This night was my first shift. The influx of refugees was so great that not only the rooms, but also the corridors were packed. Commotion, chaos. There is little space because the [refugee] centres temporarily lack vacancies. Consequently, we cannot send away those from the earlier transports who have no relatives or friends here.
A lady doctor storms into our office [and says] that one of the newly arrived women has just gone into labour and has to be taken to hospital immediately.
Another woman has arrived with her eight-day-old baby.
We distribute coffee all night long. People absorb it in as if wanting to drown the whole conflagration of the war that surrounds them. Long lines to the showers, stretching along [18] the stairs and the corridor. People press against each other just to get closer to freedom, to air.
They deposit money and valuables at the deposit register. Watches, documents, photographs, and prayer books. The spot where we sit and return their deposits is by the showers. It is over 50 degrees Celsius. Sweat is running down our faces. Some women are waiting in line to the showers by our counter. Tired of waiting for so long, they cry, pointing at the little children and asking in despair:
“What do you want from us? Why are you tormenting the children?!”
We say nothing. After all, what could we say? We have been working since yesterday afternoon and it is almost dawn now. We have grown tired and indifferent. [19] The crying intensifies. We try to calm them down, but nothing works. We raise our voices. The crying subdues only to break out again after a while.
They weep: “We hold no grudge against you. We know that you have come here for us.”
New complaints: “Why, we haven’t done anything. Why are they tormenting us so?!”
“Listen! Nobody is guilty here! The times are to blame!” we answer.
An alarm at dawn. Five o’clock in the morning. A bell rings. A new transport—showered newcomers from the showers on Spokojna Street, along with deportees from Grójec.
