Winter Sky Page 3

  He blew into his hands and started walking toward a broken church at the center of the town. Passing a burned-out building, he saw the girl out of the corner of his eye. Turning to look at her, he came to a stop. She couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. She had dark, curly hair and enormous brown eyes. Her little face was dirty, her clothes in tatters, and she didn’t even have a coat. Her little brother sat beside her. Same dark hair. Same dark eyes. Both of them were pale and thin; hunger and desperation cast a shadow across their faces. She held out her hands, begging for something to eat. “Please,” she pleaded and pointed to her tummy. The little boy followed him expectantly with his eyes. “Please pan,” she repeated. “We are hungry.”

  When he didn’t walk away, she struggled to her feet and moved toward him but came to a stop a safe distance away. She waited, every muscle tense, ready to spring back. She had learned that for every stranger who would help them, another three were just as likely to cause them harm. And she had seen what harm could come to children, things her little brother could not see. So she waited at the top of a pile of broken bricks, ready to grab his hand and run.

  Looking at them, the man took a breath, his chest heaving with despair. She was so young. So desperate and yet so beautiful. How many children, how much beauty, how much virtue had been destroyed in this war.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, his hands extended. He forced a weak smile, then turned away and kept on walking.

  He heard her sniffle with disappointment, but he didn’t turn back. They weren’t the only orphans begging on the streets. They weren’t the only children who would die during the coming winter. There were far too many to be numbered—far too many for him to help. And he was done. His fight was over. There was nothing he could do.

  Zarek watched the rebel walk down the blackened street. He hesitated a moment, then turned and hustled toward the back of the railroad station.

  The sun would be setting soon, and it was just starting to snow again. Zarek pulled his dirty jacket up around his ears. Winter had fallen hard. It was going to be a cold night.

  SCHUTZSTAFFEL HEADQUARTERS BUILDING

  THREE MILES OUTSIDE OF GORNDASK

  It was a beautiful estate, huge by any measure, with rock walls, iron-domed chimneys, and a circular cobblestone drive. Owned by a former Polish leader of the Parliament—he and his family now dead—the estate had fallen into disrepair and was showing the stress of the German occupation.

  Positioned on four hundred hectares a few miles from the outskirts of town, the estate now housed the vicious SS officers who had dedicated themselves to the cleansing of Poland. But the Allies didn’t know that and couldn’t have done anything about it anyway, it being impossible to target such a small building with the B-17s that had filled the sky.

  The library was on the ground floor, just off the main entrance. It was a beautiful room, or at least it had been once, with wood floors, rosewood paneled walls, and heavy drapes over the arched windows. A large fireplace burned oversized logs, making the space uncomfortably warm. But the room was almost empty except for a table, a single chair, and a silver tray holding uneaten food.

  The SS colonel stood by the fireplace and stared into the flames. He wore a uniform that was no longer authorized, all black with bloused leggings and high boots. It was perfectly pressed, and the silver on his lapel shone in the yellow light of the fire. A death’s head badge was pinned in the middle of his cap, which was resting on the mantel. He was of average build, with an average face and dark hair, slicked back. The only thing remarkable about him were his eyes: close together, deeply set, intense, and deadly black.

  He kept his head down, deep in thought. He seemed defeated. Tired. Someplace far away. He stared at a small, worn notebook in his hand, took a breath, tore out a single page, looked at the names that had been scrawled across the dirty paper, then tossed it into the fire. He watched the paper burn, then took another page, tore it out, read the names, tossed it into the fire.

  His command sergeant, Sergeant Fisser, appeared through the double doors behind him. He was a tall man with dark features, a square jaw, and black stubble for hair. He moved into the room with brisk steps. “Colonel Müller, the men are ready, sir.”

  Müller stared at his notebook without responding. There were only a few pages left. He straightened up, shoved the notebook into his pocket, and nodded to Fisser.

  Both men turned and walked toward the door.

  Zarek stood outside the pitiful hut looking through the single window. Though it was barely dusk, she had the gas lantern burning, and he fumed a bit, knowing they would soon be out of fuel. No fuel, no light, no heat—and so many winter nights ahead. Thinking on it, he realized it was nearly winter solstice. The sun was about to tip back to the south, causing the days to start growing a little longer.

  He looked at the gloom around him, then turned east, toward the approaching Russians, and wondered if any of the people of his town would live to see the spring.

  He listened carefully, tilting his head just a bit. Even his old ears could pick up the sound of artillery in the distance. Deep. Deadly. It rolled across the frozen landscape like distant thunder. He’d been told that the Russians had crossed the highway, the Germans’ last line of defense. That meant he was about to get a new master. All of them were.

  He shivered, then turned back to his hut, opened the door, and walked in.

  The one-room shanty was clean but nearly empty. Bare slat walls. Bare wood floor. The only furniture consisted of a wood-burning stove, a rickety table, and three wood chairs. Two straw mattresses were in one corner. There was a sink below the window, but no running water. A small cabinet held wooden plates.

  His daughter was knitting at the table, her sightless eyes staring straight ahead. She concentrated on her work, her fingers moving quickly across the scratchy yarn. A toddler was sitting on the wood floor beside her, content to play with rags that had been folded into the form of two dolls.

  Zarek instantly brightened at the sight of the little girl. She looked up and squealed, “Grandpa!” Standing, she ran to him, holding out her arms. He caught her up and tossed her in the air. She laughed and he threw her in the air again, catching her gently and then holding her in his arms. The blind woman listened to the sound of her daughter’s happy cries and smiled.

  “How are you, dzeiko?” Zarek asked as he pulled the little girl close, smelling the softness of her skin.

  The child leaned back and held out her hands as if asking. Zarek reached into his jacket and pulled out a block of goat cheese wrapped in brown paper. The little girl coaxed for it hungrily. Zarek unwrapped the light brown cheese and broke her off a piece.

  His daughter took a deep breath, taking in the poignant smell. “Goat cheese, Father! Where did you get that? It smells delicious!”

  Zarek moved toward the wooden cabinet beside the stove and searched through its contents. Salt. A few other spices. Matches. A couple of wooden plates. A small box of dry crackers. A glass container of olive oil. He took the crackers and oil, moved to sit at the table, pulled out a knife from his front pocket, and started cutting slices of the cheese. “Haven’t I always taken care of you?” he answered.

  “You always have, Father.”

  She reached blindly, knowing where he was by the sound of his work. He leaned over and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. The little girl tugged at him, and he lifted her to his lap, giving her another piece of cheese atop a cracker. “What would we do without you?” his daughter asked.

  Zarek stopped cutting and glanced anxiously toward the front door. “You would starve, I suppose,” he answered.

  His daughter laughed. “You don’t have to put it so bluntly.”

  “I’m sorry. A poor attempt at humor.”

  He put his granddaughter on the floor, reached across the table, and picked up the knitting from h
is daughter’s lap. Holding it up to the light, he examined it very closely. The colors were mismatched and crooked, the ends frayed and out of place. “This is beautiful,” he said.

  “Is it? I’m so glad to hear you say that. It feels okay, but I can never really tell.”

  Zarek placed it back in her lap and she started to finger along the edge, searching for the loose end.

  “It’s very nice,” Zarek assured her.

  “Will it fetch a fair price?”

  “When you’re finished, I’ll take it to the market and we’ll see.”

  She reached out for his hand again. “You haven’t taken off your coat,” she said. Her voice was worried now. “Are you going out again tonight?”

  Zarek swiped a cracker through the oil. “I won’t be gone long.” His voice was tense. He didn’t want to have this conversation.

  “Don’t go, Father. Don’t leave us tonight. The artillery is so close. It’s getting closer! Why must you go?”

  “Because I have to feed you.”

  His daughter frowned but didn’t answer. The child fussed at his feet again, and Zarek reached down to pick her up.

  The blind girl took another breath. “I can smell the cheese. It seems to fill the whole house.”

  He glanced at his nearly bare surroundings. “There’s not much else to fill it,” he said. He looked down and tickled the little girl under her chin. “But there’s enough. You’re enough to fill the emptiness, aren’t you, my little dzeiko.”

  The little girl reached out for his cracker and pulled it to her mouth.

  “Is there…is there enough for me?” his daughter asked.

  “Of course. Did you think I would forget you?”

  He reached out and guided her hand toward the plate piled with the cheese and crackers. She felt the food and smiled. Zarek lifted another piece of cheese to his mouth but stopped when she suddenly pulled her hand back.

  “Will you say grace for us, Father?”

  Zarek put his cheese down. “Of course,” he said.

  He walked a couple of hundred yards, picking through rubble while working his way south toward a gray steeple standing over a partially damaged rock-and-mortar church. The first person he came to was an old woman dressed in a black dress, gray apron, and heavy combat boots laced ridiculously around her feet. He approached her with bleary eyes and an uncertain face, the pain in his head making him dizzy as he leaned down to speak. “Pardon,” he said in a low voice, “I’m looking for someone.” She stared up at him without emotion. He pulled out the picture and unfolded it for her to see. “Do you know these people?”

  She glanced at the picture, then shook her head and turned away. He touched her arm and extended the picture toward her again. “Please, they are my parents.”

  She lifted an eyebrow and tilted her head, seeming to motion to the chaos all around them. “Do you really think that anyone is going to be able to help you?”

  “You can’t see it, but that’s me holding my mother’s hand. But I don’t know…” He paused, completely speechless. “So many people have been killed…” His voice trailed off.

  “They certainly have,” she said sarcastically. She’d had a hundred such conversations over the past seven years. “All right,” she finally sniffed while nodding toward the picture. “Where do they live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know where your parents live?” She sounded suspicious now.

  He hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I was injured…” How could he begin to explain? He could hardly even admit it to himself. I don’t know where my parents live. I don’t know their names. I don’t know who they are because I don’t know who I am.

  She studied him, taking in the young face and soft eyes. She saw the pain there and felt a wave of sympathy. Turning to the picture, she lifted a finger and traced it along the woman’s face. He waited anxiously, almost holding his breath, until she lifted her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said sadly. She wasn’t speaking of the picture but of the fact that he, like all of them, had lost someone he loved. She patted his arm, turned, and moved on her way. He watched her go, then started walking toward the church again.

  He passed a couple of older men, stopping to show them the picture. One of them demanded his gloves; the other asked him for a cigarette. Neither of them were any help. He walked toward a group of children, but they ran away as he approached. He found himself in the middle of the town. Broken cobblestone streets. Piles of rubble. Buildings blown into pieces. A few stores miraculously unharmed. A north and south road came together around a fountain, and the cobblestone streets were wide enough to form a small square. A church with rock spires looked down on the fountain where a statue lay facedown in two inches of dirty ice.

  He walked toward a group of people who were standing around a small fire built in a large metal drum. It was a mixed group: a few men, a few children, a lot of older women. Most of them stood with bare hands extended toward the flames. Some didn’t have coats, and he felt a surge of guilt for the jacket he was wearing. The shadows were growing deep, and a soft snow started falling, wetting his hair and melting on his face. He looked up, but the overcast was soaking up the last of the light. The church was on the corner across from the fire pit, and he heard a group of scraggly voices singing a Christmas carol.

  Hearing the music, he froze, his lips pressed. His mind tumbled suddenly, seeming to flash in fragmented memories: Explosions. Crying voices. Crawling along the ground. Running through a grove of burning trees.

  All of it fell upon him in a crushing weight of sadness that almost drove him to his knees. He bent over, his hands at his head, his eyes closed in pain.

  She watched him from the second floor of the church. She was standing behind an oval window that looked out on the street, one of the few unbroken pieces of glass within a hundred miles. The window was covered in oily smudge, and she lifted a hand to clean off a small circle in front of her face.

  She was startlingly beautiful, with dark hair, green eyes, and skin as smooth as silk. A strong eastern chin and high cheekbones gave a dignity to her face. She wore a white dress underneath a light blue apron, but both of them were filthy from the dirt and work of war. A silver necklace hung around her neck, a small pendant pressed against the skin between her collarbones. As she stared out through the window, a choir in the sanctuary started lifting their voices into the air.

  She leaned her head against the brick window frame. Thin lines of decorative copper had been soldered into the tinted glass in an intricate design of the stars and the moon, and she absently traced her finger along the copper while watching him. He stood by the fire, silent, his hands stuffed into his pockets. As the choir started singing, he suddenly looked away, his eyes unfocused, as if he were entirely somewhere else. He was completely motionless for several long moments; then he seemed to stumble, bending as if in pain.

  She watched him intently, her head resting against the brick, her eyes soft and wide.

  Sadness. That was the only thing he felt, deep as his bones, nothing but sadness and despair. The sound of the choir seemed to penetrate his jumbled memories, and he turned toward the church, shaking his head. In the midst of all this darkness, the music seemed ridiculously out of place.

  Then suddenly he stopped.

  Did I ever believe? he wondered. Tilting his head, he stared absently across the square at the bombed-out church. But how could anyone believe? All you had to do was take a look around to know that even if there was a God, he didn’t care about this people or this place!

  He thought on that a moment, the choir voices coming and going in the soft wind. It was a slow song, haunting and powerful—an old Austrian Christmas hymn. He caught his breath. An Austrian Christmas song! And he knew all the words.

  Still, still, still,

  Weil’s Kindlein schlafen will.

 
Die Englein tun schön jubilieren,

  Bei dem Kripplein musizieren.

  He must have learned that somewhere. Sometime and somewhere, he’d been taught to believe.

  Still, still, still,

  ’Cause baby wants to sleep.

  The angels jubilate beautifully,

  By the manger making music.

  The music ended and he moved a little closer to the fire. Silence filled the darkness. The crowd around him didn’t speak.

  He thought, I can break down and reassemble a Błyskawica submachine gun in less than sixty seconds. I know that it was designed by Waclaw Zawrotny specifically for the Polish resistance. I know that it was assembled with screws instead of welds so that we could repair our own weapons. I remember all of this, but I don’t know if I believe in God.

  She leaned toward the window, studying his face in the yellow light of the fire. She could see the strain in his eyes, the hurt and confusion. She could see the sag of his shoulders and the uncertain gesture of his hands.

  He was lost and nearly broken and without a single friend.

  “But the children could save you,” she whispered to herself.

  For a long time he didn’t say anything, content to feel the heat of the fire. He realized that he was very hungry, but he had no idea where he would get anything to eat. A young girl standing beside her mother seemed to read his mind. “I’m hungry,” she whimpered as she wrapped her arms around her mother’s knee. The mother reached down and put her hand atop her head. “Bog zapewni,” she said. God will provide.

  He glanced at the destruction all around him and shook his head in doubt.

  The light snow had stopped, leaving a new dusting on the ground, and he wiped his head to press the moisture from his hair. A drop of melted snow rolled down his forehead and into his eye. One of the women watched him. “Where you from?” she asked.