Winter Sky Page 7

  He didn’t notice the silver locket that was lying between his feet.

  Müller watched Antoni in the last of his struggles. The rebel fought to keep the weight on his one leg, but eventually his body faded and he fell limp. Müller waited, then turned around and started walking past the bodies and the patches of red snow. The villagers recoiled as he approached. He motioned to his command sergeant, then turned toward his military transport and climbed in.

  Fisser shouted to his men, giving a “let’s go” twirl of his finger. The Germans began to gather their men and climb into the vehicles. The villagers faded away, fear and sickness keeping them in silence.

  Fisser stood to the side of the first military transport. He watched his men carefully as they loaded up the four transports. As he watched, a young German regular officer walked toward him from the center of the square. Lieutenant Acker was his name. Fisser turned as he approached. “Sir,” the lieutenant said mechanically. Yes, Acker was an officer, but Fisser was SS, which meant that he was the more powerful.

  The young lieutenant came to a stop beside him, then nodded to the dead men lying in the snow. “My men are regular soldiers, not Schutzstaffel,” he said in a low voice. “They’re young. They’ve not yet seen combat. They haven’t been exposed to…tactics such as this.”

  Fisser scowled. “Give them time,” he said before he turned and walked away.

  Lucas remained hidden in the church, listening to the Germans until he finally heard the sound of metal tracks tearing up the cobblestone streets as they drove away.

  For a long time, he didn’t move. The sun moved across the horizon, burning through the haze as the villagers took away the bodies and started scavenging again. Finally, he stood. He knew what he had to do.

  He walked down the stairs, his senses tight, always listening for the sound of the German half-tracks returning. Looking toward the back of the chapel, he saw an arched door and walked toward it. It was a small bathroom, and, remarkably, fresh water still came out of the tap. He ran the ice-cold water, stripped down, and washed himself. Returning to his perch, he glanced out, checked the village square, then sat and dumped the contents of the stolen satchel on the floor: emergency rations, a small knife, maps, military flares, a Luger p08. A standard-issue weapon with eight rounds in its detachable magazine, the Luger was an effective but not an excellent gun. He lifted it, feeling the cold metal in his hands. Being caught with a weapon would mean certain death, but he no longer cared. He worked the action, then inventoried his ammunition. Thirty-two rounds. Enough to get out of trouble but not to win if it came down to a real fight.

  After placing the contents back in the bag, he took the knife and walked to the balcony that looked down on the chapel. A set of heavy curtains hung down both sides of a wood carving of the Christ. “My apologies,” he whispered as he tore down one of the curtains and cut two long strips. Running the lines of fabric through the metal grommets in the satchel, he fashioned a small pack. Throwing it on his back, he tested the fit. A little awkward, but it would do. He put the knife in his front pocket, stuffed the extra fabric in his pack, then moved back to the window and stared out.

  His mind went back to what Melina had told him. Go to Brzeg. It is your only hope. The train will wait for no one. Go tomorrow or it will be too late.

  Zarek stood in the shadows of an empty building that faced the square. His thin hair dripped in front of his eyes, and he shivered underneath his filthy coat. He could smell himself, tart and musky, and he sucked on a rotten tooth inside his mouth, feeling the tenderness that shot through his left jaw. He was exhausted, hungry, cold, and in a very bad mood. But the rebel had to be around here somewhere. He had not left the village. He was lurking somewhere close.

  He knew the rebel wouldn’t stay in one place for any longer than it took to rest and eat—at least he wouldn’t if he was smart. And the young rebel had lived through the war, which meant that he was very smart indeed.

  Zarek knew the only hope he had for his granddaughter was if he could find the rebel. Short of that, he and his family were going to die. If he showed up without knowing exactly where the rebel was, this would be his last night on this earth. And as cold as he was, he knew the grave was much colder.

  So he shivered and kept his eyes moving across the square.

  The day passed slowly. Twice during the afternoon, the German patrols returned to round up some villagers and haul them away. As the sun set, the village grew quiet. Lucas waited until it was nearly dark, then moved carefully to the front door of the church and stepped out. Standing in the shadows, he studied the villagers carefully.

  The old woman from the day before saw him from across the town square and approached him with a burlap sack in her arms. She hardly slowed as she walked by and slipped him a small pouch with two soft potatoes and three large onions. “Go,” she whispered as she passed.

  He touched her arm to thank her, then ducked back into the church.

  Zarek’s heart leapt with relief. He saw the rebel standing in the shadows of the church door. He saw the old woman walk by and hand him something as she passed. He watched the rebel turn and go back into the church.

  He thought of his granddaughter and smiled.

  The overcast was breaking now, leaving a large but waning moon to illuminate the low clouds with white light. The streets were nearly empty, with only a few shadows moving here and there. A group of villagers stood around their fire.

  “I heard a load of turnips is coming up from Warsaw,” a young mother said. “I heard that from the council. They said it was for certain.”

  “I heard the Americans were dropping bags of grain from airplanes,” an old man offered in a mock-cheerful voice. “And the Germans are sending trainloads of oats and the Russians are sending in beef and fresh pork.”

  The young woman looked at him with hurt in her eyes. “It could happen,” she offered. “One day things are going to have to get better. It might be this week. After all, Christmas is only a few days away. What better time to get a miracle?” A few of them nodded now in optimistic agreement, but most of the others shook their heads.

  “Turkeys for Christmas!” the old man went on sarcastically. “Now, isn’t that going to be a thing!”

  She glared at him but didn’t answer. A few minutes later, she left the fire without a word.

  Zarek watched the villagers’ interaction from his post near the wall, where he had stood for hours now waiting for the rebel to leave the church. Time was passing in slow motion, worse because his feet were aching from the cold. He glanced at a few black figures moving up and down the street, then returned his gaze to the dark windows of the church.

  He was sure the rebel would come out any moment—but he didn’t. And that didn’t make any sense! Didn’t he know that he had to keep moving or he would be found? Did he realize that his own people would betray him? Was he really going to sleep in the church?

  Zarek was torn. He couldn’t make the same mistake that he had made before. He couldn’t go to Müller and lose the rebel while he was gone. He hesitated, fearful of making the wrong decision. He stared down the street behind him, then turned back to the church.

  More time passed, and Zarek finally made his decision. Foolish as it was, the rebel must intend to sleep in the church. Zarek had to let Müller know. It would take him twenty minutes to get out to the SS compound. Soldiers could be here within an hour.

  He turned from the church and started limping stiffly down the icy street.

  Lucas stood at the balcony window a final time, looking down on the square. It was getting late enough that he doubted the Germans would return. He moved down the stairs to the chapel, stood a moment in the darkness, then walked toward the altar. Sitting on the floor beside it, he ate one of the potatoes, then shoved the rest of the food into his pack.

  Standing, he walked to the front door, put his hand on the i
ron handle, and hesitated once again, standing motionless in the dark.

  Glancing toward the east windows, he watched a series of lightning flashes in the distance from the Russian artillery attacks on the last of the fleeing German forces. Even in the church he could hear the rolling thunder. Everything was dying. He felt alone and in despair. He was leaving his fatherland, the proud kingdom of the Poleshkva. He knew that once he started down this road, it would be impossible to come back. Once he was on the train, there would be no getting off.

  He thought a moment, then shrugged off his pack and walked back toward the altar. He pulled out his small pack of food, took out both onions and his last potato, and placed them on the altar as a final gift for the fellow countrymen he loved.

  Walking to the door, he slipped outside and started walking south along the main road.

  The moon was giving enough light through the scattered overcast that Lucas could see his way among the rubble. He headed west on Zervizk Street as he plotted the best route to Brzeg.

  He would stick to the back roads, then cut across the unnamed forests and hills that lay to the south. From there, he would cross the Oder River and approach Brzeg from the south. It would be slow travel, with snows in the rolling hills and too much open prairie to the west that would leave him exposed. The forest would be the hardest part. Deep snows. Steep hills. Dangers in the night. But if he could make it to the forest, it would give him cover, making it much safer than traveling on the road.

  But he would be walking through the middle of the chaos. There were a couple of million Russian and German soldiers all around him, the battle lines a jagged jigsaw, with Russians to the east and Germans to the west and south. He was a young man of military age in the middle of a war zone. None of them would let him pass.

  He summed up his chances. He could make it to Brzeg in three days, but just barely, and only if he didn’t run into trouble. Yet Melina’s words kept ringing in his ears: It is your only hope for freedom. So although it broke his heart to think of leaving, he knew he had no choice. He would catch the last train out of Poland so that he could live. He would take the last train out of Poland so that he could be free.

  Looking at the sky, he noted the moon was waning, but it was still a little more than half full. And the air was growing colder, which meant clear skies for the next couple of days.

  His eyes had adjusted, and his night vision was now acute. The moon and stars seemed much brighter, and he could see dim shadows across the winter ground. The buildings were becoming more spaced out as he moved toward the outskirts of the town. Knowing there would be guards on the main roads that led into the city, he moved down a side street. Here the damage to Gorndask was acute, for he was entering the industrial area. He could see the outline of an old factory to his right, its steel girders and metal roofing peeled back like a can made of tin. The buildings to his left were mostly brick and clapboard homes that had once served the administrators of the factory. He moved to that side of the street. The snow was deeper here, the cobblestone sidewalk icy. Ahead of him, he saw a bright fire burning outside a large, square brick building. A dozen men milled around it, working by its light. He noticed the pipes going into the building and the air vents on the top. A generator building, he thought. Yes, that was what it was. They were trying to get the electricity going. He nodded at them in admiration. They would keep fighting for heat and electricity right up until the time the Russians showed up to destroy it all again.

  At the end of the block was another church, this one much smaller and with a roof that was almost completely destroyed. He pushed the door back and saw half a dozen people huddled around a small fire in the corner, the smoke wafting up and out into the night through openings in the damaged roof. They were roasting a pair of rabbits over the fire, and they nodded to him as he entered but didn’t invite him to join them. He lifted his chin to acknowledge them, then made his way to the other side of the chapel and lay down on one of the pews. Settling in, he listened to their quiet voices as they talked among themselves. When their meager meal was complete, they started singing Christmas hymns.

  He pulled his collar around his chin and fell asleep.

  Cela glanced over her shoulder and looked at the village square. Quiet streets. A waning moon. Flashes in the distance lighting up the horizon like lightning in the thin clouds. Rumbles of artillery. Cold breath in front of their faces. Darkness all around.

  She took Aron’s hand and pulled him into the church, grateful for the warmer air inside the old rock chapel. He was silent, his little eyes scanning nervously around. Only a few of the candles in the window were still burning, leaving long shadows everywhere. To Cela’s relief, no one was inside the chapel. Having slept in the church many nights before, the children knew where to go. Cela pulled Aron to the bathroom, and they washed their hands and faces and took a long drink. Behind the bathroom was a small storage room with a low roof and a wooden floor that smelled of lemon oil. She took a candle and they slid inside, knowing it was the warmest place in the church.

  “Wait here,” Cela told Aron as she turned and slipped out of the room. She was only gone a moment before she came back. “Look at this!” she cried. She was holding a potato and two large onions in her hands. Aron’s eyes grew wide, and he jumped up and ran to her. They broke the potato in half and shared it, taking bites of onion in between.

  It took surprisingly little food to fill them. Cela hid the remainder inside a dirty sack and tied it protectively around her waist. They lay down together on a mattress of oily rags.

  “How much longer will we stay here?” Aron asked as he closed his eyes.

  Cela didn’t answer for a moment. “I don’t know, little brother,” she finally said.

  “I’m not little anymore.”

  “But you’re always my little brother.”

  “I’m not little!” Aron’s voice was defiant.

  Cela nodded. “Of course not. You’ll be a man soon.”

  “We can’t stay here forever,” Aron whispered. “We have to find our way back home.”

  She pulled him close and wrapped her arms around him. “Maybe this will be our home now,” she answered hopefully.

  His breathing was slowing down, and Cela felt his head grow heavy against her arm. “I hope not,” he said, his voice a whisper. “I hope…we find something…better…”

  He was asleep.

  Cela closed her eyes as well, exhaustion and hunger making her weak.

  In minutes, she was asleep.

  Cela woke suddenly, her eyes flying open at the sound of the wooden door creaking on its hinges. She lifted her head to see Melina slip into the room. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Melina!” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to tell you something.”

  “What is it, Melina?”

  Melina nodded at Aron. “Wake him up, Cela. We have to go right now.”

  That night, underneath the bombed-out ceiling of the small church, Lucas dreamt. But he didn’t dream in tumbled images and painful memories of strife and war. There were no flashes of ugliness or violence or dead strangers in his arms. The dream was soft but hazily real, filled with voices of people whom he loved but had not seen in many years.

  Snow fell in huge flakes that floated slowly through the air before melting on his eyebrows and the tip of his nose. It was cold, but he was warm inside a woolen jacket with a silk scarf around his neck. The city was bright with gas lanterns and electric lights in every window. He was surrounded by three-story brick and wooden buildings, and the wide streets were filled with red buses, occasional horses, and passing cars with open tops. The snow had gathered on the streets and the rooftops of the buildings, turning everything clean and white. A quartet of violinists were playing Christmas hymns on the corner, and children were throwing snowballs at each other across the street.

  He was in
a hurry. He didn’t want to be late. So he walked with a determined gait, his young legs taking long strides through the snow. He was breathing heavily, his breath blowing in white mist across his face as he hurried down the street. Past a bookshop. Past a small grocery with an open box of potatoes sitting underneath the portico that covered the front door. Past a large hotel, a thick Christmas tree with burning candles in the front window. Feeling a growing sense of urgency, he almost broke into a run. He stopped anxiously at the corner to let a carriage pass, glanced at the illuminated city clock on the corner, then ran across the street behind a Belvalette coupe. Reaching the other side, he slowed to catch his breath. His destination was just ahead.

  The man would be waiting for him inside.

  The small café was brightly lit. The wooden door was heavy, and a wave of warm, heavily scented air rushed out to meet him as he pushed it back. He shook the snowflakes off his shoulders and looked around. The man was sitting in the corner booth. Dressed in his formal military uniform, ribbons and badges and stars, he looked handsome but imposing. Lucas straightened his back, walked toward him, and slid into the booth. “Good evening, Lucas,” his father greeted.

  Lucas looked at him across the table. “Father,” he said as he stared into his father’s face. His beard was trim and tight, emphasizing the shape of his jaw, and his eyes were soft and brown. But his lips were pressed with worry.

  “You know I’m leaving in the morning,” his father said. It was a comment, not a question.

  “Sir.”

  “I don’t want to go—you know that, don’t you, Lucas?”