The Memoirs of Lucille Waller Rivlin

By Lucille Rivlin

About the Book
While the saga began in 1918 with my birth, the Nazi invasion of Poland in 1939 precipitated the events of this work. Escape from Poland to Russia was both dangerous and difficult, for the Nazis wanted to kill you, and the Russians did not want you. Living through the harsh winter in Russia with very little food was arduous, but escaping Russia to Tehran was luck. From Tehran to Tel Aviv, to Egypt, to the United States, each step had both difficult and wonderful moments. Now at 103 years of age, I look back and wonder:
“How could all of this happen in one person’s life?”

• Language: English
• Publisher: RoseDog Books
• Release date: Aug 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781638675655

Book preview

Chapter I

My Childhood and Adolescent Years

I was born in Warsaw in 1918, at the end of World War I. I was the youngest child of four. My older brother, who later became a medical doctor, was fourteen years my senior.

My sister was ten years older than I. There were only two years’ difference in age between my younger brother, Leon, and myself. Therefore, we were brought up together.

We always had a governess, until we started school, because our mother worked with our father in their business.

At home there was always a live-in cook and a housekeeper.

My parents owned a large business—manufacturing and selling wholesale and retail ladies’ coats and suits—and there was also a very lucrative fur department.

There was a time when my parents’ business was the biggest and the most renowned of its kind in Poland.

My parents traveled twice a year to Western Europe, bringing home samples of the latest ladies’ fashions in coats and suits from Berlin and Paris.

My Recollections from My Early Childhood

My memory reaches far into the past because I have recollections from the time I must have been a very young child, still in diapers, sitting on my nanny’s lap and desperately crying, I want my mommy! my face wet with tears.

I remember the beautiful blue crepe-de-chine dress my mother was wearing as she was dabbing some perfume on her neck and around her ears.

My father was standing there, impatiently urging her to hurry up because they would be late for the theatre.

I knew that my crying made my mother feel guilty and I used this power to stop her from leaving the house, but my father prevailed.

However, the moment they closed the door behind them, like magic I stopped crying! After all, I was not being left alone at home. There was my aunt, my sister, my younger brother, our housekeeper, and my nanny with me at home. But, I wanted my mommy! She was a caring and tender mother, but she was never available to me enough!

I have other memories from my early childhood that flash in my mind.

At an early age I nurtured a constant desire to follow my brother, Leon, wherever he went, but the woman in charge of me was persistently making my intentions futile. She couldn’t control my brother because he was very quick and independent. Instead, she kept a firm grip on me, making my escape impossible.

Our governess slept with us in the same room and took care of our physical needs. She brought our meals, which were prepared by the cook, to our room. We didn’t eat with the rest of the family until we started kindergarten. During the day, if the weather permitted, we were escorted to the park.

In the spring, my parents rented a bungalow in the country where Leon and I, together with a cook and our governess, were sent to spend the summer. My parents and the older siblings would come to the country on the weekends. Unfortunately for me, my brother, Leon, soon found his way back home and I was the only one trapped in this bungalow away from my family.

What I remember from this period was being put to bed too early, before I was ready to go to sleep, because the woman caring for us wanted to have more free time for herself. She came to check on me and, if I wasn’t sleeping yet, she threatened to close all the shutters on all the windows and go back to Warsaw. She told me that nobody would ever know where I was and I would never be found again. I was petrified! I was so frightened that I couldn’t fall asleep or cry or talk. I was even too scared to tell my mother about it.

My mommy was too busy to listen to me anyway. Oh...she really cared about me and I know this because she promised my caretaker a nice Christmas present for taking good care of me. The woman started to force me to over eat and, if I protested, she scared me some more.

When I became overweight, it was the best proof that I was well taken care of and my mother was reassured about my wellbeing.

My father demanded my mother’s constant attention. They were always together at home and in the business, even when traveling. If she needed other servants she could have them anytime, as long as she was always with him.

Most of the summer, I was the only captive in this bungalow, which was surrounded by blooming lilac trees that smelled heavenly.

About one year before I started kindergarten, I had my first playmate. The building that we both lived in had a big iron and glass gate, which was always closed for the night. Inside, there was a long paved courtyard with long tall buildings on each side. One housed private apartments and the other was occupied by the School of Agriculture.

My playmate’s father worked in that school and the family lived in a small apartment adjoining his place of employment. Her name was Zosia Pawlik and we were both four years old, although Zosia was a few months older than I. She was tall for her age and had long dark blonde hair down to her waist.

Their little apartment was sparkling clean and cozy with red painted floors. The parents’ bed had white pillows piled high and above that bed hung a picture of Jesus Christ with a very bleeding heart and wearing a crown of thorns on his head.

Above Zosia’s bed hung a picture of a baby girl—Zosia’s late sister, who had passed away in early childhood. I was informed that Irenka was now an angel and she lived in Heaven. We spun stories about an orphan girl who didn’t have a mommy and that was why she was lost in the woods, which was located under Zosia’s bed.

One day I showed up to play with Zosia, but this day she wasn’t as happy to see me as usual; something had happened. I didn’t ask any questions and I was ready to go home when Zosia told me why she was being unfriendly towards me. She said, Jews killed Jesus!

I was shocked! I put my hand on my heart and announced in earnest, My daddy didn’t!

This was how I discovered, for the first time in my life, about the resentment towards the Jewish people.

However, I never disclosed my secret to anybody. I guess it was too upsetting to even talk about it.

In my school years I came across similar resentment, but by then I learned how to cope with this reality. As a grown-up woman, I constantly wonder: How can a religion of love and forgiveness justify teaching their very young children about hatred and vengeance? How can this behaviour be justified in churches and within families?

But, even more recently, history disclosed that even cruelty and murder are being justified in the name of God.

No problem!

I have also met many openminded and intelligent Christians, living by the code of high moral values and fairness in their assessment of all people.

There is another episode from a very distant past, which is also etched very deeply in my memory, one that took place before I started kindergarten, when I was still a very young child. It was wintertime and the streets of Warsaw were covered with deep snow. The weather was chilly and gloomy, in contrast with our bright, warm, and very cozy apartment.

My maternal grandmother, who lived in another city, was visiting and, because of this occasion, my mother stayed home that day and spent some time with us. Mommy was busy with some light chores and my grandmother asked me to bring her an alphabet book. That was to be my first reading lesson. I heard my grandma’s voice:

ABCDEFG… M-A— MA; T-A— TA; TATA… MAMA….

I became very confused. My grandmother, who raised six offspring, considered herself an expert in bringing up a child. Oh! My grandmother was very disappointed in me and, ignoring my presence, told my mother, Mania, your daughter is dull! I may have been young and small, but I understood this sentence! My face became red; I was ashamed that my first attempt to learn was a total fiasco.

From then on, I was afraid to learn because they might find out the truth about me. After that experience, when forced to read, I