Last Stork Summer

by Surber, Mary Brigid

  Anna squeezed my hand with two quick movements then dropped it so we could put our arms obediently by our sides, like two small fish swimming with the current in a sea of chaos. It seemed that a sentry dog rescue was a great starting point to an enduring alliance. I took a deep breath, and I felt calm. I knew I could smell the earth waking from winter. I couldn’t believe I’d managed to escape a beating. Usually, if you stepped in to help another child, you would receive a beating as well.

  But a thought kept nagging me like a herding dog nipping an animal’s heels. I worried that after the soldiers thought about it for a while they would come back and unleash their anger on me.

  So far I’d managed to receive only one whipping; it was enough to keep me from ever purposely disobeying again. I asked a question…once. The guard, eyeing me with disgust and suspicion, took my inquiry as doubting his authority. He dragged me to the front of the work detail and beat me so badly that walking was difficult for days. My legs still bore the marks of his wrath.

  I was shocked that this time. Not only had I’d kept Anna from getting beaten, I hadn’t gotten one either. Even better though, I’d just gained a friend.

  Grace is characterized by giving freely with goodness and love. I’d shown grace today; to a small frightened child. I felt like a giant, and my heart was bursting with a happiness that it hadn’t known in a very long time.

  Now, only one thing could make this day even better…seeing a stork. My mind wandered again to thoughts about their migration. Where would they be in their long journey back to Poland? Just because Poland no longer existed to the Nazis, didn’t mean the storks recognized it as a different place. After all, they’d been coming here for hundreds of years. It was one part of our culture Hitler couldn’t destroy.

  Chapter 8

  Shaken

  The female stork usually lays three to five eggs, and both parents incubate the eggs for about one month. This group of eggs is referred to as a clutch.

  For two days I was assigned to perform factory work; which meant working inside all day long, head down, shoulders aching, squinting in poor light at some metal object that belonged to a piece of German war equipment. I fantasized about the part I was working on; breaking down at a crucial moment and disabling the Nazis’ plan for control and world domination.

  My job was to assemble a few of the pieces together by lightly tapping them with a small metal hammer. Grab two pieces, tap them together, grab another, tap it on, and throw them in another box for the next girl on the line to pick up and work on…over and over and over. I fought the boredom by humming quietly to myself. I was so sleepy; I feared I was fighting a losing battle.

  Briefly, I fell asleep, allowing the hammer to slip from my grasp and land on my foot. Toe throbbing, I quickly bent down, retrieved it and resumed assembling the metal discs. Humming wasn’t going to work for me today, I needed to move if I was going to stay awake. Feet planted slightly apart, I gently rocked from side to side.

  Now I could engage in my favorite pastime…daydreaming. Nothing about this setting sparked a memory for me. This job, with its senseless monotony of noise and repetition was not something I cared to focus on. Now, until the end of the day, could only be tolerated through the relief of memories. It would be nice to say that an endless supply of memories kept me from slipping into boredom and falling asleep on my feet again, but it didn’t. The boredom, followed by the falling asleep happened again; only the difference was, it was witnessed by a guard.

  I awoke, on my feet, to a big gray representative of the Nazi party. Though he was screaming at me, his German was barely audible, his words cushioned by the noise of the factory. He pelted me with threats and insults. By chance alone, it was a verbal assault, not one rained upon me by his hands or the butt of his rifle. I couldn’t afford to get in trouble now; who would look after Anna? I quickly looked down and picked up the pace of my hammering. I desperately needed to be working outside. I cringed at the realization that I’d come very close to losing my life. In the late afternoon, the spring light filtered through the high windows on the factory walls, as dust filled sun rays beamed down, and I thanked God I’d been afforded a second chance.

  Another young girl, two places from where I stood on the assembly line, hadn’t been as fortunate as I. Amidst screamed promises of never falling asleep again, and cries of “I’m sorry,” the child was dragged kicking and screaming to a transport truck and tossed in just as it was pulling out of camp. The gate sentries laughed at the monstrous act of the incensed guard. I could feel the panic rising in my chest; terror was paying me a visit today, but it was a visitor I didn’t welcome. My fingers worked faster despite blurring tears pooling in my eyes.

  Dear God, look after that child.

  I hoped Anna was staying awake at whatever mindless task the Nazis had her doing today.

  I thought about the young girl who’d been thrown out of the factory. How many times had she apologized on her way to transport? How many times had I apologized for real or imagined infractions against the Nazi regime?

  “I’m sorry I took that breath of air.”

  “I’m sorry I fell asleep from exhaustion and starvation.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t work harder and faster with less food and energy.”

  “I’m sorry I’m shivering from the cold.”

  There was a constant unspoken demand to apologize to our jailors. If we weren’t sorry for staying alive the soldiers would remind us to be. I returned from the factory that day shaken but grateful.

  The camp beautification program was in full swing now. Every day spent working outside the camp brought startling surprises upon our return. The dirt around the barracks had been raked into an orderly lined pattern. Not one weed could be spotted anywhere near the barracks. Doors were being painted different shades of dark colors. Potted flowering plants were even showing up on the edges of the barracks that rimmed the yard where we spent so much time standing at attention, receiving lectures and work orders.

  During the last assembly, we’d been told that we needed to learn some songs, so we could entertain the visiting dignitaries. The commander informed us that we would start our music lessons soon. I couldn’t imagine what songs they would be teaching us, and which, if any of the guards, had singing voices good enough to teach music to children. I never thought of the guards as people who might enjoy singing. I only heard them yell. The hollering started in the morning, continued throughout the day, and ended at night when we were in bed. I often wondered if that was the only way they communicated…by yelling. In my imagination I saw a small town in Germany where all the inhabitants yelled. They hollered their greetings, they screamed their goodbyes, but no one knew what anyone was saying because there was so much noise they couldn’t hear! I smiled at the picture playing in my head. I suppose if you could holler, you could also sing.

  The last time I sang in a choir was so long ago. The memory of it planted another smile on my face. Several Christmases back, I sang in the children’s choir at church. I could carry a tune, but was genuinely shy when it came time to sing in front of anyone. On the day of the performance, instead of a small church with family and friends, the building suddenly took on gigantic proportions. The people-filled pews stretched as far as I could see. I didn’t recognize anyone I knew in the rows and rows of faces staring at me. The room began to grow warm. Nervously, I took my place for the presentation, but didn’t get the chance to perform. I stepped forward to sing my part; but something was wrong with my eyes. The words and notes swam around the page; the music didn’t sound right, either. No singing was coming out of my mouth. My mouth was open, but my throat was dry. Sweat was rolling down my face and I had to keep wiping it away so I could read the music. Sensing my anxiety, the teacher had another child step in to sing my part. I stood there looking at my feet, afraid to move and draw any more attention to myself.

  Wearing my disappointment like an old hat pulled low on my face, I stood while mama hugged me and t
old a story about the time she’d done the same thing as a child. My jaw ached from holding back the tears. Mama’s hug took away the defeat and replaced it with empathy. Everything was good now, because her hug repaired the distress.

  The beautification program was completing the many objectives in their plan. There were rumors of classrooms being constructed with actual desks, books, paper, and pencils. After dark, the barracks were buzzing with whispers about the changes coming our way. Excitement spilled over in the boys’ barracks, causing a ruckus now and then, usually ending in some form of public humiliation. Too bad the Red Cross couldn’t witness that.

  Before the war, I wasn’t very fond of school, but now it seemed like a good idea to sit in a desk, and listen to a teacher talk about science or geography or any subject for that matter. School was easy compared to twelve hours of work in a factory. It wasn’t a real school, but in this setting, during this time, you took what you could get. Even attending for a few weeks would be a welcome diversion from the repetition of factory work. More than likely, the school in our town was still open. However, not many of my old school friends, if any, were still living in Kostrzyn.

  Plenty of funny stories from my school days waited to be plucked and dwelled upon. The exciting thing was until now, I hadn’t really thought about them. I realized I had a whole new chapter from my past to entertain and sustain me.

  After our country was attacked, families tried many different tactics to survive the war. Some left the country, some hid out in the woods, others stayed in their homes with the hope that they’d survive the onslaught. I could only envision the schools staying open to educate German children. In fact, according to Heinrich Himmler, a senior Nazi official, Polish children should be able to sign their own name, be obedient to the Germans and count to five-hundred, unless they passed Germanization tests. This designation meant education in the German language and subjects. Certainly no Polish teachers could remain; it was against Hitler’s ideals.

  Appearances were changing quickly in the camp. Berta told me that she saw huge loads of straw being dropped off at the rear of the camp. Maybe we were getting new mattresses! Our old, lice-infested straw mattresses would never pass an inspection by the Red Cross, and neither would our lice-infested bodies. They had to replace the mattresses and blankets if our bodies were going to look healthy. I wondered if the Red Cross could really be so easily fooled. I would soon realize how determined the Germans were to keep their secret hidden from the rest of the world.

  One night during the frenzied whispering, someone mentioned that we would be having a stork festival like we used to have every year before the war. It was then I realized how resolved the Nazis were to hide their crimes and make the world see something completely opposite our everyday reality. We were hardly allowed to speak to one another during a regular work day, let alone sing, dance, put on a play and enjoy eating festive foods. Pickles, pirogues, honey cakes; all part of the holiday foods that were going to be served. My mouth watered at the thought of tasting those pleasurable dishes again. Could all these stories be true? Why would Germany put on a stork festival when Poland no longer existed in Hitler’s Aryan nation? Storks were part of Poland’s culture. I couldn’t envision a festival celebrating one without honoring the other.

  Anna had only been here for a few days, and I could already see her retreating further and further into herself. I felt so protective of her, I was afraid she was giving up. I needed and wanted to look after her, help her survive. She touched a place in my heart that made me feel like we were connected somehow, like she was the younger sister I’d longed for, who needed my strength and protection. The idea of a stork festival gave me something to discuss with her.

  “Anna, did you and your family go to the stork festival in your town?”

  “Yes, a few times.”

  “What was your favorite thing to do there?”

  She didn’t answer. She shrugged.

  “I liked looking at all the crafts,” I offered.

  She looked down at the gray, lifeless dirt; her demeanor mirrored what her eyes were staring at. I’d have to keep trying. I knew the end of the war couldn’t be too far off. The signs were everywhere and there were so many things I wanted to tell her. Things that could help her remember who she was, and that all of this craziness couldn’t last forever. I reminded myself to go slow and not overwhelm her. Searching my brain for a way to connect with her, I wondered if she had a pet, or played a musical instrument. Maybe she was really good at schoolwork…there had to be something she would talk about.

  “Time to leave with the work crew.” Placing my hands on her head, I said, “Take care of yourself today, Anna, I’ll see you tonight.”

  She slowly shook her head up and down. I quickly squeezed her hand goodbye. She was a girl, far from home, enslaved in a labor camp. It was easy to see the devastation she felt. Her fear of dogs may have been a blessing in disguise. That’s what brought us together, forging a bond of protection and friendship. She needed me, but what she didn’t understand was that I needed her, as well. I couldn’t help notice the similarities. We’d both been rejected for Germanization. We were children, arriving here without siblings or someone to shield us from the brutality of this place. She was the younger sister I’d longed for my entire life. There was an acceptance and understanding between us. Words didn’t need to be spoken because there were no cracks that needed to be filled with sound. Sometimes just being near someone is enough.

  * * *

  I was assigned to the factory again. Still, I had to acknowledge, while not as satisfying as farm work, at least it was better than stitching clothes or straightening needles. Sewing had never been something I enjoyed. Sewing came so easy to mama. She would make the most beautiful dresses and shirts. I watched with amazement as she stitched quickly and perfectly. She would patiently show me how to stitch seams by hand, but she knew I’d rather be outside running along the forest paths with Basil, or helping papa with chores.

  Factory work also meant that I wouldn’t get the opportunity to see the storks because I was inside all day. The sound of the factory was so deafening and tiring to hear for hours on end. The banging and clanging of metal along with the constant hum of machinery kept away all hope of hearing nature.

  I longed for the sounds and sights of nature: wind blowing through trees, pigeons and cuckoos talking, pinecones tumbling through branches and hitting the ground with a muffled, forestfloor thud. The thrill of seeing birds play on the wind, gliding and diving, then coming back up to float in place for the slightest of seconds. I would wonder what it must be like to fly so freely. Sometimes if it was quiet enough at night I could even hear the ice, cracking apart on the pond near our camp, just like I used to hear it at home. From time to time during winter, I’d even hear an ice-covered branch crack and break free from the trunk, giving the tree a whole new shape and silhouette once its leaves returned. Unlike factory work, nature was never dull or boring. I would often lose all sense of time while walking through the trees near my home. Each season uncovered discoveries that thrilled me.

  The forest and fields were beautiful in the spring. Red poppies and blue bachelor buttons would grow wild and sometimes you could find meadows filled with them. Lily of the valley grew at the edge of the forest. Little yellow buttercup plants called globeflowers grew along the streams and in the shady places of the woodland. The different kinds of trees wore a different jacket for each season, leaves and bark changing with the weather. Our woodlands were filled with oak, sycamore, and poplar interspersed with fir and pine. These different species afforded variety, and supported many kinds of wildlife. Beavers, deer and wolves were some of the animals inhabiting Poland’s wetlands and thickets.

  I loved picking wildflowers and pressing them. Grandmother taught me how to place them on the sheets of paper so they would dry in an attractive shape. My grandfather made me a flower press out of some thin, wood boards and a leather strap. I used layers of paper between the
boards to soak up any moisture. After the flowers were pressed and dry, I glued them carefully in a book that had paper pages separated by wax sheets. I could spend hours looking for flowers to press; I rarely tired of it. Grandma would help identify them and tell me how they could be used.

  Basil would keep himself busy by chasing small rodents while I picked flowers. Squirrels chattered at him as he ran from tree to tree. It almost sounded as if they were laughing at him. The memory of Basil chasing a squirrel from one tree to another brought a smile to my face because I knew he wouldn’t know what to do with one if he did catch it. He was so gentle; even to the point of entering the chicken coop with me to sit calmly and watch as I collected eggs, he never upset the hens.

  In some measure, with farm work I had the chance to be outside, to breathe fresh, clear air; it wasn’t as free as wandering through the forest back home, but at least I was outside. The hardest part about being here, aside from missing my family and home so desperately, was being close to the trees and yet so forbidden to walk through them, touching, smelling, and looking at the abundance of life. I longed to see the woodpeckers, bitterns and warblers, as well as the squirrels and other small animals who made the forest their home. Looking out at the marsh I would see the older storks standing and preening the heads of the younger birds. Those days with Basil by my side, watching the storks and walking on our land, returned to me regularly in my dreams at night. Those dreams gave me strength. They reminded me that the Germans could take everything away, except the most important thing – my thoughts and dreams; I would go to my grave before letting them take those from me.

  Chapter 9