Apparently before that, while still in this cellar, she’d said to Basia, “Don’t cry; anyway, we won’t survive.”
So a person kept on calculating, along with other people: What should I do now? Several times already they’d pushed Aunt Uff. and Swen’s mother to just get out of there. And twice they’d even gotten ready to go. To upper Stare Miasto. But each time I was somewhere else. For some reason. Once, for an action — I remember that. And twice — however — they’d waited for me, but when I arrived there was such a barrage or an air raid or in general some sort of hell that the departure was postponed. But on August 25 it seems we were ready. We’d had enough of Rybaki Street. Of the Vistula. Of those housing blocks. We. Lusia, Mareczek, and her mother. Aunt Zosia said we should go and she’ll stay here. And the Ads. were prepared to leave with us. The question was, where should we go?
“To the Sisters of the Holy Sacrament.”
We decided on the change:
“To the Sisters of the Holy Sacrament.”
“To the Sisters of the Holy Sacrament.”
The Sisters of the Holy Sacrament were practically burned to the ground. But the church itself was still standing. I don’t know in what condition. It seems to me it was battered. But basically it was standing. Was the cupola intact? I don’t remember. In those times, saying that something was “standing” could be so relative that I simply don’t know. But where else could we go, if not there? Throughout the entire expanse of our neighborhood there remained, as everyone said then, only two addresses: 5 Hipoteczna and Krzywa Latarnia (on Podwale), so we considered those two surviving buildings. But since only those two were still standing, there must be such a mob there.
Lusia said, “It would be best to go to 5 Hipoteczna. I have a friend there.”
However — an additional obstacle—5 Hipoteczna was a long way off.
But to remain here was impossible. The blocks were nearing their end. At any moment the Germans would enter. For sure.
“What about the ruins?”
“That’s it! The ruins.”
It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed our minds.
“But they’re bombing the ruins, too.”
“Perhaps they’re not bombing them like they do here, not taking aim.”
“Yes, but if they hit the ruins, we’ve had it, because there’s only one ceiling or it’s completely…”
And so on in a circle. Always someone didn’t agree. But we had the feeling that we must get out of there.
August 25 must have been absolutely dreadful because by evening, I think, we had decided that we would leave at dawn. The passageway to Nowe Miasto and Stare Miasto was already burned down, bombed out. And to reach the Sisters of the Holy Sacrament you had to scramble along the escarpment. That is, across an exposed “frying pan.” Under fire.
The partisans came rushing in at night.
“Who’ll go to dig trenches?”
Several people stood up. I did, too.
“Just come back before daybreak,” said Swen.
They gave us each a shovel, a pickaxe. And we ran quietly into the street. It was warm. I only know it was Rybaki or one of the so-called streets, because Kościelna and the intersection, too, had already changed radically. They didn’t look like themselves or even like streets, for that matter. Or like an intersection.
Different configurations dominated.
Hills. Ditches. Barricade walls. Barricade ruins. Something more or less crosswise. And deep.
I am speaking of changes sensed by smell, by touch: by tripping, by extending your hands, and by the stirred-up powdered ruins and the smoke in your breath; in general, something in silhouette — because after all it was night.
How was that entire upper area rising up there, that is: along the hill, the hill itself, or what was on the hilclass="underline" Nowe Miasto, the Old Town’s New Town? Perhaps it would be better to ask: How was it still hanging on there? In and of itself and above itself? Burned through with live flame? smoky? dusty? beaten? thunderous? smashed?
The Sisters of the Holy Sacrament was on fire from the top down, from left to right. And shattered. To the left — the Dominicans, also shattered, seething, burning. Also downward. Mostowa? Why even mention it? I couldn’t see (night, those changes, the pace of digging, because we were already excavating trenches). And from so far away. Definitely a shattered mess. Yes, definitely. That’s right. There was no longer an address. A house. That is. What was going on lower down, and in our lower town — could not be put back together— what was there to gather here — to revert to the configuration as it used to be — since nothing was left anymore. The fortress — the housing blocks, the ones across from us, tough, mangled even in the dark. The Mint, or, rather, Wytwórnia, was still visible. Now, too. And from here. Large. Gray. Fortresslike. Like a pianoforte — so expandable, propped up at a slant, and then boom! So resonant. There were also fragments, shells, between it and Our Lady. Oh! Our Lady — the one above Kościelna Street. On the heights. Red. That’s my understanding. Not at night. As for the brick. Because there was fire. I don’t remember if it was then. Gothic. With a tower. Old. Firmly planted here. And we along with it. And generations of us before us. Horrible. That here, too, it was ruined. And how it was ruined! Collapsed. Brought down. Clobbered. That’s it.
Nothing. We rushed through the job of digging in the hard city ground, with cables running underneath, and having to be careful where and how much to dig. Close. And move it! But definitely, it took only a very little time.
And boy did we leap among those ditches, moving stealthily, going back. Shovels, pickaxes — and back. Fast. My labyrinth. My shelter. My people on their feet, with their bundles.
“We’re going?”
“We are.”
Each person takes something. We set out as a whole group. Because the Ads. are there, too. Lusia with Pani Rymińska and Mareczek. Goodbyes. Painful. With Aunt Zosia. Dawn was breaking. And that was the point — to leave before the day began. And yet things got all fouled up. Either someone took too long packing or those others started up earlier than usual. Because already there was gunfire. Even at the exit we deliberated again over whether we shouldn’t wait awhile. But the majority, I think, began to shout that there’s no reason to wait. Because it will get worse with every passing moment. In any case some people began to run outside, at the same time the shells started coming in, and instantly it was a mess. Already, on Rybaki Street, you could see clearly. Several figures, bent under bundles, raced past. I had a blanket full of rusks on my back. We went to the Dominicans’ gate (the one with the monstrance) in order to reach the top via the monastery gardens and along the escarpment, because 23 Rybaki was already destroyed.
After a moment’s silence they began firing again. Panic. Pan Ad., his pants rolled up and carrying his briefcase, ran in front. Pani Róża Ad., with Basia in her arms, ran after him and called to him to wait, but another shell exploded and Pan Ad. speeded up. So Pani Ad. turned back. Now Lusia, carrying Mareczek, was running behind Pan Ad., also more and more quickly. Her mother (Pani Rymińska) wanted to catch up with them but couldn’t. Aunt Uff. and Zbyszek were already overtaking her.
Pani Rymińska cried out, “Wait… wait a bit…”
The rest of us passed by but she kept on calling, “Wait!”
I felt foolish and went back. The same number of steps. I started to lead her. By the arm. Because the ground underfoot was full of debris. And she was stumbling. Since we were going too slowly and they were going too quickly I pulled her along at first. To make her walk faster. Then I ran up to join them. To tell them to go more slowly. But there was gunfire already. It was thundering all around us. And how! And it didn’t help much to call. So I went back to Pani Rymińska again. And again I ran away. In order to maintain some kind of communication. Pan Ad. was farther and farther away. And higher up. On the escarpment. He was racing over the ruins. His pants were rolled up. Then over the grass. Which was littered with bricks. Plaster. He crouched down. And ran on. I can no longer say for sure when it was that Pani Ad., with Basia in her arms, turned back. I turned around, looked back. I ran up to them. I implored them. It was obviously the herd instinct (in me). After that, I was just running. A lot. Through the streets. But they didn’t. They were afraid. Because they weren’t used to it. To shells and bullets. It’s really a matter of becoming accustomed.