The Horse Adjutant
Open ghetto of Grybow 1942, Grybów. Studia z dziejów miasta I regionu
but the fear in my family had another dimension. If he were forced to tell the authori- ties something about my actions gathering food each night, then I would be arrested too. Hopeless, there was nothing we could do. As the days wore on, our neighbor’s chances of returning were slim. At the time, I did not know of a single instance where anyone taken ever returned. Many dreary days elapsed not knowing what was happening to him or going to happen to us. About 10 days later, Tadeusz walked home. It was nothing less than a miracle during these times that he returned. He was alive and well, except for a large bandage on his hand. He looked stoic, but his eyes were smiling. Then he spoke to us, and we felt at ease, “I told them nothing,” he said. The Nazi interrogator had broken all the fingers of one hand, one at a time. That night I thanked God for bringing him home safely and slept as well as I could, knowing we were safe, if at least for one more day. Another time my father directed me to visit a peasant he knew, so I could pick up a calf. I did as I was told. It was a long journey through the mountains, but I got the
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