Anyway, it was a historic day. The fall of Starówka. Starówka was already famous throughout Poland. In the camps, too. And in England. And the sewers. These. The ones from Starówka. They were already famous. Already, Warsaw knew that it was a historic day. But the knowledge wasn’t so very wonderful.
Our haste was communicated to the others, too. Especially to Swen’s mother and Aunt Uff. That is, to the two mothers.
“Wait a minute, wait!”
“Wait a minute, take this…”
Did we take something? No, I think not. But during this time, from what must have been the very last supplies, they had hastily fried up two pancakes for each of us for our journey. On the stovetop. The kind that people cooked on then. No, not on a stovetop. Forgive me. I forgot. On those three bricks behind the pillar. It became apparent only when we were saying goodbye. They stuffed them into our pockets. We didn’t want them. Because we were going to Śródmieście. And this had used up their last supplies. But they didn’t want to listen.
The women all said goodbye to us in a somewhat unusual way. Swen’s mother and Zbyszek’s mother made the sign of the cross on each of our foreheads in turn and kissed us. That was probably the most moving goodbye of my life. They wept. In the end, Zbyszek’s mother never saw him again. He’s alive. In England. But… His wife (he got married) sends letters. For him. So he’s alive? So it seems. But why should it be that way?
We left the cellar. 14 Miodowa. By the back. Along the right side. To Krasiński Square. Here you crossed Miodowa. Behind the barricade. Onto Długa. We could make out the assembly point just past a throng of people who were already waiting by the walls.
That house is standing today. Again. The first one down from the corner. I think that then it had a gate with a niche. Or does it only seem that way to me? The most amazing thing is that the house was still standing then. Still. At least partly. Inside it was like a beehive. It was really swarming. And I think I’m not imagining that it was like that on the upper floors, too. On the ground floor and the second floor, at least. After all, it seems I went upstairs. With Swen and Zbyszek. Yes, right up to the second floor. Henio showed us. Where to go. To wait. What to do. It was amazing that we found each other. Don’t think there weren’t any civilians there. A crowd of partisans and a crowd of civilians. Running up and down the stairs. No one paid any attention to the bombs. It turned out that the sewers had the same effect on everyone. It was a good thing a bomb didn’t hit us. But none did. We had to hurry. Every hour counted. The offensive was gaining strength. The defense was costly. And since in general the seriously wounded and all civilians were being left behind, the rest at least had to manage to retreat, the last ones being those engaged in the defense, who now had to defend only the manhole and themselves in order to descend into the manhole. But for the time being there were still lots and lots of people waiting. In addition, I noticed, there was more than one seriously wounded person. And, really, a crowd of civilians. Smuggled in, like us. To help out or simply because they knew someone. And all of this prolonged the retreat. But the plan was adhered to at all costs. Order. Therefore, there was no longer any room for being afraid.
We rushed after Henio into a hall that was crowded and noisy with chattering. With movement, above all. With people, too. And with plank beds. Stacked up. And with various other things. The preparation of stretchers. Something — was it knapsacks? — was being stacked in a row against the wall. It was forbidden to carry knapsacks. So whatever it was must have been something much smaller and more essential.
On the bunks various people were sitting, lying down, dressing themselves and being dressed by others. Partisans. Girl couriers, paramedics. And, no doubt, various families. Extras. There was madness in all this method. Chaos with haste. But over all of this reigned the chief task of orderliness and moving people out. Our wounded man was lying on a ground-floor bunk. I don’t remember if I dressed him or if the partisan women had already done that; I remember that I had to put shoes on his feet. And to tie them. Just getting this done went on and on. My wounded man was emaciated, very young. He had been shot in nine places. I thought it would be difficult to pretend that he was all right. He was semiconscious. He was groaning. Everything hurt him. And that wasn’t surprising. Every time I began putting on his shoe he groaned, writhed, pulled back his leg. I said something. I cajoled him. I waited a bit. And I tried again. I don’t know what was happening outside. In the sky and in the city, that is. Lieutenant Radosław (not the famous one) rushed past us a couple of times.[16] Blond. Over thirty. He introduced himself to us. Also in a rush. He was worried about getting shoes on the wounded man. And even more about the sewer. Henio rushed past a couple of times. And a nurse. A colleague of his. And of the wounded man. From the same division. She looked at my work. I was already beginning to pull on one shoe. I don’t know when I finally pulled it all the way on. I think she helped me at one moment. It seems there was some flexibility in our group’s schedule. I’m not sure, though. Perhaps it actually depended on our packing. And on putting on the shoes. Even so, people were entering the sewer nonstop. Finally we got the shoes on him. But then the lacing turned out to be just as difficult. Because his feet had also been shot up. Some people had watches, though. I exaggerated when I said no one did. Apparently putting on his shoes and lacing them took two hours in all. Maybe a little less. But not much. We were in that hall a very long time. Then we were about to leave. But still we waited. For a signal. I remember a lot of coming and going, bustling about, carrying things out, shouts, commands.
Finally, our turn. I with the wounded man on my back. He was light. But he hurt all over. He was trying to help me and himself. As much as he could. At the beginning, the walking out to the manhole, even he was infected by the idea of the crossing. So, there was me carrying the wounded man, and Zbyszek, Swen, Radosław, Henio, and the nurse with a rucksack. And their people. Except that I only remember those who were walking closest to me. Swen walked behind me, Zbyszek behind Swen. Henio behind Zbyszek, I think. The nurse in front of me. Or perhaps Henio was in front of her. And Radosław ahead of them.
We walked quickly downstairs. Straight to the gate. I remember that from the gate we slipped over into the niche. And there we waited. Then a bit farther, but still near the gate. I remember that the wall of the building and the gate were yellow. And that there was terrible burning across the way. And not just in one place. Flames several stories high. And smoke. It stung our eyes. Blinded us. The sun was shining through the smoke. I think that there were a great many civilians in front of us and behind us. Not only young men. Old men, too. And old women. Someone was sitting — in the line— in a folding chair. The line was very crooked. Because of the niche. And we had to be right up against the wall. Because suddenly as we came closer to the street we could feel the terror. I don’t remember if there were planes. Most likely there were. And all we could do was flatten ourselves. Against the wall. They were bombing and setting fires. I remember the shells. Flying in from Krakowskie Przedmieście and Bonifraterska. From the Vistula, too, most likely. And from Przejazd. We could sense that they were aiming at the line to the manhole and at the manhole itself.
We moved up. From the gate. Right into the street. Against the wall. Here it moved a bit more quickly. And we could already see people breaking away from the wall at the corner and crawling over the roadway to the manhole. But the entrance to the manhole — it was from the other side of the square. Facing the left tower of the church on Garnizonowa.