Sometimes, when the wind was blowing in a particular direction, we heard the tinkling of the merry-go-round on Krasinski Square on the Aryan side. Round and round it went, with its jolly melodies, carrying Polish children while we continued our last fight amid thick smoke, fire, and the sound of gunshots. Did those people who put their children on horses and elephants have no shame, no compassion, no conscience? How could the carousel still turn when for us everything had ended? Their indifference to our struggle was the worst insult.
