Clearly, the bombs must have been falling because our decision-making didn’t take very long. We began to gather our belongings, our bundles, and quick as a wink, under Klein we went! If it hadn’t been for that Klein, or rather, that barrel vault made of bricks and gleaming iron. Then that cellar wouldn’t have differed so very much from this one. We occupied something communal over there. With an entry farther on. With an exit into our place from the preceding cellars. And again feather beds. Benches. Bags. Families. Sitting around.
Just about everyone from Wilcza made the transfer.
Bombs. And shells. Raining down. Large ones. We sat in the central corridor, the farthest from the openings to the outdoors. To the left the corridor had one little cellar after another. Each one with tiny doors. Only they were open. In the nearest one lived the Wi. family. Pan Wi., an engineer, and Pani Wi., his wife. They sat on sacks. Which had something in them. All day long. That’s how they managed. She looked like Gioconda. But her neck, voice, and speech were like a turtledove’s. Because that’s what Halina called her. They had two small children. The children ran around with the other little children. They walked up and down the corridor. They played like this:
“You go over there with a bag and then we’ll meet.”
So they separate. With their bags. And meet:
“Hello.”
“Huhwo.”
“Has your house b-burned down?”
“Yes, it’s b-burned”—a dismissive gesture—“your house, is it b-burned?”
“Yes, b-burned…”
There was also a game of tanks. Pani Józia watched after the Wis.’ two little ones. A teacher. As soon as there was a blast she would stick her fingers in her ears. And since there were a lot of blasts she sat or stood with her fingers in her ears. But since she was looking after the children and talking with them or with the Wis. or with other people, she was constantly unplugging her ears. Then quickly plugging them again.
She’d ask, “What?” Yes, she’d adopted the gestures of a deaf woman. Or a mute. Once, little Ewa (she was Ewa, I suddenly remember that) wants to go poo. They have a potty. Pani Józia sits Ewa on the potty. In the corridor. Pani Wi., in the little cellar drawing room, is sitting on her sack. And she yells: “In the center! In the very center!”
So Pani Józia transfers Ewa to the very center. She plugs her ears. Because they’re shelling.
But Ewa is becoming frightened, too: “Auntie, give me your hand!”
Pani Józia holds Ewa’s hand while she’s on the potty. And with her other hand she plugs her other ear. She hears with the first ear. Well — this way’s good, too.
Right. Their mother from Bracka was also there. And young Jadzia was of some help to them there. But more likely they were just sitting there. Because each family was large then, but their little cellar was tiny. The blasts echoed along the corridors. Shock waves. And songs.
We fly to Thy protection
O Holy Mother…
Near us, later verses were being sung:
Oh, Holy Mother,
Oh, Holy Mother,
O-oh, Ho-oly Mo-other—
Our Consoler…
We had Klein above us. Good walls. A few iron plates. And those seven stories. With a mansard roof. Bay windows. Bow windows. Pendants. Six upper floors. Plus a whole domed roof. Plus the ground floor. Eight levels. But only seven that could be penetrated. Because the eighth was — us. They ought not to be able to break through all seven. There were exceptions. At times. But one relied on the norm. And what if a bomb should land at more of an angle and not hit the roof but strike one floor lower? Then only six. Well, it shouldn’t penetrate six. And if it should strike the fourth floor? Such a thing had happened in these big apartment buildings. Not to mention the example of the General Savings Association. Then only five would remain. Only this solid structure… Klein. And if a cow should suddenly rip downward from the third floor? And strike the ground floor and gouge out something? From the cellar? A dumb cow? Or a Bertha? Or, rather, something that is seemingly not considered as serious. Or it would be enough if it hit one of the compartments. And it wiped out one of us. A family or an individual. Or next door. Because we worried about our own. And about those who were still nearby but already somewhat farther away — we worried, but somewhat less. About those even farther off but still at this address— even less, but still a little. And about the neighboring building? Or the one across the way? We weren’t emotionally invested. But who will dig us out if we should be buried? — They will. — Then who will dig them out? — We will. — In that case? — And what about those really far away? Those were strange calculations. Which everyone made. Everywhere. On the basis of probability. And how many of those who calculated that way perished? Well, how many? No one knew. But it was a horrifying percentage. I am not counting the wounded, the rescued, the extricated. The more of us there were— the better. Seemingly. Because the possibility of so-called accidents (for war is like a collection of unfortunate accidents and an uprising is like the explosion of that collection) is spread among a larger number. Or rather, fewer of us would have to die. At the same time— what difference does it make? If there will be three hundred or five hundred of us in this cellar if it will bury us to a man? And crush us? There was an incredibly large number of people in the ghetto. Not five hundred. Not five thousand. But five hundred thousand. And practically all of those who didn’t flee died. Death was the basic premise. The greatest probability. Almost the only one. Almost a hundred percent. Because it was that way for many — without any “almost.” That, too, was an error of statistics! Besides: if the bombs are falling now it means that someone is dying. For every explosion you hear, something is struck. Let’s say — not every single one. Because there were duds. Or misses. Or they hit a roadway. Or a lawn. Or the center of a yard. Besides which — if something is struck it may collapse and yet not collapse into the cellars. Then people may be buried but not wounded. But then it’s a matter of digging them out. Which is also risky. Because who could clear away the ruins of such a building as ours at 23 Wilcza? Who would attempt it? And how many? And with what? And for how long? And meanwhile we could suffocate. Or something. And the lack of water? And during that time there’d be more air raids, worries. And so on. Now if only a part is buried and it can be quickly dug out, and if only some people have died and the rest are basically uninjured this time around— then that’s probably not such a bad average. As an average. For these times. But is it proper that anyone should die? Even if it’s only ten people? And won’t the next time, then, be the end for all the rest? It could happen several times in the same place. Besides which — everything depends on the number of bombs. But it’s known that they drop them only in great numbers. And not on such a vast area. A large one, to be sure. Because they still have Mokotów. The other end of Śródmieście. Żoliborz. Czerniaków. But there are houses there, too. Under the houses — people. Not to mention the partisans in action. With even worse protection. Or without. The more of us who die the worse it is. Because it weakens us. From the statistical point of view, it’s also worse. Because now the same number of bombs can fall on a smaller number of people. Or more bombs. And what about the other weapons? Accidents? Cave-ins? It’s happened, it seems. And transports to a camp?