The Girl in the Cellar

by Gerda Krebs Seifer

  In the center of the dining room on an oriental rug was a large table, heavy and black, possibly ebony, surrounded by matching wooden chairs with leather seats. A second cabinet, topped with marble, held my mother’s good china as well as a second set of silverware and crystal glassware. On the top stood our beautiful antique sterling candle holders, decorated with flowers and leaves at the base.

  In the corner by windows overlooking the street were two huge pots painted in colorful stripes that held philodendron plants, adding contrast to the dark furniture. The walls were painted citron yellow to give the room a sunny appearance during the cloudy winter months. The plants were always green, with new, young leaves emerging and unfurling, eventually climbing to the ceiling.

  Next to our dining room was another room with its own entrance, but we had no use for it, and my family sometimes rented it out.

  During the Christmas holiday, our maid, Julia, had a little Christmas tree in the kitchen. I loved it because it was like the trees in the shop windows in town, decked out for the season with glass balls and angels, shiny and twinkling. They gave me a feeling of warmth and beauty. In school, both Jewish and Catholic children participated in making tree decorations—long, colorful paper chains, candies, or sugar cubes wrapped in silver tissue paper or clowns made of empty eggshells. We painted the shells, giving them different kinds of faces. Yet I didn’t envy Catholic children who had Christmas trees at home; after only two weeks, the trees and the ornaments had to come down.

  Julia told me about the feast of St. Nicholas, who came on the night of December 6th through the tiled stoves in each room, leaving gifts for good children. (Santa Claus must have taken lessons from St. Nicholas on how to carry heavy bags of toys through chimneys to distribute them to all the children.) Julia said that St. Nicholas would come to my house through the chimney or magically through the window. I didn’t really believe her stories, but like all children, I liked getting gifts.

  On one December 6th, I decided to stay awake to see if St. Nicholas really existed and if he would actually come to my room. It was a very cold night and my window was covered in intricate ice patterns, making it hard to see through. I stayed awake for the longest time, but eventually I must have fallen asleep. During the night I woke up and there, sitting on my nightstand was a gift box! I was curious to know what was inside but decided to wait till morning and fell asleep soon after. The following morning, I tore through the wrappings to discover something that I really wanted. But I never did actually lay eyes on St. Nicholas, so I couldn’t say if he was real or if Julia had been the one who’d brought me the gift.

  One day in the fall of 1932, my mother took me to St. Hedwig’s school, Święta Jadwiga. To keep me from getting nervous, she didn’t tell me that I’d be taking a test, but she told me that a teacher would ask me questions and that I should think carefully before giving an answer. My answers must have been satisfactory, because I entered second grade at an age when I should have been in first grade.

  School hours were from 8:00 a.m. until 2:00 p.m., six days a week with Sundays off. Subjects in elementary schools were math, writing, the Polish language, art, gymnastics, geography, and history. From the third grade on, I studied Ukrainian. The Ukrainians use the Cyrillic alphabet, and students were obliged to learn it in order to be able to read or write because eastern Poland had a large percentage of Ukrainians. In the first year of Gimnazjum, we had to study Latin and another foreign language, such as French, English, or German.

  I remember being in love with one of my teachers in elementary school in the third grade. I don’t remember what she looked like or which grade she taught, but to me, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, with long fair hair and a sweet face. At the end of school year, she announced that she was leaving our school to teach in another city. I cried when I heard the news. I found out that she would be traveling along my street on her route out of Przemyśl. I sat at the window the whole morning, waiting for her to go by. After a while, I saw a horse-drawn cart with my teacher perched on the high seat next to the driver, her luggage piled behind her. I had such an urge to rush out to kiss and hug her, but of course, I did no such thing. Instead, I wept as the cart passed by.

  At St. Hedwig’s, an all girls’ school, the students wore black poplin coats with white collars over regular dresses, a kind of uniform. Each class had a few Jewish girls and Ukrainians who were Christian Orthodox. The majority of students were Catholic. During the hour devoted to religion, when the priest came into the classroom to teach catechism, Jewish students went to another room to receive religious instruction. I don’t remember much about those lessons because I found them very boring. The teacher, typically a young woman or a rather old lady, lacked the imagination or skill to make lectures interesting. Or perhaps they didn’t have the proper teaching credentials or knowledge to teach the history of the Jewish people to children, which was too bad because Jewish history spans over 5,000 years and is chockful of exciting facts and stories. In any case, the teacher’s rambling didn’t stay in my head. I lost focus and gazed through the window to watch birds flying across the blue sky, wishing I could fly away, too.

  One day, our Jewish teacher was sick and we weren’t permitted to leave the classroom, so we stayed with the Catholic students to attend the catechism lesson. It turned out to be an interesting experience. One of the Jewish students was a religious girl, Laja, who spoke Hebrew. She didn’t attend school on Saturday, because it was Shabbat. The priest was well versed in the Old Testament and he also spoke Hebrew. He spent the whole hour talking to Laja, while the rest of us in class sat listening to them. She was a bright girl, perfectly comfortable speaking Hebrew with him, and the Catholic girls were in awe.

  In the afternoons, my mother often sat with me at the dining room table, sewing or knitting, as I did homework. She made sure that my essays were written neatly and if my handwriting was sloppy, she’d tear out the page and make me re-write the work from the beginning. She helped me with math, Latin, French, and even sewing when I couldn’t figure how to make an old-fashioned pair of pantaloons. In elementary school we were taught how to darn, a skill that would prove handy during the war. Mother also checked my knowledge of history dates, my ability to read maps, and my ability to memorize poems. If I had prepared my homework well, she would allow me to go out and play. As a result, I was always well prepared for the next day. Looking back, I did the homework because I knew it had to be done, memorizing multiplication and division tables, writing essays, reciting poems by heart, remembering historical dates and learning grammar, French, and Ukrainian.

  As a little girl and an only child, I used to amuse myself by pretending to be someone else, someone I admired, someone different. I used to talk to myself in a whisper about how I was dressed and what I was doing. I carried on imaginary conversations on many different subjects, arguing with an imaginary girlfriend, sharing jokes, and arranging parties with her. I was very comfortable carrying on such conversations and spent countless happy hours entertaining myself. However, upstairs in our building lived another family with a little girl called Lula. She was my best friend and we used to play together for hours and hours. We’d cut out paper dolls from outdated fashion magazines from my father’s store—two families of dolls, one family for each of us. We invented many paper doll siblings (we were both only children) and wove interactions between the families. We never tired of this game and we never argued. I’d go upstairs to her apartment or she’d come down to ours, where we’d set our families on the windowsill amid lots of paper furniture. Our imaginations were boundless.

  I loved those little paper dolls more than real dolls. For one birthday, my parents gave me a doll’s bed, made of wood, about three feet long with a proper mattress, coverlet, and linens. In the bed lay a bisque doll, dressed as a little girl from Kraków. I didn’t play with her a great deal, but I didn’t want to disappoint my parents by admitting that the expensive doll was not my favorite. Lula and I both had po
rcelain and plastic dolls, but paper dolls were more fun. Our paper children were invariably orphaned and poor; and one was always sick. We gave the dolls lots of problems that they had to overcome. Names were often changed, because we liked so many different names and wanted to use them all. Lula and I always ate a snack while we played; my favorite was a slice of rye bread with butter and a smear of freshly made tomato sauce. I never did find out how my mother made the sauce so delicious and was never able to duplicate her recipe.

  I lost touch with Lula when we moved to Lwów, but I always remembered the wonderful friendship we shared and the hours we spent playing with paper dolls.

  Most of the time I was a good little girl, but on a few occasions, I stepped out of character. One day when I was about six years old and felt really bored, I decided to amuse myself by knocking on the window, sticking my tongue out at people outside as they passed by. Then I’d quickly duck under the window until they were gone. I repeated this routine several times (what a brave girl I was!). Then I saw an old lady approaching. I knocked at the windowpane, sticking my tongue out at her and ducking. After a few moments with my head down, I returned to the window to see if more victims were approaching. To my horror, the old lady stood directly across from me. I froze. She stuck her tongue out, then her mouth widened into a big grin. I reddened in embarrassment, not expecting an adult to play my stupid game. I found my legs and ran from the window as fast as I could, worried that she would knock on the door to report my behavior. But she didn’t. She taught me a lesson I wouldn’t forget. I never repeated that silly game again.

  I had several cousins. Aunt Berta, my father’s half-sister, had two daughters, Irena and Lidka Oberhardt. Though they were only slightly older than I was and lived in Przemyśl, we weren’t close. Two other girl cousins were Irena and Lila Goliger, daughters of Samuel Goliger, my mother’s oldest brother. Lila was a year or two older than me, and though we went to different schools and lived on opposite ends of town, we saw each other fairly often. Lila, always brimming with ideas, thought of fun games to play. Her older sister, Irena, was far more serious and we were too young for her to play with.

  One day Lila thought up a fun game. She suggested we pick sticky, spindly buds that grew on bushes in an empty lot. She suggested we put them in a paper bag, and go to the center of town, taking out one bud at a time and throwing it at someone in front of us. The bud would stick to people’s clothing, and not until they sat down would they feel a prickly sensation. What a brilliant idea! I gave her my full approval; after all, I was game for an adventure, especially one that was different and dangerous. “Yes, yes, let’s act like two innocent girls taking a walk in the city, window-shopping.” Lila cautioned that we must be careful not to draw attention by giggling or laughing when we threw our sticky balls and that we must stay serious. I nodded soberly. Easier said than done for ten and twelve-year-old girls. It didn’t take long to fill up each of our bags with sticky balls. We started at na Bramie Square in the center of town, moving onto Franciszkańska Street. That particular day the street was so crowded with pedestrians that two young girls went unnoticed.

  We put our hands into the bags, took one ball at a time, throwing it gently at the person walking in front of us. It was quite easy, and no one seemed aware of balls sticking to their clothes. We grew bolder, launching more and more balls at pedestrians, breaking our vow by giggling a lot, but not too loudly. When our bags were finally empty, we walked back to Lila’s house for lunch. We felt like warriors returning from battle. Needless to say, we did not tell anyone about our adventure, because we knew we’d be punished. Lila’s clever game would remain a secret forever, as we’d never repeat such a daring and successful ambush again.

  In Poland, students who wished to advance their studies would enter high school from the sixth grade; those who didn’t plan on higher education had to complete seventh grade of elementary school. In Przemyśl, there were several high schools: co-educational Hebrew high school, Catholic high school run by nuns, co-educational state school, and a girls-only government high school called Szkoła Rządowa. My parents wanted me to go to Rządowa, considered to be the best among city schools. The school was located across the San River, and I had to cross a bridge each morning to get there.

  The headmistress was my father’s customer, so we had an “in” with her. I had to pass an entrance exam in order to be admitted, but even so, the school did not admit many Jewish students. I passed the exam and was accepted, beginning in September 1938. Of the 150 new students for the first class of Gimnazjum, only two of us were Jewish—Anka Peiper, the daughter of an attorney, and myself. I did not sense much anti-Semitism in my class, but sometimes a girl would point out that I was Jewish.

  Rządowa was a good experience for me that year, a year that marked the end of my childhood. Later on I realized what an extremely good education I’d received in all the Polish schools I’d attended.

  P. Krebs, Gerda’s grandfather and father’s store in Przemyśl

  Gerda at 5 and her mother, Edyta, in the Przemyśl Park

  Gerda (left) and cousins Zygmunt and Danusia Shwarzer, 1931

  Gerda’s cousins, Zygmunt and Richard, in 1933 or 1934

  Edyta, Gerda at 7, and cousin Zygmunt

  Baltic Sea Vacation with Gerda, Edyta, and friend

  Szczawnica in the Carpathians; Gerda, her mother, (right), and friends

  Gerda with a friendly bear in Szczawnica in 1934

  Gerda in school uniform, starting Gimnazjum in 1938

  * * *

  1 The majestic opera building still stands today, undamaged by war.

  2 A few years ago on a trip to Aspen, Harold was browsing in an antique store through maps and historical books. He came across a book on the First World War. He called me over, very excited, showing me a photograph in the book of Austrian soldiers leaving St. Francis church in Przemyśl. “Isn’t this the street your father’s store was on?” he asked. I took one look at the photograph and a shiver went through me. Not only was it the photo of the street where my father’s store stood, but further down that street I noticed a signpost hanging above the store with my grandfather’s name on it: “P. Krebs.” What a lucky moment! The picture was part of my lost history, and I had so little left of my family’s memoirs, letters, or photos. The book was a true find and very meaningful to see my grandfather’s name in a history book. Of course, we bought it and copied the photograph for others to see.

  3 Today in my nineties I am pretty thin on top of my head and I never wore a helmet. I blame our loss of hair on our genes.

  4 Our linen closet would compare favorably to Martha Stewart’s displays in this day and age.

  5 I have often heard about people in America describing their mothers as poor cooks, whose matzo balls are like stones, vegetables are tasteless and overcooked, and menus are unvarying. None of this was true in my mother’s house.

  World War II

  Hitler had long desired a “corridor” to the Baltic through Poland. First there was the Anschluss in 1938, the Third Reich’s incorporation of Austria into the German Reich. In March 1939 the Nazis invaded and occupied parts of Czechoslovakia. It was feared that Hitler, with his nonaggression pact with the Soviet Union, would also march into Poland, largely unopposed. Poles and other Europeans desperately wanted to believe that peace could finally be achieved and that Europe would be spared another war. Yet no European country had fully mobilized after the devastation of World War I—with the exception of Germany.

  On September 1, 1939, Germany attacked Poland. Two days later, England and France declared war on Germany. Shortly thereafter, the people of Przemyśl awoke to the sounds of what they thought were army maneuvers but were, in fact, German bombs falling. After the third bomb fell, we knew it was for real and we were at war. Massive shelling and bombing came from the air, and tanks and infantry easily overwhelmed Poland’s military.

  Poland was in total chaos. Tape was applied to windowpanes to prevent glass from
shattering and shades were drawn to screen out the light that might attract enemy airplanes from seeking city targets. Many people obtained gas masks and stockpiled food for the cupboard. There was no reliable news on the radio, and no one knew what was happening.

  A few days later, I saw Polish soldiers milling aimlessly on the streets with no direction from the top brass. We heard that many of them had fled to England. Stores were closed, food was in short supply, shrapnel whizzed by, and bridges were destroyed.

  German spies were everywhere, antiaircraft guns shot blanks, and swarms of people fled, carrying few belongings. My parents discussed the situation and Daddy decided to leave Poland and head east. We didn’t think that women and children were threatened, as the Germans were a cultured people, but Jewish men were in danger. So my father decided to leave. We shed many tears, kissed and hugged, and my parents made plans for the many possibilities that might occur in given situations. He left with a knapsack on his back. When he reached the center of Przemyśl, people who knew my father well asked why he was leaving. “Who is going to harm you?” He was a respected citizen who had no enemies in town. After speaking with a few people, he was convinced that it was safe to return home. Of course, my mother and I were very happy with his decision.