“Every seven?”
“So, don’t you remember how we looked at our watches and that we were rushing to make it before the next one?”
“Oh, that… yes…”
But it seemed to me that the others were firing, too. In addition. Or perhaps that was all. In any case, something that represented a danger. For us who were running.
An explosion came, I think, as we ran down just past Marszałkowska. Perhaps in those cellars. Then we ran out. Onto the surface. The beginning of Sienna. Only — what that street and that whole area looked like! The street, and those sides, and those backs! Just why were we running along it?! Well, simply because everything was buried. Including the passageways. Bombed out. And piled up some two stories high! As far as the eye could see. Because to the left. And to the right. Here and there something protruded. But it didn’t correlate with life. We didn’t imagine that under that something there could be people. But there were. The ones who’d survived. Because I thought that I should drop in on Staszek P. At least to find out. He lived in those left-hand “Tatra Mountains.” But, in the first place, our group was running. And second, I was certain he wasn’t there. Because how could he be? Practically certain. My experience in Stare Miasto somewhere down below suggested the possibility that they were there. But common sense prevailed. And we ran on. Ran along the spine of a mountain chain of ruins. There was even a trail. Red. Of bricks. With a sprinkling of gray. Father remembers that I stumbled over something while running and tore open my boot.
“And?”
“Nothing, somehow you kept running.”
I don’t remember this.
Only that running. To catch up. Shouting to them. And the ever-mounting terror. At one point something exploded. Slammed into us. Only not into the three of us. The tail of the group. Confusion. In one jump we dove under the wall. To the right. Because there was some kind of wall there. And we made a turn into something. A street, I think, Komitetowa. I don’t know if that made sense. We waited a minute beyond the wall. Perhaps because of that tail. It was necessary to help. Those who were closer helped. We ran on at once. Still along Sienna. Or maybe already on Śliska? But Śliska was just as horrible. And also covered with mountains. So it came down to one thing. As fast as possible!
Under Twarda there was a tunnel. Under the street. Very narrow. One person wide. With pipes in the center. So that you had to slide through it. Farther on — I don’t remember what was there. Also mountains. Running. And a second identical tunnel under Żelazna. I think we were running along Pańska. Because over there — there were those tunnels. Again, I don’t remember what was beyond Żelazna. The mill was nearby. On the right. But first we ran into a courtyard. And from that courtyard up a huge ladder. Across the wall. Really high. And from there we came down on a second ladder.
“Faster! faster!” they urged.
We went right down into the mill, or rather into a swarm of people in the yard. And onto a loading platform. That platform was the goal. Because the sacks of grain were there. Hundred-kilo sacks. Maybe there was something like a line. Or maybe not. I think we jumped right onto the platform. Tore open the sacks. And loaded up. Or rather poured into our own sacks. Assisting each other. The platform was high and long, because it seemed to me that I was on Towarowa at the branch railroad. I knew that I wasn’t. But at moments I think I almost forgot. And I was amazed that it wasn’t Towarowa. I held the sacks. Or supported them from the bottom. I think I was under the platform. Father and Swen came in. And poured for each other. There were huge shovels for pouring. Swen and Father quarreled a bit. Hastily. Only for a moment. I don’t know about what. Everyone here was quarreling. I don’t know about what. And pouring. Probably about doing it more quickly. Because they were hurrying us.
“Go! Go!”
But everyone wanted as much as possible. And they were already firing. In addition, German bombers showed up. They started shooting at us. There was confusion. Suddenly Soviet fighter planes. They drove the others off. We were saved.
Now with the sacks on our backs we walked over to the wall with the ladder. I took only thirty or thirty-five kilos. Swen took more. And Father took the most. They outwitted themselves with their good intentions. Swen was afraid of hunger. After all, he didn’t have too much to eat. And Father thought it was also for others. Both of them, after all, were eager to share. For Swen that was obvious. Father, on his side, had a family instinct. And in general an instinct for hoarding. On the other hand they had heavy, horrible loads. They could barely make it up the ladder. Those ladders were awful for such loads. They swayed. And how could you keep your balance with such a load? And here others are rushing you. Why weren’t there holes in the wall here? I don’t know. There must have been some reason. I remember now: Swen had thirty-five kilos. Father had more. I had thirty. I turned out to be the greatest egoist here. I was simply afraid of wheezing beneath a sack that was beyond my strength. But I wasn’t afraid that I wouldn’t have something later. After all, someone will give me something. We had wheat. Because there will still be some left. I think for the time being no one touched the barley (there was barley here, too). It remained in the sacks. As something inferior.
Only now we were really hindered by the tunnels under Żelazna and Twarda. We squeezed between the pipes with those sacks. And we had to help each other prop up the sacks, push them along, flatten them out and drag them through.
Beyond Twarda we passed through courtyards and holes from Pańska up to Sienna. To the courtyards of those two or three buildings in the prewar modern style. The ones that remained intact and are still standing. We knew one of them well, because the literary evenings at Teik’s had been held here. In the courtyard, the one belonging to Teik’s building, near a hole in the wall leading to Złota Street, we sat down, out of breath. The sun was still shining. It was hot. Some women brought out a bucket, or several buckets, with coffee and distributed it to everyone. They were good, kindly women. It was they, I think, who told us that we could go back along Złota. That it was just a rumor that Złota was impassable. In the courtyard, this one and the one bordering on Złota, there was a lot of dug-up earth, ditches, gardens, plants, plaster. Everything mixed together. In the sunlight. And also in the coffee from the buckets. My God! How much kindness there was in Warsaw then! Simple kindness. So much!
Farther along, evidently it was so-so. On Złota. Because I don’t remember anything. Crossing Marszałkowska was simply a crossing of Marszałkowska. It’s different now — a return from the known. Besides which, it was important to me: to see the last western quarter of insurrectionary Śródmieście. Because it so happened that except for central and southern Powiśle (since they’re northern after all!) I got to know all of Śródmieście during the uprising. The so-called district IV. So somewhere after crossing Marszałkowska at the height of Złota we continued on Złota carrying those sacks. And either in a courtyard on the corner of Złota and Zgoda, or a courtyard on the corner of Zgoda and Szpitalna, they had a post where the grain was weighed. A small courtyard or a tiny yard — triangular. Built up on three sides to a height of four or five stories. So it was safe. We waited in line. A long one. For a long time. For the scale. Manned by two or three people. And shells were pounding at us. It grew dark. Shells were still pounding. The tail joined us. Maybe not just ours. Maybe it was a different expedition, or several others. From that district. Because they’d gone out from all the accessible districts.