After this introduction to the Polish Question one can define a hypothesis:
The success of a nation and its state in large part depends on the degree of its objective history, which should not only include its internal-patriotic context but should also include its external-international con text. In the history of a nation and its state one must separate facts from manipulations, so that “failures” are not considered “successes” because it is more convenient for the participants of a given failure. Thus, the objective evaluation of a failure is never done or eventually is passed to the next generations. The main measurement of successes or failures of national events should be a criterion of minimalization of losses in people and material.
This hypothesis is universal, not only applying as an appropriate starting point to discuss the 1944 Uprising. Postmodern interpretation of history tells us that personal experience, in addition to scientific analysis, is a valid piece of the puzzle.
Snapshots from the Uprising
On August 1st, 1944, as a 7 year old boy, together with my nanny Genia Stepien, we went over to pick up some flowers from the florist at Malczewskiego Street in the Mokotow subdivision of Warsaw. On the way back, walking through the Dreszer’s park, we could see youths gathering, wearing tall shoes („oficerki”) and keeping their hands in their pockets. During the German occupation, one was not supposed to either wear such shoes or keep hands in their pockets. At the time, such shoes were the symbol of freedom, about which there was a lot of talk in my house.
I laid flowers at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which stood freshly built two hours after the fall of the first Uprising casualties at the corner of Kazimierzowska and Madalinskiego, shortly after five in the afternoon. What an irresponsible time for starting the Uprising!
Why attack during the light of day, when better planning could have incorporated more elements of surprise? Our partisans, barely armed, were ordered to attack heavily fortified German bunkers. Our house was located across the street from a German bunker. There was a large square in the back, and then, further down, at the corner of Narbutta and Kazimierzowska, there were German barracks.
To the south of our house there was an area protected by the „Battalion Baszta” partisan resistance unit. Due to its location, our house would frequently change hands among Germans and Uprisers. First it housed Uprisers, who even created a small hospital, then Germans. Finally,
Germans decided to tear down the corner house around their bunker. One day, there came a tank with Ukrainians, or perhaps Russians in German uniforms. My nanny, Genia, took my hand, and led me through the alley between the buildings (at the time, there were common connections between buildings in Warsaw) to the adjacent house at Madalinskiego Street. My mother, Halina, followed us running. There were about 20 of us, crowded in a narrow hallway in the lobby of the house. German soldiers came to the house in a tank, and right away opened fire from their machine guns. Everybody was falling down. Genia covered me with her own body.
My mother was standing in the front line and was hit by a series from the hand machine guns. She suffered 14 wounds, to her hands, neck, and a splinter reaching her heart. She lost consciousness. I could hear the soldiers speak to one another in Russian, or, perhaps, Ukrainian.
It was then, that a man from the crowd shouted „there are Russians here.” The shooting, which was more of an execution of those wounded and already dead, suddenly ceased. One could hear the command: „Ruski Ludi Wyhadite”, Russian or Ukrainian for „Russian people come out”. My mom regained her consciousness – later she would say that she had seen Holy Mary. With her terribly injured hands, she pulled me from under the dead body of Genia.
Two of us came out, along with two women and two men. We stopped by the wall in the underpass leading from the building to the yard. I had the two men to my right. My mother, who was to my left, next to the two women, started to slide down. The Ukrainian (or possibly Russian) pulled out one of the men and placed him by the gate, then shot him. I can still see the white smoke coming out from his gun, and quickly fading in the air, on this very sunny day. Next, the other man was immediately shot in the head by the same Ukrainian.
After that, he pointed with his gun at me, and later to the briefcase I was carrying in my hands – I am surprised not to have lost it. Inside the briefcase, there were family documents and some valuables. He opened it up and smiled, apparently pleased. Next he pointed at my Mom, who spoke in broken Ukrainian (she was born on Podole, Polish Ukraine) „I have a child.” The soldier replied in Ukrainian „your neck is bleeding” and used a piece of mop to stop the bleeding. My Mom, afraid of infection did not accept it. The soldiers burned the house together with the injured and the dead, and ordered us to take Mom to the PCK (Polish Red Cross) nurses’ station.
I helped to carry my mother’s head. I lost my sandals, and waded through the rubble and burned beams leading to the Niepokalanki Convent. I burned myself and wept. Then Mother opened her eyes. At Madalinskiego Street many inhabitants were sitting, waiting for the evacuation from the city. Some men jumped to us to help carry my Mother.
