´óÏó´«Ã½

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

In the morning when the sun's rays, with great difficulty, penetrated the smoke clouds everything looked dirty and cheerless. The tired people of Warsaw were emerging from their dark and musty lairs where they had spent another sleepless night. The people were exhausted and depressed - some were apathetic.
How dreary was this September morning. The lawns were covered with ashes. The sooty, heavy leaves resembled artificial cemetery flowers, hanging deathly quiet over the trodden down earth. The twitter of the bards was missing. Even the doves, Warsaw's faithful friends, had left this town of fires and smoke. Only people remained - grey people, homeless people, herded into this park. The guns were quiet when I went outside. It was a strange sight. Everything was covered with leaflets - lawns, shrubs and even on tree branches hung leaflets. Some were still falling down slowly.

°ä´Ç²Ô³Ù¾±²Ô³Ü±ð»å…â¶Ä¦
'This story was submitted to the People’s War site by ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Merseyside’s People’s 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.'

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.