When the first panzer unit reached the middle of the bridge, Jan gave the order to commence firing, and the two lead tanks erupted in flames. Their hatches flew open and frantic German crewmen scrambled to escape the fiery deathtraps, but a second line of tanks lumbered up from behind, shoving the burning wrecks over the side of the bridge.
The next hour was chaos.
The German tanks that managed to cross the bridge bulldozed through the ranks of Polish troopers, turrets swiveling, machine guns rattling, crushing the Uhlans and their anti-tank guns. German infantry units followed the tanks over the bridge, and the battle quickly degenerated into a hand-to-hand bloodbath.
Shouting over the clamor, his eyes watering from the smoke, his head pounding from the deafening noise, Jan desperately tried to bring some order to the regiment’s battle lines, but it was hopeless. The only thing possible was to pick out a target and kill it before it killed you.
The tide of battle turned steadily against the Uhlans as a continuing stream of German tanks, armored cars and infantry units rumbled across the bridge. A bugle sounded the inevitable retreat and Jan, aching with fatigue, hobbled along the riverbank searching for his squadron commanders. He found Peracki, then Stefan. “Where’s Bartkowicz?” Jan shouted.
Stefan looked around and shouted back. “I don’t know. I think they went in closer to the bridge.”
“Get your men out of here. I’ll be right behind you.” Jan jogged toward the bridge then stopped when he realized Stefan was right behind him. “I told you to get your men out of here.”
“Brody has them, they’re heading out. Let’s go.”
Running toward the bridge, they stopped dead in their tracks at the top of a rise. Fifty meters ahead, in the middle of a flat open area, dozens of bodies lay scattered among gaping craters and piles of smoking rubble. The silhouettes of three tanks moved off in the opposite direction. A group of Polish troopers stumbling up the slope emerged through the smoke. “Where’s Kapitan Bartkowicz?” Jan yelled as the first trooper made it to the top of the rise.
The dazed boy looked at him with a blank expression and shook his head.
“Goddamn it, where’s Bartkowicz?”
A second trooper pointed to the bodies in the open field. “He’s dead, sir. Over there, the tanks…Oh, shit he’s…they’re all…” The exhausted trooper fell to his knees.
Stefan grabbed the boy under the arms, helped him up and shouted at Jan, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Jan stood motionless, staring into the open field at the smoking debris and dead bodies.
Stefan gripped his shoulder. “Jan, they’re gone, let’s go.”
Jan turned and looked at Stefan. His friend had lost his helmet. His black curly hair was matted with sweat and his face streaked with dirt and blood. Jan wondered if he was hurt. Then he blinked and shook his head. “Yeah, let’s go.”
Chapter 12
ANNA DROPPED THE GARDEN RAKE and held her hand over her eyes, squinting at the massive bomber formation flying overhead. A few moments earlier she had been perspiring in the heat of the sun, but now she was cold. The rivulets of warm, soothing sweat running down her back turned to icy fingers of fear. She wrapped her arms around her chest and watched the droning airplanes disappear over the northern horizon. It was the sound, the thumping vibration, that brought back the memory of that horrific early morning in Warsaw.
In the peace of the Berkowicz farm it had almost been possible to believe the war wasn’t happening. She was regaining her strength, the headaches had all but disappeared and the work in the gardens had lifted her spirits. But the bombers brought it all back. The thundering formations, heading north in the morning and south in the afternoon, brought with them the memories of death and destruction.
As she reached down to pick up the rake she heard someone shout, “Anna!” and looked up to see Leizer on a horse-drawn wagon entering the farmyard. The elderly farmer called out again and waved her over as he climbed off the wooden seat. She waved back and stepped carefully through the garden to the stable.
“I have some news,” Leizer said as he unhitched the mellow, dappled gray gelding. “I heard a report on the radio at the post office. A counterattack is underway.”
“A counterattack? Where?” Anna asked, following the old man as he led the horse to the stable.
“North of here, along the Bzura River, near Kutno and Brochow.” He opened the door to the stall and gave the horse a pat on his massive hindquarter. The animal trudged into the stall, and Leizer turned to Anna, looking her in the eye. “The report said the Poznan Army and the Wielkopolska Cavalry Brigade are involved.”
Anna stared at him. The icy fingers returned.
“They’re brave lads,” he said, “heroes. Don’t you worry.”
Anna heard a shuffling behind her and turned to see Irene and Justyn. “You heard?” Anna asked.
Irene nodded. She put her arm around Justyn and they walked away.
The next day Anna rode into town with Leizer. Sitting on a bench at the post office, gripping the arm with white knuckles, she listened to the announcer read a disjointed flurry of reports from the battlefield. “…Wielkopolska Brigade…battling the Fourth Panzer Division…Brochow…” Her stomach heaved.
She stood up and started for the door just as a man in the corner of the room muttered, “Poor bastards. Guys on horses aren’t going to have much of a chance against those tanks.”
Anna whirled around and glared at the man, who was standing with two companions near the spittoon. “One of those ‘poor bastards’ is my husband,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare say they don’t have a chance! Don’t you dare lose hope! Don’t ever…” Tears streamed down her face as she turned away from the startled man and ran to the door.
She stopped outside the post office, bending over and taking deep breaths, praying she wouldn’t get sick.
Leizer followed her out and stood next to her, shuffling his feet in the dirt. “I’m sorry, Anna. The man’s a boor. He has no idea what he’s talking about.”
She straightened up. “I understand. It’s all right.”
“I’ll take you home,” Leizer said.
Anna glanced around at the activity in the town’s central square. It was Saturday morning—market day. “No, let’s stay awhile. You’ve got things to do. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll look around the market.”
The town was a dusty little village called Wiesko, which Anna had never heard of and which didn’t appear on the map of Poland tacked to the door of Leizer’s toolshed. One morning when she had asked about it, the old man had scratched an X on the map indicating a spot between Ostrowiec and the Vistula River.
Across the square from the post office was a tiny, whitewashed church with a tile roof. A faded inscription in Latin, Domus Salvatoris Nostri, painted above the stout oak door proclaimed it as The House of our Savior. A ramshackle stucco building with a rickety wooden porch occupied the left side of the square. It was the village’s only store, and its odd assortment of merchandise ranged from animal feed and fertilizer to women’s clothing and cookware. From a counter in the back of the building the Jewish proprietor also dispensed beer, vodka and a very potent fermented apple cider, which Anna had tried once, on her only other visit to the town. On the right side of the square was the market—a dozen wooden stalls where farmers sold vegetables, fruit, dairy products, sausages and a variety of ciders every Wednesday and Saturday morning.
Following the pungent aroma of cheese and spicy sausage, Anna wandered among the stalls, surprised at the number of local people who smiled at her, nodded and bid her good morning.
A voice behind her said, “You’re something of a celebrity, you know.”
She turned around to see a pudgy man of about sixty wearing a black felt hat and a rumpled woolen suit coat.
“We don’t get many visitors out here,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Simanski. It’s good
to see you up and around.”
It took her a moment to make the connection. “Oh, Dr. Simanski…yes, of course. Forgive me but I’m afraid I don’t remember much about your visit.”
The doctor laughed and tipped his hat. “No, I’m sure you don’t. You had a pretty nasty blow to the head.” He looked around and indicated a stall where a farmer sold a mixture of apple cider and blackberry wine. “It’s really quite good. Shall we have some while we talk?”
They sat in front of the church, on a bench shaded by a large oak tree, sipping the sweet beverage and watching the bustle of country people on market day. “It’s hard to imagine there’s a war going on,” Anna said.
Dr. Simanski shrugged. “War comes and goes, but the people who work the land continue on, one generation after another.”
Anna regarded the doctor. His face was creased with age, but his gray eyes were sharp and penetrating. “Are you from around here?” she asked.
He nodded. “My family had an estate a few kilometers to the east, near the Vistula. I did my medical training in Warsaw, spent some time in Radom, but this is home.” He took a sip from the clay mug. “I understand you’re from Krakow. You’re a university professor?”
“Associate professor, actually—European history.”
“Ah, history. Then you can appreciate my comment.”
“That war is an inevitable part of life? That we just set aside our routine tasks to kill each other then pick them up again when it’s over?”
He sighed. “Well, history teacher, when has it not been so?”
Anna shook her head and sipped the wine. “I keep hoping that one day we will rise above that.”
The doctor touched her arm. “You’re young and you have hope, two very good things. Do you have any plans?”
“No,” Anna said, staring into the distance. “I want to get home but, to be honest, I haven’t thought very far ahead.”
The doctor glanced up at the huge tree towering above them. He set his empty mug on the grass and turned toward Anna. “I’m the only doctor for quite a distance so I travel between a dozen or so towns. I also go to the hospital in Ostrowiec every week. I see and hear a lot of things.”
Anna didn’t respond.
“The German army marched in from the west and swept through Ostrowiec in a day,” he said. “The hospital administrator told me that he was relieved it was over so quickly.” The doctor shook his head. “Out here, in the countryside, the people know that it’s not over. Poland has always had more than one enemy. They remember—and they watch the east.”
Anna turned and locked eyes with the old doctor. “The Russians are coming, aren’t they?”
“They always do, Anna.”
Chapter 13
JAN HANDED THE BINOCULARS to Stefan and backed away from the perimeter. He’d seen enough. Scattered among the dead horses, smashed wagons, and burned-out trucks and tanks lay the bodies of a thousand young men rotting in the midday sun. The brigade had fallen back, out of range of the German guns, their casualties staggering and the chance to take the bridge over the Bzura River lost. As he headed for the HQ tent, Jan knew it was only a matter of time before the Luftwaffe discovered their location and finished them off.
He stopped at the field hospital where a few haggard doctors were doing what they could. As Jan moved among the injured soldiers, talking quietly with them and squeezing their hands, he was amazed at how they smiled at him. Some could barely lift their heads, but when he took their hand they smiled and asked how it was going. He thought they were all so young.
When Jan arrived at the HQ tent Colonel Romanofski was standing outside conferring with one of the brigade’s reconnaissance officers. “Any news about reinforcements?” Jan asked.
“Forget it,” Romanofski snapped. “Lowicz has just fallen. Lodz fell last night. And we just got word from a messenger that the Germans are moving part of their Tenth Army toward Kutno.” Romanofski glanced at the reconnaissance officer. “I need to talk with Jan for minute.”
The officer nodded and walked away.
Romanofski looked tired and when he spoke his voice was raspy. “The counterattack is collapsing. There’s a real danger that the Poznan Army will be trapped between Lowicz and Brochow within the next forty-eight hours.”
Jan stared at the colonel, not knowing what to say.
Romanofski pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to Jan. “I just came from a meeting with General Abraham,” the colonel said, striking a match. “He’s received orders to move the brigade out of here.”
“We’re abandoning the Poznan Army?”
The colonel took a long drag on his cigarette and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Yes, we are. The truth is the infantry is stuck here and will eventually have to surrender. But the High Command wants to get the cavalry out.”
“To where?”
“Warsaw, if we can make it…through the Kampinos Forest.”
“The Kampinos? Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah, I know,” Romanofski said. “It’s rugged country, and the Germans have held the whole area for over a week. But at least we might have some cover from the fuckin’ Luftwaffe. Every other route is completely closed off. Abraham says the city is almost surrounded. It’s the only possible way in.”
“So, when do we leave?”
“Tonight. They want us out of here now, before the air attacks get any worse and we all get blown to hell.”
The brigade moved out that night, circling well to the south of Brochow. As they forded the Bzura River and headed east for the Kampinos Forest, Jan felt empty. In a little over two weeks the Germans had all but crushed the bulk of Poland’s armed forces. Just a few days ago the Wielkopolska Brigade charged into the Bzura valley at full gallop, bugles blowing and banners streaming, one of Poland’s proudest and most formidable military organizations. Now they were escaping under the cover of darkness, leaving behind a hundred thousand of their fellow soldiers.
Jan knew it was unfair to think about it that harshly. They had no choice, the military doctrine was clear. The cavalry could save itself from the graveyard along the Bzura and the infantry couldn’t—it was that simple. He was a career officer and he knew all that. Still, he felt empty.
The Kampinos Forest covered an area of more than three hundred square kilometers from the Bzura River to the outskirts of Warsaw. The Twenty-ninth Uhlans were at the head of the brigade as they entered the forest under bright moonlight. Jan had never been here before, and it was not what he expected. Large stands of birch and oak trees dotted the landscape, but they were widely spaced with virtually no underbrush. Dense tracts of pine trees were interspersed with marshes and sand dunes. Frequently they had to dismount and lead the horses through valleys of rocky, uneven terrain. The narrow, winding trails were difficult to follow, and some of them would abruptly spill out onto open, flat expanses where the cavalry had no protection at all.
It was grueling work, and by the time the sun came up the brigade was spread out over a wide area. With the daylight came Luftwaffe bombers, wave after wave of giant Heinkels that sent the cavalry troopers scattering through the trees like frightened rabbits. When the bombers drove them into the open, they were strafed by dive-bombing Stukas. From all directions Jan heard staccato bursts of artillery and machine-gun fire as other regiments ran into pockets of German forces.
By midmorning they had to stop, and Jan led the Uhlans into a low-lying area densely populated with tall conifers that offered a measure of protection from the air attacks. The regiment was down to less than half of its men, and they were desperately in need of rest. Many of the horses were lame, and those that weren’t were weak with fatigue. They were so low on basic supplies that the groomers were forced to wrench the shoes off the dead horses to re-shoe those that could still walk. The worn-out troopers slid off their mounts, and as soon as they unsaddled the weary beasts and found some water, they collapsed on the ground, keeping close together in the middle of the hollow w
here the big trees provided the best cover.
Jan snapped awake, feeling a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see a messenger kneeling next to him holding a small brown envelope.
“It’s a message from Colonel Romanofski,” the messenger said.
Jan ripped the envelope open and read the handwritten note. He glanced at the messenger then read the note a second time.
“The colonel is expecting an acknowledgement,” the messenger said.
Jan studied the note and nodded. “Tell the colonel, I acknowledge.”
As the messenger rode off, Jan got to his feet, rousted Stefan and Peracki and led them to a small hill where they were out of earshot of the troopers. “I just received a message from Colonel Romanofski,” he said. “The Russians attacked early this morning.”
The two squadron commanders stared at him.
“I don’t have any details,” Jan continued, “but the message says they’re spread out over the entire length of the border and heading toward Warsaw.”
“Don’t suppose they’re here to help us beat the fuckin’ Germans, are they?” Peracki quipped, pulling a cigarette out of a crumpled pack.
Jan and Stefan looked at Peracki for a second then broke out in spontaneous laughter at the absurd notion. Patting Peracki on the back, Jan stood up and looked over the regiment’s fatigued troopers sprawled all over the hollow. “We’ll spend the rest of the morning here,” he said, glancing up at the lofty pine trees. “At least we have some cover. The men and the horses need the rest. Our objective is Laski. That’s the last major hurdle before we get to Warsaw. We move out at 1200.”
Oberleutnant Kurt Meier felt confident as he piloted the Stuka over the treetops of the Kampinos Forest. He had flown several sorties over this area in the past three days and was now quite familiar with the terrain. This had turned out to be easier duty than the missions he had flown over Warsaw. There were no anti-aircraft batteries to worry about out here, only Polish cavalry troops trudging through the forest, and whenever they caught them in the open they were easy targets.
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