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A nightmarish youth ends in American dream
Maria Winkowska can barely make out the words as she flips through the yellowed pages of her decades-old diary. It doesn't matter. She knows exactly what is written there in brown, fading ink. Amid the poems and drawings lies the early life story of a young Polish woman sent to a Nazi work camp 65 years ago. The girlish script tells how she overcame hunger and humiliation to realize the American dream for both herself and the blue-eyed daughter she conceived while imprisoned. Her story, while tragic, is not unique. The 91-year-old Roselle resident is one of thousands of Eastern Europeans who migrated to the United States after World War II. She is one of roughly 140,000 Poles ‹ a group slightly larger than Naperville's population ‹ who sought refuge in America. With their country in ruins physically and politically, the Poles came to America to rebuild themselves. And their success in renewing their lives served as a beacon for future generations. The experience left Winkowska with a deep patriotism and an even deeper faith. She repeatedly expresses her gratitude to America, which she says honored its promises of opportunity and freedom. "I pray every day for America," she says. "I ask God to bless America." Winkowska has spent her entire life talking to God, even during the long stretches when He didn't seem to be listening. She was born in Wachock, a small village in central Poland. Her father worked for the railroad company, a good job that kept the family fed. Their life, however, took a terrible turn shortly after Maria's first birthday. The Russians wanted to take advantage of her father's railroad expertise and condemned him to a labor camp during World War I. The family went with him, living in a cold barrack. Maria and her two siblings worked with their mother in nearby fields growing potatoes, turnips and other root vegetables. They returned home after the war ended, but never reclaimed the happiness they once knew. Maria's father died during a typhoid epidemic in 1920, leaving the family poor and dependent upon others. Her mother died eight years later of tuberculosis. The orphaned Winkowska children were scattered among relatives. Then 13, Maria was sent to live with her poorest aunt in a one-room home. Within three years, the aunt suggested she move to Warsaw to find work. "I wanted to go," Maria says. "It was very hard to support me." She went to Warsaw, which buzzed with culture and commerce in the years before World War II. Maria found a job with an affluent family, taking care of the children and helping the head housekeeper. The job meant good food on the table, a roof over her head and money in her pocket. Maria made friends and went to church regularly. "I was so happy," she says. "It was a good life." Good until the Nazis came in the fall of 1939. They began dropping bombs on Warsaw, killing thousands and reducing parts of the once-thriving city to rubble. The morning after the first attack, Maria's employers sent her to buy bread. She rode a trolley car through the streets, looking over the carnage. The corpses of dead cows, horses and humans lay in the streets. The devastation was difficult to comprehend. "Nobody can dream of such a catastrophe," she recalls. "There was nothing so terrible." She bought the loaf and returned home. Her employers took the bread, but slammed the door on Maria. The 65-year-old memory of it all still can reduce Winkowska to sobs. She repeats her employers' dismissive words over and over, as if she still is trying to believe it.
"We have no food for you Maria," she says, mimicking their parting exchange. "We can only feed ourselves." Starving and without work, Winkowska headed south to Krakow. Wealthy families offered food and shelter to her and other refugees there. The Polish Army, however, soon surrendered the former capital and the German occupation began. Those without jobs, and even some who were employed, were sent to Nazi labor camps. Maria was transported to Leipzig, Germany, a place that didn't seem so bad at first. They fed her soup and sandwiches upon arrival, a welcomed meal after months of starvation. She was placed in a prison barrack with 200 other women. At 6 a.m. each day, the women left for the ammunition factory where they worked in silence for 16 hours. They weren't allowed to smile, eat or make eye contact. They endured daily beatings and were called schweine, or pigs, by their captors. During her first year at the camp, the prisoners were allowed to attend Mass with an armed escort. The privilege was quickly taken away for fear the women would socialize too much with townsfolk. The flea-ridden mattresses left Maria covered in red bite marks. Her body had become so emaciated, she stopped menstruating in the months following her arrival. Yet amid six years of hardship, Maria found love in her few free moments. She met a Frenchman at the neighboring men's camp and quickly began spending Sundays, her free day, with him. Andre LaCour would kiss her hands. He would bring her contraband gifts like bread and stockings. They would walk to the Pleisse River, enjoying their brief time together. When the war ended and workers were freed, American doctors examined Maria and told her she was four months pregnant. She ran to the men's camp to tell Andre. "He would be so happy to know this," Maria says. "We were in love." Andre, however, could not be found. Eventually, he was officially listed as lost in the war. Pregnant and alone, the devoutly Catholic Maria contemplated drowning herself in the same river where she and Andre spent so many afternoons. "I just felt like I couldn't live," she says. "I just wanted to die." In the end, though, she couldn't go through with it. Five months later, she gave birth to Yolanta, a blonde-haired baby girl who never would know her father. Maria found work in a German hospital folding sheets. She thought she would make a life there until German officials told her she could not stay. Returning to Poland, now a Soviet satellite country, was not an option. She applied for an Australian visa, but was denied. She turned her sights toward the United States, but that, too, seemed impossible. She didn't have money for ocean passage, know anyone or know where to start if she ever got there. A Polish farmer from East Gary, Ind., seemed to provide the answer to all Maria's prayers. He sponsored her immigration, paying for both Maria's and Yolanta's passage. In exchange, Maria worked on his farm until the debt was paid back. He also had dreams of marriage, but Maria steadfastly refused. His house was nothing more than a tin shack. The bed was a small straw mattress that offered little warmth during Midwestern winters. The farm existence still was not the American dream Maria envisioned for her daughter so she sent her to live in a Catholic boarding school. By the time Yolanta graduated eighth grade, Maria had paid off her debt to the farmer. She took her daughter to Chicago to begin a new life. Maria worked at the Zenith radio factory while Yolanta went to high school and college. In between classes, Maria taught her only child Polish and patriotism. "This is heaven," Maria told her daughter. "America is heaven." Yolanta grew up with the dream that eluded her mother for so long. Now, Yolanta and her family live in Roselle with Maria nearby. She lives in a senior apartment complex and walks 1¨ miles to her daughter's house nearly every day. Maria still recites poetry from her youth. She tries to instill Polish culture in her granddaughters, who've had decidedly American successes. Both girls have been well educated. One was crowned Roselle Rose Queen a few years ago. "I've always hoped everything would be different," Maria says. "I hoped it would be nice, beautiful and better. And now it is."
Right at home:
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