Lomas de Zamora to settle the final transactions on the house with his partner.

Good, we can spend the day talking without interruptions. I don’t remember anything about my early childhood nor do I know about our family. How did you meet my father? Can you tell me something about those days before the war?

Miracles are happening. My son wants to spend time with his mother! He wants to know about his family. I don’t ever remember you spending more than a few minutes with me in the last few years. Always rushing to see your girlfriend or to see your English friends or parties, rugby, etc., etc. What happened to you last night?

Nothing happened, except my sudden recollection of the train crash—nothing else. I did say good-bye to all my friends here.

Well well well, she said, taking a swallow of vodka and giving me a conspiratorial look.

Your father, Witold, was so handsome in his khaki uniform when I first met him at the officers’ club ball. Kristina, my best girlfriend from high school, had invited me to go with her to the ball. Her older brother was an officer in the army and had given her two tickets. He asked her to bring a friend, so she chose me. At first, I refused. I didn’t have a nice formal dress. But Kristina wouldn’t take no for an answer. She told me she had two dresses, and one of the dresses might just fit me. If not, she said, my mother could always alter it.

Where was all this taking place? I interrupted.

"Why, in Lwów. I was born in Lwów, and Witold was born there too. As a matter of fact, both our families were long-established Lwówians.

"When we first met, he had just finished his law degree from the University of Lwów and had joined the army with a rank of first lieutenant. I had just graduated from Gymnasium. I was barely over seventeen years old when we met. Witold was ten years older. Well, that night at the ball we danced to a lovely orchestra. Witold could not dance well. He was much too stiff. But you know me. I took the situation in hand and showed him some steps. After a few instructions, he relaxed and was quite skillful on the dance floor. He was a polite man, seemed to show patience, and he learned very quickly and laughed at his mistakes. He was not a tall man, perhaps a little shorter than you are, Andrzej. But, believe me, I felt a certain attraction toward him that night and somehow felt that our relationship would blossom.

"After the ball, he drove me back home in his Mercedes. When we stopped in front of my house, I gave him a big kiss and ran inside.

"The next morning, I told my mother that I had met Witold Wagner at the ball and what a wonderful man he was. I remember that she gave me a queer look and sat down. She told me that the Wagners were a prosperous and well-known family in Lwów. Witold’s father was a professor at the university. She said to me, ‘Stena, don’t pin high hopes that he will see you again.’ I told her that he would see me. I had that intuitive feeling about him. And besides, why was she so class-conscious? After all, I was planning to become a doctor. My grades were excellent at school. I wouldn’t have had trouble getting into a medical school, and I could also speak French and German fluently. ‘Thank God that you listened to your father’s advice,’ replied my mother. ‘Your father in his wisdom made you take extra lessons in French and German from the time that you were a little girl.’ Father always said, ‘Learn French for culture and German in case they occupy us again.’

But what did my grandfather and grandmother do that made Grandmother so concerned about class differences? I asked.

My father was a butcher, Mother replied. "He sold cold cuts, sausages, imported cans, some dry goods, cheeses, and so on. It was like a fiambrería. He had his shop for many years long before I was born. It was called Starski and Son, and it was well-known throughout Lwów. Your grandmother, Irena, helped him in the shop from time to time, but she also was a seamstress. She did lovely work. She also did wonderful embroidery on tablecloths and napkins."

What happened to my grandparents? Are they still alive? I asked.

"My father died during the war. A bomb fell on his shop and killed him, poor Father. I just learned the news about Father recently from my mother. She is alive and well, living with my younger brother, Adam, in Wrocław. On your father’s side, your grandfather, grandmother, and Witold’s younger brother all disappeared when the Soviets occupied Lwów. No one knows what happened to them.

"But let’s go back to the early days before the war. My prediction did come true. Witold started courting me, and before I could count to three, he asked me to marry him.

"We were married in St. Anthony’s Church in Lwów. I wore a beautiful white wedding gown that my mother created for me. Witold, of course, wore his handsome uniform. The church was packed with family, friends, and Witold’s army buddies. After the wedding, we passed through a military arch and were showered with rice and flowers. We immediately drove to Zakopany for our honeymoon.

"In Zakopany, we stayed in a beautiful lodge right on the Morskie Oko Lake. We went on long hikes, took hunting trips, and rode horseback. Believe me, it was the happiest time of my life. Nine months later, in May of 1935, you were born. It was a difficult birth. You were born by caesarean section. We hired a wet nurse because I was so weak and in the hospital. We kept her on until you were weaned.

"After you were born, I saw little of Witold. He was constantly doing army training or on maneuvers somewhere. I would see him perhaps once a weekend and sometimes not for a whole month. I didn’t mind that much. Janka, your wet nurse, kept you happy and played with you. I was free to see my mother and father, and occasionally, I helped them at the store. Life went on at the normal pace I was used to with the added benefit of having a son and watching him grow.

One year after you were born, I decided that I would enroll in medical school. When I mentioned my intentions to Witold, he was against it. He told me that a mother should spend time with her son and not be preoccupied with studies. We clashed. It was our first heated argument. He knew of my ambition to become a doctor. We had discussed this issue before and after we were married. At the time, he thought it would be a great idea to have two working professionals in the family. I felt betrayed and told him so. I told him that his son hardly knew him. He barely spent time at home. He was always on maneuvers or some military training. He replied that that was what army life was all about.

I interrupted Mother and said, It seems to me that I was an unwanted child.

No no no, we both loved you! she cried. Whenever Witold came home, he would spend hours playing with you. We would both take you for pram rides in the park or walks down the street, window-shopping. He would spend hours taking photos of you. He was a good photographer; it was his hobby. At the time, I felt that I could enroll in medical school and still be a good mother. After all, Janka, your nanny, lived with us in the apartment and looked after you all day long.

You know, Mother, I said, when I met Father in Paris in 1945, I remember he was hardly pleased to see me. I got a pat on the head from him, a couple of balloons, and a remark that my hair had changed from blond to brown.

Yes, that reunion was very strange, she sighed. I was shocked by his behavior. But you didn’t help matters either. When I introduced you and told you that he was your real father, you turned to me and asked me why Michel wasn’t your father.

At that time, I believed Michel was my father. I remember you told me you married him in Budapest.

You know the reason why I married Michel, don’t you?

Now, I do. The Russians were expatriating all Poles living in Budapest back to Poland.

Not only Poles—all foreigners, including the French, sending them back to France. It was a marriage of convenience. I had no intention of going back to Poland. It was the only way. As the wife of Michel, we got French identity cards and a ticket out of Budapest.

Mother got up from the sofa and went into the kitchenette. I do remember my first conscious encounter with my father. We met right in front of the Eiffel Tower. He was wearing a khaki uniform with three stars on the epaulet and a label marked Poland on his shoulder sleeve. After the introduction, I walked off and started playing with the two balloons he gave me. At a distance, I could see them having a heated argument. Mother was gesturing, and Father was shouting something at her.

What were you arguing about when we first met Father under the Eiffel Tower? I asked her when she returned with a refill of vodka.

"Can you imagine, after six years of separation from Witold and all the hardships we went through during the war, he could not think of anything else but to accuse me of committing bigamy? At first, I thought he was jealous, but when he started to talk about the law, the church, and my moral behavior, I got mad at him. I asked him when he had become so self-righteous. Was he aware of what had been going on in Europe the last few years, or did he just sit on his ass in headquarters in London and pin little flags on battlefield maps?

Well, I won’t go on any further. I did try very hard to make our marriage last. But Witold had changed. He wasn’t the same person I knew before the war. I am sad to tell you, Andrzej, after our meeting in Paris, the relationship between your father and me slowly deteriorated.

Mother got up from the couch and went into the bedroom and then emerged wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. She sat down and took a sip of vodka. We are getting far ahead of our tale.

"In 1937, Witold was transferred to the Twenty-second Brigade in Przemyśl, and life suddenly changed for all of us. At first, I was reluctant to leave your nanny and my parents and move to an unknown city. But after a few weeks, I adjusted to the new way of life. Witold came home in the evenings, and we ate supper together. And the added benefit was that most of the weekends he was free to spend time with us, and at last I felt that our family would grow closer together.

"Przemyśl was a small but charming town. It was an ancient town dating back to AD 981. It had a castle that dated back to AD 1340, the time when Kazimier the Great ruled Poland. The river San bisected the town, and about two kilometers from the town center, there was a large national forest.

"Many a weekend in late spring we all went mushroom picking in the forest. You never were afraid of the forest, always on the run or hiding behind bushes and trees. We had to put a harness on you to prevent you from disappearing into the dark woods.

"In the summer months, we would spend most of our weekends outdoors. We would take trips to some remote village in the mountains to view the Góral shepherds grazing their black and white sheep on the open meadows. Or we would take a trip to our favorite site on the river to view the waterfowl and to take a swim in the river while you played in the sand on the bank. And when Witold’s cousin Marysia and her husband, Piotr, came down to visit us from Warsaw, we would drive to the Tatry Mountains and stay overnight in a lodge. Witold always took his camera, tripod, and other photographic paraphernalia strapped to his body as we hiked. Sometimes we would have to wait what seemed to be hours at some spot or another while he fiddled with his camera and waited for the right moment to take the picture. I didn’t mind waiting. I would sit myself on a log and absorb the surroundings. It was so peaceful, so healing just to sit and watch the beautiful vistas.

"When you became a nuisance to everyone with a tantrum or crying, you and I would go on nature walks. I would point out to you the ants that crawled on the forest floor, and we would trace their trail back to their nest. I would show you different leaf shapes—birch, larch, pine, and spruce—and tell you how these leaves nourished the tree with the help of the sun.

I loved those years and the season’s changes. The blossoming of lilac, the meadows painted in yellow and blue with buttercups and forget-me-nots in the spring, the luxurious deep green color of interlacing branches in the summer, the gold and yellow of the autumn leaves, and finally the pure white snow that covered the trees, the meadows, and everything.

Mother’s eyes began to well with tears. She took out her handkerchief and wiped them away.

You miss Poland, don’t you? I asked.

"I miss those innocent years. Years that can’t ever be captured again. Those happy years are all gone and lost forever. I also miss those dangerous years that made me feel alive—the years of smoke and ashes.

"Satan himself began to rumble in the West. First in October of ’38, Hitler’s armies occupied Sudetenland; then in March of ’39 his armies invaded Czechoslovakia. We all knew that his next victim would be Poland. And when Hitler demanded that we cede Danzig to him, the Poles responded by a partial mobilization of troops.

"Witold would come home irritated. He would pound the table and shout about why Rydz-Śmigły, the commander and chief of the Polish armies, was not fully mobilizing the country. Couldn’t he see that the Germans are planning to invade? Was Poland going to be handed over on a silver platter like Czechoslovakia? Each day, he would become more and more irritated until, finally, I got fed up with his ravings and told him that I would pack my bags and take you to Lwów if he continued to carry on like that. Well, that shut him up, but I could see that he was constantly upset, and that put a strain on our marriage.

"Witold calmed down when we read in May that France pledged a major offensive against Germany if Poland was attacked. He told me that France had a formidable and well-equipped army, and if the Germans were foolish enough to attack, they would pay the price in their western front.

But as we know today, Andrzej, France never honored their pledge to assist Poland. When war broke out on September 1, the French armies sat behind their fortified Maginot Line. The British, too, had given their assurances to Poland that they would declare war against Hitler, but that’s all they did—declare war, without firing a single shot as the Polish armies crumbled.

My mother stopped, staring out the window, as if she had forgotten I was there. Then she continued, and I felt the shift, felt her move into memory, away from me. I listened because I wanted to.

* * *

Our cousins, (she began), Marysia and Piotr came to visit us every year in July and stayed for a week. Each year, Marysia would bring with her the latest magazines from Warsaw and Paris, and we would spend hours pouring over them, discussing the latest fashions in clothing, what plays were playing in the theater, and just gossip in general. Marysia was a kindergarten teacher, and Piotr worked for the Polish National Bank. They were a lovely couple, full of humor and talk, and like us, they loved the outdoors. When they arrived, I finally got a respite from grumpy Witold and his obsession with the war.

Piotr told us that everything was calm in Warsaw. The papers were constantly printing Hitler’s speeches and speculating about the possibility of war, but the government seemed to be paying little attention to what was happening in Germany. At least, that was his impression. He also told us the price of coal had raised sharply as well as food staples like cooking oil, sugar, flour, and so on. Witold speculated that people were already hoarding and preparing themselves for war even though the government was ignoring the danger.

The day before they were scheduled to leave, Marysia asked me to come with them to Warsaw.

Get away from this border town, she said. Warsaw would be much safer. If fighting does take place, it would be along the frontiers. Besides, she continued, our apartment is spacious enough to accommodate all of us, and Andrzej could go to kindergarten in my school.

I told her I couldn’t leave Witold. She asked me, What would you do when Witold’s brigade gets its marching orders? I told her that I would take the first train to Lwów and stay with my parents. Well, they tried very hard to convince me to come with them, but somehow I felt in my gut that it would be foolish to go all the way to Warsaw when Lwów was only fifty kilometers away. We parted at the train station. I never saw Piotr again.

Late August, I believe it was the twenty-sixth, Witold came home looking very pale. He told me that he just learned from the military commander that the Germans and the Soviets had signed a nonaggression treaty. But that wasn’t all. A reliable rumor was going around that the agreement included the partitioning of Poland. This Ribbentrop-Molotov Pact would secede the eastern half of Poland to the Soviets. The Poles would have to fight on two fronts. He told me that if and when the war started, it would be out of the question for me to go to Lwów. The city was only 120 kilometers from the Soviet border, and fighting there would be intense. For the sake of our child, you must get to our cousins in Warsaw, he told me.

Right then, I knew that my life would change forever. What was the point of arguing with Witold? He was probably right. But I felt I would not see my father or mother for a long, long time. I called my mother on the phone. Everything is quiet in Lwów. People are going about their business, she said. Father is making lots of money selling canned goods. He can’t keep up with the demand. I told her that you and I were going to our cousins in Warsaw. After our emotional good-byes, I sat down and wondered what to do next.

The following evening, Witold came home with a bag containing paper money, all different currencies—US dollars, German marks, and Polish złoty. It would be wise for you to take lots of money with you, he said. I asked him how in the world I could carry all this money on me without being robbed—certainly not in my purse. So we came up with the idea that the money could be sewn into the overcoats.

I spent the next day removing the lining and shoulder pads from your coat and my own. Then I replaced the wool filling with folded money, adding back some filling, and replaced the shoulder pads. I put foreign currency on the right side and złoty on the left. More money was sewn around the sleeve cuffs, behind the collar, and into the inside of the pockets.

When we tried our coats on, they looked normal, perhaps like poorly made coats with a little too much padding on the shoulders but nothing that could be noticed. I don’t remember how much money we both carried, but it was enough to get us through the terrible months ahead.

The following day, Witold gave me our birth certificates and an identity card with my picture, stamped with an official-looking stamp. It had my name and your name as my son. Our place of birth was Lwów, but our place of residence was our cousin’s address in Warsaw. He told me to keep the documents with me at all times. Who knows, they may come in handy someday.

The rest of the week seemed to fly by with phone calls to Marysia telling me what to bring and what not to bring. I made more phone calls to my mother and had long chats with my father. By the time we were ready to leave for Warsaw, it was the thirtieth of August.

We arrived late in the afternoon at the station. It was packed with people. Witold managed to get us second-class tickets. All the first-class seats were sold out. When the train arrived, he elbowed his way into the carriage and reserved two seats for us. He sat on one of the seats, we held hands, and simply stared at each other. No word was spoken between us. I looked at his deep blue eyes. I could see tears forming in them. As the train started, we kissed good-bye, and he jumped off.

That was the last time we saw Witold until I met him after the war in Paris.

* * *

Mother stopped talking and went into the bedroom. Shortly after, she came back with another pack of cigarettes and lit one.

What happened to the general mobilization of troops? I asked her.

When we left Przemyśl, there was no announcement.

You mean to say that two days before the war, the government didn’t mobilize!

It was announced the next day. We were still on the train. It only became clear after the war why the government took so long. I learned from Witold and later on from Bolek that Rydz-Śmigły was pressured by the French and British not to mobilize early so as not to antagonize Hitler. Can you imagine what kind of double-cross the French and the British were playing? Even when Rydz-Śmigły did order general mobilization on August 31, the French and the British continued to pressure him not to do so. When Hitler attacked, the bulk of the Polish armies were still in the process of mobilizing. It was treachery by our so-called allies!

* * *

But let me tell you about our train ride to Hades. The devil himself would not have chosen this train. We were traveling in the front of a noncompartmentalized carriage with hard bench seats. Four people sat in each section with two people facing each other. Down the center of the carriage was the aisle. It was a typical second-class carriage. The train originated in Lwów, so when we arrived, there were people already sitting.

Across from us was a woman in her thirties with a boy about your age, maybe a little older. She had a pleasant and intelligent-looking face with green eyes and shoulder-length brown hair. She was well-dressed—wearing an expensive-looking coat, hat, and gloves. I could tell she was from the city.

At first, we only exchanged smiles. She was reading a book, and I didn’t want to disturb her. You and the other boy immediately struck up a friendship and were jabbering away quite loudly. The woman turned to the boy and politely said to him, Andrzej, be quiet. I’m trying to read.

That surprised you and you answered her, My name is Andrzej too.

She turned to me and with a smile said, What a coincidence to have two boys sitting across from each other having the same name. That should bring us luck. I was surprised at her statement and wanted to strike up a conversation, but she quickly returned to her reading. Meanwhile, you boys were talking softly, so I left you alone.

* * *

Mother again stopped and looked me in the eye and said, Do you remember any of these events?

No, I don’t.

You don’t remember playing with the second Andrzej sitting across from you?

The only thing I vaguely remember was that there was another boy who had the same name. There was a train crash, then crowds of people were screaming and pushing, and I ran away from the train. That’s all.

Mother took a deep breath, sighed, and continued.

* * *

After a while, I noticed that the train was going very slowly. It would stop, and then it would start again. At this rate, I thought, we would never reach Warsaw by 10:00 p.m. as scheduled. Poor Piotr would be waiting for us at the station wondering what had happened to us. I looked around the carriage. Across the aisle, four babuski were sitting with kerchiefs on their heads and bundles on their laps. In the next row, I saw men in black clothes speaking loudly in Yiddish. As I turned my head farther to the right, I noticed soldiers and men and women dressed in elegant city clothes mixed in with peasants in baggy clothes with hats on their heads and wrinkled faces. What a strange collection of people, I thought to myself.

The conductor came to check our tickets. I asked him why the train was not moving. He told me that the troop trains have the right-of-way. We have to wait until they pass. They are all heading west toward the border. I asked him when we would arrive in Warsaw. He shrugged his shoulders and said, Who knows? Then he told me to settle myself for the night because we might not arrive in Lublin before dawn.

Lublin, I cried, but that’s only halfway to Warsaw!

He shrugged and said, These are unpredictable times, and walked on. I looked at the woman across from me. She had her eyes closed and her book on her lap. I kept staring at her, wondering who she was. I was not prepared for such a long trip. I did bring some dried salami, bread, some smaltz in a container, a few apples, and a thermos of hot tea just in case the train was late. Marysia had promised us a hot meal when we arrived, but I never trusted the trains to come in on time. I got my Swiss knife that I always carried in my coat pocket and took out the bread, salami, and schmaltz from my carrying bag. As I was preparing the food, I noticed your new friend Andrzej was looking at it with hungry eyes, so I gave him the first portion. He said, Thank you, and began to eat. His mother opened her eyes.

Thank you very much, she said. We have not had food since lunch. At the station in Lwów, I had every intention of buying first-class tickets. As you know, only the first-class section has the dining car.

I told her that we had the same intention, but my husband, Witold, had suggested that we take some food with us just in case the train was full, and we had to settle for second class. Her eyes lit up.

What a resourceful man your husband is, she said. I watched you as you sat holding hands and looking at each other. It was a beautiful farewell. I feel that words are sometimes too shallow to express the inner feelings that come from the heart.

I looked at her inquisitively as I was preparing the next slice of bread. I asked her if she was an academic as I handed her the slice.

Perhaps an amateur philosopher, but let me introduce myself. My name is Vika Mond, and here, as you already know, is my son Andrzej.

As I was preparing the rest of the food, I told her that we were originally from Lwów. I rattled on about the family. I guess I wanted to impress her. She listened attentively and then told me that she also was born in Lwów but had spent most of her adult life abroad. Her husband was a diplomat and a military man, and they had traveled a lot. She told me that her son was born in Shanghai, China.

I asked her what motivated them to travel to China. She told me that her husband, General Leon Mond, was appointed by Marshal Piłsudski in 1926 as an emissary to foreign countries to create markets for Polish exports. China and India were among the many countries they lived in while her husband conducted negotiations for the sale of locomotives and other heavy machinery Poland was exporting. I remember rolling my eyes, and I said to her that it must be a fascinating life to travel to exotic countries.

She replied that such a life has its ups and downs. The upside was that you were constantly exposed to new surroundings—new cultures, new customs, new philosophies, new vistas, and new foods. That was the most interesting part for her. She said that you learn even if you don’t try. You learn simply by being there. On the other hand, the downside of such a life was that you never belong to any one particular place. You are always on the move. The result was that you could never establish yourself fully in your household or with friends or neighbors. You have to be very flexible to bear that kind of a life. She told me that she witnessed on a number of occasions wives of diplomats begging to be sent home because they could not stand the climate, tolerate the local customs, or the food.

She went on to say that six months ago, they had to return to Poland because her husband was very ill. He died shortly after they had returned home. I gave her my sympathies, but she gently touched my hand and said that her husband had lived a full life and was not a young man when he died. She continued to say that they were traveling to Warsaw to stay for one day with friends and had booked reservations for a flight to Sweden. But at the rate the train was going, she was worried that she would miss the flight and had resigned herself to weathering the coming war in Warsaw.

I told her that I had a bad feeling about this trip. Strange as it may seem, I have this inner sense that tells me whether something is good or bad. As an example, I told her that when I first met Witold, I knew that our relationship would blossom even though the odds were not favorable. Now my feeling told me that going to Warsaw was not a good idea. She closed her eyes and sat in silence for a minute. Then she told me that what I was experiencing was not so strange. A very wise man said 2,500 years ago that we must put trust in our thoughts and inner feelings and act accordingly. She told me that when she was in India, she had the opportunity to visit the site of the Tree of Enlightenment—at its foot, the wise man became Buddha. I interrupted her saying that it was a marvel that a tree could live for 2, 500 years. She responded by saying that the original tree