Written in 1933 in Poland

When I was eight, there were already seven of us children, and my mother was sick, all the work fell on my shoulders, cooking, washing, milking cows, looking after the children, mending clothes, and also working in the fields.

Seeing how poor mother, although sick, was eager to work with all her remaining strength, although at the slightest bending a terrible cough choked her and blood rushed to her throat, I was overcome with despair when I thought that she might die. I begged her in everything not to do anything anymore, that I would replace her in everything.

My heart broke with pain when I saw her so sick, miserable and pale. I worked beyond my strength so that she could lie down. At times I thought I would collapse, after a whole day's work, terribly hard for my frail girlish strength, I spent whole nights in tears and praying for my mother's health.

Three whole years passed in such conditions. Working beyond one's strength, in constant fear for the life of the mother, whose health was deteriorating from week to week with no prospects of improvement.

Finally, as is usually the case in the countryside, when death is already staring in the eye, my father finally decided to take her to the hospital, but only to find out that there was no hope and the end was near, because the cancer on her lungs was already in its final stages.