Journeys with My Mother by Halina Rubin Page B

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