The Horse Adjutant home.) Surveying our sad situation, he looked at me directly and said, “Zun, kenst gayn? (Son, can you walk?) If so, you can follow us; otherwise, wait here, and others will take you.” I wasn’t about to stay there when I could get food anywhere but where I was. So, I followed them, traveling East on foot about 2 kilometers to a Red Cross aid station. Before I left, I took two pairs of pants and two jackets from the dead. It was very cold that day, and I badly needed the extra clothing to stay warm. I was still dizzy from the lack of food. One of the soldiers told me to keep my head down. The enemy could be anywhere. On the way to the aid station, everyone I saw was asking where I came from, my blue and whites telling the story. I would respond, “Auschwitz,” followed by, “Hell on Earth.” This would always be followed by the same question, “Did you know my brother?” When we arrived at the aid station, I was greeted by the Russian military police. Looking at my neck, another asked, “What is wrong with you?” He could see my neck wound, but wanted to hear my voice and know my own opin- ion of my condition. In response, I said weakly, “Can I have some food?” Even though he did not get the answer he was looking for, my response was sufficient for him to figure out I could walk and talk and needed food desperately. No matter what was wrong with me the most urgent problem was the lack of nourishment. He asked, “Where do you come from?” I told him, “Near Nowy-Sacz, Grybov.” Rescued, I no longer felt the pretense of hav- ing to hide my Yiddish tongue. Depending on whom you were speaking with Grybow and Grybov would be used as a telltale of the speaker’s cultural heritage as much as the place they were referring to. He nodded his head knowingly as he continued to speak in Polish, “We will send you to Krakow, and from there you can get a ride to Grybow.” It was about 200 kilometers away. I said with my parched voice, “Can I have water?” He handed me his canteen. I did not realize it was filled with vodka before I took a big gulp, and passed out. I remember waking up a little later on a truck heading to Krakow. My head hurt, reminding me of what I drank, combined with the potholes on the road. Resisting the throbbing, I raised it enough to see dead bodies still lying on the side of the road. The fighting must have been recent. I was FREE but so very tired. With the little energy I had left, I wondered what would be left of war-torn Poland. Soon, I would learn the scale of the damage. For now, I could only rest. When we arrived in Krakow, I learned the Russians had occupied the city only about
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