And what was happening with the front? The Soviet front, as people said then. (“Soviets,” or simply “Russians,” sometimes “Bolsheviks.” But during the uprising they used the term “Bolsheviks” less frequently because it had a traditional connotation among us that was inappropriate. They were also called insulting names such as Muscovites or Cossacks. Names from before the last war. But in this situation, anything that smacked of something of the sort was not used. As the saying goes, “Beggars can’t be choosers, so if you have to borrow, ask a Jew.”)
Well, it seems that on the night of September 9–10 the first air raid on the German sector took place. The dropping of flares; the kind that sway and illuminate everything for such a very long time that you could find a needle on the ground; but most of all what swayed back and forth — now longer, now shorter — were the shadows of grass. I remember the blasts. And the flashes. It was all nearby. Onto Koszykowa, Aleje Szucha, Aleje Róż, Chopin Street, and Bagatela. So that we ran out into the street from joy. Later, there were the next raids after more nights. On the night of September 13–14 a Kukuruznik was heard for the first time. Soviet. A biplane. Renowned for its versatility. It chattered. Trr-trr-trr, trr-trr-trr… Right away we called it the chatterbox. It flew very quietly. Very stealthily.
Very low. Shooting it down was difficult for the Germans. They never shot it down. And it made airdrops. Of arms. Of food. Without parachutes. So they smacked down because they weren’t dropped from on high — smack! — a bag of rusks, or: smack! — a bag of guns.
People said the guns were broken. I don’t know. And about the Western allies’ airdrops people said the majority fell on the German sector.
The next night there was another chatterbox. It flew on and on for a long time. Like a glowworm. Trr-trr-trr-trr-trr-trr-trr-trr… More or less in a circle. It came back. It grew quiet. Then again it chattered, trr-trr… As if confused. It hadn’t found its target. So it seemed. Like insects. What they know, they do. However, the partisans lit flares each time. And waited. The chatterbox’s circling was made easier.
So the front was truly on the move? Apparently so. The radio announced it. And the newssheets. It was moving. Meaning it was already moving here. Facing us.
Until finally it happened.
September 15.
In the heat.
In the afternoon. At four o’clock. Maybe. Or five.
It started.
Suddenly.
Everything at once.
And already it was going on. In the same way.
We could hear Katyushas in this, the rocket launchers people spoke of as “Stalin’s organs.” That is — a series of bursts, buzzes — and did they heat things up! And all the rest. But I think I’m describing it badly. Because how abruptly a single roar began. As if the sky were striking the earth. Or — and I think that’s how I felt then — that it was being torn into pieces completely (so that it was even remarkable that it was still hanging there). And so it went. On and on. Without letup.
I hadn’t known that there could be such roaring.
We knew so many things. And yet…
That was one of the major strikes. On the eastern front. In that war. Simply because so much was firing at the same time. Bombs. Other artillery. Guns. And Stalin’s organs (the counterpart of the cows/wardrobes). So that, by and large, there wasn’t even time for echoes to be heard. We all ran outside. From wherever we were. Immediately. Entire crowds. Crawled out of the cellars. People were standing higher and higher. On boards. On hillocks. On ruins. As if that might help us to see. And yet only the sky could be seen. But it seemed as if by standing on a bit of rubble or on trenches with boards or paving stones — we would be closer. At least we would hear more. Or be in it. Precisely. “Come what may…” There was shock, great shock. Despite certain previous signs in the sky and from the sky to the earth. It must have shocked the Germans even more than it did us. Despite everything. Because we wanted it. If only for that reason.
What was happening over there — in Praga — was hard to imagine. The familiar places, streets, gardens, in which Dantean scenes might be taking place now. After all, the front must be passing through all the buildings, trenches, squares. (Unless suddenly there happened to be an empty space. As was the experience of someone in Śląsk in February 1945, but that was because an entire group got drunk and fell asleep.) And such scenes did take place. One of the greatest cauldrons it seems was right in the middle of Skaryszewski Park. After the war, no matter how many times I walked through that familiar park, particularly near the walled latrine, which was badly scarred by bullets, grenades, shell fragments, I pictured to myself how important this stupid spot was then, that history had touched it in those days, that for more than one person this latrine was the last refuge or the last view of his life. The second cauldron, it seems, was near the Praga approach to the railroad bridge, the one from the Citadel. A lot of Germans were massed there to defend the bridgehead. The Russians attacked them. By air. The Germans, pushed back to the Vistula because the attack was driving them from the land, threw themselves onto pontoons. Afloat. Into the water. But nothing helped. They were massacred. We — observers by ear — looked at each other. Then we shouted warnings at each other.
Afterward — I remember — I shuddered violently from my ears to my stomach and back. I would not have assumed in the past that such roaring could cause so much joy.
The assault must have been awfully intense. One could feel that. By the ongoing tension of the battle. For two, perhaps three hours. Not longer. Because we were standing there all the time under extreme tension. And suddenly everything grew quiet. It was all over already. The sun was still shining. But Praga — was taken. Yes. That was truly the first happy day. Without a shadow of gloom. Hope emerged. And to tell the truth — certainty. That this was the end of our misery. Of the bombs. Of the Germans.
That certainty weakened somewhat after several days. I don’t remember if it was then or during the time of the Czerniaków bridgehead that there was certainty even among the leadership. In the newssheets, too, they were reporting how we should behave when the Soviet army entered. Well — why waste a lot of words on this. An order was issued. Not to give them an ovation. Also not to display hostility. But something on the order of indifference. I remember two words, but I no longer know in which of the newssheets, perhaps some right-wing paper: “maintain silence.” “Simply maintain silence.” That astonished us. We shrugged our shoulders. After all, some contact had been made. Soviet observers had been dropped among us. In our sector. In order to give instructions to their forces on how to direct their artillery fire. There were attempts at conversation. And requests for help. We heard about Mikołajczyk on the radio.[22] That he was going to Moscow. By plane. I was impatient because he didn’t board a plane immediately. Because he was making preparations first. Because he would certainly take a long time to get ready. Oh, God! What naiveté! And what was it all for since nothing came of it anyway?
Attempts at reaching an agreement here — on the spot — across the Vistula, also were only attempts. One could sense that. And somehow it was known. I have no intention of entering further into matters that have already been clarified. I insist on this. It’s essential. The English radio also irritated us more than once. Although we were constantly running along the twisting corridors to those chinks — to listen. Well, in the first place — it was irritating because they wove too many extras into their broadcasts to us. “Best wishes for the Jewish New Year.” “With smoke from the fires.”[23] And a new, although very old, hymn from the time of the Bar Confederation:[24]