Journeys with My Mother by Halina Rubin

later our hospital, too, was on fire. As the flames and smoke spread, screaming terrified women ran out of the wards. Some, in haste, left their babies behind and were now howling for help to retrieve them.
    According to family legend, my father carried the two of us out of the burning hospital. As wonderful as this tale is, it is wide of the mark. I am certain he would have tried, had he been there, and had he been able to lift my not-toolight mother and me at the same time. A Herculean task.
    As it happened, Ola, torch in hand, holding me tightly, grasped her little case already packed for such an emergency and went out into the street unaided. The descending darkness was illuminated only by searchlights, fires and her torch. Someone directed her to the nearest shelter.
    The basement in Twarda Street was packed with people, with still more pouring in all the time. Every new blast brought cries, curses and prayers. It was suffocating, with nowhere to sit down. After a few minutes, Ola left me in someone’s arms and went out in search of something better. ‘You left me with a stranger?’ I ask, risking a joke to ease her pain. But my mother, engrossed in remembering, cannot be diverted or consoled.
    She ran upstairs, knocking at doors. One of them opened slightly, enough to reveal a young couple: a man and a woman in advanced pregnancy, the woman’s eyes wide with fear. Ola, short of breath, asked if she and her baby could stay, if only for the rest of the night. She desperately wanted to call home, to let them know we were alive but, receiver in hand, staring at the dialling disk, she could not recall her mother’s phone number. She remained forever grateful to these two strangers who took her in, because they understood her distress and her need for shelter.
    Most importantly, she remembered to retrieve me.
    Rushing along the dark staircase she collided with someone. It happened to be Władek, his face and clothes covered in grime. He’d been looking for us in the hospital and in here, in Twarda Street. For a short, precious moment they were together, ecstatically happy, so relieved to have found each other. But they could not stay together for long. Ola was in a hurry to pick me up, and Władek to return to the burning hospital. A peaceful night with both adoring parents beatifically leaning over my cradle was not my fate.
    My mother and I remained in the same location for three days. Ola had nothing to offer to reciprocate the kindness of the strangers. Instead, as exhausted as she was, she washed the floors in gratitude. Then, at night, once the air alarm had ceased, baby in one arm, pack on her back, Ola began her walk home. She was still very weak and moved slowly through the dust-heavy air. My grandmother’s place was not far but she felt as though she would never reach it. The streets, once so familiar since childhood, looked alien, the grotesquely deformed houses beyond recognition. Afraid of getting lost, she tried to walk in a straight line. Yet everything blocked her progress – the ruins of houses, their innards spilling onto the pavements; shards of glass; bomb craters and dead horses. For all her effort, she did not seem to be moving any closer to her destination. I hope I was not crying.
    The relief of getting home in one piece, the joy of being with her family, did not last long. The shelling and bombardments did not stop and Brana’s apartment was full. Jankiel, my great-grandfather, had risked travelling from Grodzisk, believing Warsaw to be a safer place to outlast the danger. At some stage, there must have been ten of us living there. It felt better to be together. Though much was made of the beauty of the new addition to the family – ‘Look at her blue eyes!’ – everybody had something more pressing to do. Ewa was away most of the time. The number of wounded was growing every day and babies still had to be delivered. Only my mother –