Days before the Uprising
Actually, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. We are sitting around chatting, waiting for the instructor to arrive and give us the next weapons-drill. Last time it was about the Parabellum (German standard issue, 9mm side arm, an excellent weapon). The instructor was probably somewhat surprised when at the end of the lesson all the boys in my squad could swiftly both take it apart and reassemble, blindfolded without making a single mistake. Of course nobody owned up that they had done it before. This is our ‘conspiracy within the Conspiracy [of the Resistance movement]’. We have a secret pistol in our squad, property of ‘Gryf’. We are sure that if the powers that be knew about it they would take it away for those older and more important than us. We are only, after all, boy scouts in the Szare Szeregi (lit. Grey Ranks) of the BS.1 For the time being we are only given instructions, fighting with weapons comes later, when we finally progress to the legendary GS.2
This morning we had an ‘exercise’ which I thought went well. In fact, I must say I was quite pleased with myself. It went like this.
For a long time, even before I joined the Resistance, I had been involved with the ‘Minor Sabotage’. Its purpose was to lift the spirits of Poles and dampen those of the Germans, many of whom were in Warsaw on their way to the Eastern Front. To start with it involved painting graffiti and sticking up posters, but later it became a fairly big exercise, sometimes even partly coordinated through London. All over Europe, people were painting a big V (Deutschland Verloren, or Germany Defeated) or a swastika hanging from a gallows. We’ve spent lots of time playing this game as well.
Shortly after I became squad leader, we found out what had happened to one of the other squads in our area. Two lads were calmly daubing a wall, protected by a third on the other side of the road whose job it was to look out for any approaching patrol or some other danger. Everything was going well, when an ordinary looking man, walking past the painters, suddenly pulled out a weapon and marched them off to the police station, from where they were taken to Szucha.3 The lad on the other side could only stand back and watch as there was nothing he could do to help.
I decided I could not lose anyone just for painting stupid graffiti, as no one ever came back from Szucha, so I came up with a plan, which I was actively promoting, although it was not making me very popular.
‘You probably think you’re some general planning the Verdun offensive,’ remarked my friend ‘Zorian’.
The plan was very simple, but it needed to be coordinated carefully. This morning, we assembled in the Mokotowska Street. We arranged it for as early as possible, immediately after the lifting of the curfew. Of course, no one acknowledged anyone else, we pretend we were there by accident.
So, at the end of Zbawiciel Square is ‘Hanka’, our liaison, holding a rolled up newspaper under her arm. Quite simply, if she takes it in her right hand, the danger is from the right, and if in the left, then from the left. At the next crossing is ‘Lis’ who can see round the corner into Koszykowa Street. The signals are the same. In this way we can ‘see’ what’s going on around us. On the other side of the street from where the action is to take place is the protection –‘Gryf’ with the Parabellum, and I with a hand grenade, to cover our retreat, or if we come up against a motorised patrol.
At last, the action begins.
‘Zorian’ paints, while ‘Walgierz’ is keeping visual contact with the rest of us. This way, ‘Zorian’ does not have to keep a lookout and can concentrate on his painting, which is going swimmingly. We move at lightning speed. The whole group, guided by my hand signals, moves from one block to the next. We’ve nearly covered the whole of Mokotowska Street when ‘Zorian’ gives me a sign that the paint is running out. I give the signal to end the exercise. ‘Zorian’ starts putting the nearly empty paint can into a paper bag he’s brought along for this purpose. ‘Hurry, hurry.’ I’m sending telepathic signals across the street as ‘Gryf’ mutters from behind me.
‘Zorian’ drops his paintbrush and bends down to pick it up carefully. No one wants to be caught with fresh red paint on them. We have to make our way back through the streets rapidly filling up with people.
Suddenly, I see danger out of the corner of my eye. Through a gate, only a few metres from us, comes a figure in a navy blue or black uniform. Huge bloke, probably not a policeman, maybe some German support organisation. What’s he doing here at this time? This is not a German district. Seeing some tart, probably. No time for further reflection, because he’s running over the road towards our boys, shouting in some language that could well be German. At the same time he’s pulling at the flap of his holster on his belt, but it’s slipped around his back. Fortunately, he’s not doing a good job, because the flap is secured, and he’s carrying a leather briefcase in his other hand. He doesn’t notice ‘Gryf’ or me. It’s all over in seconds. ‘Gryf’ and I run after him and reach him just as he grabs ‘Walgierz’ by the collar of his coat. ‘Walgierz’ is small and slight, this bloke is huge. I don’t know how it’s all going to end, but ‘Gryf’ arrives just in time with a drawn pistol.
‘Hande Hoche!’ he shouts. The bloke now realises there are four of us. He throws his briefcase aside and starts running. That gives us an excellent opportunity to get his weapon, so we chase after him. ‘Gryf’ is ahead, I’m running behind. ‘Gryf’ tries to shoot, but has left the safety catch on. He stops for a second, and the bloke disappears around the corner with surprising speed.
‘Leave it!’ I call after ‘Gryf’.
The final score:
June 1943
Every few steps, pedestrians on Marszałkowska Street are greeted with an unpleasant sight. A sizeable shop is draped with a huge German banner. In two front windows were arranged ‘holy objects’, namely portraits of the Führer full face and in profile, and at the back, copies of the ‘bible’, Mein Kampf, and other such rubbish.
‘Today is going to be a special day for you!’ I say to myself with some satisfaction, cycling past. The pockets of my jacket are weighing me down, not because of a weapon or a grenade, but with several huge steel bolts, wrapped in brown paper.
On the corner of Złota and Zielona streets, I meet ‘Gryf’ and ‘Lis’. Both are on bicycles.
‘Got the paint bombs?’ I ask Lis.
‘I’ve got six!’
Our paint bombs are old light bulbs with the tops taken off and filled with paint – yellow, green or metallic red.
We ride down Marszałkowska Street. On the corners of the crossroads on either side of our objective, stand our ‘semaphores’. They are holding their briefcases in their right hands, a signal there are no patrols lurking around the corner. We ride up to the bookshop. They have replaced the huge front windows since our last visit. Despite the early hour there are already quite a few passers-by. We’ve timed our approach to coincide with a tram coming in the opposite direction. ‘Lis’ and I dismount, ‘Gryf’ holds our bicycles. When the tram comes past with a loud screech, I give the sign. We start the bombardment without waiting to see the outcome. Our purpose was to smash both windows so that we could hurl the paint bombs inside the shop, but they’ve replaced the windows with some cheap glass! The bolts pass through them as if through paper, leaving only small holes. The tram has long passed, and the window display remains as before, hardly touched. I tell ‘Lis’ to throw the paint bombs at the shop sign, and huge yellow and red flowers burst into bloom on it. I’m thinking that’s just about the end of the exercise, when ‘Gryf’ comes up with a smart idea. Huge pieces of broken asphalt lie nearby, left over from some road works. He grabs a hefty chunk and hurls it at the display. The glass shatters, and Mr Hitler takes a pasting. I do the same on the other side. By now it’s high time to leave, we are getting frantic danger signals from the corner of Świętokrzyska Street. We get on our bikes and disappear around the corner sharpish.
Today, we are going to the cinema.
Just like those ‘pricks who go to the flicks’,4 says ‘Zorian’ as we pass an old slogan painted on the side of the building, incompletely cleaned off. We are not going to the cinema as part of the Minor Sabotage, not for entertainment either, as all the tearful, sniffling, sighing ‘dumplings’ (girlfriends of German officers) have left for the time being. We are not even under orders.
We are going just for a laugh.
We head for the first-class cinema on Złota Street, known to the Germans as ‘Helgoland’ and is ‘nur fur Deutsche’ – exclusively for the Germans. Our entertainment, though, will be different to that of the Nazi ‘aristocracy’, hurrying to the premiere of the latest film. Our amusement will come not from the screen, but rather from the audience itself.
The preparation for this unique operation was long and arduous. For a few days the boys in the squad have been busy … brushing fleas off dogs. We are carrying the bounty in two small bottles. About 450 in total. Through the glass we can see them bustling around in a tight crowd. There are all sorts, some small, some large, some frankly huge, but all extremely unimpressed by their long fast. As self defence against these vengeful beasts, we’ve loaded our socks and around our collars with at least half a box of flea powder.
We enter the cinema. ‘Zorian’, who speaks fluent German, buys the tickets. The huge cinema is practically empty. We take our seats, ‘Zorian’ at the front, I in the middle. After a while, we decide that the seats are not to our liking.
‘Shall we sit at the back?’ shouts ‘Zorian’, in German.
‘Jawohl,’ I reply (pretty much all the German I know).
We move to the back row, needless to say, without our little friends.
The show begins, not only for the Germans, but also for us. From the back row we have an excellent view of the progress of our insect army. It turns out brilliantly. Starting with the intense scratching of some bastard Volksdeutsche and moving on to an elegant officer, everybody near the ‘strike zones’ is shifting uncomfortably in their seat and looking suspiciously at his neighbours. A few suddenly get up and leave. I see ‘Zorian’ is trying not to laugh with some difficulty. Then I feel a sharp stab in my sock. I have some sympathy for the flea. So many days without food! I give ‘Zorian’ a nudge.
‘Perhaps we should get out of here.’
August 1943
It’s six-thirty in the morning, time of the normal morning rush at the Grόjecka train station. In amongst the crowd of traders and holiday-makers, I catch a glimpse of some of the lads in ones and twos, each carrying a small parcel containing their breakfast. Pretending we do not know each other, we take our seats on a train travelling out into the country, to Gόra Kalwarii. It’s a beautiful day, and the little steam engine huffs and puffs, pulling a dozen or more carriages with some difficulty.
We disembark separately at two stations, half at Zieleńc, half at Chojnowa. Each pair vanishes quickly into the woods growing alongside the track. After a good hour we reach the assembly point. The area has already been secured by ‘Gryf’s section, who arrived ahead on bicycles. ‘Zorian’ orders everyone to fall in and takes the report. A welcoming ‘Czuwaj!’5 echoes around the forest.
We begin. To start with, an hour of not-so-popular drill. Not too bad, we’re making progress. We take a short break, during which I inspect the pickets. I must complement ‘Gryf’, they are excellent. We have mapped out and memorised a network of ditches and paths which link together, and can protect ourselves over a wide area. After the break we divide ourselves into two groups. One group digs foxholes at the edge of a clearing in the forest, the other tries to capture them. Our faces are streaked with dirt and sweat by the time I order a midday break. According to old scouting custom, we light a small fire. I throw some potatoes onto the coals.
Once we finished eating, the mood improves, and soon the songs begin. ‘Hej, chłopcy, bagnet na broń!’ (‘Hey, boys, fix your bayonets!’) rings so loudly through the trees, I have to tell them to keep it down.
A few minutes after four, I arrive at ‘Zorian’s place. We’re going to meet ‘Kruk’s section in Hoża Street where ‘Zorian’ will teach them some weapons drill. Today, ‘Kruk’s boys will see a bolt action rifle close up for the first time.
‘Zorian’ is not at home, he is due back any minute, but I can see the rifle is here, as the barrel is sticking out from under his duvet. After a while ‘Zorian’ arrives, holding a rake he has borrowed from the neighbours. We quickly wrap the rifle in brown paper, take the rake and an old handle from a spade, and fasten them firmly together with string. Then we roll up the whole package in newspaper so that it resembles a bundle of garden tools.
I load a round into the breach of the Parabellum, check the safety catch, and tuck it into the waistband of my trousers. We’re ready. Let’s go!
We leave by the back door. At the gate, an old lady wants to chat. ‘You boys off to the allotment, then?’
One of ‘Kruk’s boys is waiting on the corner of Zielna and Złota streets. He’s going to lead us. All this was painstakingly organised beforehand. A lot depends on the smallest details.
We get to the corner of Widok Street, and I see the guide, who is already on Sikorski Avenue, suddenly tuck the briefcase he’s carrying under his left arm – ‘danger from the left!’ We halt at the crossing. The guide turns back and walks past us back to Widok Street. We follow at a distance. Walking up Bracka Street we see the same signal, but this time from the right. Rotten luck! I realise now what’s happening. A German patrol must be going along Sikorski Avenue towards Nowy Świat. After a while the guide confidently crosses the road. The way is clear! Once I cross the road, I see the German patrol from the corner of my eye, about 50 yards away. They’ve stopped a young man and are checking his papers. We make it to the other side and get to our destination without further mishap.
Seated at a round table are six boys. The oldest is eighteen, the youngest sixteen. I order them to fall in. During the report I see curious eyes constantly flicking towards the bundle we left standing in the corner of the room as we entered.
‘Zorian’ starts the tutorial. First he goes over the theory we covered last time, and checks to see if they memorised it.
‘What’s the calibre of the barrel?’
‘7.9mm!’
‘Good. What are the principal components of the self-loading rifle?’
‘Barrel, breech block, firing pin, extractor, mainspring, trigger mechanism, magazine, fore and rear sights, bayonet, sling!’
They’ve learnt it well. Not surprising. We’re talking about weapons. Weapons that every Pole dreams about!
Their eyes light up as six pairs of hands tear away the string and paper. The gun is in perfect condition, gleaming as it certainly did not in the hands of its previous owner, a fat German who had a habit of hanging around in the wrong places. ‘Zorian’ takes out five practice rounds.
‘What? Only wooden bullets?’
‘Don’t worry, the time will come to fire it for real.’
‘Oil glints off metal in the light of the gas lamp. Nimble fingers assemble and disassemble over and over. ‘
Czuwaj!’ I call, on my way out.
They are too preoccupied to notice me leaving.
June 1944
A few days ago we got word that ‘Staszek’ had been executed. We already knew there had been a raid and that he had been arrested. ‘Staszek’ had been one of our older friends who had moved over to the GS ahead of us. He had always been very keen on cars and had been in the Moto section.
I remembered him from one of our first operations when we had at last progressed from the Battle School to the Attack Groups. It was very tense. Maybe not for the more experienced, but for us younger ones it was a big thing. The acquisition of vehicles was always in demand, especially as they were often lost, as for example, in the famous assassination of Kutschera.6
We went in an armed patrol along Marszałkowska Street. A girl was leading, followed by ‘Staszek’ and myself. On the other side of the street was the protection – ‘Zorian’ with the Sten gun, ‘Gryf’ with a filipinka.7 Behind us was another lad, unarmed, but ready to warn us of any danger. The plan was simple. We would wait for a suitable vehicle to stop, ask the driver to get out of the car, and drive off with it. We had a garage ready and waiting on Czerniakowska Street to hide the car.
As in so many operations, a big build-up and then nothing happens. We walked around like this for an hour. At one point, we thought we were in luck. A rather clean-looking car pulled up and an important looking chap got out of the back, leaving his driver behind. Just as we were approaching, the driver suddenly sped off. We were not sure whether he caught the sight of us crossing the street, or if he was going anyway. We, on the other hand, found ourselves standing nearby as protection, and what did we see? ‘Zorian’ was wearing a long overcoat, all nicely buttoned up at the front so that no one could see the loaded Sten gun under it. The magazine of the Sten is loaded at right angles into the side of the gun, and when concealed is worn on a long sling around the neck with the magazine pointing backwards between the legs. Everything was great, except for the long magazine protruding between the tails of his coat! We’d been strolling up and down this crowded street for an hour! Who knows who had spotted him, and whom they had told. Either way, no luck that day, so we called off the operation.
But that was then, and today is Staszek’s funeral. His family managed to buy back his remains, and his closest comrades are organising the burial. We’ve also sent a delegation: ‘Zorian’ and I are the protection once more. I’m not sure what our superiors would have said about it if they had known, but we are going anyway. How can you not attend a comrade’s funeral?
The ceremony is taking place at the Powązki cemetery. At the grave side will be family and close friends. We arrive on bicycles and approach no one, or give the impression that we have anything to do with what is going on. But given that this is occupied Warsaw full of police and the Gestapo, it is quite an occasion. There are a fair number of people, carrying flowers, saying prayers and giving speeches. We watch from a safe distance, maybe 200 yards or more. Our job is to protect from the Wola district side. In the event of the Germans finding out about the ceremony and organising a raid, we would throw grenades and then retreat through the bushes towards the wall. This should hold them back long enough to warn the others and give them a chance to escape in the other direction. One of our grenades is the notorious ‘kilo-filipinka’. I hope we don’t need to use it. It’s very effective, but you have to throw it from behind a substantial cover to escape the blast, and there is none to speak of around here.
In the end nothing happened. After a while, people surrounding the grave moved away, which was the signal for us to leave. We could not resist a look at the grave. There were masses of flowers and a wreath with a red and white ribbon with ‘To Staszek – from his Comrades’ on it.
I don’t know why, but we took a photograph.
16 July 1944
We’re in the Sadyba district. It’s a beautiful, warm day. Once we would have gone swimming in the Vistula. Maybe we will again some day? ‘Zorian’ has come round to help me with the bicycles. Now we have four, as well as my own, all ‘obtained’. The best is the one we pinched from some little Hitler Jugend wanker on Belwederska Street. Brand new with wide tyres, so useful on the sandy paths in the woods. When are we off to join the partisans? No one knows but for the time being we are changing some of the parts around to make the bicycles less recognisable. Mud guards off mine, bell off another, saddle from a third, and so on. They are impossible to recognise, unless someone checks the serial numbers on the frames.
‘Come on, let’s go for a walk,’ says ‘Zorian’, ‘it’s such a nice day. There are cornfields just outside Sadyba. We can take a path across.’
‘There’s something in the air,’ I reply, ‘this war must be coming to an end. The front’s advancing, the Russians can’t be far away. I heard the artillery last night.’
‘Wouldn’t it be funny if we saw a Russian tank coming our way?’
‘Bloody funny, because it would have had to swim across the Vistula. And anyway, we’ll probably be sent off somewhere before then.’
We walk on. Our path leads to a small wooden bridge over a stream or a ditch. There is a gypsy woman leaning against the railings. No doubt about it, the lines on her face, the clothes, definitely a gypsy. Where she came from I don’t know, because the Germans took all the gypsies to the camps, or shot them on the spot a long time ago.
‘Hey there, gentlemen. Let me read your palms for you.’
‘She’s probably come out of hiding and needs the money,’ says ‘Zorian’. ‘Let’s get our fortunes told.’
We hold out our hands, palms upwards. She scrutinises them carefully, tracing the life and death lines with her finger.
‘You are going to become very seriously ill.’
‘When?’ asks ‘Zorian’.
‘Oh, not long, not long. And you are going on a long journey,’ she says to me.
‘Am I going far?’
‘Oh, far, far away. Over the sea.’
‘How long will I be gone for?’
‘Oh, a long time.’
‘What was she on about?’ I said to ‘Zorian’. ‘Why on earth would you get sick? As for me, I’m not planning any long journeys.’
‘Sure. In a few months the war will be over, and we’ll be back in college.’8
17 July 1944
We’re meeting at ‘Zorian’s place. ‘Misiek’, our new squad leader, is on his way. When we became an attack group our squad was reorganised. ‘Misiek’ became squad leader and I became second in command. Now we’re more like an army. Our squad is ten people, split into two sections. We’re part of a platoon, whose commander is ‘Mors’, and second in command is ‘Krzysztof’.9 They are older than us, and have also been through officer training school, known as Agricola. They both have a badge, the letter ‘A’ on an oak-leaf. I am positively jealous. I’d have loved to have gone through officer training, but I’m too young and haven’t finished school yet. Instead I’m on something known as the ‘course for young leaders’, which is where I met ‘Mors’, who was taking us on one of the exercises. He was telling us about the operation when they, along with ‘Krzysztof’, blew up a train. Meetings of the platoon leaders often take place at ‘Krzysztof’s’ house, so I got to know him and his lovely wife Basia a lot better. I hope this location doesn’t get compromised, because we seem to be over-using it.
We’re getting a bit agitated because ‘Misiek’ is late. He’s been late before, so there’s no real reason for concern. After half an hour however, I tell everyone to disperse. Actually, I am concerned, because ‘Misiek’ told me in confidence he was going to the other side of town in the hope of buying some weapons. Maybe he’d been nabbed? I always think the worst when things don’t go as planned. However, there was no alert, but even so, best be careful. ‘Misiek’ only knew two addresses: mine and ‘Zorian’s. We decide not to sleep at home tonight, so ‘Zorian’ will stay with his uncle on Chmielna Street and I’ll stay with my aunt.
18 July 1944
I meet ‘Zorian’ in town. We still haven’t heard from ‘Misiek’. Apparently, someone who knows his address went round there, but found no one at home. I heard from someone else that there was some shooting on Grochowa Street.
We decide to play it safe and not go home tonight either.
20 July 1944
‘Misiek’ is dead.
As we thought, he had gone to Praga district to buy the weapons he had told me about. He was with a girl, we don’t know her name, but maybe he took her along so as not to arouse suspicion, as couples invite less interest. Apparently, they escaped into a church, but the Germans broke in and shot them both. Someone saw their bodies. The details are a bit sketchy but one thing is for sure, and that is ‘Misek’ is no longer alive. I get a message from ‘Mors’. I am now a squad leader until further orders. And we can go back home tonight, because the dead can’t give out addresses.
22 July 1944
In Sadyba. Today I’m at home, which consists of a small room next to a garage in the garden. I’m hiding things that could incriminate me in the event of a raid here. I don’t want to invite reprisals on the inhabitants of the house in whose garden I’m staying. I’ve made a hiding place in the tiled oven in my room, which has probably not been used since before the war. To get to it I remove the tiles one by one. As I replace them the cracks around need to be filled with mud from the souvenir garden, and cleaned carefully, so that it looks undisturbed. It takes a lot of work, but still …
Now for the choice – what‘s ‘unclean’, meaning unsafe, and what’s not? The inferior photographs I took and developed myself in a wash bowl? It all depends. The souvenir photos showing us on exercise: ‘Gryf’ is pointing his Parabellum into the distance, ‘Zorian’ is getting ready to throw a grenade, and I’m taking aim with a Błyskawica (a home-made sub-machine gun). Evidence enough for everyone to get it in the neck with no questions asked. These I must destroy because the faces are recognisable. But those others, less incriminating, where we are kneeling on the grass looking at something I can keep because you can’t actually see that in fact we’re examining a disassembled Mauser pistol! There are also copies of the Warsaw Courier, with its bold emblem of ‘Fighting Poland’, which we used to sell openly on the streets. That’s a worthwhile souvenir – I could always say I bought them, rather than sold them.
What to do about the maps? I have a collection of pre-war 1:100,000 maps, mainly of the suburbs and districts of Warsaw. These make quite a large packet, which won’t fit in the hiding place. The front is advancing and any day now we’ll be off to join the partisans out in the country. I’ll hide them behind a loose brick under the roof outside, for easy access.
I nearly forgot! Under the bed is a large sack full of pre-war military field-dressings. It doesn’t even belong to our squad, but to the company field hospital. ‘Conspiracy’ at its best! What a ‘clean’ location! It’s impossible to hide. I’ll have to arrange to get rid of it.
1 BS – Bojowa Szkoła (Battle School), as our instructors from the underground movement (probably trained by SOE in England) called it, was made up of groups of boy scouts preparing to fight with arms.
2 GS – Grupy Szturmowe (Assault Groups), later battalions named Kedyw. During the Uprising it included, among others, the battalions Parasol and Zośka.
3 The headquarters of the Gestapo were located on the Aleje Szucha (the Szuch Avenue) in Warsaw. It was a given that nobody taken there left alive.
4 Tylko świnie siedzą w kinie (lit. ‘Only pigs go to the cinema’) – a popular rhyming graftiti outside cinemas reserved for the Germans and the Volksdeutsche, German sympathisers and collaborators.
5 ‘Czuwaj’ (lit. ‘Be prepared’), the standard greeting and farewell of the scouting movement.
6 SS-Brigadenfuhrer and Generalmajor of the Polizei Franz Kutschera, the head of Gestapo in Warsaw, and responsible for ordering approximately 300 executions per week, was killed outside his headquarters on 1 February 1944 in an operation involving twelve underground soldiers who rammed his staff car with another vehicle and shot him at point blank range. The Germans retaliated the next day by publicly executing 100 people suspected of links with the underground movement.
7 Filipinka – a crude, but effective, grenade made from a large can filled with explosives and bits of scrap metal.
8 A month later, ‘Zorian’ was dead in the rubble of the Old Town, and three months later, the author went on a long journey in a locked cattle wagon, from which he did not return.
9 Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński, already an established poet and cult hero at twenty years old.