On the first of September in that famous year it was also splendid summer weather. Also a Friday. Five years earlier (but they included two leap years) — and so history made a complete circle. I remember thinking that to myself at the time.
Now I think that the words about how “the enemy attacked Poland from out of the high sky” are well chosen. Because it was fair weather and in fair weather the sky is high. And the planes are, too. But in 1944 the enemy attacked from a low, roof-level sky.
We didn’t know yet in the morning that the first day of September would be historic. At dawn, that is. I think that day began very early. The planes rose with the sun. At five a.m. bombs were already falling, further destroying what remained above our heads. And people were already dying. Some from cave-ins. They were also dying at night. But from other causes.
Well, on September 1, early in the morning, Swen’s mother announced to us that we had nothing to eat. I say “us” because the whole cellar was already on its feet. Each said what he had to say.
Definitely, after standing in the doorway for a while Swen and I decided to go out. To search. For food. How?
“Maybe something will turn up somewhere…”
“If not, we’ll have to steal.”
“Yes, we’ll have to steal,” we told each other out loud.
And we went out onto the steps — after estimating the heat and the danger — and went into the courtyard. We stood for a while beside the door, above the sprawling, half-squatting corpse of the old aunt. By what instinct? We stood there and looked at her. She had a wedding ring on her finger. Only after the war did we each confess to the other that we had thought about that ring. But whether or not the ring would have been useful then is an open question. It wasn’t only money that was useless.
I must confess that for a long time I hadn’t liked the first of September. Perhaps school was the real reason but a person convinces himself that he’s had presentiments. Or perhaps that date had had something disquieting about it for a long time. It almost certainly had.
And then — that day — in addition to the need to look for food, something else drove us out. After standing for a long time over the aunt of those women we began to crawl through the passageways, the courtyards of Miodowa, in the direction of Krasiński Square. And it became immediately apparent that we weren’t the only ones wandering about. That there was anxiety. That it was the end. Stare Miasto was defending itself with its last ounce of strength. But there were fewer and fewer people. And nothing to eat. The partisans didn’t have anything, either. And an attack was in progress. From several directions. Explosions. Shooting. Cave-ins into the last remaining cellars. The sun rose higher in the sky. The heat increased. People were walking in circles. Civilians as well as partisans. Helplessness. I don’t know when people started saying that the Germans were already entering Freta. And that Starówka had capitulated.
I think we returned to our cellar. Something was being talked about there, discussed. But what? Mainly it was the fact that at some point the Germans would break into the cellar and begin throwing grenades. Again, those pillars. I thought: Eh, if only I could be behind a pillar. But would that have any effect? In fact, did our talking, our deliberating have any meaning? Heat, noise, chaos, counsels, smoke, because there was fire and more fire, the stench of burning, and ever greater anxiety. We went outside again. The two of us. The rest stayed there. Zbyszek, too. I don’t remember exactly what happened between the time we walked away from the old aunt to the time we heard the first piece of news. And what happened between the first piece of news (the Germans on Freta) and meeting our mutual acquaintance, Henio. Henio was wearing the uniform of a partisan — German discards, that is, a tankist’s suit, I think.
“I’m an orderly,” he said. And we sat down in Fuchs’s courtyard, I think, in the building behind the Basilians. On a step near the wall, maybe even under the wall, perhaps even on the ruins of something like an entrance covered by a roof.
“Listen,” said Henio, “we’re retreating today through the sewers. The severely wounded are being left behind, but our lieutenant has a favorite who’s seriously wounded, and we have to transport him, will you do it?”
“Yes!”
“You can both go because I can say you’ll have to take turns carrying him since he has to be carried on your backs.”
That leg of Swen’s was still painful. The knee.
“That’s nothing, I’ll be the one to carry him,” I said, “and you’ll help me a little.”
“But listen, there are three of us,” Swen answered Henio.
“Three? That’s not so good.”
“My cousin, we can’t leave him.”
“It can’t be done.”
“Well, too bad,” I replied (how easy it is to give someone up!).
But Swen was loyal.
“No, we won’t go without Zbyszek.”
Henio began to relent.
“Well, it doesn’t depend on me, because if it did… but maybe I’ll try to explain… or I can simply mention two and the third will join up, or never mind, the three of you come, to Długa Street”—I think he gave an address—“on the left from Krasiński Square. There’s a hospital there. And the wounded man. That’s the assembly point. The Germans are taking Stare Miasto, but there’ll be a defense. The manhole is on Krasiński Square. Don’t take anything with you. They won’t let you through the manhole with any objects. A knapsack at most.”
“Fine”—we didn’t dare believe in those sewers yet. That was our dream. To get through to Śródmieście. The legend of the sewers, of entering with passes obtained through friendships and only in the highest circles, had made its impression. That it might be dreadful in the sewers, that people drowned down there, that they lost their way, that from Mokotów, the lower part, you went on your knees because it was three feet high, that some of the manholes were held by the Germans and kept open, that the Germans tossed grenades inside, didn’t frighten us at all. Just to get away from here! Only the women would stay on, and they always have it easier.
“You’ll have to dress the wounded man”—here he gave us his pseudonym—“you’ll have to pretend that he’s only slightly wounded, because otherwise they won’t let him into the sewer. Well then at — o’clock”—Henio named the hour, two p.m. I think—“be here… see you…”
Or maybe he didn’t tell us the hour, since no one had a watch; maybe he just said “in an hour”—yes, that’s more likely.
I know that we ran back to our people. That we rushed in with a great deal of noise. Aunt Uff. was happy that Zbyszek could go, too. Zbyszek was also happy. And Swen’s mother. For us. Although it was hard for Swen’s mother, Aunt Uff., Celinka, Lusia, and Mrs. R. to part with us. Especially for Swen’s mother. And for Aunt. And even more so because it was for the unknown. At least in Śródmieście there was Aunt Uff.’s daughter, Danka, on Żurawia Street. So Zbyszek and Swen had Danka there, and I had Father and Zocha. And above all, we had Halina.
I think we already knew that we would exit at the corner of Nowy Świat and Warecka. So Father, Zocha, and Halina would be closest. Because they were at 32 Chmielna. Between Bracka and Marszałkowska. So we’d go to them. All three of us. Directly.
After those hopeless hours our excitement about the sewers was so great that the air raids, the shelling which must have been even heavier than usual on that last day (although any scale of measurement had long been exceeded), had no effect on us. Of course, a so-called final attack had its specific characteristics, which I already knew from Wola. But here there was an antidote: the sewers.