In the Warsaw Ghetto, from the autumn of 1940 to July 1942, an average of about 230 children were born per month (during the same period, the mortality rate was estimated at about 2535 people per month).
According to data from the Jewish Population Registration Department, 3676 babies were born in Warsaw in 1940; in 1941, approximately three thousand children were born, and by July 1942, approximately 500. Mary Berg , an observer of life in the district, wrote at the end of October 1941, referring to marriages concluded in the ghetto: "The number of marriages has recently decreased compared to the first months of the war. The main reason for this state of affairs is the lack of housing – this is a serious problem in the ghetto."
Children in the ghetto faced a particularly difficult fate. Due to the prevailing conditions, they were malnourished, emaciated, and often succumbed to diseases rampant in their districts, resulting in a high mortality rate among this group. Many children begged for food on the streets of the ghetto and even tried to sneak to the so-called Aryan side to obtain food for themselves and their loved ones. Henryka Łazowertówna , a poet of the Warsaw ghetto, wrote a poem about their activities titled "The Little Smuggler" :
Through the walls, through the holes, through the guards,
Through the wires, through the rubble, through the fence,
Hungry, bold, stubborn
I sneak, I run like a cat.At noon, after night, at dawn,
In the snowstorm, grey skies and scorching heat,
I risk my life a hundred times,
I'm sticking my childish neck out.A rough sack under his arm,
A torn rag on his back,
And young, nimble legs,
And in the heart there is eternal fear.But everything must be endured
And everything must be endured,
So that you can tomorrow
To have enough bread.Through walls, through holes, through bricks,
After night, at dawn and during the day,
Brave, hungry, cunning,
I move silently like a shadow.And if the hand of fate suddenly
It will catch up with me someday in this game,
This is life's usual trap,
You, Mom, don't wait for me anymore.I won't come back to you anymore
No voice will reach from far away,
The street dust will bury
The lost fate of a child.And only one request
A grimace hardened on his lips:
Who is it to you, my Mother,
He will bring bread tomorrow.
Often, these efforts cost the children their lives.
