THE STORY OF MY LIFE
The Story of my Life is a work of non-fiction autobiography is an amazing and absorbing read from start to finish. As a young   feisty little six year old, Ursula faced a miserable and frightening life after  Hitler’s invasion of her home in Poland. With strength and tenacity that would see her develop into a strong determined woman, she went from childhood to maturity facing whatever hardship and pain life threw at her. Finishing high school with excellent grades, she had to abandon her dream of becoming a  ballerina or a doctor and studied accounting. Desperate to support her family, she turned to black marketeering for survival, only to be caught and thrown in a KGB jail. Eventually she migrated to Australia and after various jobs, found herself the manager of a large travel company which allowed her regular visits back to Poland. Known to be eccentric and outspoken, Ursula rejected many marriage proposals to keep her independence and later in life became a qualified accountant in Australia. The story is strong and powerful and the author has truly captured the harshness and desperation of the times under Hitler, as well as under the Soviet regime in Poland. Also in Australia, the ignorance of locals towards foreigners is honestly captured.	In Store Price: $30.95  Online Price:   $29.95 ISBN: 978-1-921731-56-3    Format: Paperback Number of pages: 388 Genre: Non Fiction
Author: Ursula Widawska 2011 Publisher: Zeus Publications Date Published: 2011 Language: English

Prologue 

Life is good, life is wonderful! 

Sitting on the terrace of my lovely house ‘Kismet’, I breathe the fresh crisp air of the Southern Highlands and savour the views of a perfect autumn day. The trees are now turning into orange, red, gold and purple, what a beautiful sight. The Wingecarribee River flows slowly and the slight wind and sunshine make the surface of the water glisten. The wonderful variety of greens is most soothing and uplifting. Hawthorn is now growing berries, so there are plenty of native birds feeding and enjoying life.

And so am I!

I remember that some seventy-one years ago I had enjoyed the beauty of nature in the Polish mountains and their surroundings. It was autumn too, but then it was a sad autumn as it marked the beginning of a most difficult time in my life. 

I thank Margo Hart for encouraging me to write about my life experiences, so that others may appreciate the difficulties of life experienced by Poles during the German Nazi and Russian Communists occupations, as well as the problems encountered by migrants from Europe in Australia.

The Germans are coming 

Close to the mountain top of the Koziniec (the Goat Mountain) 999 meters above the sea level stood several peasant huts and a lodge with a fine restaurant catering for holiday makers.

Aunt Jadwiga, (called by her family and friends Jadzia) Uncle Frederic and I used to go there during each summer to enjoy the fresh country air and the simple but healthy country life.

Midday September 1, 1939 we walked on a lovely mountain track full of wild flowers berries and mushrooms to the Chalet for lunch.

There on the radio came the news – Germany invaded Poland and Britain declared war. Both my aunt and uncle were utterly distressed, yet Aunt Jadzia quickly went into action.

“We must go home,” she said, “as soon as possible to escape the Nazis, because our brave Polish army will fight, be victorious and send the Krauts home.” 

Down the hill we went with our backpacks full, and with the locals carrying our belongings to the train to take us home to Chorzow in Upper Silesia.

The train shook on the old tracks just as my body shook, full of fear and apprehension as well as hate for the invaders of my beloved country Poland. In every vein of my being I knew that I am Polish and as I recall used to express these feelings when asked who I am, “Ja jestem Urszula Widawska, 4 lata Polka,” – I am Ursula Widawska, 4 years old and Polish.

Aunt and Uncle often shortened my name and used such terms of endearment like Usia, Ulenka, Usinka.

We arrived home and a frantic packing of Persian rugs, oil paintings, crystals and valuables took place. All had to be deposited in a secure basement area available to us.

For a moment there, I wondered if I have been forgotten in that terrible rush, but no, aunt Jadzia came and asked to put my special treasures I wished to take with me on the flight from the Germans in a little suitcase. 

“Just my ballet shoes, my red Mazurka boots and the crown, Aunty!”

“Not very practical under the circumstances,” she said, “but I understand and you have my permission.”

Then she screamed for Josef our chauffeur, but there was no sound from him, he was gone, the Opel included, so suddenly a new problem arose – transport to Uncle Vincent and the nearby train station in Katowice. As I recall a simple two-horse cart was found and the Skorupa family, theirs and our belongings were loaded, with nine of us topping the load.

We spent one night in Uncle Vincent’s home, who could not be convinced to join us, as he was steadfastly resolved to join the Polish Cavalry.

We arrived at the train station and there were thousands of people clamouring around and open headed cattle train. All were in a great panic and hurry to escape the Germans. They all clamoured around the cattle wagons, which when I think back, could have been proven to be veritable swimming pools in rain. Thank heavens not a drop of rain fell in September that eventful year. Quickly a good part of a wagon was secured for our party. The train took off to the east and many miserable days of this trip unfolded.

At first there was silence, just the rattling of the wheels on the tracks could be heard, yet not for long, for the sounds of cannons in the distance was getting louder and sniper shots started to fly over the tops of the carriages.

Uncle Frederic stuck his head out to see what is happening, Aunt Jadzia screamed, “Get down you fool,” and covered my head with a pillow for protection.

“Aunty,” I said, “what if the bullets hit my bum and not my head?” She instantly covered my whole body with her own.

The train stopped and it became obvious that the Germans caught up with us and were going to act – but how? All sliding doors to the cattle carriages were forced open and German soldiers called for all to get out.

Aunt Jadzia sprung again to action; she spoke fluent German and chatted to some of the commandants for a while. As a result, all were made to leave the train and ordered to go home!

Yes, many kilometres to home, so all poor Poles, dirty, tired and defeated started to walk westward home. Our party started walking into a slightly different direction, as according to the map there was on the way, the large property holding of my father’s mother, the Countess Magdalena Widawska, nestled next to the River Widawka where we hoped to secure transport home.

This was a very difficult walk, up and down the undulating hills on high grass carrying heavy luggage. My little suitcase became heavier and heavier with each passing moment. Suddenly, a group of Germans appeared on the horizon.

Aunty instantly removed a package from Uncle’s backpack and put it into my suitcase, saying,” I told you never to lie, but now you must lie, as the large envelope which is now in your case contains information for which the Germans may kill us all.”

The soldiers encircled our group and dismounted. One of the soldiers had after receiving a command from the leader, pushed Mrs Dudek, the old lady friend of the Skorupa’s, and me aside and ordered us to stand on the adjacent hill.

The leader spotted a Baden Powell Cross pinned on the khaki shirt worn by the fourteen-year-old scout Emanuel, (Maniek) Skorupa. He pointed his rifle at him.A moment of deadly silence, Mr Skorupa turned very pale, Mrs Skorupa fainted, Christine, Maniek’s older sister shouted, “No don’t shoot.”

Mrs Duded squeezed my hand and said, “Be brave love,” but Maniek stood to attention, with his right hand he pushed back his blonde hair from his forehead and said, “I am a Polish Scout – shoot!”

The German did not shoot, no doubt being impressed by the boy’s bravery. After quick chat with my aunt he approached Mrs Dudek and me, asking,” Child what is in your suitcase?”

With my brown eyes looking straight at him, I said, “Just my ballet shoes, red Mazurka boots and my crown sir,” pointing at the same time to my feet and head.

It worked, he smiled and let us all go.

Several kilometres later, longing for some rest under cover, we spotted a hut and a barn. It was empty – no animals, no people, but a kitchen with a fireplace, a couple beds in the hut and a barn with lots of hay. How lovely it was all of us finally under a roof, we collapsed and fell asleep.

In the morning Boleslaw, Skorupa’s older son, found six eggs and some potatoes for breakfast. What a treat, I got one egg, one potato followed by a cup of tea, possibly the most memorable breakfast in my life.

Rested, it was decided that our party proceed in the direction of the River Widawka, were my father’s widowed mother, the Countess Magda Widawska’s large mansion and property was, with all the trimmings and lots of servants. We hoped to secure some decent transport home, and we did get it, two eight-seater cars with chauffeurs.

The price as whispered by Aunty and the Skorupa’s was high, but the comfort of the car was definitely better then the hard floor of the cattle wagon, and we had to hurry as the Germans could already be occupying the entire country. 

We are home! I dropped my suitcase on the bottom of the stairs and ran up two steps at a time. Good heavens there was a big white paper glued to the door, “come and see Aunty.” As she caught up with me she read the big letters, ‘Beschlacknamt’ – ‘Taken over,’ she translated – confiscated by the German State, signed by the Town Clerk Klaus Holz.

At the same time there was a commotion at the entrance door of the apartment below us. Aunt rushed down and I could here her speaking in German with a man.

“A big shot of the SS,” she said, “took over the entire apartment of our friends below, I fooled him, he thinks we are Germans and he promised to help. We are under German occupation, Poland has lost the war.”

Uncle tiptoed down to the basement to hide.

“Why is Uncle hiding?” I asked my dear aunt. “Is he afraid of the Germans?”

“No,” she said, “he is a brave man who fought for Poland First World War in France, and he was wounded and received a cross – Virtute Militare for his valour from the French.” Then she went to the Town Hall to make sure we could live in our apartment again. We settled in and in the evening we covered our radio with a blanket to cushion the noise, and turned it on listen to Radio London. Poland lost the war; it was now time to find ways to adapt to the situation the best we could, simply to survive. 

I could not stop thinking about what was happening and the future, and I resolved that it would be good that I speak and read German too, like my Aunt, as it will be necessary to understand what is going on around me now. I also realized that my good life was over – no more outings with our domestic, Mania, to the pictures to see Disney’s ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,’ and Shirley Temple. No more outings with aunt to the Opera and the Café House at the towns' Marketplace, and especially, no more dancing lessons and performances at the Church Hall. Somehow I thought the future under the German occupation will not be as nice as the past in free Poland.

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