From a Child’s Eyes, Part Two

By Sherri Stewart

“Hatred doesn’t end with the signing of a piece of paper.” What happened to the holocaust survivors when the war ended in 1945? Most couldn’t go home either because their homes had been destroyed or because anti-Semitism reigned supreme. With few possibilities for emigration, tens of thousands of homeless people migrated to other European territories where they were housed in hundreds of refugee centers and displaced people (DP) camps in Germany.

A few months ago, I interviewed Zofia Zsibinski, a petite 84-year-old woman who captivated me with her story about growing up in Nazi Germany.  Zosia, as she was called, was only three when the Nazis showed up at her family’s small farmhouse in Poland and gave them fifteen minutes to gather their belongings. In Part One, I wrote about her life during the war. So what happened to her and her family when the war ended?

Local German farmers needed people to work the farms since the work force had been depleted when young people were recruited as soldiers during the war. The Nazis took advantage by housing Zofia’s family and other prisoners in a farmers market. Farmers came from far and wide to look them over as if they were animals, then bid on them to become slave laborers. A farmer’s son named George won the bid for Zofia’s family and took them to work on his parents’ cattle and potato farm. When Zofia’s father asked him not to make their sickly aunt work, the farmer said, “She’ll learn, or she’ll die.”

Zofia’s family was taken to the pigsty to wash up and given clothes to wear with the prominent P for Polish on the front and back of their hats. The family was to stay in the loft of the barn, where there was a large bed, two chairs, a table, and a potbelly stove. All five members of the family slept in the bed, some facing the head; others facing the foot of the bed. Each morning before the sun came up, Zofia’s parents went to work in the fields until dark. During the day, George removed the ladder to the loft so the children couldn’t get down. Malnutrition set in because they were only fed a watery broth with a piece of potato and bacon floating in it for dinner. On some Sundays they were given a treat—a butter sandwich or a piece of cake. The potbelly stove didn’t work, so Zofia and her sisters spent the days half frozen.

Little by little, the children got used to the routine and were eventually allowed to walk in the orchard or stay by their mother if she worked close by. During one of those outdoor times, Hitler boys came marching by, saw the P on their hats, and the three girls were beaten to a pulp, all the while calling the girls, “Polish swine.” 

Serbian POWs were brought to the farm to work. Father advised Zofia and her sisters, “If you see a pile of eggs, they’re probably rotten, so call a farmer. If you see a chick laying eggs, pocket them.” One of the Serbians stole the eggs from a pile and swallowed the chirping eggs.

Zofia learned a few phrases in German, and when she had her daily break outside, she approached George’s father and said, “Wie gehts?” How are you? The old man and his wife were so impressed they gave her two pieces of bread a day. George’s sister Maria wasn’t a good person. She discovered Zofia’s sister, Mariana, took her to the cellar, and dropped her by the head into a milk can then left her in the cellar. From that point forward, Mariana ran away whenever she had the chance.
The farm wasn’t Zofia’s last home. From age five to eleven, Zofia, along with her family, were transferred from DP camp to camp. They lived in military barracks with up to six families in a room where there was no toilet paper and only one bathing area. Babies were born and sometimes drowned in the toilet. Couples walked into the woods and were later found hanging from a tree.

When Zofia was nine years old, she needed a tonsillectomy, so she was sent to Munster. For this procedure without Novocain, Helga, the nurse, yanked her arms back and slapped her if she screamed as the doctor cut her tonsils out. That night all the patients got ice cream, but not Zofia because of the P on her hat. Instead, tomatoes were shoved in her mouth, which burned her throat. When she ran away from the hospital later that night, a soldier picked her up and took her back to the guard station.

In the midst of all the darkness, there was a shining light. Her father filled out an application for a family to sponsor them to move to the United States. 

Stay tuned for Part Three.

Selah Award finalist Sherri Stewart loves a clean novel, sprinkled with romance and a strong message that challenges her faith. She spends her working hours with books—either editing others’ manuscripts or writing her own. Her passions are traveling to the settings of her books and sampling the food. She traveled to Paris for this book, and she works daily on her French and German although she doesn’t need to since everyone speaks English. A widow, Sherri lives in Orlando with her lazy dog, Lily. She shares recipes, tidbits of the book’s locations, and other authors' books in her newsletter.

A Song for Her Enemies

Tamar Kaplan is a budding soprano with the Haarlam Opera company. Her future looks bright, despite the presence of the German soldiers guarding the Haarlam. But when Nazi soldiers close down the opera company, families start disappearing in the middle of the night, and Jews are stripped of their freedoms, Tamar realizes her brother Seth was right about her naiveté. She joins the resistance, her blond hair and light features making it easy for her come and go under the watchful eyes of the German guards. Tamar becomes Dr. Daniel Feldman’s assistant, as they visit families hiding out in forests and hovels, tending to their sickness. But when she returns home to find her parents gone and the family store looted, she and Daniel must go into hiding.  As they cling to the walls of an alley, Tamar recognizes a familiar face—that of Corrie ten Boom, the neighbor, who beckons to them to follow her. Can she trust this Gentile woman who talks about God as if he’s standing next to her? https://bit.ly/40Yucjv

From a Child’s Eyes, Part One

By Sherri Stewart

A few months ago, I joined Zofia Zsibinski for lunch in Tecumseh, Michigan. This petite 84-year-old woman captivated me for the next five hours with her story.  Zosia, as she was called, was only three when the Nazis showed up at her family’s small farmhouse in Poland and gave them fifteen minutes to gather their belongings. Since Zofia was only three, many of her memories come from her older sister Marysia, who was eight at the time. Most of the holocaust stories we’ve heard over the years focus on the six-million Jews who were killed or persecuted between 1939 and 1945, and rightly so,  but this is the story of a Catholic family, seen from the children’s eyes.

Zofia was born on March 16, 1940. Three days later the Nazis took over the local church and rectory. Since the newborn hadn’t been christened, Zofia’s mother scrambled to find godparents then raced to the church to have her daughter baptized before the priest was arrested. Later that day, hours after the baptism, the priest was taken away and died at Dachau. Zofia’s father was forced to work for the Germans at a mill during the day, but he was often gone at night. The family later learned that he was a member of the underground in Poland. It was when his group was sent on a raid to blow up the railroad tracks that all were killed except Zofia’s father. Later that night the Nazis took Zofia’s family captive.

The whole family—Zofia’s parents, older sisters, Marysia and Hela, Zofia, and elderly, crippled Aunt Apollonio were forced to walk three days and three nights to a barb-wired fabric factory in Lodz where they were forced to stand in place for a week. There was no food, water, or bathroom. The Jews had to wear the star of David, and the Poles had to wear a P on their clothing and hats. Relatives who lived in the area would sneak food and fluids to Zofia’s mother, which she would conceal in her bra. If she didn’t hide them, the ravenous people around them would have surely attacked her.

 

When the Nazis forced the captives onto a train headed to Germany, Zofia’s father pushed his family forward to reach the window, where they would breathe fresh air, and he’d be able to hold his girls out the window to do their business. They were on that train for over a week. From the window, they saw captured soldiers working on the bombed tracks of the railroad—thin men with barely any clothes on their backs. Citizens of the villages both in Poland and Germany would sneak bread through the window at night. Zofia’s father would throw some toward the prisoners outside. The prisoners would cover the bread with sand until the Gestapo were out of sight, then they’d dig it up to eat it.  One prisoner wasn’t so lucky. When he was caught, the Gestapo used him for target practice. If anyone looked on, they were chopped up with the Gestapo’s shovels.

When the train finally stopped, a third of the people inside the train were dead. Nobody knew because they were still standing shoulder to shoulder. The German soldiers piled the cadavers onto wagons and carted them away. They used whips to herd the living to a tent refugee camp. Each day they received a can of soup and a loaf of bread per tent. One day Zofia’s father was pouring soup when a finger fell out of the can. Zofia never ate soup again during the war.

 

One day a voice over a loudspeaker announced that everyone needed to take a shower. They were told to bring all of their belongings and line up. Once inside a large building, they were told to take off all their clothes and pile them by the door. The officers separated men and boys from the group, and sent the females and small children into a large room with showerheads and pipes. Before they were separated, her mother and father slipped their wedding rings into their mouths. Once everyone was inside, the doors shut. Zofia’s mother hurried her children toward the showerheads, and there they stood for two hours. Nothing happened. They would later discover that the Brits had bombed the rails so the gas couldn’t reach the tent camp. It seemed God still had plans for them.

When the doors opened, they were surprised to see the tent city gone and their belongings all mixed up. All the shoes were gone. Apparently the war was over, but the Gestapo didn’t know what to do with the refugees, so they had them sit on the ground for a day and a night.

 

Part 2 of Zofia’s story next month—the post-war years.

Selah Award finalist Sherri Stewart loves a clean novel, sprinkled with romance and a strong message that challenges her faith. She spends her working hours with books—either editing others’ manuscripts or writing her own. Her passions are traveling to the settings of her books and sampling the food. She traveled to Paris for this book, and she works daily on her French and German although she doesn’t need to since everyone speaks English. A widow, Sherri lives in Orlando with her lazy dog, Lily. She shares recipes, tidbits of the book’s locations, and other authors' books in her newsletter.

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A Song for Her Enemies

Tamar Kaplan is a budding soprano with the Harlaam Opera company. Her future looks bright, despite the presence of the German soldiers guarding the Harlaam. But when Nazi soldiers close down the opera company, families start disappearing in the middle of the night, and Jews are stripped of their freedoms, Tamar realizes her brother Seth was right about her naiveté. She joins the resistance, her blond hair and light features making it easy for her come and go under the watchful eyes of the German guards. Tamar becomes Dr. Daniel Feldman’s assistant, as they visit families hiding out in forests and hovels, tending to their sickness. But when she returns home to find her parents gone and the family store looted, she and Daniel must go into hiding.  As they cling to the walls of an alley, Tamar recognizes a familiar face—that of Corrie ten Boom, the neighbor, who beckons to them to follow her. Can she trust this Gentile woman who talks about God as if he’s standing next to her? https://bit.ly/40Yucjv