I am one of the few Częstochowa Jewish children “rescued” from the Holocaust.^[1] I was born in March 1940, in Częstochowa, Poland. The Częstochowa Ghetto was established one year later. When I was two and a half years old, my parents sent me from the ghetto to Anna and Stanislaw Pociepny, whom they knew through friends from before the war. As a child, I well remember the golden ribbons that decorated the home of my foster parents. The Pociepny couple had no children. Near the annex, where there was a rabbit hutch, Stanislaw dug a hole that provided air through a thick pipe. I spent my childhood there.[2] In the summer I sat in a wooden barrel and dug into the ground among raspberry bushes. Hiding and giving shelter to a Jewish child in the vicinity of the former Częstochowa Ghetto required extraordinary courage and sacrifice.

      I remember nothing about the time of the ghetto so, for a long time, I thought that Anna and Stanislaw Pociepny were my biological parents.

      My real parents, Nechuma and Michal Szperling, were murdered in the summer of 1943 during a mass execution at the Częstochowa Jewish Cemetery. More than ninety percent of my Jewish family lost their lives during the Shoah.[3] I found out after the war that I still have other members of my family living in Israel.

      I saw a photograph of my father for the first time at my aunt’s home in Israel. I brought that photograph to Poland and it’s my most valuable keepsake of my family. Despite intensive searching, I’ve never been able to find a photograph of my biological mother.

      The Pociepny family was Catholic and brought me up in that tradition. I attended religion classes in school. In 1950, when I was ten years old, I was baptized. Two weeks later I took my first Communion.

      My cousin Renia, who is nineteen years older than me, was born in Piotrkow Trybunalski. She survived the Nazi occupation. She found out that I was alive and that I’d been saved by a Catholic family. A few months after the liberation of Częstochowa, she visited me with the idea of reclaiming me from the Pociepny family. She was unsuccessful. After that, afraid that I’d be stolen away by Jews, my foster parents accompanied me to and from school.

      In 1946, Renia left Poland. The first stage of her journey to Palestine was Cyprus. From there, she illegally reached Palestine. She took part in the war of liberation for the creation of the State of Israel. It was actually Renia who told the other members of my family living in Palestine that I was in Częstochowa and being raised by a Polish family. During my school years, and also later, parcels from Israel arrived at my home. They were sent by my father’s sister, Aunt Sabina, and my cousins Nolek and Renia. Sometimes there were ten-dollar banknotes in the parcels. Apart from the modest help from my family in Israel, my caregivers received considerable help from various international Jewish organizations in the United States and Canada. That help consisted of clothing and money. The Israeli embassy in Warsaw also sent money. Every month, the Częstochowa Jewish Community Council helped my family financially. It also paid for me to take an auto mechanics course. Unfortunately for my foster parents, that help was insufficient. The main problem was that my foster father, a stove-fitter by trade, was a chronic alcoholic and a troublemaker. Despite the fact that my foster mother traded clothing and oranges, neither the trade nor the money from the Polish Bank (PKO) was sufficient to raise our standard of living. We lived in poverty because my father’s alcohol consumed everything.

      It was while I was attending middle school that I started to think that something was not quite right. I began to ask more and more questions of my caregivers. Among other things, I wondered why we were living in, and looking after, the Szperling building. Also, my birth certificate raised doubt about my identity. On it I was named “Zew Szperling,” which, on my school identity card had become “Seweryn Pociepny.” Further doubt was raised by the court in the case for my adoption, which Aunt Sabina lost. Also, the Pociepny family did not receive the court documents regarding my adoption. I received my identity card at the age of eighteen. Looking at that Polish identity document, I found a new surprise. It listed me as  “Seweryn Pociepny, son of Nechuma and Michal.” But my caregivers were called Anna and Stanislaw Pociepny. I posed this question to my foster parents. “I call you Mum and Dad, why are your names different?”

      The Częstochowa Jewish Community Council knew my true origins, as did a few Jewish families. I was invited to their homes for Jewish holidays. That took place often from 1958 to1964, and also after my return from Israel from 1965 to1970.

      As an adult with an identity card, I began to fully understand the tragedy of my biological parents. I understood that my life depended on the actions of the Pociepny family. In 1960, Aunt Sabina sent me an invitation to come to Israel. The Polish Government of the time refused to issue me a passport. In accordance with the legislation at that time, I was liable to be conscripted. For four years, I was refused permission to leave. In 1964, I was honorably discharged from doing military service. I obtained a passport and permission to travel to Israel. By June 1964, I was already with my Jewish family. The reason for my trip was to meet and be among my real family. In the summer of 1964, being twenty four years old, I got off the ship in Haifa. The family was already waiting for me.

      I lived with Aunt Sabina during my whole stay in Israel. Zev, her son and my cousin, arranged a job for me in a factory. I was happy. I was meeting new people and time passed quickly. After six months there, various thoughts came into my head. What do I do now? I could stay in Israel, or go into the Army. But how do I assimilate into the local culture and environment? In Poland, I’d left my foster parents. They had saved my life and I was their only child. I missed Częstochowa, so I decided to return. I informed my aunt and the rest of my family of my decision. It was hard for them to understand. They said, “You have your closest family here. This is your homeland.” We had long and stormy discussions. In the second half of 1965, I sailed on an ocean liner from Haifa to Naples. Then, by train, I reached Vienna and then Częstochowa.

      I returned to Częstochowa after 11 months full of new experiences. By chance, a few days after my arrival, I found envelopes at home which contained copies of applications to government institutions. They originated from the time when I was trying to leave to visit my family in Israel. After this discovery, I was unable to sleep at night. I asked myself, “How could they have written applications asking that I not be given permission to travel to Israel?” To this day, I’ve kept copies of both applications.

      I was overcome with anger. I was disappointed by their conduct towards me. After all, I trusted them completely and, as I’d promised, I’d returned to them from Israel. From that discovery, to this day, I am tormented by the thought, “Was I their only son, as they stressed, or was I merely a source of income for them?”

      I didn’t speak about my doubts. I acted as though nothing had happened. I went to work and shared my salary with them. Unfortunately, at home not much had changed. My father’s drunkenness still shattered the peace within the family. I spoke with him about this many times. I implored him to settle down, but without result. My endeavors were met with the opposite reaction. I had become “Enemy Number 1” to both my foster parents. I put up with that atmosphere for three years working and supporting myself. More and more, I became convinced that I needed to distance myself from my foster parents.

      In the spring of 1969, I decided to leave Poland. I lodged the relevant documents toward that aim. My departure was sponsored by the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS). The Communist authorities placed a condition on it: that I renounce my Polish citizenship. In a situation such as that, permission to leave the country was tantamount to removing any possibility of returning to it. I handed in my identity card, my military service papers, and my driver’s license and I received the relevant travel document for a one-way journey.

      I repeatedly put off the date of my departure. It was only in June, 1970 that I left Poland. I left as ‘Seweryn  Prybulski.” This was my biological mother, Nechuma’s, maiden name. My aim was to go to Australia. In the refugee camp in Vienna, I changed my mind. I decided to leave for the United States. The next stage of my journey was a camp for Jewish migrants in Rome. By November 1970, I was already in the United States in my new home, Cleveland, Ohio.

      I consistently maintained contact with my foster parents in Częstochowa. I also sent them parcels and money. My wife, Alfreda, also visited them during a stay in Poland. She was my Częstochowa fiancée who I brought to the United States in 1972. Every visit my wife and daughters made to my home city also included a visit to my foster parents and the provision of financial support. I also know that the Pociepny family was helped by Jewish charitable institutions. Neither wealth nor awards can equal my gratitude that they saved me from the Nazi hell. My caregivers, my saviors, risked death for two and a half years. That was how long I was hidden with them until liberation.

      Eighteen years after leaving in 1970, I came to Częstochowa for the first time as “Severin Szperling.” My foster parents were no longer alive. I laid flowers, an American Flag, and expressed my gratitude, at their graves in Kula Catholic Cemetery. I look after their graves to this day.

      Whenever I return to Częstochowa, I first visit the graves of my biological parents at the Jewish cemetery, then I visit those who raised me in the Catholic cemetery. Only then do I visit friends and acquaintances.

^[1] This story is an excerpt from ‘The Son of Four Parents” In The Jews of Częstochowa: The Fate of Częstochowa Jews 1945-2009.

[2] Severin’s foster parents lived very close to the ghetto and were subjected to constant raids. Severin hid near a rabbit hutch where the Nazi’s dogs couldn’t pick up his scent.

[3] Shoah is another term for the Holocaust.