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THE JOURNEY TO CONSPIRACY
Without further
incident the goal was reached. Standing outside the main entrance
of the block of flats at number 17 Strassburger Way, and examining
the list of tenants with the aid of a match, the first hitch occurred.
Florianski's name was to have figured on the list, but to our dismay
many of the appropriate apartment numbers alongside the names, his
among them, had deteriorated and were unreadable. Nine o'clock curfew
time for Poles was approaching and our friend would certainly be at
home but just where in number 17 Strassburger Way was the problem.
Annoyed at not having taken note of the missing number, I recalled
that Florianski, in conversation about having been thrown out of his
previous home, had mentioned a first floor flat. Another match showed
a way up the stairs to a landing which had four doors. The first examined
was to a toilet; the second and third gave no indication of life,
but from the fourth unintelligible voices could be heard. Another
match was lit and, glory be, on a small plaque was the magic name
of the man we sought. Ear gently to the door. Two distinct female
voices and one male became audible. "Gott sei Dank!" it
had to be our friend, his wife and daughter.
Everything hushed at the soft tap.
The door opened slowly and, as the light from inside bathed his visitors,
Florianski, eyes flashing alarm, beckoned us within. Over the initial
shock, relieved to hear that we had got clean away, our host outlined
the immediate future.
The daughter would stay with friends
in the same building and we were to stay overnight with him and his
wife. A safe hiding place prior to departure for Warsaw lay close
by, and on the morrow we would move out from the tiny bedsitter. The
wife and daughter departed and although the excitement had quietened
down after a few swigs of fire water, Mrs Florianski's return gave
prominence to a matter of some delicacy. Large though it was, there
was only one bed in the little room, and having declined to eat or
drink further that day, a nights sleep was clearly on the agenda.
After remaining a tactfully long time in the corridor toilet, we returned
to find Mr and Mrs Florianski in bed with the lady on the far side,
squeezed against the wall. Half the bed was available for us and reducing
to underclothes, I climbed in next to Florianski while Tommie pushed
me onto to our Polish friends, his broad figure claiming a goodly
share of the mattress. It was difficult not to laugh. Before the light
was doused, Mrs Florianski regarded the strange new bedfellows, peeping
timidly over the top of a tightly clasped eiderdown. My sheepish smile
of good night rather worsened than improved her expression. No one
slept a wink all night. Let alone snoring, the absence of even heavy
breathing was evidence of the impossibility of peaceful slumber under
such cramped and tense conditions.
Mr and Mrs Florianski rose and departed
well before dawn. Tommie and I diplomatically took the opportunity
of getting up and dressing before they returned laden with food and
vodka. The couple went out again, locking the door, warning us under
no circumstances to open it. Consuming the food and downing the vodka
we were soon fully clothed on the bed, this time with no trouble in
falling asleep to be alarmingly woken a couple of hours later by loud
bangings on the door and shouts of, "Aufmachen! !~~* Gazing at
each other in horror, Tommie and I lay perfectly still during the
onslaught. German voices echoed through the building and from the
street outside came further commotion. Our number looked to be up.
But how?
Slipping quietly off the bed I peeped
into the street. A number of Brownshirts were loading all kinds of
clothes being brought out of the apartment block by men all similarly
uniformed. The banging on the door ceased, further Brownshirts appeared
on the street, jumped up onto the truck and drove off.
Florianski and his wife returned with
the reason for the disturbance. The Fuhrer had made an appeal for
all Germans to contribute warm clothing, troops for the use of, to
be sent to the lightly clad Nazi army now finding it much too cold
to enjoy winter sports deep in the chilly embrace of Mother Russia.
Many Germans would have made voluntary contributions on that Sunday,
although a Pole who had been foolish to open a door to the Brownshirt
collectors would have been roughly handled and left standing in a
birthday suit. All was well that ended well. The Florianskis had lost
no clothes and our skins were still intact.
Florianski reported that German police
were swarming all over the camp in Hitler street. The maintenance
depot was sure to be visited the next day but with the precautions
taken, there was little to be concerned about on his score, although
the sooner we left the flat the better. Came dark and after bidding
Mrs Florianski a sincere and grateful farewell, we were led a short
distance to a small square of one storied cottages, at one of which,
in response to Florianski's quiet knock, a little old Polish lady
let us in. Her name was Maria, with the kindliest of countenances
enhanced by a traditional bonnet. Long a widow, with an only son now
flying with the Royal Air Force in Britain, she obviously had him
in mind and gazed fondly at the new guests. She spoke no German and
Florianski translated.Learning Polish looked to be an urgent priority.
Maria would stay with a friend and the comfortable little cottage
was ours for as long as required. She would come in every morning
with food arranged by Florianski and his associates and a request
for the German dailies and an offer to pay for our upkeep was laughed
off. British soldiers were guests of the Underground. Until matters
quietened down Florianski would not be visiting although I gratefully
accepted his offer to arrange for little Halina to come and see us.
With ample food, drink, tobacco and
reading material, for warmth's sake, most of our time was spent in
bed. After a few days, with elderly Maria the only visitor, we were
becoming a little claustrophobic, to be very simply brought back to
earth and more appreciative of the good fortune to date. It was impossible
to see through the frosted up single paned windows of the cottage
and to satisfy a frustrated desire for a glimpse of the world outside
some of the thick opaque ice was scratched away. Standing by the front
gate, at almost touching distance, were two big, green uniformed German
policemen. The now transparent glass was quickly huffed over, the
incident resulting in a calmer mood and a stern resolve not to become
impatient.
After nearly a week locked up, Florianski
signal tapped on the door, an excited Halina and another girl with
him. The visitors were laden with presents of food, clothing, drink
and tobacco and I was deeply touched to receive a sleeveless pullover
of pure Oxford blue wool that Halina had knitted herself. Announcing
very seriously that while wearing her gift, God the father would bless
and keep me safe, the heavenly Polish maid was almost in tears. So
was I. In spite of not having very deep religious convictions, I felt
impelled to accept this chance of celestial protection, for if there
was truly such a person on high and anybody had influence with Him,
it had to be Halina. That night the pullover was worn next to my skin.
Except when bathing, it was never discarded, and the day Germany surrendered,
tattered and almost waterproofed by years of fear-provoked sweat it
was discarded, burnt and the ashes reverently buried. It became well-known
in Poland as a trusted fetish and as things turned out it should have
been worn for a year or two longer.
On his next visit, Florianski was accompanied
by a handsome Pole of about thirty, well and warmly dressed in highly
polished riding boots, breeches and a short thick overcoat with a
fur collar. Introducing himself with a firm handshake and a muted
click of heels, the newcomer spoke only a smattering of German. His
name was Witold and from a pocket produced a long list of written
questions about our backgrounds which were searchingly plied until
he relaxed, convinced by the answers that we were not some form of
Nazi trap. Witold was one of the couriers I had heard about from Florianski,
a specialist in crossing the closely controlled border between Litzmannstadt
and the General Government. His instructions were to deliver us to
Warsaw where further help had been arrranged. False documents were
to be prepared, thus easing a long held premonition that to travel
without passports was courting disaster and departure from Litzmannstadt
was timed for the following Saturday morning. For these new documents
photographs were required, the matter to be taken care of by Florianski.
Although wearing a passable range of civilian clothing and with a
physical appearance that should invite no comment, the tram journey
across Litzmannstadt for the portraits was a first taste of being
completely open to public scrutiny in enemy territory.
Tommie and I sat separately as the
tram clattered noisily along Hitler street, the conductor giving not
a second glance as he punched the season tickets which had been provided
to save a word being spoken. The photographer a friend of Florianski,
gave an impression that the studio provided many similar photographs
with no questions asked. Time dragged slowly, abed in Maria's cottage.
Friday came at last. We were due to leave in the morning, but of Florianski
there had been no sign since the passport pictures were taken. Our
appreciation of Polish bravery and generosity knew no bounds, but
dependence on people and circumstances over which there was no control,
was bad for the nerves. Maria had been and gone on the morning of
what was planned to be outlast day cooped up in the tiny room. By
nightfall, both sitting in tense and worried anticipation of Florianski's
tap on the door, as his visiting time passed, the anxiety grew. In
the circumstances there was no justification for believing that no
news was good news. No news meant that something had gone seriously
wrong and our imaginations ran riot. It was only half an hour to curfew
time as the clock ticked away the last vestiges of optimism and immersed
in despair, the faint tap of salvation was hardly heard. Florianski
in a great hurry to get home before the curfew reassured us that everything
was in order, confirmed nine in the morning for the start of the journey,
handed over the identity papers and rushed away. We had become Lithuanian
mechanics with photos glued onto a piece of coloured cardboard paper,
lavishly adorned with swastikas, German signatures and counter signatures.
A Nazi labour permit was attached to each passport confirming our
registered employment in a Litzmannstadt workshop. Although these
first and only Lithuanian documents soon disappeared, they were not
unlike other false papers I used later on, still in my possession
and reproduced in these pages.
Florianski arrived punctually on the
Saturday morning. Old Maria was also there, weeping as we acknowledged
the shelter provided and bade her goodbye. Briskly walking on the
ice bound pavements, we reached a Haltestelle, to board a tram without
delay and with a confidence born of having identification papers,
I purchased tickets for Tommie and me in German, the compulsory language.
Passing through much of the city and
dreary suburbs to reach the end of the line, we alighted where the
buildings and houses ended and gave way to a white frozen vista of
farmlets and patches of pine forest. The impossibility of crossing
the country on foot in winter was fully emphasized by the bleakest
of landscapes. Florianski looked anxiously around, expressing satisfaction
on seeing a horse-drawn open carriage with two male occupants, coming
towards us. One of the passengers was Witold our courier and guide.
Florianski farewelled us, shaking hands vigorously, bestowing kisses
on both cheeks. His eyes were moist as he asked God to bless us. A
fine man, he embodied courage with good humour and great devotion
to his country. During the black occasions to come, thinking of Florianski
and people like him created a reserve strength on which to draw. From
Underground sources in Warsaw, it was reported a year or so later,
that Florianski had been hanged outside the repair shop, accused by
the Germans of sabotage. His wife and daughter vanished.
Without a word to the two occupants,
Tommie and I climbed into the dorozka and the horse set off at a fast
clip over the frozen road out into the country, to arrive at a large
brick building which, from afar, nasally proclaimed its function as
a distillery. The dorozka entered through a gate to halt at an elegant
villa in the wall enclosed grounds of the complex and moments later
introductions were being exchanged in a comfortable lounge, well warmed
by a large wooden fire. Our host, the dorozka driver, who had once
owned the brewery, was now temporarily retained as manager for the
Germans, with use of his own house as long as the employment lasted.
Witold was well-known to our new friends and we made polite, if shy,
acquaintance with the head of the household, his wife, and teenaged
son and daughter.
The youngsters spoke passable English
and, with the addition of German and French, there was no hindrance
to smooth communication. That evening by candlelight, a magnificent
dinner was served. The dining table, spread with its white lace cloth
and dazzling array of glasses and eating utensils, revived memories
of more elegant times, long extinguished by a life of squalor as a
prisoner of war. Cigars, liqueurs, a game of cards, hot baths, clean
pyjamas and a soft bed with white sheets, concluded a very enjoyable
day.
Came the dawn and back to reality.
Breakfast concluded, we chose from a variety of clothes, what was
advised as the most suitable attire for Warsaw, the pullover Halina
had knitted still taking pride of place next to my skin under a new
outfit. Farewells over once again, off we went with our host driving
the dorozka over a sunlit world of snow and ice. For several kilometres
the road, with heavy white drifts either side, ran through a forest
of pines sparkling with frost. We halted, and out of a small wooden
hut in a clearing came two men obviously well acquainted with Witold
and the driver. The dorozka turned around and yet another brave Pole,
this one a distiller, ready to risk all, went out of our lives, hastening
back the way he had driven us.
The two strangers conferred with Witold
in hushed Polish. It was only a few hundred yards to a German frontier
control and I was amazed to hear that the plan was to try and walk
straight through it. Especially on Sundays it seemed, there was a
slight traffic of pedestrians from the Reich to the General Government
and back, tolerated by some German rural posts for people who wished
to visit relatives, otherwise permanently isolated on either side
of the new demarcation line. Witold moved off at a fast walk, Tommie
followed him and I brought up the rear, not very impressed with this
hit or miss kind of approach to the task ahead. A building marked
'Frontier Control' in German, came into view and, without being challenged,
Witold and Tommie passed by. I quickened my pace and was speedily
walking after my two companions into the General Government when a
loud "Halt" accompanied by a pointed rifle stopped me in
my tracks. A second armed steel helmeted German soldier came out of
the guard house and shouted for Witold and Tommie to come back as
well. Papers were demanded and, taking the initiative in German, I
explained meekly that the crossing was to visit our girl friends and,
with luck, bring back a little country food into Litzmannstadt. The
German, admonished us severely. It was "Streng Verboten"
to cross the frontier without a written permit from the city police.
Regrets, truthful and sincere were tendered for the absence of permission.
In two minds whether to lock us up or no, the guard sent us scuttling
back the way we had come.
Out of sight a conference was held.
Follow me indicated Witold plunging into a narrow track running at
right angles from the road and into the forest. Heavily clothed and
after nearly three weeks of physical inactivity, over eating and smoking,
we were soon gasping for breath and profuse perspiration ran down
our faces and together with steaming breath froze solid on the windward
side. Witold signalled a halt and his two distressed companions caught
up. We had been travelling parallel to the green frontier line and
the move now, said Witold, was to turn right, travel far enough to
get well inside the General Government, turn right again and regain
the road which continued on from the frontier post from which we had
so recently turned back. As simple as that.
The planning still seemed slaphappy
but, in spite of these inner reflections, within an hour of further
heavy and breakneck going, the three of us were walking eastwards
on a road, well inside the General Government. Setting off again for
a few miles at a cruel pace, Tommie and I, almost at dropping point,
gasped deep relief to catch up with Witold who was knocking at the
door of a very primitive looking wooden hut, the interior of which
was as unimpressive as the exterior. It consisted of one large room
with an earthen floor. A goat and some hens were wired off at one
end and a poorly clad peasant woman, nursing a baby, could be discerned
in the dim interior. The man of the house, a Pole of massive proportions,
equally poorly clothed, spoke rapidly with Witold. We were to press
on with all possible despatch. There was a train to catch. The giant
disappeared and shortly we were moving again on a hay cart drawn by
a woefully thin steed. The poor beast would have fallen down had it
not been supported by the shafts and although at the time there was
little personal cause for joy, it was impossible not to wince with
pity at the live skelton of a horse using its final unfuelled strength
to drag us along.
Many groups in their Sunday best were
passed on their way to or from church, such traffic giving a better
background to our presence than had we been the lone users of the
road should an enemy patrol have chanced along. Witold took our Lithuanian
documents and burnt them, explaining that with no permit to be in
the Genetal Government, such papers would result in immediate arrest
by Nazi police as illegal entrants. Once again without documents a
mood of insecurity returned. Arriving at a straggling village, Baby
by signpost, Polish names being still used throughout the General
Government, we got off the cart outside a tiny neglected country railway
station, with just a few people hanging about.
Witold entered the station and purchased
a "Jeden do Warszawy" ticket without a glance from the clerk
behind the window. As Witold moved away I tendered some money and
requested "Dwa do Warszawy", to be handed two tickets, one
for Tommie and one for me. Thus began my association with the 'Ostbahn',
the German Eastern Railways, to develop most unpredictably.
As time for the train's departure neared,
the platform filled with people, mostly middle-aged, waddling up and
down. In the biting cold everyone was wearing so many clothes that
women were only distinguishable from men by having their heads and
most of their faces covered with large shawls, as opposed to the males
who predominantly favoured flat woollen caps and ear muffs.
With caution it was possible to exchange
a few words with Witold. We were to travel separately from Baby, get
out at Koluszki, a much larger station, and from there catch a train
direct to Warsaw.
At Koluski on both the dimly lit platform
and in the waiting room, a number of armed German police were in evidence.
In pairs they walked slowly in and around crowds of civilians and
where they strolled, our own movements kept them at a safe distance.
The slightest of brushes with one of these police would be disastrous.
We had not an identity document of any kind and, as time went on with
no sign of the train, the cat and mouse game generated an increasing
sense of insecurity. Nearly all the people milling around the station
at Koluszki were laden with sacks and boxes full of all kinds of produce
to be smuggled into Warsaw. The German police ignored the presence
of all this black market produce and it was fortunate that our visit
to Koluszki coincided with a lull in the often repressive action against
such traffic. Although most of the produce looked to be potatoes,
goodness knows what else might have been hidden in some of the containers.
Somewhere a pig was snorting and protruding from a sack, were the
heads of two very apprehensive looking geese. It is always comforting
to contemplate that some people or creatures are even worse off than
oneself.
During three hours at Koluszki the
cold intensified as the evening wore on, my feet were frozen and a
permanent vigilance was without respite until at last the train arrived
and the crowd surged to board it. Unhindered by baggage, one of the
first into a compartment I secured a corner seat. In no time the train
was jam packed and those who had nowhere to sit stood tightly wedged
against one another. Tommie and Witold had disappeared in the crush.
Hopefully they had boarded. To arrive in Warsaw alone would prove
most awkward.
Sitting beside me was a beefy peasant
woman hugging a large sack of potatoes in her lap. She felt, on glancing
up, that there was room on the rack above for her load. Reading her
thoughts and although she spoke unintelligibly, by look and gesticulation
it was easy to interpret a request to lift the potatoes on high. With
a knowing half smile and a nod, I stood up to oblige and grasped the
sack. After two or three futile attempts to do better, the task was
quite clearly beyond my weight lifting capacity. Life over the last
year or so culminating in a couple of weeks practically bedridden
hiding in Litzmannstadt, had hardly been conducive to performing the
feat of strength which now confronted me. Surely about one hundred
pounds of miserable spuds were not going to lead to downfall. A derisory
look came over the woman as she watched my feeble efforts and standing
up with an impatient gesture, she pushed me back onto the seat, grabbed
the sack and with one mighty heave, it was snugly up on the rack.
Speaking or understanding practically no Polish at the time, I was
unable to apologise for my frailty, though there was no doubt of a
low opinion as a stream of sharp comment was hurled at me. Understanding
not a word of what she was saying, I would not have been surprised
to learn that weaklings like me were being blamed for the loss of
the war against the Germans. Maintaining a dignified silence and a
hurt expression I looked steadily out of the window into the speeding
black night.
It was nearly midnight when we drew
into the large Warsaw main station. The train disgorged its mass of
passengers and baggage and the platform was soon full of heavily-laden
people making for the exit and tic~:et collection. Numerous German
police and soldiers were visible, none of them, surprisingly enough,
showing any interest in the big smuggling operation passing before
their eyes. I learnt later that although unpredictable as to their
reactions at any time, the Germans were for long periods fairly tolerant
of this enormous black market trading which helped feed Warsaw, realising
that food which entered the city in this manner would never have found
its way into Nazi hands in any case. To have completely restricted
such smuggling would have created a starving Polish urban population,
compounding the already numerous difficulties of occupiers striving
to control and subdue a proud and rebellious race. Surrendering my
ticket at the barrier it was swastika stamped and returned. Warsaw
had a strictly enforced eight p.m. curfew for Poles, but for people
arriving on late trains rail tickets were stamped with an authority
to proceed without hindrance or arrest to a dwelling, in spite of
the normally illegal lateness of the hour. Clutching a new document,
a railway ticket with the all powerful swastika stamped on it, I drifted
with the crowd towards the station's main exit. If Witold and Tommie
had not been able to get on the overcrowded train in Koluszki, the
situation was disastrous. About to really worry that my friends had
missed the train, when suddenly they were standing just outside the
exit. Spotting each other simultaneously, three faces lit up with
pleasure.
Witold set off at his usual pace, Tommie
and I hastening after him, the noise of our boots on ice-covered pavements
shattering the still of a sleeping Warsaw. We started to cross a large
wide bridge, but before the span was over the water, Witold dived
sideways down some stone steps and about to follow our guide, a loud
"Halt" rent the air and brought us to a very alarmed stop.
The dim outline of two German policement appeared. A torch flashed
and though half blinded by the sudden light, a hand pointing a pistol
looked most unpleasant. Sensing a crisis I approached the torch, presenting
the swastika-stamped ticket and apologising meekly for being out so
late, an unavoidable infringement owing to the delayed train on which
we had just arrived. Deferentially modulated German seemed to have
defused the situation and the ticket was given a quick glance to be
handed back with "Also schnell nach Hause", a reprieve if
ever there was one.
With controlled haste we made off down
the side steps and found Witold anxiously waiting in the shadows.
After a soft knock on the upper floor of an apartment block nearby,
a door opened and we were graciously received by a middle-aged couple
and plied with hot soup and dark Polish bread. Witold departed into
the night promising to return in the morning. Sleep came easily on
two divan beds in a spare room.
  
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