Note:The following text has been translated from the nurses encyclopedia, Encyklopedia Medyków Powstania

(Source: "Janina Gruszczyńska-Jasiak, Ps. Janka.” Encyklopedia Medyków Powstania Warszawskiego, lekarzepowstania.pl/osoba/janina-gruszczynska-jasiak-ps-janka/.)

-Thank you for taking the time to tell her story in vivid detail

Intro

Throughout the Warsaw Uprising, Janina worked as a nurse for multiple battalions and platoons. She first started nursing in the Old Town and later moved to other locations where she was needed.

Janina was a member of the Wigry battalion from August 1 to September 2 in 1944. The Wigry battalion focused on helping with communications and sanitation for platoons on Kilińskiego street in Warsaw, Poland. Afterwards, Janina worked as a nurse at the hospital on Mariańska Street from August 2 to 6. In the following days, she returned to the Old Town in Warsaw where she served as a nurse for the 2nd platoon of the Wigry Battalion Assault Company.

AFTER THE FALL OF THE OLD TOWN

I will tell you my recollection of events that took place on September 2, 1944 after the bloodbath at the hospital of Długa 7 Street. It is a continuation of memories written by nurse, Barbara Garncarczyk, with whom I stayed in the Old Town to care for seriously injured colleagues from our battalion.

I am standing with Basia in the hospital yard at Długa 7 Street. We look desperately at the first floor windows, behind which our three colleagues are trapped. Single revolver shots are heard. The non-commissioned officer of the Wehrmacht, whom we begged for help, is walking across the yard towards us. Avoiding our eyes, he says quietly:

-"Unfortunately, there is nothing left. It's too late …"

They are dead. My legs bend under me. I sit on the nearest pile of debris as I imagine myself falling into a black abyss.

After a while, the dizziness passes. I see Basia next to me, who is still standing staring at the windows of the first-floor hall. On her dirty blackened face, tears wash two bright furrows.

The Holy Father Tomasz Rostworowski emerges from among the group of German soldiers. He raises trembling hands, making the sign of the cross, giving absolution to the dying. We run up to him and weep hands, looking for help and comfort.

Father Tomasz is as pale as a fresh canvas. His whole body trembles and his eyes are full of tears.

-"It's terrible, it's terrible," he perpetually repeats over and over again.

It makes no sense to stay here grieving. We take Father Tomasz under our arms and, weeping, we leave the hospital area.

We make our way out onto Podwale Street. Father Tomasz, Basia and I were probably the last Poles who left the hospital at Długa 7 Street. We walk slowly side by side in complete silence. As we continue on Podwale Street, we see German soldiers and Old Town residents leaving their homes with bundles of clothes and supplies, carrying the few possessions they had left. At the intersection with Kilińskiego Street were dozens of wounded, crawling with the last of their strength on hands and knees. I was so traumatized and shocked that it never occurred to me to help them. But what for? Everyone would eventually be hit by a German bullet anyways.

As we stopped to rest, I tried to imagine what it was like being there on that first floor. What happened to our colleagues: Stasiuk, Robert and Klecha? Were they killed instantaneously or did they suffer, slowly dying in agony? I could not forgive myself that we were not with them at that tragic moment. We had saved the boys from Gustaw earlier and had brought them to the hospital so their injuries could be treated. We never imagined that the Germans would enter Długa 7 Street and massacre everyone in sight so mercilessly.

Father Tomasz woke up from numbness. Seeing his hands outstretched, we hurried to the wounded man's help.

At the same moment, we saw an old man run out of his house and through the gate, carrying a teenage girl in his arms. The wounded woman, only wrapped in a sheet, had a bloodied dressing on her chest. The man, probably her father, carried her with great effort, finally laying her down on a pile of debris, looking around desperately. I was still standing in the middle of the road, unable to make any decisions, when Basia ran up to them. After a while, I slowly followed. I had only walked a few meters when a woman appeared at the gate of the house with a little girl of three or four years in her arms. She approached me and pushing her child into my arms she said:

-"Go with her to the Castle Square. I will catch up to you", after which she quickly returned to the apartment.

I stood surprised, holding the girl in outstretched arms. I lifted her up and only then did I notice that the little girl had an amputated hand. I looked in horror at the red-purple freshly healed stump and instinctively hugged the child to myself. Little arms embraced my neck and we set off.

Tightly clutching onto me, the little girl looked around with terrified eyes, not making the slightest move. I attempted to ask the girl some questions: "Was that your mom? What is your name?" but she remained silent.

My thoughts drifted back to our colleagues and the wounded scouts from Gustaw, whom we left in the yard and at the gate of Kiliński 1. I knew what their fate would be. Who could possibly survive? Everyone was seriously injured and could not move on their own.

Deep in thought, I did not even notice that we had approached a large crowd of civilians led by Germans, heading from Podwalem to Plac Zamkowy. A strange scuttle between the refugees caught my attention. Two men walking at the back of the group hurried forward hastily and disappeared among the women, despite one of them being very tall. I looked to the left and immediately, everything became clear - two young Germans stood at the exit of the adjacent street. They were sweaty and red faced, with eyes shielded by their helments and machine guns ready in hand. A third approached from the depths of the street and as I turned my attention towards the wall of houses, I saw the lifeless bodies. The corpses belonged to those unable to keep up with the pack, the rebels found dead at the hands of German torturers.

Finally we arrived to Zamkowy Place. On the left side of the collapsed Sigismund's Column stood a huge crowd, and a dozen Germans and owners were chasing around.

We stood crowded together, waiting for the Germans to form sections for further march. This group managed Mariensztat Street. At one point a whisper flowed through the crowd:

-"Gold, hide the gold! They're taking it all!"

These words seemed blasphemy to me. Gold! What is gold worth compared to what happened at 7 Dluga Street? What happened on every street in the Old Town? How can these people think of gold at such a time?

I felt alien and completely lonely among this crowd. Where did Basia and Father Rostworowski go? They were right behind me carrying the wounded. What will I do with this little girl? How will I find her mother?

I step forward and began to squeeze through the ranks, looking around in all directions, searching for familiar faces and watching for Germans who might see the turmoil I was causing. Unfortunately, Basia was nowhere to be found. Instead a tall dark-haired woman took the girl out of my arms. The child reached her hand out to her, so I safely assumed that this was someone from her family.

Pleased that I regained mobility, I pushed through the crowd with more determination but Basia was nowhere to be found.

And what about my other friends, Wisia and Ikar (Icarus)? Icarus, wounded in both legs, was using Wisia as support, and they had likely not gotten far at their slow pace. I moved to the head of the group and found myself marching down Mariensztat street towards the Vistula.

On the embankment, under the wall of the Church of St. Anna, were the wounded, sitting by themselves or in small groups on the curb of the street. Exhausted, hungry and hopeless they did not even try to ask for help.

I saw Wisia and Icarus from afar. They were sitting on the left side of the street, on the ruins of some broken house or booth, where Mariensztat turns right. I sat down next to them and after a moment of silence, recount in a few words what happened in the hospital after they left. Looking at Ikar, I realized that he lost his last bit of strength and there was no way he would be able to walk any further on his own.

I look up and notice several Germans heading for a group of wounded people with what seem to be guns......no they are flamethrowers. I jump up shouting:

-"We must leave! We must leave immediately!"

Icarus quickly stands up, grabbing a broom for support and leaning on Wisia with the other. He takes a few steps and stops.

-"I won't go any further. I cannot.", he whispers, his pale face tight with pain.

I look around helplessly. We just need a stretcher or even a stick. I could easily make a basic stretcher using my white coat, a stick and the broom. But where to get the stick? I dig through the rubble, but everything I find is broken. I look up again and at the sight of the flames a new wave of determination sweeps through me.

-"Jurek you must ride piggyback. There is no other way."

Icarus looks at me in disbelief.

-"You can't, Janeczka-"

-"What can I not do? I am strong", I reply in a curt and decided manner to prove to both him and myself that the task is child's play. I grab Icarus by the hands and try lift him onto my back while Wisia pushes him up with all her strength. But just as I reach to grab his bandaged thighs to hold him in place, Ikar groans in pain. So instead I let his legs drag against the cobblestones. Holding his hands, I take a few steps with my body bent over to carry his weight. He was heavy and I was gasping for breath.

-"No, this won't work. We won't get far this way and we must leave immediately. I know it will hurt but I have to hold your legs."

Icarus does not protest anymore. He wraps his arms around my neck, I grab him by the thighs with my hands and slowly move forwards. The first steps were the hardest. I could not steady my breathing and it felt like I was choking. As we continued on, my pace got better and better despite the enormous weight. That's when reached Bednarska street which steeply slopes upwards to Krakowskie Przedmieście.

After a short rest, I began to climb the hill panting so hard you would think it was a blacksmith's bellows. I walked sideways, zigzagging from curb to curb, hindering people going in the opposite direction. Jurek was sliding off my shoulders and choking me, the sun was burning mercilessly and sweat flooded my eyes. In the middle of the street, I noticed Mrs. Faryaszewska bowed over from her haversack, limping with a bandaged leg, as she walked up the hill with great effort.

Finally we reached Krakowski. With great relief I set Icarus down on the curb behind the Mickiewicz monument and lean against the fence in fatigue.

At the back of the monument and in the square in front of the Carmelite church are a lot of people in small groups. The Germans are hanging around nervously, forming small ranks. Under their cover (there was rebel fire), people were passing through Krakowskie Przedmieście, heading for Plac Saski. Two nurses come out of the Carmelite church, which was turned into a hospital. Squeezing through the crowd, they announce that the wounded and people who lack strength to continue the march, may stay in the hospital.

-"Do you want to stay?", I ask Jurek. Icarus does not answer, likely thinking about the hospital on 7 Dluga Street. I would not believe anyone here.

-"If you want to come with us, I still have the strength to carry you." Ikar was ecstatic.

-"Obviously I rather go with you."

I rested a long time to gather strength, and eventually, with the help of Wisia, I loaded Jurek onto my back and only the three of us continued on. Many Germans were hanging around Plac Saski, but nobody accosted us. We entered the Saxon Garden. Green trees and grass, silence, not a single person in sight - this ~ place seemed to me an oasis of peace. It was good to walk down the alley in the shade of the trees, breathing in fresh, clean air.

I was just looking where to stop for a rest when I saw a group of German officers around the curve of the path. They were standing on the lawn to the left of the alley which, three miles away, trodden down under us, holding hands. They were two old women in long black dresses, and between them an old man whose white hair shone from afar with a bright patch.

When the elderly approached the officers, one of them approached them and, spreading his arms wide, began to push them onto the lawn, I looked intrigued, the elderly did not know what the Germans meant. They clustered, trodden in place, but finally moved to the right side of the alley. The officer pulled out a revolver and after a moment three bodies sank to the lawn, no screaming or moaning - only three dry shots. The German now turned towards us, still holding the revolver and rocking it slightly - he was looking at us.

I felt all my blood draining from my heart, I couldn't lift my legs from the ground. Is it the end?

There was no time for reasoning. Instinct worked. I gathered my strength, tossed Jurek up over his shoulders and, marching like a parade, approached the Germans, demonstrating my abilities. The officers on the left side of the alley all turned to us, saying something loudly among themselves and shouting to the murderer officer who, still with the revolver in his hand, stood on the right side of the path waiting for us. Swaying his head in appreciation, he called something to me. I didn't understand a word of nervousness and effort. When I caught up with him, I started talking loudly to Icarus , something completely pointless, just wanting to show that we are not afraid.

As I passed the German, I thought quickly: Shot - or not? Will both kill us - or just Icarus? I literally felt every millimeter of my skin on my back, waiting in suspense as the shots fired

We were still moving away from the Germans with a certain step. Nobody shot. Finally, trees covered us. I felt terrible fatigue. I should seat Jurek and rest, but I was afraid that we would come across Germans again.

We were approaching the garden gate from the Iron Gate side. Before the gate I noticed the Nazis again - this time soldiers. I watched them closely because they noticed us and turned to us with interest, and one of them began to make some suspicious movements. After a while, I saw that the soldier had pulled out his camera and leaned forward and waited for us to "enter" the lens. Then another photo from the profile - and we went out onto Elektoralna street.

A thick crowd occupied the entire road. I looked terrified. How to go in this shit? Jurek stuck his feet with the closest ones, we dragged on at a snail's pace, - there was no way to rest, and I was carrying Ikar without stopping from the Carmelite church.

Swollen hands open without my will. Hands bent at the elbows - they straighten up. Pushed muscles refuse to obey me. Jurek, not to slide to the ground, clenches my arms around my neck. At times, he seems to lose consciousness from pain and heat, because his head falls limply. Please, Wisia, to support him from behind, I wrap the smock in an attempt to relieve his hands, but all this does not help. I should rest, rest at all costs.

Every now and then the column stops, then creeps slowly forward. I go with my head bowed, with great effort, but I still watch the Germans who escort us so that they can act properly if necessary.

The word "Fraulein", spoken right behind me, works like a gunshot. I turn around immediately and see an elderly German next to me. He looks at me inquiringly and asks: - Who is the young man you carry to you? Startled, I delay the answer, so the German asks: - Is this your fiancé, maybe someone from your family? - No, this is my friend - I answer.

- Ah yes mate, - he repeats and stays in the crowd.

- Philosopher, damn it! - I curse in an undertone, nervous about the unexpected incident, but after all in the eyes of this man, apart from mere curiosity, I noticed sincere sympathy.

Chlodna street. Here we are stuck in a tight crowd, which trucks are trying to squeeze through. On two cars I see nurses with Red Cross armbands. I try to find out where they lead us from, but we do not hear each other among the roar of engines and noise.

The Germans are literally crazy about trying to free the middle of the road and eliminate the blockage at all costs. We finally stop in front of a church. I slide Jurek off my back and so we stand for a long time together, leaning against each other and supporting the wounded.

The Germans are now directing people to the church. I don't like all this. Some premonition tells me to take this opportunity to join the column that is marching quickly. It's gradually getting looser. Now I move to the left side, because in this way I do not interfere with Jurek's legs against neighbors from the ranks.

The pace of march is slowing down, we are going slower and longer, the moment of the longed-for rest comes.

People sit on the road and on the curbs. I also seat Jurek on the ground and, turning back, watch the city. All I can see are ruins and ashes. Not a single house has survived. A squadron of planes soars up, strikes a spectacular arc and, glistening in the sun, dives over the smoky city. Detonation cannot be heard. Where can it be - I wonder. A sudden, terrifying howl makes many people get to their feet. Germans are laughing.

These "wardrobes" - already harmless to us - shoot somewhere in the ruins with a noise and an infernal grinding noise.

Only now, looking back, do I realize that Warsaw has ceased to exist. I am trying to record this picture because I know that even if I come back here I will never see Warsaw from my youth, my dear hometown. So many victims, so much blood, suffering and pain, these emaciated people with the remains of belongings on their backs, the destroyed city - this is the result of our fight.

With a heavy heart, eyes full of tears, I move on. We go in silence, at most from time to time I call to Jurek, who is weakening and sliding, choking my hands by the throat, that he would lean against my shoulders. He and I are exhausted. To make matters worse - this terrible heat, My throat is completely dry, covered with some bitter coating, my tongue like a piece of wood, lips dry and cracked.

Next to us is a woman with a little boy. He carries a large bundle on his back, and the other hand drags a child with him. The boy dressed in a warm overcoat, tired and sweaty, stumbles from time to time and moans constantly: - Drink, drink mom! - That a woman sighs at least a glass of water.

I would go to Germany for water, but I don't have any dishes - I say. I have a liter bottle in the crowd.

At the next stop I run for water. Along all Chłodna St., there are Germans sitting in front of the gates of burned or ruined houses. They raised armchairs, couches and tables. They sit, sprawling, sipping orangeade, smoking cigarettes and watching the crowd, making sure that someone does not think to hide in the ruins. A procession of unhappy, often wounded people, driven out of their own city, leaving behind the corpses of their loved ones and burned houses - does not cause them any sympathy. On the contrary, they laugh and joke with their hands some of the people in the row. The sight of misfortune had become common to them.

When I ask for water, the soldiers start to joke and ask who gave me a black eye, suggest that I stay with them. One of them, however, takes the bottle and disappears into the gate. I am very nervous because the loudspeaker can move on and what will happen to Jurek then? I looked back nervously, waved my hand, and the gold bracelet I was given at home just in case, just slipped onto my wrist. One of the Germans noticed her and, taking my hand, pulls me towards him. Resistance will not help here, I pretend to follow meekly, I even laugh until I release my hand with one sudden jerk. A soldier with a full bottle appears in the gate, I grab it in flight and run out onto the street. Germans burst out laughing, mocking my friend, but I'm already far away.

There are dozens of hands reaching out to me from everywhere. - Water, water! Although sip! -

I hug the bottle to myself and get to my own feet. First a boy drinks, then Jurek, Wisia, a woman and finally me. I hold the bottle upside down and greedily lick every drop. Only at such a moment can you assess what water is.

We're marching again. Young, tall German often runs past us. This is probably the Czech Volksdeutsch, because it still says something to those who go with a funny dialect, mixing German and Czech words. He just caught up with me and says:

- I've been watching you for a long time. You have the strength! You carry the wounded one such a long way. You are certainly a sportswoman! -

- No, I am not a sportswoman, during the war I did not have the opportunity to play sports, but at school I had good results. "I keep the conversation going on, even though it tires me a lot, but some desperate female screams come from the back ranks."

- It's a pity, it's a pity, because with such strength and perseverance you would definitely find yourself at the Olympics.

We guess what the screams and calls for rescue mean. Wisia grabs my arm pretending to help carry the wounded and looks back with horror.

- What's going on there? - I'm asking a German.

"Ah, those damned Russen." Do not be afraid when I am here, they will not approach. Now I have to go forward, but be careful and if you run away - run to me.

Well - it's easy to say "run". The screams, fortunately, diminish and people keep silent.

I'm so tired that I stop paying attention to anything. I don't watch Germans or neighbors, I don't look at ruins and streets. It's Wolska after all. I am now fighting my own weakness. Persevere, persevere at all costs. I carried him a long way, I won't leave the killers now. Forces are leaving me violently. I look desperately at those walking next to me, but there is nothing to delude. Nobody will help us. These people are dragging themselves with the last of their strength. Although the column is marching on, I stop to rest, I put Jurek on the curb, and I watch the people walking,

Suddenly I see a trolley, a real trolley on two wheels, full of injured people, pushing a stocky, athletic man behind the drawbar. The trolley rolls in the middle of the crowd, behind it creates an empty space. A tiny old lady breaks free from the ranks, catches up with the passengers and begs:

- Take me away, I can't go! - The wounded sitting on a wheelchair, crammed straight onto each other, do not answer, turn their heads, they seem not to notice the old woman. Faced with their resistance, the old woman tries to stop the man. The stroller moves away, and it stays in the middle of the road with an outstretched hand passed by indifferently walking.

- They didn't take her, but Jurek must take her - I say loudly to myself. I grab the wounded man on my back and approach the wheelchair as soon as I can. I have already caught up with a man, now I approach the riders.

- Move it! Take him for a few minutes. I need to rest! -

The boys do not speak, but I do not give in, walking alongside them still.

- Go ahead! Finally calls one of them. I do not wait what others will say and load Jurek on a stroller. Yes, it was the last moment, my legs are shaking under me, black circles flash in my eyes. I cling to the boards so I don't fall. The crisis is slowly passing and together with the man and Wisia we are rolling a vehicle with the wounded.

We turn into a side street. The truck makes a wide arc and stands in the middle of a bend. The street is paved with "cat's heads", here our strength is not enough, the more so that the man who with such dedication carried the wounded all the way disappears.

We stand helplessly, trying to stop people passing us, but no one listens to our prayers. They bypass us from afar, without even looking at the wheelchair with the wounded. One of the Germans saw us. He rushes towards us screaming from afar:

- Why are you standing in the middle? Why are you stopping the traffic? - I point my hand at the stones and say: - We can't do it, we don't have enough strength.

The German turns purple with rage. - It's dirty! It's dirty for two girls to push so many wounded! Where are the men - A gentleman with a big bundle on his back is just passing us. The German jumps up to him, pulls the bundle off his back, throws him to the side of the road, and pushes the owner into the drawbar. We have several helpers right now and the wounded are going on almost without our help.

Here the city ends. Houses are becoming rarer, the pavement breaks off, and the wheels of the stroller get stuck in deep sand. The ride is over.

The wounded are scrambling as much as they can, I take Jurek again and we are now marching on a dirt road. People are walking loosely. I lost sight of Germans. We reach a field of tomatoes. By the road, the bushes are completely trampled, but maybe something else will still be found? I put Jurek on the sand and run with a few other people. I managed to break a pair of small, green tomatoes, which I chew greedily, sucking the juice. Suddenly screams are heard behind us: - Come back, the Germans are shooting! -

I take Icarus on my back and we are now marching towards the railway wagons, which stand on the tracks in the middle of nowhere. Just a moment ago the train left, so few people gather. They are relieved to get into antediluvian carriages and settle on benches.

Jurek putting into the car makes us a lot of trouble, because the embankment is not high, but there is no ramp. After many efforts, we finally climb up, put Icarus on the bench, Wisia sits next to him, and I sit on the steps of the entrance and watch the people coming in. Maybe I will see Basia or Father Rostworowski among them?

The day is almost over. The sun has just set, and a vapor forms over the meadows that stretch out in front of me. This view is soothing. So quiet and peaceful here. I slowly calm down and relax.

It's getting dark. You have to come back every wagon because it is getting colder. The compartments are already full. Jurek had to get up, so I sit next to him and we hug the three of us to each other because we are shivering.

We are all very lightly dressed. I am wearing a men's shirt from Stawki and a skirt from Basia with a big hole above the knee, a short white smock, bare-footed shoes very "tired" walking on the debris. I regret to remember my "panther" which I threw into rubble before the Germans entered the Old Town. She was so warm and comfortable! You could sleep in it on bare stones.

Germans and railwaymen appear. The train is moving. The journey takes a long time. We stop several times in the field, finally get off. In the dark, we can hardly distinguish the contours of some great factory halls. We stand next to the fence, not knowing what to do with each other. Local young people show up and explain to us that we are in Pruszków, in the transit camp located in the halls of the railway workshops. The wounded chassis of the horse-drawn cart, but just recently left.

For the last time I take Jurek "piggyback" and go ahead, I see a wide open entrance to a building, so I go inside without thinking. The room is dark and poignant. It seems completely empty. Someone lights a candle stump, another match, and in this dim light I can see crouched figures against the walls. We find Mr. Faryaszewska, injured colleague Jurek - Leszek (who was in a wheelchair) and we all sit down against the wall.

After a moment, our teeth begin to chatter with cold and fatigue. An icy cold seizes the body. How to survive this night?

I remember that there were chipboards at the entrance to the hall. It's always better than wet concrete. We go with the Vistula, in search, we are carrying the CD "on the bed", when it suddenly slips out of tired hands. With a loud shout and laughter, I bounce back so that he doesn't fall on my feet. Right now, I hear a cry of joy behind me. Someone wraps their arms around my neck.

It's Basia. We are finally here. We kiss and enjoy immeasurably. How much easier it is to endure misery with a friend, and Basia is a wonderful man, the most sacrificial of sacrificial, boundlessly good and cordial.

Enjoying the meeting, together we prepare the den from the plates and we lay side by side, tightly, side by side to protect ourselves from the cold. Someone, probably Leszek, has a jacket, which we cover six on the outside. This cover moves constantly, because everyone pulls them in their direction, finally we fall into a stone sleep.

Awakening is not pleasant. I am so stiff and sore that I can't get up on my own, Basia helps me to my feet. However, we immediately take action, combining how to get out of the camp here. After a few hours of collecting information and conversations, we already have some achievements. Jurek and Leszek, as wounded, were registered and will go to a hospital near Warsaw. Wisia, the weakest of the three of us, will also go with them. I dress Wisia in my white smock and with the considerable help of helpful Polish nurses - we enroll her as a nurse so that she can accompany both wounded. After a cordial farewell, Wisia, Jurek and Leszek leave for the hospital, and Basia and I go to visit the camp. We are terribly hungry, hunger literally turns our stomachs. Where to get something to eat here, we think together. Somehow we imperceptibly found ourselves under a kitchen barrack. A chubby Slav face leans out of the window. The Russian looks around closely and then asks:

- Girls, supu chatitie? -

Who would not want soup! We are delighted with the proposal, but it turns out that the cook can not give us any dish. Where would you get a bowl or a pot here?

In the camp, a pot, spoon, bowl are precious objects that you can watch over your head. So there is no hope that anyone would rent them to us. Worried, we are walking next to huge cloak pits, above which there are long poles based on crusaders, protecting against drowning in dirt, when we see a can of buried in the sand. The can is completely rusty and bent on one side, someone must have trampled it. We lift it, we watch it for a moment in disgust, but then assuring each other that it is still completely good, and most importantly - large, we run under the tap to scrub it a bit with sand. Our efforts do not bring the expected results. The can is so riddled with rust that we will sooner make a hole in it than wash it off.

- It is already clean - we tell each other and run for the soup. Kuchcik keeps his word, only asks if there is no "Germanie" nearby, and then pours it to the doorway of a wonderful tomato soup. We drink the liquid first handing the dish from hand to hand, then with the fingers pull out the tubes of pasta. It was great! Satisfying our hunger a bit, we get back to our hall.

A medical review is about to take place. People line up in a long column. A German doctor in uniform, along with Polish staff, divide the forward queue into two currents: to the right and to the left. We find our right, the elderly, the sick and the wounded. Basia claims to be suffering from tuberculosis, I have the upper part of the face blue and green, while the whites of the eyes are completely red, because blood vessels have burst in my eyes since the explosion. The experiences of the last days have made us both look amazing. Together with Ms Faryszewska, we are directed to a room on the first floor, where we are to wait for transport to Szymanów.

I saw Mrs. Faryszewska several times in the Old Town, but I met her only the previous day, in the basement at Kilińskiego 1, where we found her on duty with her daughter's friend Ewa. Ewa Faryaszewska together with her friend and her husband protected Old Town monuments (Kazimiera and Leszek Świderscy). An exploding grenade killed Ewa, a friend's husband, and seriously wounded her. Mrs. Faryaszewska also hurt her legs, took care of the girl and stayed with her in our hospital, and then accompanied her on 7 Dluga Street.

Met again in Pruszków, Mr. Faryaszewska. she showed us a lot of heart. When we were the only three of us, she gave us the address of her relatives, Mr. Grochowski, who lived in Pruszków at ul. Drzymały 4, and then she pulled out the money and handed each of us 500 zlotys so that we would have for the most urgent expenses. Later, throughout our stay in the Wroclaw camp, she kept in touch with us, writing cards, keeping our spirits up and sending parcels, even though she was in difficult material conditions, and she had trouble with the leg that had to be operated. We owe her to a large extent the success of our escape from the Wrocław camp, because she gave us the addresses of her family in Sosnowiec and Krakow, and they helped us a lot in this escape.

Ms Faryaszewska was registered by the commission for a trip to the GG. Me and Basia were waiting for us to leave the camp in Pruszków. many hours. It was late afternoon when we were told to set ourselves in a column. Unfortunately, a terrible rain was falling at that moment. Water was flowing in streams, as if someone were pouring it with a bucket on our poor heads. Soaked to bare skin, we stood in front of the hall, cradling our heads in our arms, but at the sight of my father and son holding pelvis above their heads - a large father and a tiny son - we burst into unrestrained laughter.

Finally, my sister came with the list and led us to the gate. Here is a new difficulty - everyone was let out except me, because I didn't have a Kennkarte (she burned down with her friends on 7 Dluga Street). Basia, glued to the fence on the other side, gave me desperate signs, and I didn't know what to do. After some time, however, I managed to slip through the gate. The nurse walked us a bit, then let us go. But where to go here? Evening was falling, we were wet, tired, cold. We directed our steps to the RGO, where in a corner of the room; on straw, we spent the first night in the wild,

In the morning the daughter of Grochowski came and took us to her place. We looked at the whole window panes, a table covered with a tablecloth, knives, forks, plates - it was another world that ceased to exist for us, it seemed centuries ago. Finally we could wash. We were prepared clean beds.

Basia got the temperature, so she quickly accepted the invitation and lay down, but I felt obliged to bring a watering can from the well, because Ms. Grochowak offered to wash our things. Unfortunately, the forces left me and not to fall - I sat down on the stairs. In a moment I was in bed.

On the second day we woke up very late. During breakfast, a neighbor came running with information that the Germans had arranged a round-up for Varsovians, the streets were surrounded and they were controlling house by house. We, really sick, and officially released from the camp, decided to take the risk and stay in bed. Anyway, we were so depressed and resigned that we didn't care what happened to us.

When the Germans entered the apartment, however, no translations helped. Basia had a Warsaw Kennkarte, I didn't have any documents, and our appearance showed where we came from. You had to get up, get dressed and follow the German who was expecting us.

P. Grochowska managed to dress us up in some summer dresses, she made a bundle with provisions. When we got to the meeting point, Mr. Grochowski ran up and brought me his jacket. I often remembered him gratefully for this gift, because this jacket was my only protection against frost throughout the harsh winter of 1944-1945.

We were led to the halls again, divided into groups and already loaded into freight cars at night. There were forty women of different ages in our car. On the way we got a loaf of bread and a marmalade bowl for the whole wagon. The door was bolted and to the accompaniment of weeping and shouting, the train set off into the unknown. On the fourth day we arrived to Wrocław and got off at the "Famo-Werke" Breslau siding.

Poznan, January 27, 1977

With great joy I can tell you that the three wounded boys from Gustaw, whom we helped at the building at 3 Kilińskiego street, managed to get out of the Old Town. Unfortunately, one of them died in a hospital near Warsaw. The other two boys, Tadeusz "Raven" Wegner and Corporal Andrzej "Kresowiak" Duma, both survived the war.

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