Miron Bialoszewski - A Memoir of the Warsaw Uprising

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…

And the trumpet plays, tra ta ta

Tra-tatata-ta-ta…

But back to the point: I was not in Mokotów nor in Żoliborz. Others were. They survived or they didn’t survive. Those who experienced their own emotions, hells, and reality there know what it was like. And have already described it. And will describe it again.

Żoliborz, I think, awaits its history. Because Mokotów has its own great uprising tradition. As does practically every district. Of left-bank Warsaw. Let us take a walk from the Vistula to the Vistula — north to south — like a fan:

Żoliborz.

Powązki — here I know very little (lost on August 4, I think).

Wola — what happened is well-known.

Ochota. Zieleniak, the famous former farmer’s market, where people who’d been rounded up sat day and night; once a volley of rifle fire was emptied into the line at the pump; and those rapes — I know this from various people and from Ludwik, too, because he was driven there — he, Ludmila, the whole family — that every so often one of the women came back to her family’s “allotment,” to her husband, howling, because she’d been raped.

Mokotów — see above.

Czerniaków — well-known.

After the capitulation of Żoliborz on September 30 there was fine weather, heat. (Don’t be surprised that I suddenly remember something. That’s how it is. And I make no corrections because I want my struggling with memory and separateness of the districts to be apparent.) Only Śródmieście remained. And what was there in Śródmieście? Krucza Street? With the side streets off it? Or Złota? Even that’s not so sure.

And the rest?

Rubble.

The rest was gone.

Then what?

A couple of streets that were one-half or one-quarter intact, which vaguely resembled streets. That’s how it seemed then. Because now even they wouldn’t seem like streets. No way.

The mill was emptied. The grain that we carried out for the troops, which had seemed like so much, had already been exhausted. There weren’t all that many weapons, either. Anyway, what kind of weapons were they? Laughter in the hall. It was well-known that at any moment the bombers would move, the cows, the armored train, all sorts of artillery, tanks — against that Śródmieście. Against Krucza. So, what was it all?

A pile of ruins? Of bombed-out cellars? And a pile of corpses?

I’m playing the sage unnecessarily. Long ago others created history out of this, made deductions from it and proclaimed them. And the thing is known. Yes, I’m speaking for myself — a layman. And for others. Also laymen. To the extent that we can speak because we were there. Laymen and non-laymen. All condemned together to a single history. After various September rumors we felt more and more hope. For survival. Maybe we are not condemned? If only we can prevent that catastrophe from happening in this area? Perhaps it was worthwhile to defend, to rescue whatever and whomever could be rescued. Maybe at this point someone will smile pityingly. Now? After so much? Well, yes.

We were alive. Still. That man with the torn-off cheek was walking along Krucza with his cheek already sewed back on, without a bandage. Capitulation hung in the air. Sunshine, too. Dust, too. Or, rather, heat with explosions and rubble. Because they kept firing! firing!

I, too, ran straight to Żurawia that day, I think. To Swen. Upstairs this time. Because for some reason I imagined that Swen might be upstairs. No. That was the second day, I think. I couldn’t have thought that. That on September 30 they would be on the second floor. And yet it seems I could. I think it was September 30. Because there was still a sense of direct danger, from the sky. And there was already something of the end, of a fiasco, of armistice. Of a thunderbolt. If you’ll pardon the metaphor. Because there wasn’t just talk about capitulation. There was — it seems to me — an official statement about forthcoming negotiations.

September 30. I am on my way to Żurawia. It’s bright in the courtyard. There’s sunlight at the exit from the stairs, the apartments. Perhaps the other doors weren’t open; only that one, on the second floor, the Szu. family’s, was wide open, straight into an enfilade. Something was rumbling. There was something lying everywhere. One could sense a lot of people. Where? Below? Here it was shimmering with emptiness. In the sunlight. Here — in the stairwell. It was early, before sunset. And I was pulled, drawn, into that azure by singing. By one individual. Hoarsely and maniacally. But piously. In a virile rural style. A dismissively cellar style. Although it was coming from the second floor. As it turned out. And from that enfilade. So that I wanted to be mistaken about hearing it. Someone at the Szus.’ But — still… I enter the first door. Why? I want to find out about Swen. The singing is becoming more shrill with every moment. A second door. It’s verging on maniacal. Here it is! Well I can see, because I keep walking — someone is sitting in a chair, in the center. Now I see that it’s Pan Szu., the elder. With his back to me, to the stairs, his face to the window, the courtyard, and a point opposite. What is in the room? Space. Everything has been carried out. Only that singing. A howl. Properly, with pauses: “You are absolutely beautiful, my friend”—half spoken, as it should be. Again howling. Interlacing — pause. Professionally. And again: “As the hands of the clock are moved back.”

What would you want from the text of the Hours, from the intent, from stubborn concentration? I was stunned. It was in truth the Liturgy of the Hours. I walk over to Pan Szu. Who is sitting motionless in his chair. With his hands in his lap. And celebrating. And nothing. He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t interrupt himself. Doesn’t see. Doesn’t hear. He sings. I stand behind him. Should I ask? No?

“Excuse me, is…”—Nothing.

“Excuse me, sir, is…”—Nothing.

“Is Swen here?” Nothing. He continues howling, motionless.

“Isn’t there anyone? Here? Are they??? No?! Downstairs??”— loudly, and nothing. Stupid Miron. Pan Szu. howls. Miron runs. Walks around to the front. Of Pan Szu. Who has his eyes fixed on the window, the sky; his hands as above (lowered); he sings (howls) and nothing. I walked around him and, embarrassed — exactly, embarrassed — I walked out as fast as I could. I think I didn’t find Swen that day; the singing howled after me all the way down the stairs, all through the courtyard, and even farther, I think.

But that house on Żurawia was strange. And under stress, Pan Szu. was celebrating the Liturgy of the Hours for the end of the uprising.

That was Saturday. They were still smashing; mortars, “cows” (not bombs); at night, too — I don’t remember with what, we were used to it. People were sleeping in crumpled bedding in cellars under the protection of Secession architecture, under that “credenza”—23 Wilcza, which survived, remains standing to this day. The morning was sweltering. Sunshine. Still. Without change. A dry summer. And it was Sunday. Which no one knew. Today, too. Instead we knew that it was already October. October… October… Unbelievable. The third month? The third. Then which day? The sixty-second. But then suddenly in the morning everything grew still. The main front was quiet. The Germans were quiet. And we were quiet. Silence. Such as there had not been since August 1. Could it be that we knew this beforehand, or that we figured it out immediately, or was an announcement made right away — a truce until nightfall and negotiations? An announcement, I think. So it was the end? Really? It was known that if they were negotiating they would agree. It was believed that nothing dreadful awaited us; people wanted to believe in that, because they’d had their fill of the uprising and of war in general and of hatred and killing and dying. Suddenly — everyone— wanted — to — live! To live! To walk! To go outside! To look around! At the sunlight. Normally.