When God Looked the Other Way: An Odyssey of War, Exile, and Redemption

narrative.

PART I

Poland

Family members and neighbors sitting on the porch of our home in Sarny, Poland, 1935. In the top row, second from left, I am on my nanny’s lap, and my mother is on my left. My brother, Jurek, is in the row below, at far right, and my sister, Zosia, is in the bottom row, fourth from left.

CHAPTER 1

SARNY

Like most wintry days in Warsaw, January 14, 1933, was cold and miserable. When I arrived in this world on that day, my mother and my nanny were convinced that a great Polish poet had been born. I did not learn of this until well after I was able to utter my first words, and why my elder brother or sister was not chosen for this lofty profession instead of me remains a mystery to this day. Whenever I asked Mother, she only smiled.

We lived on the outskirts of Sarny in eastern Poland, in a large wooden house surrounded by birch, pine, and oak trees. A wooden fence circled the property, mostly to keep deer away from the garden and the orchard in back. An old gate in front opened freely to welcome visitors. I liked to swing the door back and forth to hear it creak.

Behind our house was a large yard with a stable, a garden, and a small pond. The yard was our playground, the site of summer cookouts, a gathering spot for hunting expeditions and trips to pick berries and mushrooms, and the place where gypsies came to entertain and tell fortunes. Mother always had her fortune told when the gypsies came. No matter how much I pestered, she would never tell me what they said.

My sister Zofia played hide-and-seek with me in the stable, which housed horses and wagons, a sleigh, and a carriage, as well as chickens, ducks, and geese. Some mornings Mother would send us there to pick up fresh eggs for breakfast—one of the few chores I never refused—and if we were lucky we would see the hens lay the eggs. When the day came for the young to hatch, we would spend hours waiting for the chicks to peck their way through the shells.

On one side of the stable was the garden, where many herbs and vegetables grew, including my favorites, corn and cucumbers. On the other side of the stable was the pond, where ducks and geese splashed around. I loved to feed bread to the flock and watch as chicks, ducklings, and goslings followed their mothers, carefree and happy, learning how to grow up. I often wondered how they were able to learn so much faster than human babies.

Sunflowers grew along the fence in back, stretching their smiling faces toward the sky. We waited all summer long for them to ripen so that we could pick their seeds. Deer often came to the fence, sticking their heads between the sunflowers and imploring me with their beautiful eyes to give them cabbage and lettuce. Though skittish, they were never afraid of me, but would bolt when adults came near.

Beyond the fence was the forest, where our family and friends went to pick mushrooms. The sun rarely broke through the heavy canopy of leaves, and moss carpeted the ground. Even on the hottest days, the air was fresh and cool with a profound intermingling of scents of wild berries, flowers, moss, and decaying wood. Mushrooms were hidden under the moss cover or under moist leaves, and finding them required a keen eye. What a delight to carefully brush away the leaves and uncover a bulging cluster of mushrooms! Their gold, brown, green, and red hues blended cleverly with the ground cover. The most colorful and beautiful mushrooms were often the poisonous ones. My brother, Jerzy, was a connoisseur of mushrooms, and he checked the ones I found to be sure they were not poisonous.

At the front entrance of our house stood a heavy wooden door, which opened onto a small reception room with a cloakroom. From there, a long hall ran the length of the house, joining all the rooms. The one I spent the most time in was my bedroom. It was my playroom, with lots of toys and books, and it was the place where my mother, my nanny, and my sister told me stories and taught me to read and write. My favorite story was about the Lilliputian kingdom, its people so small that I could hold them in the palm of my hand. Their kingdom was hidden someplace deep in the forest, and once in a great while, according to the story, it was possible to find a Lilliputian sleeping under a mushroom. How I wished that I could find one. Just once! But they worked only at night and slept hidden away during the day.

The most interesting room in the house was Father’s study. Oak paneling covered the walls from floor to ceiling, making the room seem dark and mysterious. The heavy aroma of cigar smoke hung in the air. The old parquet floor showed much wear, as did the old rug lying under a huge oak desk inlaid with green leather, which was embossed with gold trim. Maps and survey drawings were piled high on one side of it and stacks of papers that never seemed to get smaller on the other. A large blotter with brown leather corners and leather underside spotted with ink covered the area of the desk where Father worked.

Directly behind the desk hung a large portrait of Josef Pilsudski, the first marshal of Poland. Father served under him in the defense of Poland against the Bolsheviks in the War of 1920. On either side of this painting hung the portraits of two other great Polish generals, Casimir Pulaski and Taddeus Kosciusko, both of whom fought in the American Revolution. Paintings of their most famous battles hung nearby, as did portraits of the most renowned Polish kings. Opposite the desk was a large brick fireplace, with wood piled high on each side. Above it, Father’s army rifles, handguns, and shining officer’s saber were displayed. Above them in a glass enclosure were his hat, insignia, and decorations. In the remaining space by the fireplace hung colorful paintings depicting Polish battles of long ago.

Father’s study was his sanctuary. No one was allowed to enter it without knocking first and asking, May I come in? But unless Father was extremely busy with some pressing business, no one was ever denied entry. Once inside, I would sit on his lap and he would tell me a short story or answer many questions about the adventures we had talked about earlier. Even when he had little time, just being in his study for a few minutes made me feel a part of the past of my ancestors, a world so different, yet so much my own.

Father’s army fatigues and dress uniforms hung on a coatrack next to the doorway. They were neatly pressed with sharp creases and always at the ready. Tall leather officer’s boots, shining like a mirror and reflecting the flickering flames of the fireplace, stood under the coatrack. On the other side of the entrance was a glassed-in cabinet containing single- and double-barreled shotguns, rifles for big game, and hunting paraphernalia of all sorts.

Father would sometimes tell me about the wild hordes of Mongols that once swept in from the east, led fearlessly by Genghis Khan, to conquer vast lands and form an empire larger than that of the Romans, the Greeks, or even the Persians. I would also hear how, years later, the Tartars, descended from the Mongols, would also attack Europe from the east, on one occasion invading as far west as Cracow. They would overrun villages and brutally slaughter the men, then take the women and children hostage and return with stolen goods to Asia. Listening to these tales, I could not help but wonder whether invaders from the east could descend on us again. Father always assured me that there was nothing to fear.

Of all the stories Father told me, the one I liked best was the story of the Battle of Grunwald. It took place more than five hundred years ago between the German-Christian Order of Teutonic Knights and the Polish-Lithuanian armies. Father said it was the biggest and bloodiest single-day battle in the recorded history of Europe up to that time.

One cold and blustery evening, Father let me into his study. Once inside, I talked him into telling me one more time the story of Grunwald, though I had heard it many times. Father lifted me onto his lap and covered me with my favorite wool blanket. I waited for the action to begin, my eyes glued to the painting of the battle that hung on the opposite wall.

The story began, and at once the battlefield came to life. Thousands upon thousands of men on both sides were facing their enemies in silence. Knights in heavy armor with lances and swords and foot soldiers armed with spears, chains, knives, iron nets, and ropes were standing still as if nothing were going to happen. Only the colors held by standard bearers were swirling in the wind. The knights bowed their heads. The foot soldiers dropped to their knees, all in humble prayer.

Papa, why do the soldiers pray before the battle? I asked. Father answered solemnly, They ask God for forgiveness for their sins, knowing it could be the day when they meet their maker.

Bugles broke the silence on the Polish-Lithuanian side. The lines began to move, slowly at first and then faster and faster. I could hear the thunder of the horses’ hooves at full gallop and the running footsteps of thousands of men screaming the battle cry. I could see the knights dressed from head to toe in shining armor, their visors down, their heavy lances lowered at the enemy. Then, suddenly, the thunder stopped and turned into a screeching and horrifying crash of steel against steel, knight against knight. The tumult became a furious whirlwind of men and beasts. Knights fell to the ground, unable to move, only to have their throats cut by the foot soldiers. Heads of foot soldiers toppled to the ground after a single swing of a sword from a powerful knight. The wounded were trampled. Horses with fear in their eyes and steam pouring from their nostrils reared high in the air, their riders holding on with one hand while fighting their enemy with the other. Before me was a bloody entanglement of humans and horses lying in pools of blood, limbs sticking out here and there. How horrible!

For many hours the battle was nearly even. Then out of the tumult appeared a knight wearing no armor or helmet but only a white silk tunic with a black cross in front and back, a symbol of the Teutonic Order. He was Grand Master Ulrich von Jungingen, riding a magnificent white stallion. His sword, drawn high, was ready to strike. But before he could draw a drop of blood from his enemy, two long-haired, heavily bearded Polish foot soldiers charged him with a spear and an axe. His horse reared. At that moment, the spear of one of his attackers went through his heart while the axe of the other split his head. It was the turning point of the battle; hours later the clamor was over. Only the cries and the moans of the dying men could be heard on the battlefield. The crows and the vultures, having hovered for hours, descended on the dead. Women from neighboring villages came carrying buckets of water to quench the thirst of the wounded. Others came to pray for the souls of the departed. So it went for hours until darkness fell.

For a long time Father and I sat in his leather chair, watching the dwindling flames in the fireplace and saying nothing. With the crackling of the fire, tiny flames seemed to jump from log to log and then disappear, only to come back again like the ghosts on the battlefield, teasing and scaring me. Surely some of them had to be in the room, though I could not see them. I closed my eyes and curled closer to my father’s chest. A barely audible knock on the partially opened door broke the silence. I opened my eyes and could see the door moving ever so slightly. I trembled. Could it be the ghost of one of the fallen