In the aftermath of World War II, one image would resonate powerfully across the globe, revealing not only the devastation of war but the haunting, often invisible, trauma that children bore as a result. Captured by David Seymour, co-founder of Magnum Photos, in 1948, this photograph of a young Polish girl named Tereska has come to embody the struggles faced by children caught in the maelstrom of conflict. The photograph, which appeared in LIFE magazine, shows Tereska standing at a blackboard in an institution for disturbed children in Warsaw. She is drawing a picture of “home,” but what she produces is a chaotic swirl of lines. Her eyes, dark and piercing, seem to betray an unsettling understanding of pain and loss far beyond her tender years.
This image, so simple in its subject yet so profound in its emotional weight, became a symbol for the invisible wounds of war. The caption accompanying the photograph in LIFE read: “Children’s wounds are not all outward. Those made in the mind by years of sorrow will take years to heal.” This statement poignantly captured the psychological toll of war on the youngest survivors—those whose minds and spirits were scarred by the horrors they had witnessed. Tereska’s eyes became a silent scream, a window into the heart-wrenching trauma that war had inflicted on the innocent.
For more than seven decades, the story behind Tereska’s haunting image remained shrouded in mystery. The photograph, circulating widely in the years after its publication, was often mistakenly associated with concentration camps, but the true story of Tereska’s life was even more tragic than anyone could have imagined. Through a painstaking investigation, it was discovered that Tereska had not been a child in a concentration camp but rather a victim of the brutal destruction of Warsaw during World War II.
David Seymour, known by his nickname “Chim,” was sent to Poland by UNICEF in early September 1948 to report on the condition of children in post-war Europe. He had already visited Italy, Greece, Austria, and Hungary, and his final stop was his native country, Poland. When Seymour arrived in Warsaw, he was overwhelmed with grief upon learning that his own parents and most of his family had been killed by the Nazis. His emotional state, compounded by the devastation he witnessed in his homeland, shaped his approach to photographing the children he encountered. Seymour’s mission was to document the children’s lives—what had happened to them during the war and what the future might hold for them.
In the summer of 1948, Seymour ventured to Otwock, a small town about 25 miles outside of Warsaw, where he had spent time as a child. The landscape had changed dramatically due to the war’s destruction. From Otwock, Seymour traveled to the ruins of the Jewish ghetto in Warsaw, where he photographed the rubble and the children who were left behind in the war’s wake. Among these children, Seymour noticed a group pushing wheelbarrows filled with debris, a form of occupational therapy for children who had been psychologically affected by the war.
One particular photograph would become Seymour’s most iconic. In a classroom in an institution for children who were psychologically disturbed, Tereska stood in front of a blackboard, as if forced to complete an assignment: “This is home.” Yet what she drew was nothing more than a chaotic mass of lines. The child’s confusion, frustration, and pain were clear. Seymour’s photograph captured more than just a child’s drawing—it captured the torment of a soul burdened with memories that were impossible to process.
Tereska’s eyes, wide and intense, seem to stare directly at the viewer, as if she were looking into the very heart of human suffering. There was a look of shock and disbelief on her face, one that seemed far beyond her years. She was, in fact, only seven or eight years old at the time, but her expression suggested the weariness of someone much older—someone who had witnessed horrors no child should ever see. This image would come to symbolize the plight of millions of children who had been caught in the crossfire of war, their minds irreparably damaged by the violence and destruction around them.
But who was Tereska, and what was the true story behind this haunting image?
The search for Tereska’s identity began long after Seymour’s photograph was published. The image had spread far and wide, sparking conversations about the fate of children during the war, but little was known about the girl in the photograph. For decades, her true identity remained a mystery. Some believed she had been a child in a concentration camp, but this assumption was incorrect. The process of uncovering the truth about Tereska involved delving into historical records, archival research, and testimonies from those who had known her.
In 1948, Tereska was living in an institution for children with psychological and emotional distress. The school she attended was located in Warsaw, though it was not a typical educational institution. As described by Seymour in his story for LIFE, it was a facility for children who had been psychologically scarred by the war. These children had witnessed unspeakable horrors—bombings, massacres, the destruction of their homes and families—and the emotional and psychological scars were deep.
Through an examination of the Institute’s archives, researchers identified three possible candidates who could have been Tereska. One of them was too old to match the girl in the photograph, and the second did not resemble the child in the image. But the third candidate, Teresa Adwentowska, matched the age of the girl in Seymour’s photograph and had left the school after only a year.
Teresa Adwentowska’s story was as tragic as the photograph itself. Born into a Catholic family, Teresa was the daughter of Jan Klemens, a member of the Polish Underground State and a resistance fighter. During the Warsaw Uprising, Jan was severely beaten by the Gestapo, leaving him physically maimed. Teresa’s mother, Franciszka, did everything she could to make ends meet, even visiting the Jewish ghetto to trade goods.
In 1944, the city of Warsaw was bombed relentlessly by the German Luftwaffe. Teresa’s home was destroyed in the attacks, and her grandmother was likely killed by Ukrainian soldiers who were aiding the Germans in the suppression of the Uprising. During the chaos of the bombings, Teresa was struck by a piece of shrapnel that left her with lasting brain damage.
After the bombings, Teresa and her older sister, Jadwiga, fled the ruins of Warsaw, embarking on a perilous journey on foot to reach a village 40 miles away. The two girls walked for weeks through the war-ravaged country, starving and exhausted. This experience left Teresa with deep emotional scars, an insatiable hunger, and a deteriorating physical and mental condition.
By 1954, Teresa’s condition had worsened to the point that she was sent to a mental asylum in Świecie, where she would remain for many years. Despite her troubled mental state, Teresa continued to draw, her art offering a small respite from the pain of her reality. Her drawings, often of flowers and animals, became her only means of expression. But her life was not easy. As she grew older, Teresa became addicted to cigarettes and alcohol and became violent toward her younger brother. In the 1960s, she was sent to the Tworki Mental Asylum near Warsaw, where she spent the remainder of her life. Her existence was a solitary one, marked by a desperate need for food, cigarettes, and her drawings.
Teresa Adwentowska’s life came to a tragic end in 1978. At the Tworki Asylum, she accidentally choked on a piece of sausage that she had stolen from another patient. Her death, though seemingly trivial, was the culmination of a lifetime of suffering, a victim of war’s lasting psychological toll.
David Seymour’s photograph of Tereska has come to represent not just one child’s trauma but the collective pain of countless children who grew up in the shadow of World War II. For Tereska, as for so many others, the war never truly ended. It lingered in her mind, in her drawings, and in her haunted eyes. In the end, Seymour’s image captures a profound truth about the long-lasting effects of war: the physical destruction may fade, but the scars on the mind endure far longer.
Tereska’s story is a reminder that war’s most insidious wounds are often invisible. Her image, frozen in time, serves as a symbol of the enduring trauma of war’s youngest victims. Through her eyes, we are given a glimpse into the heart of human suffering—one that transcends time and place, resonating with all who have endured the ravages of conflict.