It was already completely dark (and warm) and shells were firing while the scale was still in operation. The line was growing smaller. Our turn came. They weighed off fifteen kilos each. And with our diminished, which is to say lightened, loads we ran under burning Aleje. Perhaps it was only now that it was burning? After the fires here? I know that the passage under it had changed in some way. Krucza was still Krucza. Familiar. Swen turned to go his way. We floundered on to Wilcza with our treasure.
I assume that it was in those grain days that hopelessness returned. Not as in August. Because they were already transporting us — in general — to Germany to work. Even — people unfit for work or with children — throughout the Generalgouvernement.[26] Hopelessness about the front. And the fate of the uprising. The Kościuszko Division had retreated. The front was standing still. And the little front, the front of the uprising, was uncertain. People said that they might drive us back from the Królewska line. Even so, I was surprised to learn that that line was being held. That, in general, so much was still held. Once I set off past Marszałkowska. To Zdzisław Ś. At the corner of Emilia Plater Street. (And here I get caught by the fact that either crossing Marszałkowska on the expedition to the mill was not the first time. Or, if I was at Zdzisio’s after the mill, it was only then that I saw the last quarter of upper Śródmieście. Quarter is also an inexact definition. Let’s say — part.) So, when I ran past Marszałkowska along one of those streets. Hoża. Maybe Wspólna. I was amazed that it was possible to run past it. And then I was surprised that it was possible to walk farther. But perhaps that was only on the corner of Poznańska? No, probably not! In any case, our territory stretched as far as Emilia Plater. Or even a bit farther. Because it was a corner house. That billet. A lot of partisans. I found it easily. I also spotted Zdzisio easily. He was there. We sat down on the stairs on the ground floor. In a crowd of uniformed men. Who were either sitting or running about. And the mood was pleasant because of the pleasant weather. In addition, they were not firing at that moment. Otherwise, the mood was melancholic. Or maybe I was there twice? That time, one of two or perhaps the only time, was when we could already sense the impending failure of the uprising. We sat there. Zdzisio a step above me. In order not to block the way. We spoke very little to each other. Although we were relaxed. Zdzisio gave me a lump of sugar.
“Here.”
I started sucking it immediately. At the time, treating someone to a lump of sugar was significant. That was our last meeting. Perhaps we will see each other again someday. Because we are both alive. Since that time we simply have resided in different countries.
Our return along Złota Street with the grain inspired Father and me to look in on Sabina. Sabina and Czesław lived on Złota. Past Sosnowa. So the day after the expedition, I think, we ran there. Złota looked better than those Siennas, Śliskas, Pańskas. Buildings were still standing. There were gates. We found Sabina immediately. In the shelter. Or, rather, in the cellar. Such an ordinary cellar. With a little corridor. Or, rather, in a storage bin (for potatoes). Somehow it was strangely roomy here. And peaceful. Sabina and Czesław had a door. They were living there. By themselves. They had installed a couch. And we sat with them just like guests. A carbide lamp was lit. It was evening.
We had to go back. Out onto Złota. With its iron gates. For a moment we were reminded of good times, until our heads whirled, until it smelled like a normal street. It was warm. And completely dark. And suddenly: buuuu-uu!
We jump inside a gate. A shell. It landed not far off. We rush out. Because we have to go farther. The next one. Again we take shelter. As best we can in an alcove. As if that could protect us. Once they begin to shell, they really let loose. It is obvious that they won’t stop. No point in going back. No point in waiting. We go on. It was as simple as could be. All the way to Marszałkowska. But I no longer remember what came next.
What else happened? In those days? Bartering on Krucza Street between Hoża and Wilcza developed rapidly. From one day to the next. Already on the third day it was a small bazaar. On the fourth a full-scale bazaar. On the fifth — a dense crowd. Standing. Milling about. (That stretch was “chosen,” or safe, until the end.) Practically everyone held something in his hand. Anything. Anything could be exchanged, as long as it wasn’t for money. Money was worth as much as garbage. It seems someone began to trade in gold. In addition to the sellers a lot of “window shoppers” were milling about, and others, like Swen and me — sightseers.
Another diversion was grinding grain. Every day the grinding increased. Like that bazaar. And also fast. Because more and more often people were dragging home grain for themselves. So that two or three days after we were there only barley was left. People were pleased with that, too. And the grinding went on. In all the shelters. From morning to night. Using all sorts of mills. Small ones, big ones. For the most part people began with small ones. Like ours. In coffee grinders. Shch-shch-shch-shch… with cranks.
But it was too slow for us. Too small. We had a lot of wheat. (We were already eating it. At every meal. Small platefuls each. With the juices. And the chaff. Very good!) We treated people who didn’t have any. We gave some to the Wi. couple, because they didn’t have very much to eat. So we changed from a coffee grinder to a mill for something or other, a bigger one. We borrowed it. It seems to me that the bigger one demanded more effort, since it had a larger crank and larger grinding wheels. Then Zocha went and tried to borrow a large mill from some sort-of acquaintances. But it was such a large one that it couldn’t be loaned. Or moved. We had to run over there with the wheat. To grind it. Practically all of us ran over. The mill was like a mangle. It had a huge crank which moved in a vertical circle. We poured in the wheat. And kept grinding. By turns. Zocha once. Then me. Halina once. Father. We looked into the drawer. And it was just barely there in a corner. The flour. Of course, perhaps it was ground more finely. But so what if it was so slow? Again we grind. By turns. Each of us had our fill of cranking. Till we were sweaty. We looked inside. And again only the tiniest amount. We gave up on any more milling. We said thank you. We took our leave of that family. Pretending we had to, since it was almost evening. And in the morning we turned to those despised — those little— mills. For coffee. They were irreplaceable.
And so until the very end all of Śródmieście was grinding grain, shch-shch, cooking and eating it with the chaff, with great appetite and satisfaction.
During those days of turning mills and the bazaar, after Czerniaków the Germans attacked Mokotów and Żoliborz. I remind you: September 23—Czerniaków — southern Powiśle; September 27— Mokotów fell; September 30—Żoliborz capitulated. And now the whole force of the offensive was to be directed against what remained of Śródmieście.
Once more I refute the false legends about how Żoliborz survived. And Mokotów. That nothing of the sort happened there. I remember how they both looked in 1945: not just burned-out buildings but a pile of rubble. In 1949 I was on Dworkowa when a mound of corpses (around two hundred, I think) was discovered in a blocked sewer. Where the stairs were. The grim history of the Mokotów sewers is well-known. It was precisely there and then that the worst sewer incidents occurred.
After the war, Warsaw sang the “Mokotów March” with gusto:
… after all, those August nights
and resilient arms suffice for us…
This first march
has a strange power…
Something quivers in one’s breast
and sobs in one’s heart…