The panic was worsening. More and more people were crowding behind Aleje. As if salvation were expected over there. Simply, in conformity with a law I already understood at that time, people had to change their locations and decide that one place was better, another worse. And since there was very little territory left to divide, Aleje became the demarcation line.
Naturally, there seemed to be a reason for it. Because in the evening of the sixth, I think, when Father, Zocha, and I made a foray to the other side (by a speeded-up method, thanks to the Home Army armbands), it appeared that for the time being it wasn’t all that bad over there. I can’t recall where on the other side of Aleje or to whom we were running. Just that general impression. And the fact that we were succumbing to an ever greater need to flee from here. At that time, on the evening of September 6, or perhaps it was the night of the fifth to sixth, we made serious preparations. On that last evening in our quarters we sat around the table and began to eat. There was still a lot of food of various kinds. And as often perversely happens, a solemn mood arose from our readiness and anxiety. As at a feast. Because we were eating, eating, even drinking a little, and then to top it off Zocha gave each of us candies wrapped in shiny paper. She gave Zbyszek an extra piece. But then she immediately gave me another one. I don’t remember if she gave one to Swen. In any event, Halina. Suddenly. Got up from the table and walked out. Into the other room. Which was dark and empty. I go to see what’s the matter. She’s standing in the space behind the door, leaning against the door, and crying. I ask her, What’s the matter? She keeps on crying. I comfort her, kiss her head, because I felt stupid, but she cries even harder. (When I asked her about this recently, she didn’t remember it at all and anyway — why should she?)
After supper we decided to remain there after all. But only until morning, I think. Not long before, we’d had another plan. Father and Swen ran through those blocked gates into Widok and began looking for lodging there. I didn’t have the faintest idea why they were looking on Widok Street. Not only did they arrange with a woman there for us to move in immediately but somehow Swen also spoke with her about art and they both agreed that we would organize an artistic evening there that very night. The plan was quickly changed because bombs fell directly on Widok. And perhaps I was there with them after supper. To see whether the place would still do (because the bombs had fallen next door). Or perhaps we didn’t cross under Aleje at all and I’m just confused. Maybe so.
There was the moon. It was late, past midnight. Warm. A full moon. Loaded down with suitcases, sacks (I was carrying on my back a paper sack filled with lumps of sugar from Ciepła), this time in utter seriousness we joined the crowd on the track. Naturally not the slow and terribly large crowd, but a smaller, quicker one that had passes. Halina and Zocha were lugging suitcases, because they couldn’t do without several changes of underwear. Halina was walking along with an uneasy conscience because she had left both cats upstairs. It’s true we had prepared a great deal of food and drink for them and had left the window open — as I have already mentioned— but even so, we felt uncomfortable about it. We wandered along in the noise of the moving crowd with strange and fragmented feelings. The moon was shining. We passed courtyards (with busts of Chopin and Mickiewicz) that to this day serve as a passageway farther along, adorned with those same busts. There came a time when we had to yield our privilege (or our arrogance) and join the crowd such as it was. And it was already a single crowd, squashed together and moving forward in shared panic. The avalanche rolled on and on. Across the entire width of the street. And there were just as many behind us. Although so many had already passed by in the last few days. Wawa crossed over, too. During one of our strolls Swen and I noticed in the crowd a large hat with a rolled brim and under the brim violet eyelashes, and a handbag held under an arm.
Why was the line moving slowly? Stopping? Standing? Maybe it was so that those who really had priority could run across? Perhaps there was an obstruction on Aleje from time to time? Or heavy artillery fire? From the Vistula, let us suppose. And from the Central Station. Perhaps it was a tank attack, although the barricades weren’t letting tanks through between the National Bank (on the corner of Nowy Świat) and Marszałkowska — that happened only afterward.
At first it had been difficult to knock together those barricades. And to prepare that passageway. But after great difficulties both were ready. Therefore, the major cause of slowdowns and of standing still in the line, or, rather, two lines (because people were also coming to our side from the far side of Aleje), was simply the fact that there were two lines. And that permission was given first to move from our side past Aleje, and then to move from beyond Aleje to our side. As usual — people scurrying about, from here to there and there to here. Despite the fact that the general rush was in that direction. The corridors were too narrow and winding for people to pass each other. It was impossible to allow a mass collision in that crush. Because — I remind you — there was a fashion of rushing everywhere all the time. Because it wasn’t a question of fashion but of artillery fire, haste, and air raids. Well, of impatience, too. In the end.
Well, when we’d joined the stream of people at the Widok gate or in the courtyard we stood still for a while, then edged along for a short time in a phalanx. Then again we stood still. Until the time came for our side to go over to their side, when we really got moving. Or rather, we dashed into the cellar. Into corridors that weren’t cellar-like but trench-like, or, rather, into artificial tunnels hastily dug out for the circumstances. In the corridors, the turnings, it was very hot. And one could see that they were made of earth, with the roots still in it.
The passageway, or, rather, the runway, under Aleje Jerozolimskie itself was even narrower. Flatter. And without a roof. Of course. There were shields from the barricades. I remember that the one on the left from Nowy Świat was directly above us. There was really no way of adding on a roof. Because it would have meant working on it above ground. And the Germans from the National Bank were taking care of things here. So to provide a roof, stumps and palings had been thrown over, branches (pines) spaced in rows. Just as they landed. Wherever. The more the better. I get a little confused here with the picket-fence supports of the trench.
There was artillery fire. Normal, I think. Nocturnal. Not too threatening, that is. That’s what it seemed like to me.
One-two — and we’re already on the other side of Aleje. We rush into the same sort of tunnels, windings. Corridors. Some of them, however, were made of brick. Perhaps in part. And it may have been on the other side of Aleje that it was hot. Maybe because of the fires.
We ran out with the crowd — in moonlight — onto Nowogrodzka Street between Bracka and Krucza. On Nowogrodzka, on the ground floor in an inner courtyard, lived a former colleague of Father’s, Mieczysław Michalski. Father led the whole “moonlight cavalcade” (as Halina called it) with bundles shining in the glow to Miecio’s. We crossed the street. We went through a Secession-style gate. And right into a four-story courtyard, to a moonlit well with picket fencing at the center. It seemed to be a garden. We all lined up and rested our bundles and backs against the picket fence. And waited. Quite tired. Father immediately went into one of the entryways. To Miecio. Unannounced. As a matter of fact, we didn’t even know if he was here or even if he was alive.
That wait with our backs toward the garden must not have lasted long. But it stretched out for us. Already after several days. Into a lengthy, drowsy uncertainty. Somnambulistic. Because the moon was full.