CHAPTER ONE: Blitzkrieg and Bathtubs!

Like most little children in Poland—or anywhere else—at that time, I didn’t have any idea that a war was coming. Or even what “war” really meant. My family had managed to make my life seem as normal as possible despite the growing antisemitism in Poland. But on September 1, 1939, when the Germans unleashed their terrifying,  deadly airplane attack known as the Blitzkrieg, my life, along with the lives of all Poles, especially Jews, abruptly changed. In fact, life as we all had known it, vanished forever—and I quickly learned what war meant.

           I remember all too clearly my first bombing experience. It had been an ordinary afternoon, and my Aunt Ala and were I busy playing with my wooden building blocks in our sunny living room. My stomach growled a bit as I inhaled the aromas of the chicken and vegetables that my mother was roasting in the kitchen. My young, newly married Aunt Ala, who was like a second mother to me, sat in a nearby chair, embroidering pillowcases. Then, the last thing that any of us expected or could have imagined, happened.

           Without any warning, our peaceful afternoon was shattered by a deafening roar. Before we could even figure out what we were hearing, we were shaken by the powerful vibrations of bombs as they crashed into our neighborhood. I scrambled up on the sofa and tried to peek out the window, but my Aunt Ala, quickly reached over and closed the shutters so I couldn’t see outside. She ordered me to scoot under our heavy, intricately wood-carved dining room table. I peeked out and saw her and my mother run to the kitchen to put water in containers we could carry with us.

                When my mother bent down to grab me, I was frightened by the stunned, yet determined look on her face. It was something I’d never seen. And it scared me far more than the bombs that seemed to be destroying our whole world. Without a single word, she and Ala each grasped one of my hands, and pulled me out from my shelter under the table.

                Trembling, too frightened to cry, and barely breathing, I tried, but failed to comprehend what was going on. When I finally caught my breath, questions flew out of my mouth, “Mama, what’s happening? Is our house exploding? Where’s Papa? What are we going to do?” Mama held my face gently in her hands, and using my Polish name, responded in a tone of voice I’d never heard.

                “Mirka, this is serious. It’s not a game, and I don’t have time to explain. We are getting out of this apartment right NOW, and going to a shelter where we’ll be safe. No matter what, you must hold on to me or Aunt Ala at all times. We must not be separated. You must instantly obey any order I give you, without asking any questions. Do you understand me?”                                

                I nodded solemnly. We bolted down the five flights of stairs, pushed open the big front door, and ran out onto the street. In a matter of minutes, our safe, familiar, and friendly block had been transformed into fiery chaos. We became part of a confused, panicked, mob of men, women, children—even frenzied pets—all running for our lives. Low-flying planes randomly machine-gunned people on the streets. We dodged the bullets, falling bricks, broken glass, and flaming chunks of exploding buildings that hurtled crazily through the air, and plummeted down upon us. It was almost like one of today’s computer games—except that the targets were us: living, breathing, flesh and blood, panic-stricken human beings.         

                Shaking, and gasping for air, I kept asking my mother why all this was happening. She just stared straight ahead as if she didn’t hear me, tightened her grip on my hand, and ran even faster, making it hard for my little legs to keep up—and even harder to ask questions. We headed toward a nearby apartment building, which to my surprise, had a bomb-shelter in its basement.  By the time we reached our destination, I was all but paralyzed by fear.         

            My Aunt Ala put her arm around me, and held me tightly to her, as we clambered down the rough, narrow stairs and into the crowded basement. The bombing had cut off the electricity, and the subterranean room was so dark that we could barely see each other’s faces. We tried—without much success—to avoid stepping on people, as we cautiously made our way through the packed room.              

          With sighs of relief, we found a small empty space in a corner, where we were able to sit, huddled together. We all were hot and sweaty, and the foul smells in that dank, dirty, fear-filled cellar made it difficult to breathe. In stark contrast to the deafening clamor outside in the streets, the only sounds now consisted of subdued crying, and the quiet hum of people praying. We all hoped  that we would not sustain a direct hit to the building, which would have exploded the bomb shelter. We also hoped that the tall building above us would not collapse, burying us alive.        

                Wedged tightly together with our families, neighbors, and anyone else who had been nearby when the bombing had begun, we tried to remain as calm as possible. We were all nervous—to put it mildly—but even we little kids somehow understood that if one person lost control and started screaming, then everyone else might, also. If anyone was snappish or mean to another person, it might start a fight that would endanger all of us. We understood that the survival of this terrified group depended on each individual being calm, quiet, and considerate of the others. This was a lesson that would serve me well in the coming years.                                                                                    After a while, we were relieved to see that a couple of people had thought to bring  flashlights. Once there was a little light, people began to settle down a bit. One of the mothers sang quietly to her baby. A couple of men even started a spirited game of cards.   My thoughts turned to my father, my uncles, and my grandparents. Worried, I asked Aunt Ala where they all were. She assured me that they all were quite safe in other shelters, and cradling me in her arms, told me she loved me. I buried my face in her sweet-smelling sweater, and as her calm, loving voice resonated through me, my eyelids began to droop.

                Suddenly, just when we were beginning to feel a little bit less panicked, just when we had started to breathe a little more normally, our worst fears became a reality. We were stunned by the deadly whistle of a bomb very close overhead. This was quickly followed by the ear-splitting crash of the building being hit. Shaking, everyone held their breaths—waiting for the explosion—and the horror that would follow. But somehow . . . unbelievably . . . the bomb did not explode! This left us even more dazed and bewildered than before. What had happened? What would happen next? What should we do? We were completely helpless.

          Eventually, when we could no longer hear the planes and the bombs, two brave young men—undoubtedly with their hearts beating wildly—set out to see what had happened to the building. They were stunned when they discovered that the building’s staircase was still intact, and they climbed it up to the top floor. Imagine their shock when they slowly opened a door into a bathroom—that no longer had a ceiling or a roof—and saw the fat, unexploded bomb sitting calmly in a water-filled bathtub!

            I later learned that some wise person had filled the tub as soon as the bombing had started, in case we would need drinking water. Who knows? Maybe the water had prevented the bomb from detonating. I never did find out what they did with it, but to this day, 75 years later, I can never see a bathtub without thinking about that bomb.