“Attention… put out your lights… absolute silence… there are Germans overhead…”
Or perhaps the light coming from the opposite direction was first. From afar. But moving. In our direction. So that we grew uneasy, I think. Perhaps we even asked: “What’s that?”
We, the uninitiated. Someone, a few people ahead of us, whispered immediately: “A courier.”
“It’s nothing, nothing,” we passed it on, “a courier…”
“Aha — a courier.”
“A courier.”
“Attention… at-ten-tion…”
The light suddenly drew closer, moving swiftly, the splashing was also rapid.
“Attention, attention… a courier.”
She passed us with her candle.
Then again, “Attention, a manhole, we don’t know if it’s open.”
“Attention, a manhole…”
I remember that one of them wasn’t open. But we passed by more slowly, more quietly. At each one. During that month we had grown only too accustomed to silences, to the phrase “the Germans are listening,” and to pretending that suddenly we weren’t there.
I no longer remember those columns of light under the open manholes. Or perhaps I do remember. From far off they were like candles. The same effect. Something shining. Then again, something beginning to shine. It passed. In our direction.
“Attention… attention…”
This time it was a boy, I think. The girl courier passed us several times. Once, two people. Once, I think, even more.
We were amazed that it was still Miodowa. There was no fear of getting lost. Because there were lights and arrows. And people who knew the way. And the fact that there was no end to us. Ahead. And to the rear. At the corner of Nowy Świat and Warecka people had been exiting and exiting for a long time already. But they were still entering continuously on Krasiński Square. And for a long time they would keep on entering. We had hit upon a good time. Teik retreated with the last forces, at night already. They had to walk more quickly and in the dark. And they got lost. The Germans threw grenades in after them. From above. There was a panic. In the end they made it and got out. But not all of them.
At some point I took the wounded man again. He was already exhausted. And feverish. He wanted something to drink. He hurt all over. He was groaning. I comforted him. But what good did that do? He wanted something to drink. And nobody had any water. Not a drop. Nor was there any medicine for the pain. We had to carry him. Which means he had to be touched in many places. And how good it was that he was holding on to me around my neck as was needed. I held his legs with my hands.
After a long time the word started filtering back that we were turning into Krakowskie Przedmieście. And that it wouldn’t be as high or wide there. That is, that it wouldn’t be possible to walk as freely. This was especially distressing for me and for anyone who was carrying a wounded man. You became about a head taller. But after all, I wasn’t so very tall to start with.
We were all curious about this fork. This turn. This news.
“Krakowskie Przedmieście!”
“Krakowskie Przedmieście!”
“Krakowskie Przedmieście!”
Perhaps the first open manhole was really over here. Because Krakowskie Przedmieście was held by the Germans. But Miodowa, too, from Krakowskie Przedmieście to Kozia, was also theirs, I think, because they used to ride right up to the barricade near the Capuchins. And also because they were occupying that eight-story building on the corner of Kozia.
Finally we’re there. At the fork. The important one. We turn right. The sewer becomes different immediately. Smaller. And oval-shaped. Without any benches. We all had to stoop a little. But it wasn’t too bad. That is, we were definitely hunched over. I don’t remember anymore just how much. Even before that the wounded man was beginning to weigh me down. Once again I took a break and gave him to someone else. To Zbyszek. Or to some other person. From Henio’s section. Then I took the wounded man back. I held him by his knees, lower down. And he held his head lower. And he didn’t stick up at all. Because his head didn’t particularly want to stay upright. It kept flopping over. Until it fell. Onto the back of my head.
“Water,” he groaned.
“But there isn’t any water, there’s nothing we can do, just a little longer, we’ll get there soon…” That was me, trying to comfort him.
But he kept groaning. “Water… water…”
Again I explained it to him. A moment later he called out again, “Water… I can’t stand it…”
“We’ll be there soon, we’ll be there soon…”
He began slipping even lower; his head bounced downwards and sideways.
At one point I wanted, I don’t know if it was a manhole or if we had to slow down, or someone was passing us and it was more crowded so we had to stop. Well, I wanted to prop myself up a bit with my hand against the wall. I leaned on it. With my palm. And my palm slid down along the thick green ooze. It didn’t even give way. I knew, after all, that it was half round and yet I was astonished that it was so thickly — overgrown — with whatever it was. Because I think practically my whole fist slid into it. And slid down. With the slime. “So leaning makes no difference,” I thought, because for some reason I was still protecting my clothing. Oh, naiveté!
We moved on.
Slosh… slosh… slosh…
Buuuu — again the sounds of the uprising overhead: buuuu— uuu — uuuuuu — uu…
“Waaater…”
“It won’t be long now… not long…”
“Waater… I can drink water from the sewer…”
“No!”
“I can drink… give me that water… from the sewer.”
“No, no.”
The nurse ahead of me heard him and also cried: “No, no!”
“I want to drink…”
He wanted to slip down even lower but he couldn’t manage.
“What should I do with him? What should I do?” I was becoming desperate.
“Just a minute.” The nurse opened her rucksack. “I’ll give him a sugar cube. I have some.”
“Oh, that’s great,” I said, “and that will help his thirst?”
“Yes, sugar helps, it dulls the thirst”—and she handed it to him— “here, it’s sugar, take it.”
“Good…” He opened his mouth, she placed the cube inside.
We walked on. For the time being there was some peace with him.
We walked for a long time. Under Krakowskie Przedmieście. Forks… The names of the streets in chalk, arrows: HERE! Passing. Standing still.
“Attention! Attention! Atten-tion! Manholes!”
“Silence! Extinguish lights!”—and again slowing our pace.
Noises from bombs, shells, from whatever, every so often, endless: bu-u-u-uu-uuu-uuuuu…
Someone again (a civilian) took the wounded man from me. Suddenly:
“Nowy Świat!”
“Nowy Świat!”
“Nowy Świat!”
“It won’t be long now…”
“Nowy Świat! We’ll soon be coming out, at the corner of Warecka!”
“Nowy Świat! The last stretch now, exit onto Warecka!”
I don’t remember now if there was anything distinctive about Nowy Świat. Perhaps it was even a little smaller. Or maybe not. Perhaps not. There definitely was a fork. We were definitely exhausted by then. And impatient. Although it was comforting that we had made it. Without grenades. And that we were walking under our own territory. I don’t remember in what words that was expressed. Toward the rear, behind me. But it was very much to the point.
I don’t think anyone told us the time yet. What time it was. I don’t know if that was deliberate. Because they did later. Shortly afterward. Near the exit. Not that they made an announcement. But the time was mentioned. Perhaps it only seems to me that we didn’t talk about it since we’d been walking for so long. Or maybe not. The fact is that on the whole everyone was disoriented and even had we not been disoriented it would have been hard to believe that several hours had passed already. I know for a fact that before we reached the exit there was great excitement. Because it was ten o’clock. Or even past ten. At night. Even perhaps half past ten. Yes. Definitely. No earlier. Because someone said that we’d been walking for five hours. And after all, we’d entered the sewer at five o’clock. There was sunshine. Heat.