PESEL. The lists reset at midnight
Part 2
INTRO. About the Shortest Career as a Line Organizer
I thought long and hard about whether to write this continuation. But since I started, there’s no turning back. Let me begin by saying I feel absolutely awful.
In my hands were two lists with a total of 300 names. The center was processing 40–60 families per day (mothers with children counted as one entry).
Every day, the Polish authorities were improving the process — adding more staff, opening earlier than 8 am, occasionally issuing extra tickets, and so on.
The day before, I had copied both lists and, with the guard’s permission, taped them to the glass door from the inside. The idea was that anyone arriving early would see the existing list of those who had already been there and simply continue it. Most people agreed with this approach the previous day. Buoyed by the sense of order and hope that their turn was secured, they had said their goodbyes and gone home.
That morning, I left the apartment at 4:20 AM.
It feels strange to call someone else’s apartment “home.” At the same time, “someone else’s” doesn’t feel quite right either. My life these days is full of oxymorons.
There’s something surreal about driving through Warsaw’s silent, empty streets in the predawn calm. No whistles of bombs, no thunder of tanks... Dawn hadn’t yet broken, and lights were slowly flickering on in scattered windows as the city began to stir.
At a traffic light, questions filled my mind:
What am I even doing here? How did I end up here? Who am I in this place?
I had a folder containing the names of 300 people, and I was heading to an unfamiliar address along foreign streets in a country that had welcomed me as if I were a long-lost friend.
Whenever I express my endless gratitude, the woman who offered us her apartment reminds me that, in her position, I would have done the same. She tells me we’re here not by choice. I agree, but it doesn’t make it easier. Accepting unconditional kindness, it turns out, isn’t so simple.
By 4:50 am, I arrived at the center and saw about 20 new people already gathered outside. I checked that our lists were still in place on the glass and suggested we first mark those present from the list and then add any newcomers.
And then… chaos erupted.
The same woman who had yelled yesterday that the lists were “nonsense” had allied herself with the newcomers.
Together, the three of them confidently declared that…
The lists expired at midnight!
No lists anymore — only a live queue.
And, out of nowhere, they added: “But we have our list. It doesn’t matter, but you can join it if you want.”
My mind got stuck on “The lists expired at midnight,” and all I could muster was:
- Excuse me, are we playing Cinderella here?
- Stop being so smart. You came here and started ordering people around. Want to join? Join. If not — get to the back of the line. That’s how it should be.
- I’ll decide what’s right, - I snapped and marched to the end of the line.
There, I found three people from the previous day’s lists who sympathized with me.
I texted everyone whose numbers I had, warning them that the doors were blocked and advising them to arrive early since a civilized approach had clearly failed. Over the next few hours, about 50 people from our lists arrived, and a full-blown confrontation ensued. Those who had registered the previous day fiercely argued with the newcomers, saying they had shown up early, followed protocol, and deserved their place. They pointed out the absurdity of a “live queue” that was little more than shoving and shouting.
Women — many of them elderly — came up to me repeatedly. I had gained their trust the day before, and they believed me when I said they would get through. Nearly in tears, I explained that things hadn’t worked out as planned, that it was now a live queue. It was heart-wrenching, but they took it with grace, even expressing sympathy.
I felt like falling apart. The unfairness of it all was unbearable.
By this time, women with small children — some in strollers, some in slings — started arriving. Everyone was shouting. My mom and sons were supposed to join me at 7:30 AM, and I dreaded how they would manage in this chaos. I estimated I was about 25th in line — not that it mattered since the queue was nothing but an unmanageable crowd.
Insults, grievances, and arguments filled the air. Both the “old” and “new” groups pressed so tightly against the doors that they couldn’t even open.
At 7:30 AM, the door finally cracked open, and the crowd surged forward. I was practically carried inside.
They were letting in 5–6 people at a time, pausing for a few minutes between groups. My mom and kids somehow squeezed their way to me.
Meanwhile, someone up front started a fight, and a piece of someone’s jacket got ripped off. At 8:15 AM, we were the last group allowed in and finally received our tickets. Saying I was upset doesn’t begin to cover it. We spent another five hours waiting with our tickets to finalize the PESEL registrations. In total, it was 11 hours on my feet, plus the awful feeling that I had failed. Someone who heard my story later told me, “Olya, you’ve already done a lot. Just remember— you’re on the Titanic now. Fight to survive.” I don’t know. I’m so tired of fighting, especially when it feels so absurd.
By 2:30 PM, we had our PESELs.
We are now officially registered in Poland, eligible for healthcare and insurance, and our Polish family can apply for compensation for hosting refugees.
As for everything else, I don’t feel like writing.
I suppose I should just be happy we got the PESEL numbers.
March 23, 2022.