“Let’s go to Kapitulna. To Miodowa. Kapucyńska is almost directly opposite. We just have to get past Miodowa. But they say it’s hard.”
I don’t remember if we went into Kapitulna and if someone there said, a lot of people actually, because lots of people were just standing there, turning back, that Miodowa was no good. It was flooded. Fenced off. With barricades. Ruins. Artillery fire. From the corner of Kozia, from the eight-story building. And from Bonifraterska Street. And tanks every so often. From Krakowskie Przedmieście to Miodowa. They could go there and back. Shooting. Setting fires.
So maybe by way of Kapitulna. To the right, across something demolished. Or back to Podwale. And through the gate. The Chodkiewicz gate. With the grillwork. Into the same courtyard, the big one. Or was it that Kapitulna was fenced off — with barricades? We went right through that grille, the fence, into the courtyard, into the rubble, because everything here, the outbuildings, the wings, the front was demolished, burned to the ground, stacks of something or other, of bricks, boards. Entire hills. Heaps. Across the courtyard. Stumbling. Maybe we should jump across that way? To the passageway, the gate. From the gate to the Pac gate. Next door to the Capuchins. Kapucyńska Street. And from Kapucyńska there was a passageway broken through to the back of Hipoteczna. It’s already close. But what an idea — to cross Miodowa! We could hear what was going on. People were coming back. They warned us.
“No, no, it’s full of dead bodies lying there. Whoever runs across is on the ground immediately. And groaning. Or a corpse.”
We enter a burned-out, completely burned-out, collapsed — only some beams sticking up — façade. Into a vestibule. A flight of stairs leading down. Black. Into an even darker hole. And terrible heat. After a fire.
“There’s someone there, below, let’s go down and ask.”
“Anyway, let’s go down, see what’s doing.”
We go down.
“This is Miodowa, isn’t it?”
“Miodowa 14.”
Downstairs, straight ahead, there’s a woman dressed in something dark, black below. She’s bending over. Doing something. Around someone. A back. A bare back. And a wound. We can see. From a distance. He’s lying on his stomach. On a bed. She’s applying cotton, gauze. A cubicle. Black. And a noise. Water. A waterfall.
“But is there a passageway? Across Miodowa?”
“What? Across Miodowa? Gunfire. Don’t even think of it!”
We can hear shooting and a noise.
“What’s that?”
“The whole street’s flooded. It’s a river.”
“Rushing in here? Falling in?”
“Yes.”
A waterfall, literally. She wets the bandages in the roaring water from above. Luxury!
“And the cellars to the left?”
“That’s the Artisans Guild.”
“Can we go in there?”
“Certainly. It’s empty.”
We go in to the left. Behind the pillars of this anteroom, practically next door, an oil-painting Christ on the Cross has been preserved. An elderly man with a mustache looks in, comes down, questions us, people are advising against Miodowa but he doesn’t care, he’s going.
We go farther inside. Past the threshold. Or rather past what remained of it, past the doorframe that’s been burned down to the brick.
“Let’s stay here.”
“Let’s stay here.”
We all agree at once. A relief. It’s empty. There are ruins. Something is there. Over our heads. A ceiling. Not intact. Something seems to be missing from it closer to the street. But very little. It’s nothing. One or two little windows? One, I think. Yes. One. One or two pillars. Everything black, ashes, heat. Now I know. There were more pillars. And a second window. On the other side. The courtyard. Farther on — to the left — a doorframe — and something else— just like the first one.
Lusia spreads out her coat behind the pillar on a pile of ash and plaster, sits down, the first one to do so.
“Oof, Robinson Crusoe.”
Swen’s mother settles into a leather armchair.
“Ooh… how nice.”
Aunt sits down in another, exactly identical armchair. Nearer the wall.
“Oh, God… finally.”
Zbyszek sits down in a third chair. Celina lies down in a baby carriage, in the center.
“Ooh, good…” Her legs and head hang down because she doesn’t fit. But she’s happy. Like all of us.
Swen and I grab three bricks. We have a stove.
“We’re going to get some boards,” Swen and I say and we go out. Because there’s an iron bed with springs. Bare. But how can we lie on it?
“Oh Jesus!” can be heard from the other side of the Miodowa gate. “O Jesus, help!”
“That must be him.”
So he crawled out, the man with the mustache, and now he’s lying there and how can we go there? Who will help him if they’re killing people out there?
We look for boards in the courtyard. Everything is dry. Creaking. Boards. Long ones. Two of them.
“Great.”
“We’ll take them.”
We carry them inside.
The man is groaning. Too bad.
“Oh Jesus… help… help…”
We put down the boards on brick supports. And we lie down next to each other right away. Swen on his board. I on my own. On the left is a high window. I’m near the window. Which looks out on Miodowa.
“Oh, how good,” I say.
“How good,” says Swen.
The wounded man — after an hour — two hours — grows quiet. Either someone took him (?) or he died. We. Too bad. Our own people. There are ten of us living together: 14 Miodowa, the Chodkiewicz Palace, the Artisans Guild (the front of the apartment house faces Miodowa, the courtyard faces Podwale, the side, Kapitulna).
Across Miodowa — the Pac Palace — a niche in Empire style with bas-relief, grillwork, and a tiny circular courtyard. To its right was the Prymasowski Palace. On our side of the street, to the right, were the Basilians. To the left on our side, the Igelstrom Palace, the Branickis’. Everything with two fronts — onto Miodowa and Podwale (the driveway). To the left, on the other side, behind the Pac Palace, was a circular driveway, a semicircle, a barely recessed wall, stairs — a terrace — a statue above something or other: the Capuchins. Also the Sobieskis. The Sisters of the Sacrament — Marysieńka. Senatorska Street — for all the kings straight from their election— their first thanks, plop, onto their knees.
To the left—
Żoliborz
Marymont
Bielany
To the right—
Czerniaków
Wilanów
Everything — them. The Sisters of the Sacrament we know. That’s right: Kazimierz on Tamka Street, the Sisters of Charity — that’s them. Antoni on Senatorska Street, into the cloisters, fleeing from election, the king dropped in here for his first thanksgiving. That’s also them. Them — the avenue. Them — the monument with water below. So what? Do I want to move you with this? Move myself? Or the king? The Sobieskis?
We were lying on our boards. Not planed. Full of splinters.
Swen said, “May God grant me such a bed for the rest of my life.”
“Amen,” I answered, meaning that there could be nothing better.
Swen’s mother prepared food. Lately we’ve been eating very little. Twice a day. And only a little bit for each. Mama wanted to please us. She made dumplings with what remained of some vinegar she had.
“What’s that you’ve made, Mama?” Swen asked.
“Actually, it’s inedible, I think,” I said.