Before we reached Żelazna Street we had to squeeze through a narrow passageway (there were narrow passageways everywhere between the barricades and the walls as a security measure). After we crossed Żelazna, too. It seems two of them were near each other. Because the barricades were close together. Everywhere. And soldiers were lying down near Żelazna and firing their rifles. Ordinary ones. In the direction of Kercelak. There was panic. Civilians in flight. A desperate defense. News came of those burnings, firing squads, shootings, facts came, came right at us, ever nearer. Once, twice we ran past with those stretchers. The orderly and I were carrying a woman. Covered with ashes. On her hair. And her face. In convulsions. Her dress was shredded. She’d been buried. On Chłodna Street. Right behind us — although the person’s (a man’s) hands and legs were thickly bandaged, the blood was flowing so profusely that it was pouring off the stretcher. What else was there, farther along — I no longer know. The courthouse. We rush through the gate. People are standing there inside the gate, just some people, ordinary people, one of them our neighbor from 4 °Chłodna. She begins to cry at the sight of all this. I think a general convulsive sobbing began. Throughout the entire courtyard. They told me to set down the woman who had been buried. To leave her there. Because this is the hospital. I think they set down the stretchers. Ran to get the next ones. And these were already being carried inside.
I ran out in order to go home. On the way I dropped in — by the back way behind the sawmill — at 24 Chłodna, to Irena’s cellar. I found Irena there and those two owls, and Pan Malinowski, wearing an Antiaircraft Defense armband as a block leader. It was quiet here, more peaceful than anywhere else. At least in the second outbuilding. It didn’t face the front. Farther on, you could hear everything. And it was bad. But the peace in that cellar! Just an ordinary cellar. Twisting corridors, a maze of little rooms. Darkness. At most, a gray light fell inside there. It was nothing. I didn’t feel like going any farther. I told them. What I had seen. What was on the other side of Żelazna Street. Because they asked. I delayed like that. Delayed. Then it was evening. They advised me to wait. Here. For the night. Why make your way across Żelazna? Perhaps it’s even worse now than it was before, perhaps they’re already moving in? From here you can escape. It’s closer to Starówka. Almost everyone planned to go to Starówka as soon as they were ready. I talked more and more with those two owls on this theme. The elder, Heńka, her hair combed in an upsweep, was still worrying out loud about her children because they had remained in Praga at Wedel’s. The younger — Jadźka, I think — started telling our fortunes. I told them I had a friend on Rybaki Street. Swen. That actually he’d been living in Wola for the past few months, on Szlenkierów Street. That for some reason I think he’s on Rybaki now. Because his mother had remained there. Obviously, I had no proof. Intuition, at best. And what is called wishful thinking. That first Teik and Swen had broken off relations with each other over an insignificant matter, that I then broke off relations with Teik out of solidarity with Swen, and in the end I’d broken off relations with Swen and made up with Teik (let me remind you: Teik from Staszic Street) was something I paid no attention to in this situation. Another thing: I came up with the idea of swimming the Vistula. They grasped at that as an obvious plan. I said that Rybaki Street was just the same as Wybrzeże Gdańskie. Because of the apartment blocks. Also red. Poured concrete. Unfinished. Big. (Something of a “shelter for the homeless” during the war; Swen had lived there until recently although he’d been working for a long time as a social worker in the Parysów district.) So those apartment blocks faced Rybaki. The Vistula was behind them. All three of us could swim, we agreed. And from there we could steal out at night toward Żerań—Jabłonna. The Russians were already at Jabłonna. I don’t know how we imagined ourselves swimming to the other shore, which was also held by the Germans, and — even better — crossing the front. And such a front at that — a front as probably never had existed in the history of the world before this war. Probably we just assumed that since it was a question of Warsaw and Żerań everything would somehow take care of itself.
We stayed on there. Till night. The attack had ceased. There were the normal small explosions, noises. Maybe it was completely silent. Everyone came out into the yard. Discussions. Gossip. Newssheets. More tunneling. Of cellars, passageways. Pan Malinowski proposed that Irena and I should sleep in his apartment. After all, how can we go up to the fourth floor? And they have a large apartment on the ground floor, in the first courtyard. We go with him. I am given a room. My own. A bed. A quilt. I undress. I fold back the quilt in order to crawl under it, and then — what a noise from a shell hitting the corner of the house! Then a second, a third, a fourth; nothing, only shells. And flames. Everyone jumps up. Dashes into the courtyard. Waves of people pour into the courtyard from Ogrodowa Street. With suitcases, children, knapsacks. Some are leaving already. Others are gathering here. A crowd. Explosions. Discussions. Moving about from one group to another. Irena is standing there with a haversack. We consult. With Pan Malinowski. And the whole group. We are standing near the gate (wooden) onto Ogrodowa. But Irena is hesitant for some reason. And I think it’s high time. I consult the owls. They’re ready.
“I’ll just run over and take the keys to Mama, because I took them from the apartment.”
I really had taken the keys when we walked out of the house during the panic. Now they’re always jingling in my pocket. I run over to Żelazna Street. The partisans are lying down on Żelazna again, firing in the direction of Wronia, worn out, sweaty, among piles of rubbish.
“Where to, where to?”
“I’ve got to. 4 °Chłodna.”
“What? You can’t.”
“But my mother. I took the keys.”
“Sir! You won’t be of any help. The keys are useless, and any-way…”
“But…”
“The Germans are already there.”
I retreated. I ran into Irena’s courtyard. Heńka and Jadźka were ready. Once again I asked Irena if she’d made up her mind. But she was still standing there near the gate, with the same people, the haversack still hanging from her arm, and what I was saying wasn’t getting through to her at all. So Heńka, Jadźka, and I — we rush out into Ogrodowa, this time to the right. At a run…
One of them said, “Let’s just take off our shoes so they won’t hear us.”
We take them off. We run. Barefoot. Along Ogrodowa Street. A barricade. We squeeze through. To Solna. Something’s burning. Explosions. Beams are sailing through the air. Noise. They fall into the fire. With a thud. We dash along Solna. To Elektoralna. A barricade. We squeeze through. Onward. Along Elektoralna. To Bank Square (where Dzierżyński Square is today, only smaller and triangular).[5] Something’s burning on the right. An entire building — a single flame. We race past. Somewhere beyond Orla Street a whole building is on fire on the left. Actually, it’s being consumed by flames. There are hardly any ceilings left. Or walls. Just one huge fire about four stories high. Again the beams groan, collapse. It’s hot. That’s probably the Office of Weights and Measures. Night. It’s quieter here. Maybe the attack is letting up? We are not the only ones in flight. A whole stream of people is moving in the direction of Starówka. We run left, following a group of people. Into the courtyards — to the rear — of the club, or rather the rotunda, the former Ministry of Finance, and the Leszczyński Palace. There’s more space here. It’s less crowded. Isolated explosions can be heard from Bank Square. The cornices, again. But not as gray. Yellow. Which means in this dawn (it was barely dawn) they seemed to be covered with gold leaf. Perhaps this is where I saw the pigeons. The ones that flew up. Or just those cornices. Only these are in a different style. With little Corazzi angels. With garlands. Tympanums. The courtyard fronts on Leszno Street. Suddenly it is really dawn. We are detained at a barricade until more people arrive. There are even some Jews with their womenfolk. One of the women was holding a sack under her arm. The barricade cut across Leszno near where it now opens onto the east-west artery. But Rymarska Street was on the right side then, branching off from Bank Square. And to the left was Przejazd with a view, just as today, of the Mostowski Palace. They check the Jews’ papers. They are separated from the rest. To help with work. The Jews have bundles under their arms, something like sacks. They let us through. All of us. We race past the Leszno barricades. To Przejazd. A long stretch there. And a turn to the right. Past the barricade. Długa Street. The sound of explosions. After a gentle curve on Długa, the Palace of the Four Winds on the left. The whole building is on fire. It’s already destroyed. The flames are howling in the outbuildings, in front. The beams groan, collapse. The tympanum, with its bas-reliefs, is still standing. The twinkling medallions. The carved gates of the inner courtyard. And those Four Winds. On the pillars of the gate. They have gilded wings. They gambol, gleam. They seem to be dancing even more gaily than usual. We run on.