Korczaks last day at 16 Sienna street - August 4, 1942 - Warsaw Ghetto

During the last three months of his life, Korczak was working on a manuscript that has become known as the Ghetto Diary. 
Two weeks earlier, Adam Czerniakow (Chairman of the Jewish Council in the ghetto), decided to take his own life, by swallowing a potassium cyanide pill. Before swallowing the pill he wrote two letters, one to his wife, one to the Jewish Council saying:

They are demanding that I kill the children of my people with my own hands.

There is nothing for me to do but die

* * *

Last pages of Janusz Korczaks Ghetto Diary

August 4, 1942

I have watered the flowers, the poor orphanage plants, the plants of the Jewish orphanage. The parched soil breathed with relief.

A guard watched me as I worked. Does that peaceful work of mine at six o’clock in the morning annoy him or move him?

He stands looking on, his legs wide apart.

During the last three months of his life, Korczak was working on a manuscript that has become known as the Ghetto Diary. Diary survived thanks to my father Misza Wasserman Wróblewski. He was working outside the ghetto on August 5h, when he returned in the evening he found entire orphanage empty. There was still unfinished tea and coffee on the tables. My father went up to Korczak’s room. Korczak’s spectacles were still on his desk. My father gathered Korczak’s papers a.o. this Diary and threw them into a suitcase together with his spectacles. 

All the efforts to get Esterka released have come to nothing. I was not quite sure whether in the event of success I should be doing her a favor or harm her.

“Where did she get caught?” somebody asks. Perhaps it is not she but we who have gotten caught (having stayed).

I have written to the police to send Adzio away: he’s mentally underdeveloped and maliciously undisciplined. We cannot afford to expose the house to the danger of his outbursts. 

For Dzielna Street—a ton of coal, for the present to Rózia Abramowicz. Someone asks whether the coal will be safe there.

In reply—a smile.

A cloudy morning. Five thirty. Seemingly an ordinary beginning of a day. I say anna:

To Hanna:

Good morning

In response, a look of surprise.

I plead:

Smile

They are ill, pale, lung-sick smiles.

You drank, and plenty, gentlemen officers, you relished your drinking—here’s to the blood you’ve shed— and dancing you jingled your medals to cheer the infamy which you were too blind to see, or rather pretended not to see.

My share in the Japanese war. Defeat—disaster. In the European war—defeat—disaster. In the World War. . . .

I don’t know how and what a soldier of a victorious army feels. . . .

The publications to which I contributed were usually closed down, suspended, went bankrupt.

My publisher, ruined, committed suicide.

And all this not because I’m a Jew but because I was born in the East.

It might be a sad consolation that the haughty West also is not well off.

It might be but is not. I never wish anyone ill. I cannot. I don’t know how it’s done.

Our Father who art in heaven. . . . This prayer was carved out of hunger and misery. Our daily bread. Bread.

Why, what I’m experiencing did happen. It happened.

They sold their belongings—for a liter of lamp oil, a kilogram of groats, a glass of vodka.

When a young Pole kindly asked me at the police station how I managed to run the blockade, I asked him whether he could not possibly do “something” for Esterka.

You know very well I can’t

I said hastily:

Thanks for the kind word

This expression of gratitude is the bloodless child of poverty and degradation.

I am watering the flowers. My bald head in the window. What a splendid target. He has a rifle. Why is he standing and looking on calmly? He has no orders to shoot. 
Korczak Orphanage at 16 Sienna street is marked with * Empty spaces between the houses are result of Luftwaffe bombings in September 1939.

I am watering the flowers. My bald head in the window. What a splendid target.

He has a rifle. Why is he standing and looking on calmly?

He has no orders to shoot.

And perhaps he was a village teacher in civilian life, or a notary, a street sweeper in Leipzig, a waiter in Cologne?

What would he do if I nodded to him? Waved my hand in a friendly gesture?

Perhaps he doesn’t even know that things are—as they are?

He may have arrived only yesterday, from far away. . . .

Original page from the Korczak Ghetto Diary. It was typed by one of the Orphanage workers on both sides on the paper.

Po­nu­ra, przy­gnę­bia­ją­ca jest li­te­ra­tu­ra pa­mięt­ni­ko­wa. Ar­ty­sta czy uczo­ny, po­li­tyk czy wódz wcho­dzą w ży­cie, nio­sąc peł­nię am­bit­nych za­mie­rzeń, moc­nych, za­czep­nych i gład­kich po­ru­szeń, żywy mo­bi­lizm dzia­ła­nia. Wspi­na­ją się w górę, zwal­cza­ją prze­szko­dy, zwięk­sza­ją za­sięg wpły­wów, zbroj­ni w do­świad­cze­nie i licz­bę przy­ja­ciół, co­raz owoc­niej i ła­twiej, etap po eta­pie zmie­rza­ją do swych ce­lów. Trwa to lat dzie­sią­tek, cza­sem dwa, trzy dzie­siąt­ki. A po­tem...

Po­tem już zmę­cze­nie, po­tem już tyl­ko krok za kro­kiem, upar­cie w raz ob­ra­nym kie­run­ku, już wy­god­niej­szym go­ściń­cem, z mniej­szym za­pa­łem i z prze­świad­cze­niem bo­le­snym, że nie tak, że zbyt mało, że da­le­ko trud­niej sa­mot­nie, że przy­by­wa już tyl­ko biel wło­sów, wię­cej zmarsz­czek na gład­kim daw­niej i zu­chwa­łym czo­le, że oko sła­biej już wi­dzi, krew wol­niej krą­ży, a nogi nio­są z wy­sił­kiem.

Cóż? – Sta­rość.

Je­den opie­ra się i [nie] do­pusz­cza, pra­gnie po daw­ne­mu, na­wet szyb­ciej i sil­niej, by zdą­żyć. Łu­dzi się, bro­ni się, bun­tu­je się i mio­ta. Dru­gi w smut­nej re­zy­gna­cji za­czy­na nie tyl­ko zrze­kać się, ale na­wet co­fać.

– Już nie mogę.

– Już na­wet nie chcę pró­bo­wać.

– Nie war­to.

– Już nie ro­zu­miem.

– Gdy­by zwró­co­no mi urnę spo­pie­lo­nych lat, ener­gię str­wo­nio­ną w błą­dze­niach, roz­rzut­ny roz­mach daw­nych sił...

Nowi lu­dzie, nowe po­ko­le­nie, nowe po­trze­by. – Już jego draż­nią i on draż­ni – zra­zu nie­po­ro­zu­mie­nia, a po­tem i sta­le już nie­ro­zu­mie­nie. Ich ge­sty, ich kro­ki, ich oczy, bia­łe zęby i gład­kie czo­ło, choć usta mil­czą...

Wszyst­ko i wszy­scy wo­ko­ło, i zie­mia, i ty sam, i gwiaz­dy two­je mó­wią:

– Do­syć... Twój za­chód... Te­raz my... Twój kres... Twier­dzisz, że my [nie] tak... Nie spie­ra­my się z tobą – wiesz le­piej, do­świad­czo­ny, ale po­zwól sa­mo­dziel­nie pró­bo­wać.

Taki jest po­rzą­dek ży­cia.

Tak czło­wiek i zwie­rzę­ta, tak bo­daj drze­wa, a kto wie, może na­wet ka­mie­nie, ich te­raz wola, moc i czas.

Two­ja dziś sta­rość, a po­ju­trze zgrzy­bia­łość.

I co­raz spiesz­niej krą­żą wska­zów­ki na tar­czy ze­ga­rów.

Ka­mien­ne sfink­sa spoj­rze­nie za­da­je od­wiecz­ne py­ta­nie:

– Kto rano na czte­rech no­gach, w po­łu­dnie raź­nie na dwóch, a wie­czo­rem na trzech.

Ty na kiju wspar­ty, za­pa­trzo­ny w ga­sną­ce, chłod­ne pro­mie­nie słoń[ca], któ­re za­cho­dzi.

Original, last page from the Korczak Ghetto Diary. It was typed by one of the Orphanage workers on both sides on the paper.

I am watering the flowers. My bald head in the window. What a splendid target.

He has a rifle. Why is he standing and looking on calmly?

He has no orders to shoot.

And perhaps he was a village teacher in civilian life, or a notary, a street sweeper in Leipzig, a waiter in Cologne?

What would he do if I nodded to him? Waved my hand in a friendly gesture?

Perhaps he doesn’t even know that things are—as they are?

He may have arrived only yesterday, from far away. . . .