Let us return to the uprising. Of August. As we thought then. That it would be called the August Uprising forever. Throughout Poland. But even as near as Młociny, or Włochy, Warsaw was not Poland; Poland lived her own life. For Poland, the most important thing about Warsaw was that it was burning. That made an impression. Roma Oliwowa’s father near Siedlce climbed a tree, climbed down, and declared, “Oho, Warsaw is burning.”
Pilots flying over at night to help out with airdrops for Warsaw had no difficulty taking aim. Where it was red, that was Warsaw.
So — getting back to Poland — Poland was not Warsaw. And the uprising remained the Warsaw Uprising. So let us return to the Warsaw Uprising. One day or evening… it’s hard to say which… there were a lot of carbide lamps burning in the shelter, a few candles, there was plenty of carbide — everywhere — on Chłodna Street I saw people rolling down the sidewalk entire cans, these corrugated kegs rolling along the sidewalk with a grating sound and with that smell (of carbide) from under their arms. So it was hard to distinguish, and definitely not in memory, in that endless evening of the shelters, what was day and what was not… On one such seeming evening, suddenly, as happened now and again, people came in, as usual without anything, this time from Wola. Not straight from Wola but after having stopped along the way in other shelters, which had been bombed, no doubt, or which struck them as being worse than ours. We became friendly with a fat woman with heavy arms and legs (she was wearing only a flowered summer dress, with short sleeves) from Towarowa Street at the corner of Wolska. She’d escaped from there. In front of her eyes people had been stood up against a wall, mostly men of course, shot, set on fire. Like many others in this confusion, burning, screaming, and shouting, somehow or other she had fled. Our large brick shelter with the altar had already been jam-packed for many days. So she had nowhere to sleep. The bunks were filled to capacity. She found herself a loose door, one with louvered panels, perhaps from a cellar toilet, and somewhere near us, several bunks beyond the Ads., closer to the altar and right next to the entrance, she spent the first night on the door (laid flat) and when she awoke her fat arms and thighs were completely covered with furrows from the slats.
There was a crush. There was less and less space. Also, fewer buildings. Little by little, the territory of our Stare Miasto redoubt began to shrink; at times the barricades and trenches were moved back. Because the trenches were ordinary ones. Ditches. For running and shooting. Stretched out. Winding. As at the front.
Also — there were more and more bombardments. Artillery, the gunboat on the Vistula, the armored train on the peripheral railway tracks; in short, all sorts of shells. So it went. But the planes. The dread. Daily. And the days were long. The planes would fly over. Or, rather, they would descend over the roofs. And then, when you could already hear that they were there… drrrr… that they were diving over our roofs, the roofs of our housing blocks or the buildings close by, then you knew that there were bombs, too. And immediately the whining of the bombs would separate from the nosedive of the planes; you waited a moment, just an instant. That moment was the actual hit. After it came a thud or, rather, an explosion. And after that — a smashing, crashing, shattering of something, the results of the hit. Thanks to some sort of luck, there were an awful lot of duds. People said that was the Czechs’ doing. That the bombs were manufactured over there and they purposely didn’t assemble them properly. Well, as soon as that whine separated from an airplane, the bomb falling, the direct hit, and the silence, we began to count, silently in the first days, then Swen and I together, then aloud in a family chorus: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven… twelve…”—here we already exchanged glances—“thir-teen…” and a wave of the hand, disbelief, dismissal, a sigh: “A dud.”
But soon the airplanes flew over again, dived down, the separation of the bombs, the whining, the silence, and—“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…”—and at this point sometimes it suddenly succeeded — boom!
Mostly they exploded at eight or nine. Yes. But the planes would be flying over once more and: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…”
Crash!
Us? No… And already that whine.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…”
Crash!
No, next door it seems; no, because we’re still here. There was no other proof. And already they’re flying, whining…
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…”
Crash!
But already the next one.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, e-lev-en… tweeelve… thir-teeen…”
“Oh…”
Then suddenly there might be a lull. Half an hour. An hour. And: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…”
Hisss… and immediately: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve… thir-teeen… oh…”
And already new ones diving…
“One, two, three, four, five, six… God help us!…”
And a little while later…
“Oh, they’re here already…”
“Oh Jesus…”
And: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twe-elve… thir-teeen… oh!”
That was daytime. And at night. We’re lying there. In a crowd. A flood. By the cellarful. And suddenly: crash… crash… crash… crash… crash… crash…
Windblasts, fire, and the buckling of walls — six times each, usually.
But how those walls moved… Once, I’m watching them — and it seems they’re moving a meter back and forth… and back… and forth… are we breaking into pieces?!… No-o… they’re swinging… a little less, less and less, and they settle down… as they were before. I rubbed my eyes in amazement.
After every such “wardrobe,” for a moment people went “buzz, buzz, buzz…” and immediately lay down to sleep again, wherever they were, and fell asleep instantly.
And again: “whoossh… whoossh… whoossh…” Fires, windblasts, flying walls (red), people with children in their arms hurling themselves en masse in the direction of the water barrel, into the narrow passageway leading to the distant cellars, and people from the distant cellars rushing into our shelter.
Everyone at the same time.
They collide, knock into each other. They come back. The “wardrobe” quiets down. They rush to the bunks. They sleep. Until once again. An hour later. Two. Half an hour: whoossh… whoossh…
And once again with their children in their arms, off to the passageway, the others toward us, collision, quiet, exhaustion, just as they’re standing there, in suits, in coats… with children, snoring…
No. From August 12 on, the nights were not good. I shall pass over the shells. The tanks. The stealthy approaches. It was the “wardrobes.”
An expedition… for flour. We had done it once before. Successfully. We had given some to the woman. She had some. And we had some. But all of a sudden Swen had the bright idea that for — how many of us were there? — he, Mama, Celinka, Aunt Uff., Zbyszek, and I — six! Well then, for six people twice a day, or even once a day, and even taking into account the rest of the rusks (we still had some), there wasn’t so very much flour left. So he said, “Let’s go upstairs.”