In addition to going to my grandfather’s shul, my parents and I also belonged to a large synagogue called The Tempel Synagogue on Jagiellonska Street. My mother and I used to sit upstairs in the balcony where the women prayed. Many women chatted with each other as if they were at a meeting. Since I did not read Hebrew or speak Yiddish, I found the services boring. I’m not sure if my mother read Hebrew, but she always kept her prayer book open and seemed to know how to follow the prayers.
I would look downstairs at the men and try to locate my father among them. Since they were all covered with prayer shawls, it wasn’t easy to pick him out.
My family was not very observant, but my father put on phylacteries every morning, little black leather boxes containing parchment inscribed with Torah verses. He’d attach them to his head and turn towards Jerusalem in the corner of the dining room, praying for at least fifteen minutes. My father was a very decent human being and a generous man.
I never heard Yiddish spoken at home, though my parents knew the language. They spoke fluent German since they’d lived under Austrian occupation during the First World War. They used German when they didn’t want me to understand their conversation; otherwise, we spoke Polish. It was the Polish language that would save my life during the German occupation, because a Pole with a Yiddish accent would automatically give herself away as a Jew living on false papers.
My parents didn’t keep a kosher kitchen nor did they have separate dishes for meat and milk dishes. But we did use a separate set of dishes for Pesach, Passover. Our Sabbath candles were sterling silver, eighteen inches tall, decorated with bunches of grapes and leaves. The pair sat atop our dining room cabinet. I used to admire them because they represented something very holy, very special. When the Sabbath candles were lit, I’d watch the glimmer of the burning candles and feel as if I were closer to God. But we lit them only occasionally.
My mother and father were loving, intelligent parents. Mamusia, in particular, was an uncommon lady for her time. She graduated from Gimnazjum, high school, an unusual achievement for young women in the early 1900s. My mother spoke fluent German and some French. When I started studying Latin, she checked and corrected my homework, so she was familiar with Latin as well. She knew higher mathematics and a great deal about medicine. My mother was a gourmet cook and baker, an elegant lady, and I was told, admired by many women in Przemyśl. She wanted to study medicine, but in those days, it just wasn’t done. On several occasions, my mother travelled to Vienna on her own, once to have a tonsillectomy performed by a famous man, Professor Neuman. He was a well-known physician who’d treated Hitler’s mother and who Hitler had wanted as his own doctor. Professor Neuman apparently refused to treat Hitler and left Vienna in 1938. My mother had a picture taken of the professor and his assistants, standing in front of the hospital, long before Hitler came to power.
Mamusia often talked about Vienna, describing the city as full of charm and very elegant. She told me about Prater Luna Park, the oldest amusement park in the world, with its giant Ferris wheel. She also told me about wonderful concerts and operettas she attended at the magnificent Burgtheater in the Ringstrasse, where one hundred fifty years earlier, Mozart’s operas had premiered.
My mother was in all respects an amazing lady, a superb example of how I would like to be. Throughout my life, I have tried to come up to her standards, but I have never quite succeeded.
My parents belonged to B’nai B’rith Organization. Once a year, there was a big fundraiser dinner held by this organization, and it was my mother’s responsibility to prepare gefilte fish for the entire group. Shopping and making gefilte fish was a complicated job. My mother went to the fish market in a Jewish section of town. Sometimes I went with her. There she would carefully select large karpie, carp, swimming in huge tubs of water. The fishmonger would then kill the fish she’d selected and gut them for her. We’d often end up at a little ice-cream shop nearby where I was allowed to order any ice cream I wanted or a frozen coffee topped with whipped cream, a special treat.
After getting the fish, my mother would rent huge oval porcelain platters, each one about three to four feet long. Once the carp was cleaned, Mamusia would slice it into serving pieces. The second fish would be ground and mixed with onions, eggs, carrots, and lots of pepper. The mixture would then be stuffed into each slice of the first fish—the meaning, therefore, of the word gefilte: stuffed. Each slice was then placed in a long deep pan, head and tail included, covered with sliced onions and carrots, a little bit of sugar, and salted water. After the fish was cooked, my mother would gingerly remove each slice of fish, placing it on a large platter to perfectly form a whole fish. The liquid would then be strained and poured over the fish, forming a delicious jellied sauce after it cooled. The platter was decorated with tiny sprigs of boxwood and blanched almonds, white and pearly. Finally, the gefilte fish would be readied for the meeting at B’nai B’rith, with freshly grated horseradish sauce mixed with cooked beets.
For my birthday, Mommy used to ask me what kind of torte I would like; invariably I asked for hazelnut coffee torte, my favorite, a confection made with layers of ground hazelnuts mixed with butter, sugar, egg yolks, and a little flour. Between the hazelnut layers was a tier of coffee crème, consisting of egg yolks, coffee extract, cream, and sugar. I never tasted the torte anywhere but in my mother’s kitchen, and sadly, I never learned the correct recipe and never met anyone who knew how to bake it as well as she did.
My other favorite pastry was kremówki—Napoleons in the United States, mille-feuilles in France. Kremówki consisted of many layers of flaky puff pastry interspersed with a middle layer of thick vanilla crème. The whole confection was then dusted with powdered sugar. Some say it was during the reign of Napoleon Bonaparte that the cakes were invented in a Parisian patisserie; others say they originated in Hungary.
Since there was no refrigeration in the pre-war years, kremówki could be made only in winter. Dough had to be placed outside on the windowsill for an hour, then an entire pound of butter was rolled into the dough, and again placed outside to chill another hour. The procedure was repeated three or four times. Only after this process was the pastry baked to form dozens upon dozens of thin, flaky sheets of delicate puff pastry.
One must realize that the stoves in the 1930s did not easily maintain a constant temperature for baking or cooking needs. Only experienced bakers could manage the correct temperatures for various recipes, but my mother had no problem controlling the ovens. With lots of whipping and beating at a low temperature, the crème became thicker, the yolks didn’t curdle, and the vanilla mixture was spread between the layers. When the baking was complete, I would sample the heavenly pastries.
One winter’s day, new white snow blanketed the streets and the sun shimmered on its surface. I was perhaps three or four years old, bundled up in a scarf, woolen hat, and mittens with a cord attached to each mitten. I was seated on a sled, and my nanny pulled me up the steep hill near the park. We sledded down to the bottom, to Piłsudskiego Street, where we lived.
I loved the feeling of the wind and bits of snow hitting my face as I schussed down. After repeating the run two or three times more, I became fussy. My nanny knew what was wrong so she took me back home, my cheeks rosy from the cold. I was crying. Mamusia knew immediately what was bothering me. She placed a bowl of rosół, chicken soup, in front of her fussy little Gerdusia.
Off came the hat, scarf and mittens, and I was served Mamusia’s soup with its round slices of orange carrots and long, delectable, slippery noodles. Oh they were so yummy! My good temper returned in no time, as my mother was certain it would.
My mother was a consistent woman, an admirable trait.
One day, when I was about five or six years of age, I was sitting in my parents’ bedroom, looking at myself in the dressing room mirror, making faces, turning my head every which way, smiling, pouting, and posing, as a lot of little girls do.
I was sitting on a red velvet stool, with little
pompons hanging all around it. I don’t know what came over me, but I took a pair of scissors and began cutting off the pompons, one by one, until they were gone. It suddenly hit me that what I had done was naughty, and I began bawling. My mother came running to the door and asked, “Gerda, what is it? Why are you crying? What has happened?”
“Mommy, Mommy, I’m sorry. Promise you won’t be angry with me,” I answered through tears.
“I won’t be angry,” she promised. “Tell me what happened,” she said.
I told her then what I’d done, knowing full well that she promised not to punish me. My mother always kept her word. Later, I overheard her talking to someone, saying how clever I had been to extract a promise not to be punished before I’d admitted my crime.
I was a Shirley Temple fan when I was seven or eight, having seen every film of hers that was shown in Poland. She was about my age, but the resemblance ended there; my hair was brown and straight while Shirley’s was blonde and curly. She was gorgeous—even her name was exotic. She spoke English in films with Polish subtitles and I wondered how she could possibly speak such a beautiful language. Only two words in her films was I able to make out: “yes” and “please.” I pored over my collection of Shirley’s photographs for hours, admiring every curl, dress, and hat she wore. On occasion, I’d trade a photo for another at school.
One day, I was supposed to see a Shirley Temple movie with a young girl who lived on our street who’d recently lost her parents. Before our date to see the film together, she had to attend a yahrzeit, the anniversary of her parents’ deaths in the small shul in the lumberyard.
As I waited for her to arrive, I became very impatient that we might be late for the film. I asked Mother, “What’s keeping her? Why is she in shul so long? I don’t want to be late for the movie.”
Mamusia answered, “How can you talk like this? How can you be so selfish? The poor girl lost her parents and she’s praying for them…and you’re worried about seeing a Shirley Temple film? You will not go to the movie at all because you’re a very inconsiderate girl!”
I was practically in shock. “Mommy, please! I’ve got to see this film!” I whined. “Oh, no you won’t,” my mother responded. I remember dropping to my knees and begging her to change her mind, but her no meant no. I never did see the movie.
On yet another occasion, I called our maid Julia “stupid.” Mother overheard me. She scolded me and told me to apologize to Julia for being rude.
“No!” I said, “I won’t apologize.”
“Well, then, you can go to your room. And don’t come out until you’re ready to tell her you’re sorry.” I don’t know how long I stayed in my room, crying, but finally I dried my eyes. I knew I had to apologize to Julia because Mommy was right and also because she’d never change her mind. She was resolute and deeply considerate of other people’s feelings. She taught me important life lessons and was the greatest influence on my development. I adored everything about her; she was my friend and the best mother anyone could wish for. I knew her to be the best cook and finest baker. She made sure the wood floors were always polished and shiny, that the rooms were bright and sunny. But she wasn’t just a homemaker. She introduced me to classical music, great literature, and skiing, among other subjects. She sat with me every afternoon when I did homework, checking my essays, questioning my geography and history lessons. Our house was always filled with fresh flowers. Snowdrops were flowers with dainty white bells sitting atop slender green stems that poked their heads through a carpet of snow in early spring. Mommy would buy them along with aromatic violets and arrange them in vases. We had lilacs in spring, peonies in May, and roses in summer.
I have many memories of golden Polish autumns. In the park, the sky was clear blue, sunlight streaming through branches whose leaves were various shades of gold, red, and brown. Our street was lined with chestnut trees whose dry brown leaves and crunchy outer shells carpeted the ground. I had a rich imagination and would invent games. I used to play with little chestnut balls, sometimes pretending they were loaves of brown bread, which I pretended to sell from a make-believe bakery. I’d explore the small forest on one side of the park, where I’d pick tiny flowers that grew under a blanket of dry leaves. It made me wonder how the flowers were able to breathe, buried under layers of mulch, yet they did. They’d grow in the dark and miraculously bloom, the last plants of the season.
One fall day, my mother woke me gently; it was time for me to get up and get ready for school. She asked me if I’d rather go to school or play hooky and go with her to Lwów to attend Targi and Wystawy, an international trade fair. It took me a few minutes to make my decision. Imagine having to make a decision about going to the same old school and classes, or go with my adored Mamusia to a large, exciting city I’d never been to before, much larger than Przemśyl!
I dressed quickly.
We were going to see the new furniture on display at the trade show to choose a new bedroom set for me. The trip took about two hours by train. I was overwhelmed by the size of the railway station, by the traffic and crowds and hubbub. I held on tight to my mother’s hand.
The exhibition, representing most European countries, was huge. Long halls of exhibitors displayed innovative new furniture, kitchen appliances, china dishes, pots and pans, all manner of house and garden items.
We’d set our sights on bedroom furniture and headed for those exhibits. Both Mamusia and I agreed on a very modern bedroom set of white metal. My bedroom wasn’t very large but rather long and somewhat narrow. A large window looked out on the side yard. All the rooms in the house had tiled stoves that reached almost to the ceiling. Opposite the window in my bedroom was a green-tiled stove that provided heat in fall and winter. I enjoyed standing against the stove on chilly days after returning from school or the city, putting one bare foot against a hot tile, pressing my back to other tiles. Then I’d switch feet, tucking the already toasty warm foot into a slipper.
Mamusia ordered the lovely bed frame as well as a mattress, a bedside table, and a table that would serve as a desk. She knew that in a year, when I was a teenager, I would need my privacy.
After we made that important purchase, we went to see an unusual painting exhibit. One canvas spanned the entire circumference of an enormous room, painted by the famous Polish painter, Stanisław Wyspiański. It was a life-sized portrayal of a fight with humans and horses. We had to turn around a few steps at a time to comprehend the whole fighting scene on the colossal circular canvas. I felt as if I were in the midst of the battle, with the horses speeding in all directions, soldiers shooting, using bayonets against enemies, falling off horses, and being trampled. It was a powerful painting, which I believe was hidden during the war. It could have been in the possession of the Russians or the Ukrainians or even the Poles, as Wyspiański was a Polish artist.
The magical day didn’t end with the art exhibit. That evening we went to the opera in one of the great opera houses in the world, another first for me. I was amazed by the building, on top of which stood a large sculpture of Glory holding a palm frond.1 My new dress was velvet and my shoes were rather grown up. Mamusia brought a whole box of chocolates to eat during the performance, a custom in Poland. We sat in a box with red velvet seats. Crystal chandeliers sparkled; they were impressive. I waited excitedly for the curtain to go up and watched all the beautifully dressed ladies and observed the colorful murals, gilded decorations, marble columns, and ornate painted ceiling. All those new and beautiful sights would remain permanently in my memory.
The most disappointing part of the evening was the opera itself, The Pique Dame, a gloomy opera about dark passions, obsessive love, and gaming tables. The plot was sophisticated and the music serious, much too hard for a young girl to follow. I wished it had been Carmen or Madame Butterfly, music I was familiar with. After a long train ride and a full day in the city, I fell asleep during the performance. Still, that special day spent with Mother engraved itself in my memory.
My
father owned a store that had belonged to his father, Pesach Krebs, who was said to have had a sharp sense of humor. One day, a peasant woman from a nearby village brought a live duck to his store to see if she could sell it to one of the storeowners on Franciszkańska Ulica (Francis Street). It happened to be a slow business day, so when the peasant came into his store, asking if he wanted to buy a duck, my grandfather told her that the fowl in question was not a duck but a goose. The woman argued, insisting that it was a duck. While talking with the peasant woman, Grandfather sent his helper to go to others storeowners, telling them to repeat to the woman that she had a goose, not a duck. Eventually, after visiting those other stores, the poor woman returned to my grandfather’s store in utter confusion. “Mister,” she said, “I thought I brought a duck to town, but now I have a goose. Either I’m crazy or you are.”
The Krebs store2 on Franciszkańska Ulica, Number 8, was one of the most fashionable places to shop in Przemyśl; many elegant stores lined both sides of the street. Daddy felt that with stiff competition among fabric stores, the display window was of the utmost importance, a place to display the newest, most attractive fabrics: silks imported from France, woolens from England, and cottons from Egypt. In other words, the best and latest merchandise available. In pre-war Poland there were no good quality ready-made clothes. People had to buy the fabric to make coats, suits, uniforms, eveningwear, or other attire.
The Girl in the Cellar Page 2
