We Were the Lucky Ones

by Georgia Hunter

  Selim nods. ‘It’s worth a try,’ he offers.

  They make a plan to meet in a few days at the Red Cross office in Tel Aviv. Selim tucks his clipboard under his arm and turns once again to go.

  ‘Selim,’ Genek says, allowing a smile to stretch across his cheeks. ‘It’s really great to see you.’

  Selim returns the smile. ‘You, too, Genek. I’ll see you on Sunday. I’m looking forward to meeting your son.’

  Genek shakes his head as he makes his way back to his cot. Selim – in Palestine of all places. It’s a good sign, it has to be. He won’t limit his Red Cross search to Poland, Genek decides. He’ll send telegrams to Red Cross offices all over Europe, to the Middle East, and to the Americas. Surely, if the others are alive, they’ll have been in touch with the location services as well.

  He climbs back onto his cot and lies down, resting one hand on his heart, the other on his stomach, where, for the moment, the pain has subsided.

  APRIL 19-MAY 16, 1943 – WARSAW GHETTO UPRISING: In liquidating the Warsaw ghetto, Hitler deports and exterminates some 300,000 Jews. The 50,000 who remain secretly plan an armed retaliation. The uprising begins on the eve of Passover at the outset of a final liquidation operation; ghetto residents refuse to be taken and fight off the Germans for nearly a month until defeated by the Nazis systematic destruction and burning of the ghetto. Thousands of Jews die in combat and are burnt alive or suffocated; those who survive the uprising are sent to Treblinka and other extermination camps.

  SEPTEMBER 1943: Anders’s men stationed in Tel Aviv are mobilised and sent to Europe to fight on the Italian front; wives and children stay behind in Tel Aviv.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Halina

  Warsaw, German-Occupied Poland ~ October 1943

  ‘Sit,’ the officer hisses, pointing to a metal chair opposite his desk in the small railway police office.

  Halina presses her lips together into an angry line. She’s more confident when she stands.

  ‘I said, sit.’

  Halina obeys. Seated, she’s eye-to-barrel with the pistol holstered to the German’s belt.

  It’s only a matter of time, she realises, before her luck runs out.

  Leaving her apartment in Warsaw’s centre that morning, she’d kissed Adam goodbye and reminded him she wouldn’t be returning until late. Her plan was to make her way to the train station after work, ride to Wilanów, then walk the four kilometres from the station to the Górskis’ home in the country, where she would see her parents and deliver the Górskis their payment for the month of October. She’d stay for an hour and then return to Warsaw. She’s made the trip to Wilanów three times already, and until now, her false papers, required to purchase tickets and to board and disembark the train, have worked flawlessly.

  Today, though, she’d barely made it through ticketing at the Warsaw station. She was waiting by the tracks when a member of the Gestapo, Hitler’s secret police, approached her, demanding her papers. ‘Why do you need to see them?’ she asked in Polish (she’s fluent now in German, but the Gestapo, she’s learnt, are suspicious of German-speaking Poles).

  ‘Routine check,’ he’d replied. He studied her ID and quizzed her on her name and birth date.

  ‘Brzoza,’ Halina had recited with conviction. ‘April 17, 1917.’ But the officer shook his head as the train approached. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he said, leading Halina by the arm through the station.

  ‘Who do you work for?’ the officer wants to know. He remains standing.

  Halina met her new employer, Herr Den, only two weeks earlier. He’d attended a dinner party at the home of her previous boss, where she worked as a maid and kitchen helper. Den is Austrian – a successful banker, in his sixties. Halina recalls the night she first served him dinner, how he’d watched her closely as she worked. Apparently he was impressed, which was no surprise – Halina had grown up in a home with a cook and a maid; she had an appreciation for good service. Later that same night, Den had surprised her. She was at the kitchen sink when he approached; she didn’t realise he was even in the room until he was beside her.

  ‘Chopin?’ he’d asked, catching her off guard.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she’d said.

  ‘The melody you were just humming, was it Chopin?’ Halina hadn’t even realised she was humming. ‘Yes,’ she’d nodded. ‘I suppose it was.’

  Den had smiled. ‘You have lovely taste in music,’ he said, before turning to go. The next day, she received notice from her placement agency that she would begin working for Den the following week. Whether or not he suspects she is Jewish, Halina has no idea. So far, he seems to like her.

  ‘I work for Herr Gerard Den,’ Halina says, sighing as if put off by the question.

  ‘What is his occupation?’

  ‘Head of the Austrian Bank in Warsaw.’

  ‘What sort of work do you do?’

  ‘I am his housemaid.’

  ‘What is his telephone?’

  Halina recites the bank’s phone number from memory and waits as the officer dials. Damn these routine checks. Damn the Gestapo. Damn the Poles, who are constantly taking it upon themselves to tip off the Germans, rat out the Jews. For what? A kilo of sugar? Friendship means nothing any more. She knew it in Radom, the day her school friend Sylvia refused to acknowledge her when she passed by on her way to the beetfarm – and she was reminded of it often here in Warsaw, where she’s been accused on several occasions of being Jewish.

  It wasn’t just the suspicious landlady. There was the friend of her old boss, a German woman who followed her down the street one day and whispered a spiteful ‘I know your secret!’ as she came shoulder to shoulder with Halina on the sidewalk. Without thinking Halina had pulled her into an alleyway, stuffed a week’s worth of pay into her palm, and told her through clenched teeth to keep her mouth shut – this before she realised it was safer never to confess to anyone. Shortly after, worried that if she didn’t keep bribing her, the woman might reveal her identity to her boss, she found a new job.

  There was also the Wehrmacht soldier who recognised Halina from Lvov, from before she’d taken on her new name. She’d opted for a softer approach to feeling him out, and invited him for an espresso at a Nazi-run cafe on Piękna Street. She’d turned up the charm as she chatted for a full hour, at the end of which the soldier seemed more smitten than curious about her previous life; she left him with a kiss on a cheek and an intuitive feeling that even if he did remember her true identity, he’d keep it under wraps.

  Of course, there was nothing she could do about the Poles she overheard on Chłodna Street the day in May when the SS finally razed the city ghetto and liquidated the last of its inhabitants in a last-ditch effort to quell an uprising. ‘Hey look, the Jews are burning,’ one of the Poles had said when Halina passed. ‘They had it coming,’ another professed. It was all Halina could do not to seize the men by the lapels and shake them. She’d nearly forfeited her Aryan identity that day, to fight alongside the Jews in the uprising. To play a part, no matter how doomed the effort was, in standing up to the Germans. She’d reminded herself at the time that she had her parents to think of. Her sister. She had to keep herself safe in order to keep her family safe. And so she’d watched from afar as the ghetto burnt, her heart filled with sorrow and hatred but also with pride – never before had she witnessed such a valiant act of self-defence.

  The officer holds the receiver to his ear and glares at her. She returns the glare, defiant, outraged. After a minute, someone at the other end answers.

  ‘I wish to speak with a Herr Den, please,’ the officer says. There is a long pause, then another voice at the other end of the line. ‘Herr Den. I apologise for bothering you. I have someone here at the station who claims to work for you – and I have reason to believe she is not who she says she is.’ Silence. Halina holds her breath. She focuses on her posture: shoulders down, back straight, knees and feet pressed tightly together. ‘She claims her name is Brzoza – B-R-Z-O-Z
-A.’ The line is quiet. Has Den hung up? What’s her backup plan? She hears a murmur, her boss’s voice, but she can’t make out the words. Whatever he’s saying, his tone is angry.

  The reception must be poor because the officer slows his speech to enunciate every word. ‘Her-papers-state-she-is-a- Christian.’ Den is talking again. Louder now. The officer holds the phone a fist-width from his ear, scowling, until the barking ceases. Halina catches a few words: ‘Ashamed … certain … myself.’

  ‘You are sure. All right, all right, no, don’t come in. That won’t be necessary. I – yes, I understand, we will, sir, right away. I apologise again for bothering you.’ The officer slams the phone into its base.

  Halina exhales. Standing, she thrusts a palm over the desk. ‘My papers,’ she says with disgust. The officer frowns as he slides her ID across the table. Halina snatches it up. ‘Outrageous,’ she spits softly, just loud enough for the officer to hear, before turning to leave.

  JANUARY–MARCH 1944: The Allies, in an effort to secure a route to Rome, begin a series of unsuccessful attacks on the German stronghold of Monte Cassino, located in the Lazio region of central Italy.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Genek

  River Sangro, Central Italy ~ April 1944

  ‘This’d better be good,’ Otto says, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Genek nods, suppressing the urge to yawn. Between the persistent lull of rain and the pea grochówka filling his stomach – this particular batch was so heavy his spoon had stuck straight up in the bowl, like a flagpole – he’s nearing a comatose state. At the front of the mess tent, their commanding officer, Pawlak, climbs onto a metre-high wooden platform, a podium of sorts, from which he delivers his speeches. His expression is serious.

  ‘Looks like he means business tonight,’ Genek remarks as conversation beneath the tent fades and eyes turn toward the square-shouldered captain standing before them.

  ‘You said that last time. And the time before that,’ Otto huffs, shaking his head.

  Genek and Otto, along with the rest of Anders’s 40,000-odd recruits, have been holed up for the month of April on the banks of Italy’s River Sangro. Their position, as Pawlak showed them on the map when they arrived, is strategic – a two-day trek from Monte Cassino, a German stronghold 120 kilometres south-east of Rome. The Cassino is a 1,400-year-old rock-walled monastery towering 520 metres above sea level – but more important, it’s the hub of the Nazis’ line of defence. The Germans occupying it are using it as a vantage point to spot and shoot down anyone who approaches. Allied forces have made three separate attempts on it – so far, it’s proved impregnable.

  ‘Maybe tonight’s news will be different,’ Genek offers. Otto rolls his eyes.

  Despite Otto’s complaining, Genek is grateful to have his friend by his side. He’s been the one constant since they left Herta, Józef, and Otto’s wife, Julia, behind in Tel Aviv to travel with the army through Egypt and across the Mediterranean by British ship to Italy. They’d only ever fired practice shots from their tommy guns, of course, but the men understood without actually verbalising it that when the orders finally came and they found themselves aiming at real targets, they’d look out for each other, and for one another’s families, should anything happen to either of them in the field.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ Pawlak calls. The men of the Polish Army’s First Survey Brigade sit at attention. ‘Listen up! I have news. Orders. Finally, what we’ve all been waiting for.’

  Otto’s eyebrows jump. He glances at Genek. You were right, he mouths, and smiles. Genek uncrosses his legs, leans forward in his chair, his senses suddenly heightened.

  Pawlak clears his throat. ‘Allied forces and President Roosevelt have met to discuss a fourth massive offensive on Monte Cassino,’ he begins. ‘The first phase of the plan – code name Operation DIADEM – calls for large-scale deception, targeted at Field Marshal Kesselring. The goal: to convince Kesselring that the Allies have abandoned further attacks on Monastery Hill, and that our mission is now to land at Civitavecchia.’

  Genek and Otto have been briefed in detail about the three previous attacks on Monte Cassino, each a bitter, bloody failure. The first came in January, when the British and the French attempted to flank the monastery from the west and the east, respectively, while the French Expeditionary Corps fought in ice and snow against the Germans of the Fifth Mountain Division in the north. But the Brits and the French met heavy mortar fire, and the frostbitten fighters in the Expeditionary Corps, though close to victory, were finally outnumbered. A second attempt came in February, when hundreds of Allied fighter planes dropped round after round of 450-kilo bombs on Cassino, reducing the monastery to rubble. The New Zealand Corps was set to occupy the ruins, but the steep terrain leading up to it was impossible to manoeuvre, and German parachuters reached the now-roofless monument first. A month later, in a third Allied attempt on Monte Cassino, the New Zealand Corps dropped 1,250 tons of explosives over Cassino, flattening the town and stretching the German defence to a breaking point. A division of Indian troops came close to securing the monastery, but after nine days of being pummelled by mortar bombs, Nebelwerfer rockets, and smoke shells, the Allies were once again forced to retreat.

  Genek runs the numbers in his mind. Three failed attempts. Thousands of casualties. What makes their commanding officer believe that a fourth attempt will be successful?

  ‘Diversionary tactics,’ Pawlak shouts, ‘include code messages meant to be intercepted by German intelligence, and Allied troops dispatched to Salerno and Naples to be seen “practising”’ – he rabbit-ears his fingers around the word – ‘amphibious landings. They also include Allied air forces making conspicuous reconnaissance flights over the beaches at Civitavecchia and false information fed to German spies. These tactics are key to the success of the mission.’

  Pawlak’s men nod, collectively holding their breath as they await the news that matters most: their orders. Pawlak clears his throat. Rain patters on the waxed canvas overhead.

  ‘In this fourth attempt on Monte Cassino,’ Pawlak says, his voice lower than before, ‘thirteen divisions have been assigned orders, with the goal of securing Cassino’s perimeter. The US II Corps will attack from the west up the coast along the line of Route 7 toward Rome; the French Expeditionary Corps will attempt to scale the Aurunci Mountains to the east; in between, the British XIII Corps will attack along the Liri valley. Anders’s Army, however, has been assigned what I believe to be the most critical task of the mission.’ He pauses, looks around at his men. They are silent, listening intently, their spines rifle-barrel straight, jaws locked. Pawlak enunciates each of his words carefully. ‘Gentlemen, we – the men of the Polish II Corps – have been charged with the task of capturing Monastery Hill.’

  The words hit Genek like a punch to the oesophagus, leaving him breathless.

  ‘We will attempt what the Fourth Indian Division in February failed to do: to isolate the monastery and push around behind it into the Liri valley. There we will link with XIII Corps. Canadian I Corps will be held in reserve to exploit the breakthrough. If we are successful,’ Pawlak adds, ‘we will penetrate the Gustav line and pinch out the position of the German Tenth Army. We’ll open up the road to Rome.’

  A murmur fills the tent as the recruits process the momentousness of their mission. Genek and Otto look at one another.

  ‘I have complete faith in this army,’ Pawlak continues, nodding. ‘This is Anders’s moment in history. This is Poland’s moment to shine. Together, we will make our country proud!’ He raises his first two fingers to his cap and the tent erupts as men leap from their chairs, cheering, pumping their fists, saluting, yelling. ‘This is our time! Our moment to shine! God save Poland!’ they shout. Genek follows suit and stands, although he can’t bring himself to partake in the revelry. His knees are soft and his stomach churns, threatening to disgorge his dinner.

  As the men settle back into their seats, Pawlak explains that the French
Expeditionary Corps has already begun secretly constructing camouflaged bridges over the River Rapido, which Anders’s Army will need to cross in order to reach the monastery. ‘So far, the bridges have gone unnoticed,’ he explains. ‘As soon as the last is complete, we’ll leave our position here and move east to a location along the Rapido. To maintain secrecy, we’ll travel in small units by night, under strict radio silence. Pack your things, gentlemen, and prepare yourselves for battle. Our orders to move will come at any moment.’

  Sitting cross-legged in his pup tent, Genek rolls his spare socks and undershirt into tight, damp bundles and stuffs them into the bottom of his pack. He adjusts his headlamp, Pawlak’s words clattering about in his mind. It’s happening – he’s going to battle. How will the mission unfold? There’s no telling, of course – and it’s the unknown that scares him the most – even more so than the thought of climbing up a 520-metre hill toward an army of Germans with weapons trained at him from behind a fortress of stone.

  What Genek does know is that the Poles are one of some twenty Allied divisions, among them American, Canadian, French, British, New Zealander, South African, Moroccan, Indian, and Algerian, positioned along the thirty-kilometre stretch from Cassino to the Gulf of Gaeta. Why would the Allies assign the Poles, of all armies, what one might call the most daunting task of all? Why choose the men who have come not from elite training camps but from labour camps – men who required nearly a year of rest and recuperation in the Middle East before their leader deemed them fit enough to fight? It doesn’t make any sense. For the world to have that much faith in Anders’s Army is an aberration as much as it is an honour. And then of course there is the notion Genek refuses to believe – that the ragtag group of Poles is so devoid of value, they’re best put to use as cannon fodder on what is surely a suicide mission. No, Genek reminds himself, they have been chosen for a reason; they are Poles and what they lack in preparedness they will make up for in fervour.