My meeting with Jews, with Kuba’s whole family:
Kuba was a charming, slender, simply beautiful young Jew. He wore a cap and high boots. And he was tall, had splendid black hair and splendid white teeth. I knew him. I and others. He was tremendously popular. He walked around laughing. He was very flirtatious. But not excessively. He knew himself. And he was charming. The last time I met him was in Dąbrowski Square, where I live today; it was summer, June, lightning, a storm; it was pouring; we were standing under a roof and Kuba was laughing at the lightning with those teeth of his. And then once again, when he was carrying a sack or something for his family. Then he disappeared. Which was normal. We would mention him and think about how things had perhaps gone badly for him. And suddenly now, October 2, we’re standing there, walking around in our Wilcza — Krucza courtyards. We’re moving about on the mounds. Because there were a lot of them. And pits, too. We’re deliberating. What. How. Who will leave with whom. I look to the side. Those white teeth laughing. Like an ear of corn — as Ludwik says. Beneath black hair. That same splendid profile. I look and don’t believe it. But he laughs. I run to him.
“Kuba!”
“How are you?!”
“Is it really you?”
He smiles. Broadly.
“How did you survive?”
“Very well.”
“Where are you? How are things? What are you doing? Are you alone? Are you leaving? No? Kuba! Really…”
Kuba, with complete trust in me and in Father, who is standing nearby, and Stanisław, says, “We’re here in the ruins. On Wilcza. The whole family. The whole time: twenty-six people. We’re set up. What about you? Are you leaving?”
“Well, it seems so.”
“You’re really leaving? For Germany? What for?”
“Well, really, we don’t know exactly why.”
Because actually Halina felt like remaining in the ruins. I did, too. Father and Zocha half agreed. But somehow it was decided to leave. And here is Kuba persuading us: “Stay with us. We’re well off.
You won’t be badly off. We have what to eat. We have supplies. They
won’t find us.”
“Father,” I say, “maybe we should?”
“How should I know?” Father began to think it over.
“Stay with us.”
I began to yield to Kuba. I liked the idea. Of staying. They had experience. Kuba was clever, splendid. I really wanted to. Very much. Halina, too. Because I ran to her right away. I told Kuba: “Well, we’ll see.”
“Stay with us.”
Halina and I were decided. We absolutely didn’t want to leave for Germany for the unknown, for labor. Maybe for something worse? People were counting on being rid of these Germans before long. But the devil knows how long. Maybe half a year more? Wouldn’t it be better to stay here in the ruins?
“Who’ll find us?”
Zocha reconsidered the situation, too. And Father. For a moment it almost seemed as if we would. But then we began to be afraid. Perhaps it was dangerous. If they find us they’ll destroy us. But if they transport us (if we leave), then it will be to labor and only that; to life and not to death.
We didn’t want to break up again. Although in the end it turned out otherwise. Because foolish breaking apart began, not staying together. By degrees. More and more. It started with Swen. Instead of leaving with us, he and Zbyszek (in case he wanted to leave as a civilian), then no. Somehow we didn’t make plans. We didn’t come to an agreement. It was my fault. Halina’s, too, a little. But how was Halina at fault? I was! Sloppiness. Mostly due to missing each other. And not meeting up in time. That day Swen was still at our place. Or I was at his. Was it because Swen was alienated because of what Stacha had said then about the water, and by this and that, and other such trifles? So what? I didn’t act. And I’m the one who lost. Swen wasn’t doing well in September. With living. With washing. With eating. Everything went badly. And drafts, too. Because he’d had such a place. Despite the heat. In 1939 Ludwik had stood in a gateway on Kercelak between two fires and had shivered from cold in the draft from the flames.
Pan Szu., the man from the Hours, hadn’t gone mad at all. For now he and his family were preparing whole jars of lard. Their son had a suitcase full of money. Just in case. What I know now I learned many months afterward. After meeting Swen and Mother. His. Because we had somehow lost each other here, drifted apart. Swen left with the Szus. For Ursus. They were forced out. Old people were grouped separately. The Szus.’ son, the one with the money, and Swen were shoved into a freight car for a labor transport. Except it was an open carriage. They ride. And ride. It’s night. Somewhere. Far away. Still the Generalgouvernement. The train is rounding a bend. Slowing down. They jump out. First someone else. A shot. What? — Who knows? Then Szu. flings his valise full of money, Swen flings his bundle. And they themselves jump! Jump! Success. They run to a village. Schwanzdorf is nearby. The Generalgouvernement. Kieleckie. In Polish: Ogonowice… They walk up to a cottage. A night’s lodging. Questions. Lights on behind covered windows. Mama, Aunt Uff., and Celina. And Lusia with Pani Rymińska. They’re all here. Unbelievable. But that’s what happened.
Our Starówka family: Swen’s mother, Aunt, Celina, Lusia with Mareczek, and Lusia’s mother had left when the Germans attacked, several hours after our departure for the sewers. Grenades were being tossed somewhere nearby. But it wasn’t so very dangerous. At least not near them. They were transported to Pruszków or Ursus. Swen’s mother and Aunt were in no danger. Celina faced forced labor. (In 1942 she had been in Majdanek for four months.) They disguised her. That is, they put on her whatever came to hand and covered her up. With kerchiefs. To make her ugly and old. And that’s how they got by. Through the selection procedure. All of them passed as unfit for work. To the Generalgouvernement with them.
Let us return to the main scene of departure. The final one. To the so-called exodus. The day of capitulation dragged on and on. Some people left. Others made preparations. Others thought things over. Some passed by. Consulted. And everyone walked about. Meetings multiplied. Gatherings. And indecision multiplied, too. Stupid separations. Sheer idiocy. Lots of neither here nor there. So what else: collecting water, as much as possible, for a great washing before the great exodus. All Warsaw began bathing. In families. In shelter groups. In every possible vessel. I don’t remember what happened about shaving. No doubt whoever had what was needed to do it with, shaved. After yesterday’s holiday of crawling out into the street, today was a day of preparation. We put off our bathing until evening. Meanwhile a discussion began about what to take with us. Whatever could be moved. And what to leave behind as useless. Everyone held such counsels. The Wi. family suddenly had more kasha than they all could carry. We had a lot of wheat that had to be left behind. At least some of it. There were those who had nothing. But a great many people had to leave something that would have come in handy, either food or clothing. It didn’t make sense to drag it along. After deciding what to take we began to discuss what to take it in. The best would be if each person took something on his back and carried in his hand whatever else he wanted. Father and Zocha came up with the idea of sewing backpack-sacks for the five of us. On straps, à la knapsacks. The bags out of canvas. And the straps out of canvas. Because there was no leather. But there was canvas. And a sewing machine was found. Zocha, Halina, and Stacha began to sew those bags. I started rushing around looking for a supply of notebooks and pencils. In a corner of Pani Rybkowska’s apartment I found a bulging closet. Completely stuffed with stacks of notebooks. Perhaps it hadn’t bulged originally. But only began bulging from those notebooks. It was musty. The notebooks were old. So I quickly tore out the pages that hadn’t been written on. Just at that moment Pani Rybkowska walked in.