can see an encampment filled with thousands of people, waiting for the gatesto paradise to open.
The sight of so many people, bustling in the open air, is shocking for us. When we approach, we are immediately besieged by people asking us questions about our background. When we tell them about our despair, hunger,and our disappointed hopes, they smile sadly. “I’ve been here for three days”, says one. “A n d it’s been five days since I’m here, starving”, adds someone else. We leave this group and go in search of the Kalisz people. It is difficult to describe the sight we see. There are ramparts on both sides, with a railway track at the bottom. People are sitting on the ramparts, wrapped in scarves, clothes, qui lts, and blankets. Around them, they’ve arranged their households: backpacks, bottles, pots, spoons. There are even [3] people lucky enough to have their own bedding. They do not move, but are wrapped in their feather quilts, trying to conserve the heat. We walk on, sad and resigned, not a single familiar face in sight, everything around us is alien, bad and sad. But no, it’s actually not so bad. A committee has formed in the border zone that seeks to help the impoverished and robbed. And so we receive a loaf of bread and a cup of coffee – our first meal after twenty hours of horrible ordeals. Having eaten a little, we arrange a “household” for ourselves. We place our backpacks in a relatively dry location, and that spot, exposed, in the middle of the field, becomes our place. The first day passes quickly. We stand and listen to people telling of their various misfortunes, but we do not lose hope. Old regulars, who have been residing in the neutral strip for several days, assure us that the border will open the following day; otherwise, an assault will be organised. Night falls early. Everyone goes to their spots, it becomes quiet and dark. There are bonfires all around us, flaming red. We fall asleep for a while, but soon the cold wakes us. We head towards the fire, but it is difficult to stand nearby because the smoke goes into our eyes, stinging and causing tears. We return to our spot.
The nights in the border strip, and I have spent seven nights there, are the worst nightmare imaginable. People are moving around, stamping their feet, trying to warm their hands, sleeping. Suddenly, a terrible cry rises to the sky: Ot-kroy-te gra-ni-tsu! Kho-lod! Go-lod! Smer’t!11 So much sorrow, so much anguish and bitterness, and yet so much hope in those [4] voices, strong and
