大象传媒

The following story appears courtesy of and with thanks to Marushka (Maria) and Zygmunt Skarbek-Kruszewski and George (Jurek) Zygmunt Skarbek.

I leapt out of bed like a madman. From a deep sleep I had been woken suddenly by a loud crash and an explosion. For a second I could not quite understand what had happened. I was surrounded by a white cloud smelling of slaked lime. Aghast, I looked about. There was a big hole in the ceiling near the window, bits of plaster were falling to the ground and on the floor near the bed was a large piece of bent metal. It was a bit of anti-aircraft flak. "Another air raid," I thought, and this was immediately confirmed by a burst of gunfire above the roofs; high time to scram. My room on the top floor of a five-storey building was certainly not an attractive shelter against bombs. I dressed hurriedly and ran down the empty stairs. Some men were peering out through the half-open basement door. They were shouting excitedly and pointing to something in the sky. I looked up. Above our part of the city an air battle was in progress. The pale sky of a September dawn was lightened by the sun just rising. The planes in the sky were like a disturbed flock of crows, flying haphazardly above the city, turning, zig-zagging. Some were high up, others with a shrill noise barely cleared the rooftops. The whole sky was covered with tiny clouds, some were pursuing the planes as if trying to catch them, others erupted suddenly in front of planes which then dived instantly.
Someone shouted "Look, look, there to the left - it is falling."
Everyone tried to see, craning their necks the plane was approaching the ground very fast. It almost touched the roofs and then, with an unexpected growl of the motors, the plane started to rise.
The onlookers were disappointed. "What a shame - I thought we had him. Our gunners are shooting poorly. There is a whole flock of them. One could shoot them like ducks."
"Not poorly, gentlemen, but too thinly," said the janitor. "They only make holes in the sky. It should be like buckshot from a double-barrelled gun!'
Close to us, near Marszalkowska Street, automatic guns began firing. Looking up, we saw above our heads an aircraft giving a shake with its tail; for a moment it seemed he might regain his balance, but then in a twisted, corkscrew motion, he dived to the ground, leaving in the sky a dark line marking his descent.
"Got him" people cried.
"Bravo! Bravo!" called some young girls, clapping their hands.
The 'All Clear' sounded.
A fantastic spectacle. General enthusiasm.
The charred, bodies of two young fliers under the debris of the plane gave off an odour of burnt, singed flesh. The crowd surged towards their killers. In seconds, a small armoured car was besieged. Nobody doubted that these were the victors. From a nearby florist, ladies brought flowers and started throwing them over the young officer who was standing in the car saluting to all sides. His eyes were shining excitedly and he was very proud. He was the hero of the day. On his chest was a cross of valour and on his conscience were two more human lives.
I had difficulty pushing through the crowd. Only at the central station could I get a tram. The tram was full of people and luggage. They looked as if they were all leaving. Tired and pale faces, women with small children in their arms - some with bandaged hands and faces. I started to talk to one woman.
"We are from Ciechanowo, sir. The Front is there already. My sister," pointing to a young woman with her head bandaged, "and I were barely able to run away,鈥� she said.
"Are you hurt?"
"Yes, a piece of shrapnel hit me in the head when I ran over the street to my sister. We escaped with only the clothes we stood in. Everything was in flames."
A thought struck me. That must mean that the Front was very close as Ciechanowo was barely 100 km away and here we knew nothing about it.
At the next stop a group of refugees from Modlin boarded the tram, claiming that it was impossible to stay in Modlin any longer as the Germans were bombarding the neighbourhood with shells.
I left the tram when it stopped at Marszal Square in order to buy a newspaper, hoping for news of the last twenty-four hours. The leading article on page one, written in large block letters, affirmed that prompt assistance was on the way from our allies. They were mobilising all their strength to help Poland who was bravely resisting the invasion, etc... I looked through the following pages for news from the Front, but in vain. Page two was devoted to strained relationships between Japan and America. A long and uninteresting article filed the whole page, leaving space only for a small verse about the 鈥渟teel wings of victory". On page three the King of Siam assured Great Britain of their common interests, the deep friendship of two nations who value peace, etc... The following pages covered criminal offences, advertisements, theatre and cinema programmes and various small announcements. That was all.
In the afternoon, the Ministry ordered the packing of documents. A large group, including myself, was directed to the right wing of M.S.Z., the archives. In a large hall stood stacks of metal cabinets reaching to the ceiling with only a narrow walking space between them. There we set to work.
Around midnight, tired and hungry, we sat down for a short rest. Some gentlemen from the Minister's office arrived and told us that we would have to be prepared to work through the night. Then he divided our labours so that the men's energies were spent carrying packed cases outside while the women continued packing, but now only from special cabinets marked T. T. (secret). One o'clock, two o'clock. Passages, halls and the yard were being filled with large, wooden crates. We walked wearily and were very sleepy. At three o'clock somebody came with a list and read a few names, including mine, and told us to go home immediately, pack bare essentials and be ready to travel.
"One suitcase only,鈥� we were told by the elderly, clean-shaven gentleman with a monocle.
鈥淕entlemen, you have to be here at the Ministry at half-past four in the morning. The Government has ordered the evacuation of all public head offices. Our Ministry will be evacuated this morning. You, gentlemen, have to supervise the transport of the documents of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The destination will be given later."
It has happened, I thought. The refugees in the tram were telling the truth. Warsaw is directly endangered; therefore the sudden evacuation.
I intended to hurry home but there were no trams and I had a fair distance to cover. The city was in complete darkness, looking like a block of marble. The streets were deserted. From Krakowskie Przedmiescie Street came the dull, monotonous sound of wheels and the stamping of horses' hoofs.
I turned into the street in the direction of Copernicus statue. A field artillery battery was on the move. Around the statue of Copernicus a company of C.K.M. (heavy machine guns) had halted. The horses, heads down, were standing motionless in their harness; the soldiers crowded the steps of the Holy Cross Church. Coat collars turned up, they huddled on stairs and against the walls. Some were sitting on kerbs along the street. Faces were indistinguishable and only their stooping shapes clearly showed their tiredness. I looked up. On top of the church stairs loomed the bent figure of Christ with the stone cross on his back. In this attitude, He was giving people peace on earth. The soldiers had hand grenades in their belts and guns on their backs. Cannons were being moved along the street. Dozing soldiers slumped on horses moving with tired steps. This night Christ reviewed the parade of a sleepy army. He, General Christ, the chief commander of loving peace and people of good will. Where are the people of loving peace? Where are the people of good will?
Those who with holy water, making the sign of the Cross, blessing the factories of bombs, poisonous gases, tanks, battleships, bombers and cannons - are they the Priests of Peace?
The uniformed Youth of Pioneers, Hitlerjugend, Falangist, Komsomols marching in step to military drums with their wooden rifles - were they taught to 'love thy neighbour'?
Young girls throwing flowers over youths in uniforms, mothers farewelling their sons with the pathetic cry - "Go! The country is calling you!"
Could they teach brotherly love?
Maybe the law? edicts? codes? could. No ... they punish with prison for the refusal to take arms.
"Who is guilty? Where is the culprit?" one wants to ask. Hitler is blaming the allies, the allies are blaming Hitler.
The U.S.S.R. is blaming the capitalistic world, the capitalistic countries are blaming the Komintern. The fascists are pointing to communism, communism to fascists. A vicious circle looking for the guilty. All countries have their 鈥榮acred rights' which they are ready to defend with lives. The blood was running from gored bellies and pierced heads and torn limbs. It was flowing through hamlets, villages and towns, illuminating the 'sacred rights' with fires of war.
Now is not the time to seek the culprit.
Guilty will be the one who loses the war.
Inside the houses that I was passing, hundreds of thousands of families were sleeping. Will they still be standing in the next few days when the enemy is trying to strangle the city? Where will their Fatherland be? Under which roof will they try to find shelter?
Galloping hoof beats cut through my gloomy thoughts. Sparks flew under the hoofs. A soldier, bent down over his horse, was tearing ahead into darkness. An echo reverberated through the empty streets.
Despite the early morning hours, the bustling activity on Station Fast was unbelievable. Our trucks, fully loaded with crates and honking loudly, could hardly move. Loaded vehicles from different offices were constantly arriving. Along the streets crowds were streaming like overflowing rivers. On the platforms piles of luggage were surrounded by women and children. Trams disgorged masses of jostling refugees, looking for some spare place to put down their belongings. Noise from diesel engines and moving freight trains increased the clamour.
While we were unloading the heavy crates to the ground, the alert sounded. Everyone started to run general confusion. Being near the station terrified people. Part of the station had been demolished by previous raids and the charred stumps increased the scary feeling. Cabs, not even waiting for payment, turned back to the city. The crowd wavered. Heavy parcels retarded progress, small children could not run. Wives were desperately calling their husbands, yelling and crying in the human ant heap. The majority did not know where to go, where 'to seek shelter. No shelter was large enough to protect a crowd of many thousands. I could not see a shelter anywhere, but tried to reach some trenches at the end of the street. These at least offered some protection from shrapnel. The place in front of the station became empty of people, leaving only luggage and crates behind. The trench into which I jumped was proudly called SHELTER No. 1, the name printed on a yellow board attached to a stick. The floor of the trench was of course covered in shit left by the previous night's passers by.
It was only a short alert. The 'All Clear' sounded and people rushed to their luggage. The train for our Ministry had not arrived so, hoping to contact Marushka, I decided to telephone from a soda fountain kiosk. My sudden departure in an unknown direction would make it impossible for her to look for me.
My optimistic letter written to her the day before the war could have encouraged her to come to Warsaw, and this I could not have forgiven myself, especially as she was in neutral Lithuania. My optimism reflected only the general atmosphere at that time. Who would have thought that, within seven days, such disastrous changes would occur.
The queue to the telephone was long. Many were waiting to contact their nearest before going into the unknown. When I was only a couple of people away from the front of the queue, the alert sounded again. The lady from the kiosk locked her door and I ran to the trenches. A further alert again interrupted the queue. Each consecutive, harmless alarm frightened the people less and less. Some even stayed on the platforms whilst others went leisurely towards shelters, glancing at the sky.
Once again I was in the queue and had only to wait for a peroxided blonde to finish her call. I was like a cat on hot bricks, being afraid of another alert, but she continued yakking away. People were getting restless and abusive and started to push and shove. I turned around ... and stood rooted to the spot, unable to believe my eyes. In the queue, right behind me, was my wife. She was standing with her hands in the pockets of her brown coat; from under her beret, masses of red-brown curls tumbled onto her collar. She saw me and her eyes filled with tears.
We fell into each other's arms. Without speaking, Marushka started to cry soundlessly on my shoulder. Her wordless weeping told me more than the most elaborate phrases could have done. A chance of perhaps one in a million a truly miraculous meeting.
Had we missed each other, our fate would have been totally different for the rest of our lives.
We would have lived separate lives. We did not need the telephone any more. We left, holding hands and, without words, knew that from then on we would not be separated. We sat on one of the crates. Looking at her pale face, I said "You must have had a lot of trouble coming. How long did you travel? What is happening at home?"
In her lilting, Lithuanian accent, she told me in short sentences that she had left Kaunas (the capital city of Lithuania, approximately 500 km away) the day war started. At the Polish Lithuanian border, her mother had reached her by telephone, begging her to return. But she refused, wanting to be with me, and had bought a ticket to Warsaw, although it was very difficult for civilians to obtain permission. The journey had lasted three days instead of the normal seven hours. In Malkinie, the train had been bombed and rails demolished so that passengers had to travel a few kilometres by foot, carrying their belongings. Tired and hungry, she had arrived in Warsaw on the day of the evacuation.
Finally we were advised that the train for the Ministry was waiting on one of the side platforms. With our belongings, we went to seek seats which we found in a smoking compartment of a Pullman car. None of us knew the destination of our train.
Many military trains passed us without stopping. Near us stood an ambulance train. Through the car windows we saw for the first time wounded soldiers from the front. Wearing dirty, open army coats, some bandaged soldiers were standing, others lay on the floor. They were unshaven, grey-faced, and their dressings were soaked with blood.
How quickly human material is used up during war. It is only the seventh day of the war and how different these soldiers look from the shining ranks parading only three weeks ago. Then they parted before the stands where high dignitaries and beautifully clad ladies were sitting. Today, some were groaning and cursing, lying on the floors of freight trains - and those taking part in the parade, frightened and sweating, were dragging their luggage into evacuee trains.
We returned to our train as we heard a rumour that it would be moving soon. The crates containing all the documents were still in front of the station. The train, standing at a siding, had only one luggage carriage.
Time was running out and there was no-one to help cart our heavy burden. The Station Master in a red cap informed us that the train had to leave immediately as the track was required for another transport. He did not listen to the Ministry's councillors and gave the signal for departure. The train started moving and in the carriage were only two crates. Somebody later mentioned that these crates contained French wines belonging to a friendly embassy. The crates containing the secret documents were left near the platform. What happened to them I don't know I never heard about them again.

Continued....
'This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by 大象传媒 Radio Merseyside鈥檚 People鈥檚 War team on behalf of the author and has been added to the site with his / her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.'

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