When the letter is complete, Caroline retrieves a slip of paper from her purse. ‘I asked at the embassy,’ she says, setting it between them and running her finger down a list of cities, ‘and it seems there are Red Crosses stationed everywhere. We should send your letter to several offices, just in case.’ Addy nods, scanning the fifteen cities Caroline has compiled, ranging from Marseille, London, and Geneva, to Tel Aviv and Delhi. She’s written an address next to each.
They talk quietly as Caroline carefully pens fifteen copies of Addy’s letter. When she’s finished, she gathers her stack of stationery and taps it gently on the table so the edges are neatly aligned, and then hands it to Addy.
‘Thank you,’ Addy says. ‘This is so very important for me,’ he adds, one hand over his heart, wishing he could better articulate how much her help means to him.
Caroline nods. ‘I know. It’s just awful, what’s going on over there. I hope you hear back. At least for the moment you’ll know you’ve done everything you can.’ Her expression is sincere, her words comforting. He’d met her only a few weeks ago, but Addy has learnt that there’s no guessing when it comes to knowing what Caroline is thinking. She simply says what she means to say, without embellishment. He finds the trait refreshing.
‘You have a heart from gold,’ Addy says, realising as the words leave him how cliched they sound, but he doesn’t care.
Caroline’s fingers are long, narrow at the tips. She waves them in front of her face, shakes her head. She’s not good, Addy’s also learnt, at receiving praise.
‘I bring to the post office tomorrow,’ he says.
‘You’ll let me know the moment you hear something?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Through the window, Addy looks east over Leme Rock and the deep blue of the Atlantic, toward Europe. ‘In time,’ he says, trying to sound hopeful, ‘in time I will find them.’
MAY 11, 1944: The fourth and final battle of Monte Cassino begins. As hoped, the Allies take German forces by complete surprise. As the French Expeditionary Corps destroys the southern hinge of German defences, the XIII Corps, a formation of the British Eighth Army, moves inland, capturing the town of Cassino and striking German forces in the Liri valley. The Poles, in their first attempt to capture the Cassino, are repelled; casualties approach 4,000 as two battalions are wiped out entirely. Under continued assaults, the monastery remains impregnable.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Genek
Monte Cassino, Italy ~ May 17, 1944
Mortar rockets overhead. Genek cups the back of his helmet with his hands, his body pressed up against the face of the mountain. He’s grown accustomed to the stabbing pain of his knees and elbows landing hard against the unforgiving rock, to the grit of dust between his teeth, to the constant clap and whir of artillery buzzing his ears at an exceedingly uncomfortable proximity. Four hundred metres above, what’s left of the enemy – a regiment of what is thought to be 800 German paratroopers – fires round after round of shells from the ruins of the monastery. Genek can’t help but wonder where all of their ammunition is coming from. Surely they’ll run out soon.
The Poles have succeeded in taking the Germans by surprise, but though they far outnumber the Nazis, Anders’s Army is still at a distinct disadvantage. The mountainside, after days of aerial bombardment, has been reduced to rubble, making the uphill climb extremely challenging. They can’t see the enemy, and therefore they must reach the top of the monastery before having a chance at a clean shot; in the meantime, without a safe place to take cover, they are, for the most part, helplessly exposed.
With his body still hugging the side of the mountain, Genek swears through his teeth. The army was supposed to be the safe choice. The way out of Siberia. The way to keep the family together. And it was, for a while. Now, he’s as safe as a bullseye in a shooting range, and his family is some 4,700 kilometres away in Palestine. Genek can’t help but think about how the Poles’ first attempt on Monte Cassino, five days earlier, like the three before it, had been a gut-wrenching failure. Met with mortar, small arms fire, and the devastating wrath of a 75mm panzer gun, Anders’s leading infantry divisions were all but wiped out after just a few hours of fighting. As quickly as the operation began, the Polish II Corps was forced to retreat, reporting casualties of nearly 4,000 men. Genek and Otto had said thanks for the fact that they’d been assigned to an infantry division at the rear – and cursed the fact that despite the losses the enemy, too, had suffered, the monastery still lay in German hands. Thus far the only uplifting piece of news they’ve received in the campaign has come from General Juin, leader of the French Expeditionary Corps, who reported that his men had taken Monte Maio and were now in a position to assist the British XIII Corps stationed in the Liri valley. It was still up to the Poles, however, to capture the monastery. They’d set forth on a second attempt that morning.
More mortar. The crack of artillery overhead. The snare-drum pop-pop-pop of flak meeting stone. Someone down the mountain screams. Genek stays low. He thinks of Herta, of Józef, contemplates finding a rock and hiding under it until the fighting stops. But then an image flashes through his mind – his family in the hands of the Nazis, forced into a death camp. His family, part of the purported millions lost. A lump rises in his throat and his cheeks grow hot. He can’t hide. He’s here. If this mission is successful, he’ll have helped to break the Germans, and to remind the world that Poland, though defeated in Europe, is still a power to be reckoned with. Swallowing the metallic tang of fear at the back of his tongue, he realises that, suicide mission or not, if there’s a chance that he can help put an end to this wretched war, he sure as hell isn’t giving up.
Genek waits for a lull in artillery fire and then scrambles a few metres up the mountain, keeping his body low and watching closely for mines and trip wires. In securing the stronghold, the Germans left a barrage of booby traps in their wake that had cost the lives of dozens of Genek’s comrades. He’s been trained to disable a mine, but he wonders if, under the circumstances, he’d have the wits about him to pull off the act should he stumble across an explosive in his path. Another thunderous boom, a monstrous explosion, somewhere to Genek’s right. His body meets the mountain, nearly knocking the wind out of him. What in fuck’s sake was that? His ears ring. There’s been much talk among Anders’s men about whether the enemy paratroopers in Cassino have access to the 28cm K5 railway gun employed at Anzio. The Germans call the gun the Leopold. The Allies refer to it as Anzio Annie. Her shells weigh a quarter of a ton, with a range of over 130 kilometres. There’s no way they could have gotten that thing up the mountain, Genek reasons, trying to catch his breath – if they had, he’s pretty certain he’d have been blown to bits by now. The air is alive again with submachine-gun fire. He lifts his chin, finds his breath, and scrambles another few metres up the mountain.
MAY 18, 1944: In their second attack on Monte Cassino, the Polish II Corps meets constant artillery and mortar fire from the strongly fortified German positions above. With little natural cover for protection, the fighting is fierce and at times hand-to-hand. Thanks to the successful advance of the French Expeditionary Corps in the Liri valley, however, German paratroopers withdraw from Cassino to a new defensive position on the Hitler Line, to the north. Early in the morning of May 18, the Poles take the monastery. They are so battered, only a few have the strength to climb the last hundred metres. When they do, a Polish flag is raised over the ruins, and an anthem, ‘The Red Poppies on Monte Cassino’, is sung to celebrate the Polish victory. The road to Rome is open.
JUNE 6, 1944 – D-DAY: Code-named Operation Overlord, the Battle of Normandy begins with a massive amphibious military assault as some 156,000 Allied troops, led by General Eisenhower, storm a heavily fortified fifty-mile stretch of the Normandy coast-line. Low tide, poor weather, and an Allied deception plan allow the Allies to catch the Nazis by surprise.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Jakob and Bella
Warsaw, Ger
man-Occupied Poland ~ August 1, 1944
At the sound of the first explosion, Bella’s blood whooshes from her head to her toes. Without thinking, she drops to all fours behind the checkout counter at the back of the dress shop. The detonation – close enough to rattle the coins in the cash register drawer – is followed by shouting, and the rapid burst of gunshots. Bella crawls to the corner of the counter, peeks around it toward the glass storefront. Outside, three uniformed men run by carrying Błyskawica submachine guns. Another bomb drops, and she covers her head instinctively with her hands. It’s happening. The Home Army uprising. She has to get out. Fast.
She crawls to the small room she’s rented at the back of the shop, thinking frantically of what to bring. Her purse, her hairbrush – no, not her brush, not important – her keys, although she wonders if the building will still be standing in a day. At the last second she lifts her mattress, retrieving two photographs – one of her parents, one of her and Anna as children – and slips them into the hem of her coat. She thinks about locking the shop’s front door, but when four more uniformed men sprint by, she decides against it. Hurrying to the rear of the store, she exits quietly through the back door.
Outside, the street is empty. She pauses to catch her breath. Jakob’s words ring in her ears. ‘My building has a secure basement,’ he’d told her a week ago, when the uprising seemed imminent. ‘If there is fighting, meet me there.’ She’ll need to cross the Vistula River to reach him.
Bella sets off at a jog, headed north-east toward the bridge off of Wójtowska Boulevard, ducking into an alleyway when she hears the drone of approaching Luftwaffe aircraft. Pressing her body to the brick, she cranes her neck and counts six planes. They fly low, like vultures. She wonders if she should wait it out, make a run for it once the skies have cleared, but decides she’d better not waste any time. She needs to be with Jakob. You’ve walked this route dozens of times, she reasons – it’ll be ten minutes on the road. Just get there.
Bella picks up her pace, trying her best to keep one eye on the sky as she runs, but the uneven cobblestones make it difficult. Twice, she catches herself a millisecond before twisting an ankle, and finally decides she’s safer watching her step and listening for planes, rather than stepping blindly, her chin cocked to the sky. She’s made it six blocks when the growl of a Stuka returns. She ducks into another alleyway, just as a shadow darts overhead. Please, God, no, she prays, squeezing her eyes shut, pressing up against the wall behind her, waiting. The growl fades. She opens her eyes and takes off again. Where is everyone? The streets are empty. They must be hiding.
The uprising is no surprise. Everyone in Warsaw had heard rumours of it happening, and everyone had a plan for when the day finally came, although no one knew exactly when it would. Bella and Jakob had been lucky to have Adam to rely on for updates through the Underground. ‘It could start any day,’ he said the weekend before. ‘The Home Army’s just waiting for the Red Army’s approach.’
Axis powers, as reported in the Biuletyn Informacyjny, were finally beginning to falter. Allied troops were breaking through Nazi defences in Normandy, and there was talk of a massive Allied campaign in Italy. The Polish Home Army, Adam explained, hoped that with the Red Army at their backs, they could force the Germans out of their country’s capital, and in turn, tip the scales toward an Allied victory in Europe.
It sounded noble. Jakob and Adam had talked about sneaking their way into the Home Army – they wanted desperately to help. Bella is grateful now that Halina had convinced them otherwise. She, too, wanted nothing more than a liberated Poland. But the Home Army, she reminded them, didn’t look favorably upon Jews, and not only that, the Poles were greatly outnumbered. Warsaw was still overrun with Germans. Look what happened, Halina prompted, after the ghetto uprising. And what if the Red Army doesn’t cooperate? The Home Army was counting on Stalin’s help, but he’d let them down before, Halina warned, begging Jakob and Adam to keep their wits about them. Please, she said, the Underground needs you. There is more than one way to stand up to the enemy.
Bella bears a hard right as she heads east on Wójtowska Boulevard, grateful to see river water ahead. As she nears, however, she slows. Where is the bridge? It’s – gone. Destroyed. A pile of sizzling iron and wide-open water in its place. Picking up her pace, she veers north, hugging the curve of the Vistula, praying now for a bridge that’s intact.
Ten blocks later, her lungs on fire and her blouse saturated with sweat, she is relieved to find the Toruński Bridge still standing. The sky, however, is now crawling with Junkers. Ignoring them, along with the searing pain in her chest, the burning in her quadriceps, the voice inside her screaming to find a ditch somewhere and take cover, she runs as hard as she can.
Halfway across the bridge, a dozen men appear. They rush toward her with frantic, loping strides. Bella’s legs go numb until she realises from their attire that they are Poles. Civilians. Several have rifles slung around their necks. Others carry pitchforks and shovels. A few grip butcher knives. They gallop in her direction, yelling, but Bella is too exhausted, her breath too loud to make out the words. It isn’t until their paths nearly intersect that she realises the men are yelling at her. ‘You’re running the wrong way!’ they roar, holding their weapons over their heads like warriors. ‘Come fight with us! For Poland and for victory!’ Bella shakes her head as she sprints by, watching the ground to keep her balance. She doesn’t look up until she reaches Jakob’s door.
It’s their eighth day in hiding; the bombing hasn’t stopped. Bella and Jakob agonise incessantly about whether the others – Halina, Adam, Mila, Franka and her family – have found a safe place to take cover, about what Warsaw will look like when the bombing finally lets up.
They share the basement with a couple who had arrived toting an eighteen-month-old child, a hay bale, and, to Jakob and Bella’s amazement, a dairy cow. It took some work, but they’d finally coaxed the recalcitrant animal down the stairs to the basement. The cow smells – there’s nothing to do but scoop her manure into a pile in the corner – but her udders are always full. Twice a day, fresh milk is carried in a bucket upstairs to boil over the stove, ‘so it’s suitable for the baby to drink,’ the mother of the toddler had said, although Bella was convinced that fresh cow’s milk wouldn’t harm the child. She’d thought of protesting – venturing upstairs was dangerous and downright foolish under the circumstances – but instead she held her tongue, not wanting to disturb the friendly dynamic of the group. Today it’s Bella’s turn to boil the milk.
She checks her watch. It’s been nearly thirty minutes since the last explosion. A lull. Jakob, standing with her at the foot of the stairs, nods.
‘Be safe,’ he says.
She returns the nod and makes her way up the staircase, bucket in hand, then hurries down the hallway to the kitchen. At the stove, she pours the milk into a saucepan, lights a match, and turns the black knob under the burner to ignite a flame. As the milk begins to simmer, she tiptoes to the window. Outside, the cityscape is surreal. One of every three buildings along Danusi Street is levelled. Others are still standing but missing their roofs, as if they’d been decapitated. She scans the sky and curses as a swarm of Luftwaffe planes buzzes into view. Dammit. The planes are small at first, but they inch closer, and as they do, they change course and disappear. Bella steps away from the window, wishing she could keep an eye on them. She listens intently, glaring at the milk, willing it to boil. After a moment, the drone of engines overhead grows louder. She can hear Jakob knocking the floor below with a broom handle, signalling for her to return to the basement. He must hear it, too. And then, somewhere not so far away, a bomb drops and the room shakes, jostling the porcelain dishes on the shelves. Jakob knocks again, harder this time. She can hear him calling for her through the floorboards.
‘Bella!’
‘Coming!’ she cries, cranking the stove’s knob to the off position. Another bomb. This one closer. On the same block, maybe. She should drop everything
and run, but first, she decides, wrapping a towel around her hand, she will retrieve the milk. As she reaches for the handle of the saucepan, her ear catches something new. It sounds like a cat at first, like a deep, feline whine. Forget the milk, she chides, dropping the dish towel as she turns. But she’s too late. She’s barely made it to the door when the window explodes. The kitchen goes black with soot and Bella can feel herself being thrown off her feet. Her arms stroke the air helplessly, moving in slow motion as if swimming under water, as if trying to escape a bad dream. Broken glass. Shrapnel. Dishes spill from shelves, shatter. Bella lands hard and lies motionless on her stomach, cradling the back of her head with her hands, trying to breathe, but the air is thick with smoke and it’s difficult. Another bomb falls and the floor thrums beneath her.
Jakob is yelling now, but his voice sounds muted, far away. With her eyes pinned shut, Bella gives her body a mental scan. She moves her fingers, her toes. Her extremities are there, and they seem to work. But she’s wet. Is she bleeding? She doesn’t feel any pain. What’s burning? Dazed, she pulls herself to a sit, coughing, and opens her eyes. The room is foggy; it’s like she’s looking at it through a pane of filthy glass. She blinks. As her world comes into focus she notices what appears to be a plume of grey snaking toward the ceiling from the back of the stove. Bella freezes – had she turned off the burner? She had, right? Yes, yes, it’s off. She glances at the debris scattered across the floor: the slivers of windowpane, broken dishes, splintered wood, a dozen large, mangled hunks of shrapnel. The saucepan lies on its side in a pool of milk amid the rubble. She looks down at her clothes – she is not bleeding; she is wet from the milk.
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