Over the past couple of decades, I’ve become eager to say hello to people I don’t know, but it wasn’t always this way. I’m most definitely an introvert and it was easy to walk on by.  Through trial and error, though, I’ve learned that you have no idea who that person is, the one you are passing on the street. It might be a person with a fantastic story. For instance, when my kids were young, I often walked past a man at my kids’ grade school, merely saying hello. It was months later that I learned that he was a Grammy Award winning jazz piano player who toured the world.

About 20 years ago, at a Christmastime event at the home of a neighbor of my former family-in-law my father-in-law asked me, “Erich, have you met James Watson yet?” I hadn’t. That night, while most of the neighbors sang Christmas carols, I had the opportunity to discuss the double helix with the co-discoverer of DNA.

There’s all kinds of interesting people all around you. Most of them don’t send you any clues to their accomplishments, not until you say hello and strike up a conversation.  You will miss out on some of the best parts of life if you don’t take the time to say hello to strangers.

Sixteen years ago, in April, 2004, I took the time to get to know a woman who walked her two dogs (Cara Mia and Bobinskion) up and down my street every day. The woman’s name was Bisia and it turned out that she was a Polish Countess who had an unusual story, a heroic story based on her life in Poland during World War II. She was 85-years old when I sat down to interview her for the Flora Place neighborhood newsletter. At that time, Bisa was married to her 95 year old husband, Isham. They have both passed away since I interviewed with her. After I wrote up her story, I noticed that the local PBS station had produced a feature on her too. I’ve embedded that link below.

I wrote this 15 years ago and rediscovered it today. I’d like to once again share her story. I hope you enjoy this.

The Countess of Flora Place

Originally Published April, 2004

Each of us might not have ended up living on Flora Place.  Life offers many paths to many other places.  I, for instance, grew up in St. Louis County and learned of this beautiful street through friends. My personal path to becoming a Flora Place resident, then, was not surprising.

For others, though, the journey followed convoluted and precarious paths.  One such person is Bisia Reavis, who has lived with her husband Isham at 4122 Flora Place since 1958.  As one of the most prominent dog-walkers on the street, Bisia is virtually an institution.  Always ready with her kind smile and encouraging words, she is generally accompanied on her walks by Cara Mia (a Doberman) and Bobinski (“Bo,” a Poodle).

The current editor of this newsletter has decided to begin a series of articles highlighting the stories some of our many interesting neighbors. Bisia was kind enough to share her journey from Poland to Flora Place as the first article in this series.

Formerly known as Countess Elizbieta Krasicka, Bisia was the youngest of six children born in 1921 to Count August from Siecin Krasicki and Countess Isabella from Granow Wodzicka.  The family lived at the Castle at Lesko, in Poland (present day Ukraine) tucked along the Carpathian Mountains.  The sprawling estate stretched to the borders of both Hungary and Czechoslovakia. The bright red family coat of arms is the symbol of a lineage of nobility stretching back to 1540.  Bisia’s story involves many ancillary episodes.  Her Grandfather Stanislaw traveled to Mexico to serve as one of Maximillian’s officers in the 1860’s.   Her uncle, the Archbishop of Krakow, ordained Pope John-Paul II.

Bisia was 17 when war broke out in September, 1939. The Germans and Soviets quickly decided that the San River (which flowed through the family garden) would serve as their contentious line of demarcation. Many members of Bisia’s uprooted family traveled east to avoid the German occupation of the family property, but eventually west again (a few weeks later) to flee the Soviets.  When passing west through the family property, Bisia saw that the castle was filled with abandoned German weaponry, including boxes of ammo and grenades. Bisia recounted hiding in cornfields to avoid “indiscriminate strafing” by low-flying German aircraft. The planes were flying so low that she could see the pilots’ faces.  “We felt like rabbits.”

From 1939-44, the family lived in a hunting lodge on the west side of the San.  Hundreds of military personnel from the defeated Polish army passed through the property to find safety over the borders of Czechoslovakia or Hungary, or to regroup to fight the Nazis as part of the Polish underground.  Bisia’s father issued fake ID’s to numerous such people to facilitate their efforts.  Bisia’s family also provided many of them with food and a place to rest.

In 1940, Bisia herself was contacted by the Polish underground, and worked with them as a First Lieutenant until the end of WWII (she pointed out that the “occupation” of Poland continued until 1989).  The members of the underground received only one form of compensation: the dream of liberating Poland. They worked to disrupt the Nazis by blowing up targets and disrupting supply lines.  Bisia herself once transported and used “plasticon,” an explosive that was “molded like clay,” to detonate a railroad bridge.  The plasticon was then wired to a remote location for carefully timed detonation.  Bisia was at the scene of other such explosions, and was often sent to the site of blasts to do reconnaissance (“as a spy”), to assess the damage. She transported small arms and supplies across Nazi-occupied Poland.  Her most harrowing work, though, was distributing passwords. It was fast-paced and dangerous work to determine who was friendly to one’s cause. Making necessary contacts often required her violate Nazi curfews. The underground did more than disrupt the Nazi war machine.  It ran underground schools and hid Jews from the Nazis. The Nazi punishment for any of these activities was summary execution.

On one occasion, Bisia was assigned to deliver a machine gun to a unit in the field. The weapon had been hidden under a pile of hay on a horse-drawn wagon. En route, Bisia (who was also carrying a revolver) was stopped by three Nazi soldiers at a roadblock. When they asked her what was under the hay, she quipped “a machine gun!” One of the soldiers commented, “A little Countess with a machine gun!  How funny!” They offered her a glass of Schnapps and a cigarette before sending her on her way. For this work, the Polish underground later awarded her the Cross of Valor.

While engaged in these underground activities, Bisia earned a living by milking cows, sheering sheep and doing housekeeping for a brewer. Working such jobs also provided her with some cover for her secret activities.

In 1944, after the Soviets pushed the Nazis to the west, Bisia was among a desperately hungry, dirty and exhausted group of members of the underground that emerged from a mountain forest.  The Soviets informed the group, “Father Stalin has decreed that there is no further need for the resistance,” and strongly advised them to join the (Soviet) Polish army.  Bisia did this for only a short while before leaving.

In February, 1945, Bisia fondly recalls singing patriotic songs at a restaurant in Lublin. It was on that evening that she was introduced to a group of three American officers of the 5^th U.S. army who had been taken prisoner in Italy before escaping to Poland. One of those officers was Isham. Bisia and Isham wasted little time: they got married 10 days later at a Polish church.  Ten days later, an American mission to the Soviet Union assisted Isham back to the U.S.  Bisia’s task was then to find a way to rejoin Isham.  That was no easy task for someone lacking proper documentation in Soviet occupied Poland.

The first stage of that trip involved riding on the top of a boxcar, flat on her stomach, to the Polish side of Cieszyn, Czechoslovakia.   She then sneaked across the Czech border by posing as a Czech worker.  She spent ten days in Prague, posing as a tourist, narrowly escaping arrest.

The next stop was Nuremburg, where she was thrown into a “displaced persons camp,” until the Americans recognized the value of her linguistic talents (in addition to Polish, she was fluent in French and German).  During the first half of 1945, she was put to work as an interpreter for the 3^rd U.S. Army in Nuremburg, where she shook hands with General Patton.  While in Nuremburg, one of her highlights was to meet her older brother Stanislaw, who she hadn’t seen since 1938.  At their reunion, it was ironic that he wearing a British uniform (having fought for Poland and France before joining the British) while she was wearing an American uniform.

She bided her time in Nuremburg until she managed to obtain a Polish passport through the Polish government in exile, only a few days before American recognition of that government was withdrawn (American then turned to recognize Soviet controlled Poland).  She had learned that Isham was at Fort Benning, Georgia, and (with the help of several kind officers from the American military) she was allowed a precious spot on a small liberty ship headed for the States.

After one boat ride across the Atlantic, she was in Boston.  It wasn’t an ordinary boat ride, though. It was 18 days of being thrashed by constant storms on “The Belgian Liberty.”  The Captain explained that if the ship were to tip one more degree, they would capsize.  “It was pitch dark, night and day,” she explained, adding that she did not get seasick. Mercifully, the train ride from New York to St. Louis was uneventful.

For forty years, Bisia worked as a teacher of French, Art, and Math, including 26 years at Villa DuChensne.  Isham, now retired, worked for Jaccard’s as gemologist specializing in precious stones.  “That’s how he found me!” Bisia smiles.  They have now been married for 59 years, “59 years of mutual endurance,” she quips.  Bisia and Isham have three adult children, Teresa, Toni & Marek.

Bisia has always loved dogs. When fleeing the family castle, she most reluctantly left behind her Airedale Terrier (Terry) and two Dachshunds (Bonzo and Hila). To her delight, several members of the German army (which Bisia contrasts sharply with the Gestapo) delivered her dogs to her the next day. In 1948, Basia and Isham lived on the grounds of Jefferson Barracks, and the official policy was “no dogs.” Bisia protested the rule, stating “I’ve lost too many things from my life.  The dog comes with me.”  With that, Saba the Cocker Spaniel took illegally took up residence at Jefferson Barracks. Basia mentioned that she always loved trees and went out her way to plant them.  One of them—now so large that she can barely wrap her arms around the trunk—still stands on the grounds of Jefferson Barracks.

When Bisia and Isham bought their house on Flora Place in 1958, things were much different.  The gates to the Botanical Garden (the west end of Flora Place) were open 24 hours a day.  The Climatron had not yet been built.  39^thstreet was a bustling shopping area, with cafes, “excellent bakeries,” pet stores, the “Radine Department Store” and a movie theatre.  Bisia also remembers Flora place being opened to traffic from Grand to Tower Grove, resulting in cars racing from end to end. “It was crazy.”

I asked her to point out her favorite part of modern day Flora Place. Now, she explained, our street is a wonderful mixture of families of all races. “It’s about time. It’s a big plus.”

I asked Bisia to share any wisdom she has gained as one of our street’s premier dog-walkers.  Her guiding principle is that residents need to say hello to each other.  Maintaining a sense of community always starts with hello. “Always say “Hi” to everyone you meet! You might learn something interesting.”