Journeys with My Mother (12 page)

No one wanted to believe the war would last long. Much was invested in international solidarity. Britain and France would come to our aid. Indeed, before long, both countries issued Hitler with an ultimatum: the German army was to withdraw from Poland, or else. When the deadline expired, Neville Chamberlain went to the airwaves to announce to the British people that their country was at war; France followed.

The relief was enormous. Warsaw responded with jubilation. Crowds gathered in front of the embassies of both countries to express their gratitude. For all that, the thanks was premature. Neither France nor Britain engaged in military action. It was merely
der Sitzkrieg
,
drôle de guerre
, a phony war. Clearly, we were in it utterly alone.

It was also a time of panic and chaos. On government orders the army, the civic authority, the police, even some fire brigades left the city. What is more, the government itself evacuated. Thousands of people streamed out of Warsaw. The only still-functioning radio station went silent. Every day brought more dead, more wounded; more air-raid victims became homeless. The city, dissected by trenches, its streets blocked by barricades, stopped functioning.

The turnaround happened unexpectedly when mayor Stefan Starzyński was appointed the civilian commissar of Warsaw. The radio station began broadcasting again and, as if salvation could come of it, everyone in the city and everyone in the Nowolipki household – except for me and Haneczka who was six – hung on his every word. After all, this was our only contact with the outside world.

Starzyński – who refused to leave the city – spoke every day, regardless of conditions. His measured tone, his ability to oversee the situation and give directions, had a calming effect. He appealed to everyone and his message was simple: go back to work, restore order to the city.

City authorities would remain in the capital regardless of the situation. Apart from those who were mobilised, no one had the right to abandon their post. A strong contingent of armoured forces were on the outskirts of Warsaw, he told us. We were going to defend ourselves. Every day the radio brought new information and orders: to open shops, to save water, to extinguish fires, to assist the staff in overcrowded hospitals – and to bury the dead. The mood changed, people found their inner reserves and felt stronger; they no longer felt abandoned.

The army fought with success, but by now Warsaw was surrounded on all sides. It seemed impossible to get out of the city alive. For stranded civilians, death came from above. The bombers flew lower than before, dropping bombs and strafing anybody in their path. Nights were accompanied by the rumblings of artillery. One had to be prepared for any emergency – we slept fully dressed. Everything was a problem, demanding determination and courage: queuing for bread, tending to the injured, burying the dead.

In the middle of September, the attacks intensified further; the centre of town was burning. Buildings collapsed heavily, as if by their own volition, trapping hundreds of people. The Royal Palace, the Old City, Sejm (the Parliament House), all lay in ruins – this was as painful as the most personal of losses.

Following international convention, from day one, the hospitals hastily erected signs of the Red Cross, only to be forced to remove them just as fast. Contrary to agreements, they became choice targets. Black, tar-like, acrid smoke hung over Warsaw. There were too many fires for the few fire brigades to keep up; those involved had to deal with them as best they could. The incendiary bombs were a major problem: despite their small size and the minimal damage they caused, they had to be extinguished fast before they would burst into flames.

Every few hours, Władek and his team were rostered for fire duty in our building. It was their responsibility to guide the residents into the basement, to stay on the roof at the ready in case of fire. Once the air-raids were over, the wounded had to be taken to the nearest hospital, sometimes under shelling. Messages had to be delivered, fresh supplies brought. The losses were enormous. Taking bodies to the cemeteries was out of the question so the dead were buried in the streets and city squares; graves sprung up everywhere.

I think of my father, moving from one place to another, doing as much as he could; of my mute mother, distraught and frozen. I wonder – at what stage did she recover and what was it that brought her back to life? The daily entreaties by Starzyński? The example of those around her? Perhaps a call from someone in urgent need of her skills?

Years later, in the first years of peacetime Warsaw, she would still cling to the walls whenever planes flew low. I thought her excessively dramatic. I am ashamed of my insensitivity.

In the midst of these events – when it seemed the situation could not get any worse – there was another calamity. The Soviet Union invaded Poland from the east. It is possible that my parents were not especially troubled by it. While fighting for their city, it was fascism they feared most, and if the Soviets entered part of Poland, who knows, it could have only been for the better. For them, the event was not half as ominous as for most people who knew better than to trust the Soviets. They had no benefit of hindsight, as I do. The secret parts of the agreement between Hitler and Stalin to divide Poland were only revealed after the war.

Towards the end of the month, Hitler, watching fires consuming the city, demanded capitulation. It was rejected and punishment was meted out on the day remembered as Black Monday. Those who lived through it thought it signalled the end of the world, or what hell must be like. Nothing was spared from the relentless assault which lasted all day. Entire streets were on fire – houses, churches, hospitals, schools and markets turned to ruins. That day, ten thousand civilians were killed. From then on, there was no water and no electricity, no gas.

Starzyński spoke to the allies: ‘You are sending us from Paris, from London congratulations and best wishes. We don't want any. We no longer expect your help. It is too late for that … We seek vengeance.'

Unbelievably, the city – hungry, exhausted, short of ammunition, almost on its knees – continued fighting, and the Germans were still repelled.

Starzyński spoke to the inhabitants of Warsaw for the last time. He said: ‘I had wished for a great Warsaw. My colleagues and I drew up plans for a great city of the future. And Warsaw is great. It came sooner than we thought. And though, where there were meant to be parks, there are barricades; though our libraries and hospitals are burning, Warsaw defending the honour of Poland is at the pinnacle of its greatness and fame.'

Then the radio went silent. That was the biggest loss.

When further fighting could no longer be sustained or justified; when the overwhelmed hospitals could no longer deal with the number of wounded; when the shortage of nurses, doctors and drugs was too great to overcome; the commander of the Polish army settled on an honourable capitulation. The city went quiet.

This was the first month of my life.

The end of the fighting brought instant relief, but already deep inside were other emotions: was all the suffering and sacrifice for nothing? And what now? Bitterness and despair transformed into anger with no immediate way out, so it lay in wait.

Now that it was safe to go out, everyone emerged from the isolation of their homes, impatient to check on relatives and friends, taking in the full panorama of the carnage. They had no choice but to move through the rubble, big chunks of houses, bricks and everyday objects, while the stench of smoke, corpses and excrement still hung in the air. Some people were still buried under the collapsed houses, and the wounded required medical help.

The Germans delayed entry to the city. First the barricades had to be removed and then the streets cleared of debris. From the very beginning, the German troops behaved as if they owned the place, displaying the insolence of the conqueror who'd brought the city to ruin. To see the victorious Wehrmacht soldiers – self-assured, well-fed and groomed – was unbearable. The people looked at them with disdain, in silence. Ant-like, they spread throughout the city; their vehicles, tanks and artillery made so much noise, there was no need to look at the spectacle to sense their power. Władek stayed at home.

The terror of occupation was felt quickly. People were shot dead for possessing arms, for breaching the curfew, for answering back. A
łapanka
was especially feared: German soldiers would suddenly block a street at both ends, trapping men and women who happened to be there; the captives would then be sent to Germany as a labour force.

Within a week electricity and water were back in many parts of the city, but not the radio. Radios had to be taken to assigned depots: owning and listening to one was
verboten
, on the penalty of death. One of the depots happened to be next door to where we lived. Receipts were duly issued, as if the radios would be returned some time in the future.

On Aleje Ujazdowskie – years later, a boulevard I'd often stroll down with my parents, ignorant of its history – the Germans filmed scenes of bread distribution. There was no shortage of people swarming around, anxious, waiting to get a loaf. Baked by local bakers, made with Polish flour, the bread was thrown into the crowd. But first, the goodwill of the conquerors had to be documented and the people urged to smile. For posterity. As there was nothing to smile about, the scene had to be repeated until it was deemed ‘right'. Bitterness swelled in people's throats; it was choking. It still is.

Both the Jews and the Poles felt the terror of occupation. For a short time, there were no specific orders concerning Jews. This was as good as giving a green light to violence. Jews were beaten and humiliated, properties ransacked and destroyed. It was not wise for men to venture out into the streets. Any Jew, regardless of age, could be commanded to perform hard labour, to the accompaniment of beating. They stayed indoors if possible.

Ola watched from the third-floor window facing Nalewki Street. A group of Germans stopped their jeeps in front of the shop across the road. They were not in a hurry, giving sweets to the gawping children before stepping into the store. She could hear their excited voices and laughter as they carried bales of fabric, loading their cars to the brim. It was the beginning of October, the first month of the occupation. Not the worst she would see.

Chapter 11

Some People

Some people are running away from some other people.
In some country, somewhere under the sun,
under some clouds.

—Wisława Szymborska

I try to imagine how abruptly, how without mercy, their world changed. Also, their terrible anxiety.

It was understood that men, Jews and communists in particular, were most at risk. My father met every criterion and it was evident to my mother that it would be best if my father escaped immediately.

At the beginning of October, when the border was yet to be properly established, Władek made his way to Białystok, a Polish town already in the hands of the Soviets. Ironically, since the invasion, the eastern frontier had moved closer to home. He went without us, to test the waters, before my mother and I would follow, before the border would be irrevocably shut. It was relatively simple to make it to the other side, then – or so I suppose.

Day and night, in great haste, thousands of people moved from one side of Poland to another. Many, sufficiently vexed, tapped their foreheads to show those bolting in the opposite direction how reckless they were. Decisions, which could determine life or death, had to be made quickly.

My grandparents, remembering the First World War, the civility of the Germans, felt assured that they could survive another occupation. Religion and life experience had taught them to endure. Besides, someone had to take care of their homes. With Władek away, Ola stayed with Brana and prepared to leave Warsaw. She did not speak Russian, and in the days before our escape her father-in-law, my paternal grandfather, taught her some useful phrases and words, such as please and thank you.

In old fairy tales, a mysterious visitor appears carrying a secret message but also a token, such as a precious ring, to prove his trustworthiness. The signal for our escape was just like that, minus the jewels. In the middle of November, a stranger appeared at the door of our household. This messenger, too, delivered proof of his credibility: my father's photograph as well as his note. Ola was to leave at once. The man, my father wrote in his firm handwriting, was a reliable person who would take us across the border.

Although my grandmother urged us to leave, and her other children were still in Warsaw, the parting was terribly sad. None of them knew whether this would be the last time they'd embrace each other.

Our train was leaving from the Eastern station on the other side of the river; even getting there was risky. To avoid roving German guards inspecting trams for the presence of Jews, we made our way to the station by horse and cart. Ola put a large woollen shawl around her head and shoulders so that she'd resemble the ubiquitous country women who moved in and out of the capital selling fresh produce. I wish I knew what she took with her. I guess her bag must have been full of baby's clothes and nappies. What else was there, I wonder. It would have been in her character to squeeze in something luxurious as well, if only for bartering. It was still autumn, but cold. We were hardly alone – all sorts of people, with their packs and bundles, were heading in the same direction.

At the station, the ‘trusted man' was nowhere in sight. Nor could Ola find her friend Fania, with whom she was to travel. Regardless, Ola decided not to return home.

The filthy, impossibly crowded train progressed with exasperating slowness, stopping frequently. When it eventually arrived at Małkinia, the last station on the German side, the crumpled passengers spilled onto the platform. It was swarming with Germans and their excited German Shepherd dogs. Jews were ordered to step to one side. My mother ignored the command. Instead, she left the station and, without looking back, walked towards the new border crossing in Zaręby Kościelne.