I know that I took the wounded man back from Zbyszek or the other person onto my own back. He was at the end of his rope and I don’t remember anymore if he was groaning nonstop. Or if he was already quiet. And utterly indifferent. Maybe both. By turns.
At one moment the cry went up:
“Stand still! Stand still! Stand still! We’ll be exiting in order. Pass it on!”
“Stand still! Stand still! Stand still! Pass it on!”
“Stand still! We’ll be exiting in order…”
We stood still. Henio and the nurse chatted with us. Radosław told us, “The entire ‘Parasol’ group is exiting ahead of us. Two hundred people.”
We stood there. Rather far from the manhole. People were exiting, but we couldn’t see anything. Or even hear anything. Because we ourselves were chattering. As were the people in back of us. After all, we were still too far from the head of the line. It dragged on and on. The wounded man was groaning. He lost consciousness. By now, it was hard for me, too. Difficult. What did my clothing matter now? I leaned against the wall along with him, just as I was. It didn’t make any difference to him. Or to me, either. But since the wall was rounded, concave, I bent into a convex shape. I felt as if I were being sucked in. A chill was out of the question that summer. The dampness — that was a trifle. And the slime — also the same by then. It was a good thing that I didn’t slide all the way down on my back. The wounded man hung across me. And kept on groaning. I hunched over, too. Other people were standing facing each other, back to back, side by side, in groups; I think several others also leaned. Perhaps once we slid forward several steps. Certainly. Once. And again. Because a commotion, a row, could already be heard from up ahead, people figuring out (as it turned out) some technical equipment problems.
Henio or the nurse whispered to us confidentially, “They have a large number of wounded… that’s why it’s taking them so long… because they’re carrying them on stretchers.”
So that’s what it was all about. A lot of wounded. Only now did they stop concealing it. So mine was not an exception.
Everyone felt guilty about those left behind. Not so much about the civilians. Obviously, the young men posed a special problem. After all, as I’ve said, they turned a blind eye when someone inserted himself into the sewer. But those partisans? The seriously wounded? Much worse. Because they wore uniforms. And were there en masse. And were helpless. What would happen to them? We deceived ourselves that… yes, somehow, anyway… And then it turned out. What. How. Horrible. Others have described it already. I won’t repeat it. Only to say that what happened in Wola happened again.[18]
We stood there for a long time. Getting closer and closer to the exit and the uproar. We could already see something. Movement upwards. But I was still leaning against the green wall all the time with the wounded man. Now I didn’t care at all in how many places my jacket would have to be cleaned. Not at all; just so I didn’t slide down the wall.
All told, we spent approximately two hours standing under that manhole. Then, once it was the turn of the healthy — the ones from “Parasol” and the others who were ahead of us, it went quickly. Expeditiously. We were even driven out. After all, there were those others behind us. And the people behind us were stretched out to Krasiński Square. The entire sewer was packed with people.
Unexpectedly they started shouting:
“Move out, move out, forward!”
“Get out, it’s our turn!”
“Attention! Now it’s our turn! Get out, get out!”
“Attention! It’s our turn now!”
I remember that at first they pulled and shoved up a stretcher, I think, with something on it or someone. Then Radosław. Then Henio. Then the nurse. Then me. Up the rungs. I ordered the wounded man to hold tight. With his arms and legs. I grabbed onto that spiral. Higher and higher. Maybe someone pushed me. Zbyszek or the other helper. They and Swen came out behind me. I know that at one point I caught the smell of fresh air. Of night. I noticed the stars. And someone quickly grabbed me by the arms.
“No, no, I’ll do it myself!”
“You have no strength left…”
I didn’t. I submitted. They pulled me out to the surface. I don’t know when. Quickly. Because of that corner. Buildings. A barricade. Śródmieście. Consciousness. Odors. Dizziness. The wounded man. Mine. He was already on a stretcher. Two women were walking off with him. Nurses from Śródmieście. Toward Warecka.
“I’ll carry him.” I grabbed at the stretcher.
“No, no. That’s our responsibility now.”
That’s literally how they answered me. And they were off. The stretcher creaked. Swayed. I walked after them for a moment. Swen was behind me. And Zbyszek. Many stretchers were being carried. Ahead of us. And no doubt behind us, too. I don’t know what happened to Henio. I only remember myself. It was quiet. For the most part. The barricades. Narrow Warecka Street. I walked. We walked. Emotionally drained. Unglued.
Buildings? In one piece? Halina! Father! Śródmieście! Ohhh!
We entered number 12. By chance. A large courtyard. There was sky here. And stars, I think. Distinct. The three of us. We sat down on a step. Poured water out of our shoes. Tidied ourselves. Rolled down our pants legs. Everything in good faith. And a little for comfort. And the rest — that was to make a good impression. Śródmieście. Still standing. Living buildings with living people. Not burning. There is even silence. Maybe something. But compared with what I remembered then it was completely silent. Halina! Father! Sky. A good smell. Night.
“Let’s go.”
We jumped up, one-two-three. The gate. Warecka. The square. Szpitalna. Familiar. So familiar. Indeed. We walked freely and quickly.
A corner.
Chmielna. Everything is standing.
We turn.
Into Marszałkowska.
The only thing is that it’s dark. Barricades. That atmosphere. But otherwise it’s normal. Houses. Night. Peace. Midnight. Summer. Warm.
Everything is there.
32 Chmielna.
“It’s standing!”
We go inside. The gate. The courtyard. We drop in at the janitor’s.
“Is Pani Rybińska at home? She is? Yes?”
“Yes, yes, they’re here…”
“In which cellar?” we ask.
“Cellar?” The janitor is surprised. “They’re upstairs in their apartment. They’re sleeping.”
Now that was a shock.
“Upstairs?”
“Yes… In their apartment.”
We thank him… start upstairs…
“Are you gentlemen from Starówka?”
“Yes, straight from the sewer.”
The janitor ran into the center of the courtyard and shouted at the windows: “Pan Białoszewskiiii! Pan Białoszewskiiiiii! Your son’s come back from Starówka!”
Father shouted something back from the fourth floor. There was a commotion. Immediately. Thudding on the stairs.
We also ran up the stairs. Quick as we could. I think it was on the third floor. That we ran into Father. I noticed an open door one flight up. And Zocha running out onto the stairs.
“Miron! Swen!”
“This is Swen’s cousin.” I introduced Zbyszek. “We came here for the time being… to you… from Starówka… through the sewers…”