Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (10 page)

54

Douglas W. Jacobson

“Anna?” Justyn’s mother leaned over and stroked Anna’s forehead with the cloth. “Anna, it’s Irene.”

“Irene?” The word formed slowly. Anna looked up at her. “Where . . .”

“Here, take a drink of water,” his mother said. She put her hand behind Anna’s head and brought a small glass of water to her lips.

Anna took a sip of the water and looked around the room again. “What . . .

Where are we?” Her voice was raspy. She coughed.

Justyn’s mother held the glass as Anna took another sip. “We’re in the home of Leizer and Beata Berkowicz. They found us after the attack by the airplanes.”

Anna’s eyes widened. “The airplanes . . . Justyn?”

Justyn took a step forward. “I’m here, Anna.” He squeezed into the room and stood at the foot of the bed. Mrs. Berkowicz set the pan on the fl oor and put her arm around him.

Anna’s lips curled upward into a thin smile. Then she looked around again.

“Henryk? Where’s . . . Henryk?”

Justyn’s mother took Anna’s hand. “Henryk is dead, Anna.”

“Henryk . . . dead?”

Justyn clenched his fi sts, but the tears he had tried to hold back spilled over, running down his cheeks.

Anna stared at his mother. Her lips moved but no sound came out. Then she closed her eyes and laid her head back on the pillow.

The next afternoon, Anna sat on a wooden rocker on the porch of the farmhouse looking out at the fi elds of dark, rich soil that had been recently harvested. The trees in the orchard were heavily laden with ripe fruit, and a gentle warm breeze carried the pungent scent of farm country. It was as though she were in a dream, far away from the horrors of Warsaw and the desperate trip in the night.

It was barely possible to believe Henryk was gone. He had been with her father for as long as she could remember, and he always seemed so capable, so indestructible. Her father must be beside himself with worry, she thought.

He’d be crushed when he heard about Henryk.

The door creaked, and Irene came out of the house carrying two glasses fi lled with dark brown liquid. “How are you feeling?” she asked, sitting down on a bench next to the rocker. She handed one of the glasses to Anna.

Anna managed a smile. “Still groggy, like being in a dense fog.” She took a Night of Flames

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sip of the drink. It was cool and sweet. “Apple cider?”

Irene nodded. “They make it themselves and store it in the cellar.” She took a sip from the other glass. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.

Anna turned slowly, trying not to move her head any more than necessary.

“What is it?”

Irene glanced down at the rough wooden planks of the porch fl oor then looked back at Anna. “The Germans have taken Krakow.”

“What?” Anna jerked her head, and a searing pain shot through her skull like a knife. She spilled part of the drink trying to set the glass on the fl oor.

Irene reached out and took the glass. She put a hand on Anna’s arm. “The doctor from town told us when he came out to check on you—four days ago.

He heard it on a news bulletin.”

Anna pressed her hands against the side of her head. “Germans in Krakow?”

Irene nodded. Her thin face was pale, her dark eyes fearful.

Anna leaned back in the rocker and looked out at the serene farmland. Cows grazed on a distant hillside. A fantasy crept into her mind that she and Jan were together, right here in this place. They would stay here and pretend the war was happening on some other continent. He would take her hand, and they would walk through the lush fi elds and sit together under a tree . . .

She heard Irene say something. “What?”

“There was very little damage,” Irene said. “In Krakow. It happened so fast; the news bulletin said there was very little damage.”

Anna rubbed her temples and thought about her father. German troops were in Krakow. He must be devastated. But, if it happened that fast, at least he was probably out of harm’s way. He wouldn’t have left, she was certain of that. Although her father had been born in England, the only son of a Polish nobleman and his class-conscious wife—who’d insisted on Anglicizing her son’s name—Anna knew he was a true Polish patriot. He would never let the Germans drive him out of his beloved city. “Have you heard any other news?” she asked.

“It doesn’t sound good,” Irene said. “There’s heavy fi ghting east of Krakow and up in the north. They’re bombing all of the big cities, especially Warsaw . . .”

Her voice trailed off.

Anna leaned back in the rocker and closed her eyes. She felt very tired.

He was there, standing in front of her, smiling. His uniform was crisp, neatly pressed, and his boots were shiny. Then it was raining, just a light rain, falling 56

Douglas W. Jacobson

gently, pattering on the roof, dripping off the leaves. It felt good . . . cool and soothing. He was fading away.
No!
She reached out to him.
Stay! Please stay!

But he was gone . . . and she was alone.

Anna opened her eyes. She was still sitting in the rocker. Beata Berkowicz smiled at her and dipped the wet cloth back in the pan. The woman’s face was round, her skin tanned and heavily creased by years in the sun and wind.

“Thank you, that feels good,” Anna said.

Beata wrung the dripping cloth, folded it and gently stroked Anna’s cheeks, then her arms. The fog in Anna’s mind began to lift. She leaned forward in the rocker and thought about standing up but sat back when the throbbing in her temples returned. “What time is it?” she asked.

Beata put the cloth back in the pan and sat down on the bench. “Almost fi ve thirty. Irene and Justyn went into town with Leizer. They should be back soon, and then we’ll have supper.”

Anna turned toward her, holding a hand against her head. “Thank you . . .

for everything.”

Beata smiled and patted her hand. “Where did you learn to speak French?”

Anna looked at her, confused. “French?”

“A few nights ago, I went into your room to check on you. You must have been dreaming. You were saying something in French.”

Anna smiled at her. “I attended university in Belgium. Antwerp. I lived with a friend of my father’s, and they all spoke French. Rene and Mimi Leffard—

he’s a law professor, like my father.”

“We don’t hear other languages very often out here,” Beata said. “There are some Jews in town who speak Yiddish with each other. Maybe we’ll be hearing German soon.” She looked at Anna and raised her bushy eyebrows.

“My husband speaks German,” Anna said. “He grew up in the west, near Poznan. All the schools were German.”

Beata nodded.

“He also speaks French, though not as well as German. His mother was French. He helps me with German and I help him with French. We both—”

Anna realized she was rambling. She looked at the plain, down-to-earth woman and smiled. “You’ve been very kind.”

“You’ll stay here with us,” Beata said. It was more than an invitation. It was a declaration. Before Anna could respond, Beata stood up and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get supper ready.”

Chapter 9

At fi

rst it was just a shadowy form in the moonlight, swishing back and forth across his fi eld of vision. Jan blinked and tried to focus as the shapeless form swished again. Then he heard a sound—a snort—and abruptly rolled over, scrambling away from the hobbling horse.

The sudden movement sent a sharp pain slicing through his head and down his neck. He turned his head slowly from side to side and fl exed his arms and legs. Nothing seemed broken. With some effort, he got to his knees, trying to get his bearings. Horses were all around, lying on the ground, struggling to get up or, like the one he just escaped, stumbling about, dazed and confused.

Jan looked toward the town but couldn’t see anything from this distance except the outline of houses and low buildings. He crawled away, in the other direction, and then his hand came down on something soft and wet. He jerked it back, staring down at the body of a cavalry trooper lying face up in the grass, his chest covered in blood. He took a deep breath and crawled on, moving cautiously to avoid the thrashing hooves of desperate horses in their last moments of life.

Above the dull cacophony of whinnies and nickers, human groans and sobbing, Jan heard a sharp cry for help. He followed the sound to a young trooper struggling to free his foot from under a horse. Jan crawled up to him and shoved his arms under the massive, bloody animal, gripping the boy’s ankle. Suddenly the wounded horse snorted and tossed its head. The trooper screamed in pain. Jan pulled on the boy’s leg, but the horse thrashed again, threatening to roll over the panic-stricken trooper. Jan leaned his forehead against the horse’s sweat-soaked back, gagging on the stench of blood and urine. He closed his eyes, waiting a moment for the animal to settle down.

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Douglas W. Jacobson

Then he slowly withdrew his arms from the boy’s ankle, stood up and removed his revolver from the holster. He took a long breath then placed the barrel of the gun against the horse’s head and pulled the trigger.

The horse jerked then quivered before a long sigh of exhaling breath. Jan reached under the animal and again gripped the wide-eyed trooper’s ankle.

“Now, pull,” he said. The trooper grunted and jerked his foot free.

Jan held the boy’s bare foot and ankle, moving it slowly back and forth. “I don’t think it’s broken,” he said to the lad who was sweating profusely and bit-ing his lower lip. “Follow me and stay low.”

They crawled off and found another trooper lying face down, dead, then another, groaning and clutching his head. The blood oozed through the boy’s fi ngers, and he rolled his eyes toward Jan, silently pleading for help. Jan swallowed hard and patted the boy’s leg. Half his skull was gone. He would be dead in a few minutes.

Up ahead there was movement, shadows of horses and riders gathering, beyond the range of the machine guns. Other shadows rose from the meadow, men running and hobbling toward the group.

Jan stood up and looked at the young trooper. “Can you stand? We’ve got to get out of here.”

The boy struggled to his feet and limped forward. “I’ll make it.”

Jan put his arm around him and they trudged through the tall grass toward the assembling group. As they got closer, Jan spotted Kapitan Peracki dismounting, and shouted, “Lech! Send a rider to get the artillery squadron!”

Peracki turned toward him, startled. “Jan, thank God. Yes, right away.”

“And tell them we’ll need wagons for the wounded.”

Peracki nodded and hustled off.

Jan moved into the midst of the assembled troopers, pressing his hands to his head, rubbing his temples. The pain was easing. He glanced around the group, spotted Bartkowicz, then looked for Stefan but didn’t see him or anyone else from First Squadron. He stepped over to a medic pulling supplies out of a cart and said, “Pick out ten men to help you. Spread out and stay low. They’ll have snipers so just try to help anyone you can fi nd within about a hundred meters but don’t go in any closer. We can’t afford to lose anyone else now.”

Peracki returned as the medic selected men and handed out supplies. “Have you seen anyone from First Squadron?” Jan asked.

Night of Flames

59

Peracki shook his head. “We veered off to the right when the shooting started, and I saw them heading toward the river. I doubt they made it to the bridge.”

Jan nodded and glanced back toward the town. They were at least a kilometer away. “For now, organize the rest of these men in a defense perimeter with rifl es and bayonets. As soon as the artillery gets here we’re going in on foot.”

Peracki turned away, shouting orders.

Jan looked over the meadow. In the moonlight he could make out the shapes of horses but it was too dark to see the men he knew were out there.

He glanced at his watch. It was a little before 0400. Less than an hour ago the regiment had stood on the other side of the Bzura River, poised for a surprise attack on a weakly defended enemy position. Less than an hour—and now more than a hundred of his men lay dead or badly wounded.

He shook his head and glanced around at the fl urry of activity. Troopers carrying medical supplies advanced into the meadow, staying low, keeping their heads down. The rest of the regiment were gathering their rifl es, fi xing bayonets and taking up defensive positions. The horses that survived were moved back, out of harm’s way. Peracki and Bartkowicz had things under control. There was nothing to do now but wait for the artillery.

Jan made his way to the top of a small hill, trying to get a better view of the Mroga River. He could catch only a glimpse, a thin silver ribbon shimmering in the moonlight. He hoped Stefan was out there with his squadron, hunkered down, safe for the moment. Stefan was a good offi cer. He would know what to do. He would know they were bringing in artillery, and he would wait.

Jan looked at his watch again—0430. The artillery squadron would be here soon. The sky was brightening in the east as he headed back to join his men, dreading the sunrise when he would actually be able to see the extent of the carnage.

Unteroffi zier Schmidt sat on the ground near his silent machine gun. It had been almost two hours since the Polish cavalry troops had retreated, and his hands had fi nally stopped trembling. The sky was beginning to lighten and he could see a little more clearly, but out in the meadow nothing was moving.

Willy sat on the other side of the gun, neither of them having said a word for a long time.

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Douglas W. Jacobson

Schmidt heard Kluge’s voice behind him and turned. The oberleutnant stood a few meters away, talking into a fi eld radio. “
Nein! Nein!
I don’t know where they came from,” Kluge said. “They just appeared, charging through the meadow right at us.”

Kluge was silent for a few seconds then spoke again, his voice louder. “They retreated back to the north. I don’t know what else is out there, but there were several hundred cavalry troops.”