The following extract is taken from an autobiography. In it, a Jewish writer recalls trying to escape, with his parents, on the day that German forces invaded Poland in September 1939. Despite the onrush of people who were trying to leave Katowice that morning, probably because it was not far from the German border, we eventually got to board the carriage reserved for us and some other refugees who had also received their visas. Finally, after a long delay, the train moved out of the station. We seemed to have made it. I don't know how long we travelled on that train. For the most part, though, the train was standing more than moving, waiting for other trains, loaded with soldiers, to pass. The roads alongside the railroad line were crowded with people walking or riding in horse-drawn carriages and wagons. Everywhere there were long Polish army columns, marching, on horseback or on trucks, pulling artillery pieces and supplies. The soldiers were moving in the opposite direction from the civilians, who had to make room for them to pass on the narrow roads. For me, all this commotion was very exciting. I spent much time waving to the passing soldiers and admiring their three-cornered hats and uniforms. And then, suddenly, the fun stopped. Our train had again halted, this time next to a train filled with Polish soldiers and military equipment. On either side of the tracks were open fields. We had probably not been standing there for more than a few minutes when we began to hear the far-off sounds of approaching aeroplanes. Then they were above us two or three of them. People began to scream, 'Niemcy! Niemcy!' ('Germans! Germans!'), and suddenly the air resounded with the rattle of machine- gun fire and the thump of exploding bombs. The train began to shake. The noise was terrible. My father grabbed my mother and me and pushed us out of the train. 'They are attacking the military train!' he screamed above the noise. 'We must get out, we must get out.' Some people had already jumped from the train and were scrambling across the tracks into the fields. We followed behind, pushed on by others. The Polish soldiers began to shoot at the German planes with rifles held out of their carriage windows. They did not have much luck. The planes kept swooping down on the trains and the tracks, blowing up some of the carriages. They kept repeating this manoeuvre for what seemed to be a very long time. We managed to reach the nearby field, where my mother threw herself on top of me while my father shielded both of us with his body. People were screaming as the planes flew over us with their machine guns blazing. They could easily have killed all of us, but it seemed we were not their target. Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the planes were gone. We waited for a while for them to return and, when they did not, we got up and started to look around. No one on our side of the field seemed to have been hit, but people were wailing and a few children were crying. Some railroad cars were on fire; there was smoke everywhere. Many injured and dead soldiers were lying on the other side of the tracks and near their train. The tracks had been destroyed as far as the eye could see.