I have already mentioned that there was one crowded room and a sort of small anteroom and there were so many of us. In addition, two small cats. One black, the other white. Halina adored cats. I did, too. Swen (because people can be divided into dog-lovers and cat-lovers) preferred dogs. But he also liked cats. Take my father. He has raised animals all his life and is patient with them. As few people are. In general, he has a peaceful temperament. He wishes life, the world, and people well. He likes to be active. He made rubber stamps during the occupation. He forged signatures. German ones. On glass. Under the glass was a light. He was excellent at it. At night. And by day he’d go with those Ausweise (and what large quantities he had!) to the Industrial-Commercial — and — Handicrafts Hall. On Wiejska at the corner of Senacka. There he worked on the janitor. Not really the janitor — because the janitor was already ours— but through the janitor he’d get the “canary,” the SA guard, really stewed. It was a question of having easier access to the boss’s office at any time. The boss was in charge of affixing the crows, that is, the Hitlerite rooks. À la Roman eagles. The boss was a woman. She was sweet on the janitor because he was young. And when she went out to dinner she didn’t lock her office, leaving it in the janitor’s care. During this time the janitor would position his drunken “canary,” enter the office, open the cabinet containing the stamps with a specially made key, and quickly stamp the “crows” on whatever Father and other people handed him. But it was still necessary to stand in line at the window for signatures. One waited and waited, as for everything else then. There was yet another complication. A person could sign for only one Ausweis. So Father would take Zocha, Halina, sometimes me, and whoever else turned up. In that way, four or five Ausweise could be obtained. But on the next day the so-called “Cherman” might recognize them. So Zocha would disguise herself. Zocha especially. She’d wear glasses. Put on mourning. Lisp. She became expert at it.
I remember Father in 1940. When the roundups began. Our window on the corner of Leszno and Wronia Streets was on the fifth floor and looked out on the entire length of Leszno. For part of the evening canvas-covered trucks drove past on Leszno. In the direction of Pawiak Prison. They flashed by, one after the other, cutting across Leszno. They were the typical roundup vans, packed with people and soon to be so familiar. Father was standing by the window. In his underwear. Looking out at Leszno. We had gone to sleep long before, the street had already quieted down, but Father still stood there and watched.
On the first day of the uprising, because he was a postman before the war, he rushed off to liberate the main post office. Then he organized a foray to get sugar for the partisans. The sugar was on Ciepła Street. Near Ceglana. Father drafted twenty civilians. Chance passersby. He announced that it would be shared fifty-fifty. Between the troops. And them. They ran to Ceglana Street. But since there were already Germans in part of that depot they brought an escort. Three fifteen-year-olds armed with grenades overwhelmed the Germans from the rear. They wiped them out one-two-three. Then they had to start loading. Father urged them to be quick about it. Not to be greedy. Because it turned out that there were many other tempting foods in addition to the sugar. Vodka, too. Slivovitz. They drank some. Took some for later. But there was that sugar. And other delicacies, too. And the trip back. Father also brought back a large amount of sugar. A whole sack. Cubes. I remember the sack. Synthetic material, so thin it was like netting. That sugar was important later on, on the other side of Aleje Jerozolimskie.
I don’t remember the precise date when we fled to the other side of Aleje. Around that time, on Monday, September 4, Father, Swen, and I were at the intersection of Chmielna, Bracka, and Zgoda Streets. Or perhaps even closer to Nowy Świat. Suddenly we noticed people running in confusion and screaming:
“Powiśle’s been bombed!”
“Powiśle’s done for!”
“The Germans are on Powiśle!”
They had fled, no doubt, in whatever they had on. With nothing. Some of them, with bits of rubble in their hair. They were running over from Ordynacka and Foksal Streets. I questioned them. While running. Just like those people who had fled down Chłodna Street first toward Wola and then away from Wola.
Immediately afterward bombings and panic set in near us, too. And then the diarrhea and vomiting. And those corpses which were buried later at the rear of the Palladium. And the burning of garbage and refuse. Everywhere.
“Burn! Burn it! It’s infectious!”
The air was full of smoke. Panic. Rushing about.
At the beginning we didn’t run down. Because of those four flights of stairs. Three to the ground floor and the fourth to the cellar. But what with the diarrhea and the vomiting we were forced to keep running down anyway. We wanted to lie still all the time. I remember how all day long mobs of people were rushing through our building to the Palladium on Złota and from the Palladium to Chmielna. Without a stop. In both directions. At the bottom of our stairwell, in the middle of the hall which the route actually intersected, were half-glass swinging doors. Those doors were constantly in motion and squeaked and banged against the wall. I don’t remember if the first time it was through the window and the second time through those doors, or vice versa, that I saw two women dragging a man by his arms. His cheek was torn off. Hanging, that is. They rushed into our corridor at a trot. In the direction of Chmielna. The doors were swinging nonstop. And then those same people came back, still at a trot. But the man had his cheek sewn on already. I don’t remember if I saw that it was sewn on or if it was bandaged. But later on, still during the uprising, I was amazed that he had his cheek. It was scarred but he had it. Because I passed him. And I met him after the war, too. And his cheek had become normal. But at the time he’d looked terrifying.
Well, we didn’t rush downstairs at the beginning. Swen. Zbyszek. And I. Halina, too. (Father and Zocha were downtown, but Stacha — Halina’s mother — went down to the shelter immediately.) But they kept on bombing Złota, Chmielna, Zgoda, Jasna, Moniuszko, Sienkiewicz. The house was shaking. There was no reason to wait. Not a minute. We went down. Because there were shells, too. In addition. And the cows.
“The cow is bellowing,” people said here in Śródmieście, just as in Starówka they said about the same thing, “They’re winding up the wardrobe.”
The cellar. Or rather, cellars. Square. With passages branching off from them. They were narrow. Some benches for the older people. Temporarily. Right against the walls. The rest stood. Also against the walls. And we did, too. Near the entrance. Side by side. In a row. One beside the other. I felt unhappy that it had come so soon. Once more I experienced an acceptance of death. It was only a question of how.
Halina said, “I think it would be best to hold each other’s hands.”
After the second run downstairs that day we stood against the wall and held each other’s hands. They were bombing fiercely. It had begun suddenly after that idyll, but in the familiar way. There was a lot of dive-bombing and explosions. Shock waves. Pieces broken off. Running about. Stamping. Calling. News. So bad. That… That… That right here… On Chmielna, too. And on Złota. And all over. First one place was destroyed. Then another. Digging out the buried. Fires. Right away. Familiar. Familiar. Familiar. But the exhaustion — despite acceptance — the third time… The third time? The same thing? Oh God…
At that time we started running farther away for water. Next door, in the Palladium, there was no more water. Something had crashed, most likely. Into something. So we ran down Chmielna Street. Past the tiny square on Zgoda at the corner of Bracka and Szpitalna. Through the gate. To some building. Or perhaps through a gate along that stretch. I don’t remember anymore. I do remember that it was crowded with people standing in a line there; already on Chmielna it was four times larger, and it went through the gate, the courtyards and out to Widok, across Widok to a gate, a courtyard, and a passageway (complicated, underground) leading beyond Aleje. There was a crush. Beyond Aleje. Wawa was standing there, too, I remember. In a hat. A parodist. A singer. With a pocketbook under her arm. With violet false eyelashes pasted on her lids. On those high heels of hers. I don’t want to offend her, but she is fat and she knows it, and: