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The Last Polish Uprising We lament the hour when it all began, when the first shot was fired. We lament the sixty-three days and sixty-three nights of battle. And the hour when everything ended. When the place where a million people had lived became the emptiness of a million people.   A Soldier Says Although your bullet will go through the jacket to my heart, you, enemy, will not kill me. Although your bullet will tear apart my body, you, enemy, will not kill me. While Building the Barricade We were afraid, building the barricade under fire. Barman, jeweler’s mistress, barber, all of us cowards. The housemaid hit the ground hauling a cobblestone, and we were very afraid, all of us cowards— ground’s keeper, stallholder, pensioner. The pharmacist dragging the toilet door hit the ground, and we got very scared, smuggler girl, dressmaker, tram driver, all of us cowards. The boy from a reform school fell dragging a sandbag, and we got scared for real. Although no one forced us, we built the barricade under fire. To Shoot into the Eyes of a Man He was fifteen, the best student of Polish. He ran at the enemy with a pistol. Then he saw the eyes of a man, and should’ve fired into those eyes. He hesitated. He’s lying on the pavement. They didn’t teach him in Polish class to shoot into the eyes of a man. Talking with Corpses I slept with corpses under one blanket. I apologized to the corpses for being alive. What a gaffe. They forgave me. What carelessness. They were surprised. Life after all was so dangerous back then. A Girl Scout When she was dying in the hospital she told her girlfriends she is ashamed that this is a war that she is a soldier so she is very ashamed but asks since she’s never been to a party that after she dies they put on her that dress with lace. When she died they put on her that dress and the four of them stood at attention by her bed and stood for an hour. Conversation through the Door At five in the morning I knock on his door. I say through the door: in the hospital on Śliska Street, your son, a soldier, is dying. He opens the door, doesn’t unhook the chain. Behind him his wife trembles. I say: your son asks for his mother to come. He says: his mother won’t come. Behind him his wife trembles. I say: the doctor let him have wine. He says: please wait. He hands me a bottle through the door, locks the door, locks with the second key. Behind the door the wife begins to scream as if she were in labor.