The camp stretched far into the distance, because we turned into another avenue and walked to the areas reserved for POWs of various nationalities. I was seeing a prisoner of war camp for the first time. I hadn’t imagined that there’d be such a small plot of land around each barracks for so many people, and then wires, and the next “run.” They were like runs in a zoo. Cages.
They led those of us from the train into a wire-enclosed space without barracks, without anything. Or maybe into several little reserves, or otherwise we wouldn’t have fit in. (Or, rather, we would have all fit, since the Hitlerites relied on literally jamming everyone together into a single mass.)
To the left we had Poles, from 1939. After them, Frenchmen. Farther on, Englishmen, Belgians, and other nationalities. Russians, too. We immediately became a sensation. The French threw colorful trifles over to us. Something to eat. Razor blades. The prisoners of war were sufficiently well cared for, shaved — at least, that’s how it seemed on the surface and at that time. The Poles from 1939 said that now it was peaceful there. Father remembers that they mentioned something about a worse time, now past.
I asked one of the officers — they were officers only, I think— when they’d learned about the uprising.
“The first day, in the evening.”
“Right away?”
“The radio,” he explained.
They began taking us to the baths in groups. People referred to it then as “Going to the mikvah.”
Once more we walked quite a long way, through meadows. Near the barracks with the “mikvah” there were plenty of Ukrainians, prisoners of war, moving about. They assisted us in bathing. Or rather— a locker room, showers, standing about — and we were led out.
The bath was like any other. Only one detail. Lice control. And compulsory advice. That on a pole in the center there is a gray ointment. Everyone must take some and smear it on his hair, in his armpits and in the third place. It’s a little embarrassing but I will introduce here a popular song from the occupation:
Gray ointment is the greatest,
You only use a little.
Simply rub it everywhere,
And your balls will shrivel…
When we were united with the women again on the road Halina told me that they were also attended by Ukrainians, by men only. They walked among the naked women checking the showers, laughing and chatting.
“So? Do you think all the women were offended?”
“Were they?”
“Not in the least. They also grinned and arranged with the Ukrainians for rendezvous.”
As we set out on the semicircular road a group of people in special uniforms, mainly khaki, appeared beyond the bend, carrying knapsacks, rucksacks, and haversacks. They were the partisans. Who had just been transported here. We were walking under armed guard. They were, too. We were walking toward each other. Rising excitement. Noise. So — we pass each other. Shouts. Cries. The Germans drive us onward, they yell. They were leading them to the “mikvah.” Us to the side of the road for the time being. We waited in place for a while. It was late afternoon. Warm. The partisans were led out of the “mikvah” and lined up beside the road in the meadow, but far from us. At first they just stood there. But then they were ordered to take something, perhaps everything, out of their packs and knapsacks. Then — the sun was just going down — the partisans undressed at a command. Then it became fairly dark and we were sent down the road to our new quarters. We saw them standing there and standing there, stripped down to their underwear for the time being. There was nothing ominous — despite this — in the warm breeze. And yet, as we know, after dark they had to strip naked and wait. What happened later — is hard to determine. Some were taken elsewhere. Some came back. Survived. But the others — no one knows what happened. They vanished. Were they silently taken off somewhere to the side that night? Or later? It’s never been completely explained.
This time they led us into a spacious compound on a hill with greenery, grass, trees, separated from the rest of the camp and practically bordering on the highway and fields of turnips and potatoes along the sides of the valley.
Several spacious tents awaited us. When we entered our tent we discovered that we were to sleep on a thick rough layer of shavings. They were arranged in two rows with an aisle between them. The shavings were warm. Anyway, the night was warm, too.
They gave us something to eat. But we added leftovers from our Warsaw supplies. We had juice, macaroni, sugar cubes. We ate some uncooked food and went to sleep.
We began to cook only on the morning of the second day. On stoves made of three bricks, on real little stoves — I don’t know where they came from — but maybe those weren’t really stoves, just whatever we’d brought with us. Zocha and Stacha also cooked macaroni, although toward evening Zocha was standing in front of the kasha cauldron as a server. After one portion of thick soup I brought my mess kit over for seconds because Zocha winked at me, and she poured me a brimming ladleful.
During the day we got a good look at the terrain. We liked it very much. The weather was fine to boot, and warm all the time. Beyond the string of tents, or, rather, as if beyond the courtyard of this new household, was a patch of heather. Whoever wasn’t cooking or wasn’t in the tents went off to sit there. Halina and I also sat and chatted there. We felt good, as if we were on a school outing.
Toward evening, as was my habit, I took a careful walk around. It was roomy and country-like in the tents. Outside, in the “yard,” people were either rushing or sauntering around. On the edge of the yard opposite the tents was a ditch and a rise covered with bushes. Near the ditch was a row of steaming cookstoves; the Warsaw women were preparing supper individually. Just behind the stoves children were playing. And behind the children, against the background of bushes above the ditch, on the long plank benches of a field latrine, men were sitting in a row and shitting. From the end of the courtyard, from the last, smallest tent came a pious song but not one such as we were accustomed to. I deduced that those were the Russians from Warsaw, ours, civilians. They always stuck together in a separate group. And always last in their line was a man pushing a cart with quilts, bundles, and a sewing machine on the top. They had gotten a separate tent. I peered inside: in the corner of the tent, under an icon and candles, stood a crowd gathered into a triangular mass, crossing themselves every now and then, bowing and singing Orthodox Vespers.
In the evening, when we had all lain down already on the reed mats and shavings in our tent, we got in a mood to organize a cultural evening. One man stood in the aisle between the shavings and recited Wiech; another man, young, played a Wieniawski concerto on his violin.[29]
During the night a storm blew up and during the downpour several Varsovians stole past the wires to dig turnips.
On Sunday we sat in the heather practically all day long.
Transport selections took place almost daily. The Germans came over, the interpreter made an announcement, asked, explained. It was announced to what destination a particular group was being sent now — and volunteers were called for. You could choose not only whether you wanted to go to a Bauer or a factory but also how far away. We immediately decided against a Bauer:
On a Bauer howls a dog
Fed on slops meant for a hog.