Read Rising '44: The Battle for Warsaw Online
Authors: Norman Davies
Tags: #Non-Fiction, #War, #History
Rising '44: The Battle for Warsaw (61 page)
A genuine socialist was exposing the roots of pseudo-socialism. In the process, he showed why much of the prevailing comment on the Warsaw Rising was so desperately unfair. (See Appendix 26.)
Nonetheless, the British press showed only moderate signs of contrition, indeed of close interest. Orwell’s stand was strengthened to some extent by Vernon Bartlett of the
News Chronicle
, who started to query Soviet policy on the Rising about the same time. A real stir was raised by Bartlett’s article on 11 September, which belatedly publicized the news released a month earlier by the Vatican about Moscow’s refusal to grant
landing rights to the RAF. Even the left-leaning
Daily Herald
reluctantly admitted that ‘Unfortunately, it [the denial of landing rights] was a fact . . .’ Many journalists followed the
Scotsman
’s lead in demanding fuller information. Many, like the
Economist
and the
Spectator
, drew telling contrast between events in Paris and Warsaw. But they were put down by the usual claque of Soviet sympathizers. According to the
New Statesman
, the leaders of the Warsaw Rising were ‘Machiavellian
dilettanti
’. According to
The Times
, ‘it is not difficult to understand Russian unwillingness to supply arms to people, who are opposed to friendly relations with Russia’. One need not have asked whence the concept of ‘friendly relations with Russia’ originated. In fact, even damaged RAF planes were forbidden to land. [
FATHER
, p. 339]
In this fraught climate the British public lost much of its former confidence in the exiled Government, whilst relations between the Premier and the Commanderin-Chief spiralled out of control. They sent conflicting information to Gen. Boor concerning talks on the intended American airlift and on attempts to contact Rokossovsky. In his telegram of 13 September, the Premier let it be known that Gen. Tabor was keeping him informed on Boor’s correspondence with the Commanderin-Chief. For his part, the Commanderin-Chief had let it be known that the Premier was pressing for his dismissal – ‘which is exactly what the Russians want’.
To say that the Warsaw Rising drove the British and Americans ‘to their wits’ end’ may be something of an exaggeration. Westminster and Washington had many other worries, generated both by American problems in the Far East and by the frightening rate of Soviet advances in the Balkans. On 30 August the Soviet Army entered Bucharest, and quickly moved on from Romania to Bulgaria. What was worse, the Western Allies had so underrated events in the East, they had few sure sources of independent intelligence. When told by Soviet diplomats that everything possible was being done to relieve Warsaw, they had no way – other than by asking the Poles – of verifying the facts. Needless to say, the Poles could hardly be regarded as impartial concerning the affairs of their own country.
Allied grand strategy was the subject of a meeting codenamed Octagon, which was convened in Quebec, and attended by Roosevelt and Churchill between 12 and 16 September 1944. Pacific affairs came to the fore for the first time. The Allied leaders had been briefed to the effect that the war against Germany could be completed as early as December whilst the war against Japan might continue for eighteen months to two years. In consequence, questions were now asked about slow progress in the Pacific war and about Soviet intentions towards China and Japan. One way or another it was assumed that the final showdown against Germany was imminent. In which case, it was becoming eminently desirable to obtain Soviet cooperation, both in plans for the occupation of Germany and in the final phase of the Pacific war.
FATHER
An insurgent soldier, an escaper from the Ghetto, sets out in search of his parents
When our sector was reasonably quiet I asked for time off to look for my father in hospital. So, with one arm in a sling and a large loaf of bread (a great luxury) under the other, I started on the arduous journey. The streets had become no-go areas. Pedestrians were restricted to cellars linked by holes hacked in the walls between them. Most of these cellars had low ceilings and were crowded beyond description. People had made them home while the battles raged above. Sick and wounded lay on the floor awaiting medical attention. Flickering candles and paraffin lamps and the pervading smell of damp added to the eerie atmosphere created by ghostlike silhouettes moving around aimlessly, by the walking wounded, and by the occasional unit of soldiers in transit to new positions. A multitude of people lived, ate, and slept here for weeks on end.
I could often only walk in a crouching position. But at the end of each block I had to emerge into the open, at times in plain view of German tanks. Bent in half, I had to run across the road making the best use of the flimsy protection offered by low barricades. Hence what in normal times would have been a thirty-minute walk along pleasant streets had become a perilous endeavour taking several hours.
The greatest hazard was crossing Marshal Street, the capital’s main thoroughfare. It was some thirty metres wide, and intense German fire was repeatedly wrecking the two barricades erected across it. Constructed of paving stones, rubble, tram carriages, furniture, and anything to hand, the barricades were not strong enough to withstand the ceaseless cannonade. As I came out of a basement I took a deep breath, jack-knifed as low as I could, and dashed across. A few minutes later I was standing at the hospital reception desk, anxiously asking for Yan Malinowski, my father’s assumed name. The receptionist took ages going through the register, and I lost patience. At last she found the right entry.
But was it Father or some other Yan Malinowski? Climbing the wide staircase on the way to the ward I tried to rein in my expectations. If it
was
Father, how bad would his wounds be? Inside a vast ward, between closely packed beds, a nurse led me to one of them and I sighed with relief when I recognized Father. He looked pale and gaunt. His head was heavily bandaged. He was clearly taken aback . . . His lips trembled . . . I kissed him.
‘How did you get here?’ I asked.
‘Our house was hit by a bomb,’ he answered. ‘I lost consciousness and when I
regained it I was lying in this hospital bed. I don’t know what happened to everyone else.’ He looked unsure whether he was dreaming or not.
‘Do you know what happened to Mother?’ He was most anxious.
‘No.’ I could offer no consolation. The area [around Narutovich Square], where Mother and Hela were living, had remained in German hands throughout the Rising and neither of us had heard from them . . .
‘Are you in pain?’ I asked.
‘They might be able to remove the bandage soon.’
With a semi-theatrical gesture I put the loaf of bread in front of Father and his eyes lit up. ‘I haven’t seen a piece of bread since I got here. I am hungry all the time. I don’t know how to thank you.’ He looked at my helmet and at the Luger hanging from my belt.
‘Did you risk your life to get here?’
‘Don’t worry. Whatever is meant to happen will happen.’
It was hard to tear myself away. I saw an anxious look clouding the unbandaged part of his face, and he could hardly control the tears. It was to be our last parting . . .
1
Little was said about Warsaw, therefore, though the Rising was reaching its critical phase. The Western leaders’ dismay at the show of Soviet hostility in Poland fitted into a wider picture of unease. Roosevelt had been pressing Stalin in vain ever since Teheran on the issue of joint staff planning. But nothing much had materialized. The Western military were not able to communicate with their Soviet counterparts except through the cumbersome channels of their respective military missions. Ambassador Harriman became so frustrated by Soviet obstructions that he recommended suspending non-military supplies to the USSR.
97
Britain and America were much exercised at this time about plans to eliminate German economic power. On this, Roosevelt was supremely ruthless. At Quebec, he and Churchill initialled a proposal presented by Henry Morgenthau of the US Treasury for ‘converting Germany into a
country primarily agricultural and pastoral in character.’ The conversion was to be effected partly by dismantling the Ruhr and partly by handing Silesia to Poland. An implicit deal was in the making. The Western powers could not save Warsaw. But they might find some compensation for Poland by carving up Germany’s assets.
It is significant that no Polish or Soviet representatives were present at Quebec. The Poles were not invited; Stalin was invited but declined through pressure of business. As a result, the urgent issue of Polish–Soviet relations was
not
discussed. The Polish Premier’s plan was not on the agenda. Another opportunity was missed.
In the autumn of 1944, US policy towards Poland came increasingly under the shadow of the approaching elections. The President was at great pains to avoid any offence to the millions of Polish-American voters who would determine the result of several Midwestern cities of key importance to the Democratic Party. Behind the scenes, however, it is clear that his closest advisers were not encouraging him to take energetic measures over Warsaw. Early in September, the US Ambassador in London, John G. Winant, following contacts with Britain’s Catholic clergy, suggested that the President might speak to the Archbishop of Chicago to allay Polish-American and US Catholic concerns. Harry Hopkins responded with irritation. ‘I confess I have no great patience with the efforts which the Church inspires by what amounts to almost secret and devious methods to control the political affairs of the world.’ And he continued with what amounted to a counsel of inaction. ‘I think that the problem of Warsaw itself’, he commented, ‘will be handled by the sure [Soviet] victories on Germany’s eastern front.’
98
Yet it was Adm. Leahy – FDR’s personal chief of staff – who was the source of the extraordinary piece of misinformation which the President relayed virtually verbatim to Churchill on 5 September. Leahy prepared ‘the following reply to the Prime Minister’s messages in regard to the relief of Polish patriots in Warsaw’:
PRESIDENT TO PRIME
: Replying to your 779, 780 and 781, I am informed by my office of Military Intelligence that the fighting Poles have departed from Warsaw and that the Germans are now in full control.The problem of relief for the Poles in Warsaw has therefore, unfortunately, been solved by delay and by German action and there appears now to be nothing we can do to assist them.
I have long been deeply distressed by our inability to give adequate assistance to the heroic defenders of Warsaw, and I hope that we may together still be able to help Poland be among the victors in this war with the Nazis.
State Department approves
LEAHY
99
Churchill, understandably, was aghast. Despite the rhetorical flourishes, the President was effectively washing his hands of Warsaw. One can only wonder where Leahy’s misinformation came from. It may well be that US Military Intelligence had already heard of the fall of the Old Town two days previously, but that they did not have sufficient wit to distinguish between the Old Town and the city of Warsaw as a whole. On the other hand, the episode is horribly reminiscent of the gormless reaction which Western enquirers had frequently encountered in Moscow: ‘Rising! What Rising?’
Nonetheless, some US officials did not abandon their long-standing efforts to organize an airdrop to Warsaw via the Frantic mission. Ambassador Winant was particularly energetic in this respect, knowing that Churchill himself had not given up. On 11 September, they finally heard that Stalin had relented. The next day, Secretary of State Cordell Hull informed Ambassador Harriman in Moscow that it was politically expedient for the Americans to work with the British and the Soviets in dropping aid to Warsaw. ‘From the political point of view,’ he wrote, ‘we feel that it is of the highest importance that there should be no hesitation on our part . . . in order to avoid the possibility of our being blamed in the event that the aid does not arrive in time.’
100
[
CHILDHOOD
, p. 343]
On 2 September 1944, the day that the Old Town fell, the Polish 2nd Corps, which was fighting in Italy in the ranks of the British Eighth Army, was pulled out of the front line and ordered to rest in the region of Ancona. It had been engaged in continuous combat in the Adriatic sector for the previous three months. As Gen. Anders would recall, this was a time for convalescence and reflection.
Gen. Anders, the victor of Monte Cassino, stood high in Allied esteem. He was loaded with honours, having been decorated by President Roosevelt, King George VI, and the Pope. The award of the US Legion of Merit gave him special pleasure since it was made in the presence of nearly all Allied commanders in Italy and on the Piazza Venezia in Rome, on the very spot where five years earlier Mussolini had declared: ‘
La Polonia è liquidata.
’ The citation ended with the words: ‘The outstanding leadership and tactical ability displayed by Gen. Anders were primary contributions to the success of Allied Forces in the Italian campaign. FRANKLIN D ROOSEVELT.’
101
CHILDHOOD
A five-year-old left alone with his mother stores up selective memories
I did not become a typical child of war. If I wanted a drink, I was given rainwater from a puddle boiled on a candle. (It sounds more romantic than it really was.) Our apartment on Jerusalem Avenue looked out onto a courtyard, and at first we lived on the third floor. The neighbouring house had been burnt down in 1939, so one side of the courtyard was open to the sky.
After a certain time, [since our district had remained in German hands] all the tenants were rounded up and herded into the cellar. Part of the building was taken over by a hotel called the Central that was empty during the Rising. There was no owner, so we all had equal rights. Everything was decided by the one German, who lived there. I don’t know why he was the only one. But I remember that he washed in a bowl in the courtyard, and that we watched him from the cellar window . . .
That German . . . was young and lonely, well brought up, and aware that his world was collapsing. I knew that somehow he was courting my mother and that she teased him, to hide the anger in her heart. At least he allowed her to go upstairs to the telephone. And in the course of that visit, an episode took place that really should have been in a film.
One day, my mother played a trick on him. She left out a large diamond ring in a box bearing the mark of a French jeweller. The ring was a fake made from so-called ‘Czech glass’. Only the box was from Paris.
When we lived upstairs, I remember hunting pigeons. After scattering something on the windowsill, we would fasten a string onto the outside of the window. When the string was disturbed, the window would shut. The pigeon would flap around the room, and I don’t know what happened next. But soon there was ‘chicken broth’ . . . I knew that it wasn’t chicken.
I also remember a night when the Germans caught Allied planes in their searchlights and their artillery hit their target. My mother ordered us to pray for the pilots. We prayed loudly in the courtyard with our heads turned up towards heaven.
Evacuations of civilians went on all the time. Once we were hurried along on foot in a huge column. But we managed to escape [somewhere on Novogrodek Street]. Without a moment’s thought, my mother jumped with two people over a hospital fence. It did
us little good. The hospital was under the control of brutalized Ukrainians, who had already lost their homeland. The Germans had carried out executions among them, and as a result they flaunted their cruelty. I remember women with stomachs cut open. My mother forbade me to watch. The drunken soldiers had been practising Caesarean sections with bayonets in the maternity ward.
When I was ill with food-poisoning, my mother cooked me some barley on the candle. She also had some cosmetics with which she could pretend to have tuberculosis. It worried the Ukrainians. She made herself up to look frightening, with black beaten eyes . . .
We were twice put up against a wall for execution, and twice reprieved. I didn’t understand that this was supposed to be the end of us; but I do remember the clamminess of my mother’s hands.
After that, my mother was taken to be a human shield, to protect a German division from insurgent snipers. Before leaving, she wrote my name on my skin with an indelible pencil in case she did not return. She told me never to wash it off. She took with her nearly forty kilos of clothing, even though it was summer . . .
Then we were taken in a hurry to the railway station . . . On the way, I stumbled on a dead body and fell onto a dead man. My mother thought that it would leave a lasting trauma . . . Two other events stuck in my mind. First of all, a dog was howling on the upper balcony of a burning house. It could not see the fire. We watched as the flames reached the balcony and the dog was burned. Secondly, near the railway station, our march was interrupted by galloping dray-horses. The Germans had bombed the brewery stables with incendiaries, and the horses were charging around in convulsions. Many years later, when I saw the burning giraffes of Salvador Dali, I recognized the same famous image from my childhood.
1
Krzysztof Zanussi