by Liz Tolsma
“Just you.”
“They’ll see I need to take care of you and won’t separate us.” He gazed at the tiny woman beside him, once strong and vivacious, now bent with age and sorrow. Her face was pale, so very pale. A line of sweat dotted her upper lip.
The Nazis entered.
Their jackboots sounded on the wood plank floors.
Teodor froze, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think. The soldiers paused in front of him.
Mama clutched her chest and slumped against him.
And like that, she was gone. Forever.
A heart attack. If only he had fought them. Kept them out in the first place. Done something to protect his fragile mother.
And then he’d allowed the Nazis to separate him from Natia. But he could still protect her.
“Go home. Don’t ever return here.” Untersturmführer Fromm’s screech jolted him back to reality. His voice traveled from the same direction as Natia’s weeping. She lived with that, with him, every day.
What was more important to him? His wife or his country?
What an impossible choice.
The train chugged to a stop at a station on the outskirts of Warsaw. Pawel, Zygmunt still at his side, made his way to the city to find a safe place for the boy. While he was here, he would check on his contact. Some time had passed since he’d heard from him.
“End of the line. Everyone disembark.” The German soldier, a metal helmet on his head and a rifle in his hand, marched up the aisle, repeating his announcement.
Pawel halted him. “Why do we need to get off here? This isn’t my stop.”
“This is all the farther we can go. Your countrymen decided to make trouble. Don’t worry. We’ll deal with it and restore peace in short order.” The Nazi moved on, calling out again.
Pawel had heard about the uprising. The city was under siege. Students, the underground, everyday citizens took up arms and fought the Nazis. But it was brutal. Scores of lives were lost. Left with no choice, Pawel and Zygmunt followed the soldier up the aisle, down the steps, and into the station. A few people milled about, but not many. The place didn’t bustle as usual.
Pawel clutched Zygmunt’s small hand, his new identification papers stashed in the knapsack on his back. “What are we going to do if this wasn’t your stop?”
Pawel turned to the boy and gave him what he hoped was a confident smile. “We’ll have to walk. And what a beautiful day it is. After you’ve been cooped inside that factory, you’ll enjoy it.”
Zygmunt gave a single nod and plodded beside Pawel.
They exited the station onto the street, Pawel pulling up his collar and pushing his fedora farther onto his head. Danger lurked on every corner. He tugged Zygmunt closer and patted his coat where he kept his work papers in the inside pocket. If any soldier stopped him, he could produce those and avoid arrest. That was the hope, anyway, though work papers were no guarantee of safe passage. Now, not only for himself, but also for Zygmunt, he had to remain vigilant. Whatever it took, he would keep the boy from being forced to return to the camp.
Every few meters, Pawel glanced over his shoulder. Was someone following them? Getting ready to spring up behind them? Nie, the road remained empty save for a few women scurrying to market.
He picked up his pace, Zygmunt scurrying behind. He forced his steps to carry them in the direction of the center of the city. Not too far and signs of the uprising appeared. A burned-out building here and there. An abandoned barricade where citizens had opposed soldiers. Bloodstains on the street.
Zygmunt tugged on his coat. “What’s happening?”
“Just keep your head down and keep walking.”
Pawel turned the corner, and the scene changed. Groups of young men and women gathered near one of the government buildings, tables and chairs and chests of drawers holding back the Nazis. A tense quiet hung over the area. He pulled Zygmunt to his side and held him fast.
A young man with brown hair and tired blue eyes approached them. “What are you doing here, old man? And with a kid. Do you want to join us?”
“I’m here to meet a colleague.”
“It’s not safe. So many have already died. And now the Germans are pushing us back. I don’t know how much longer we can hold out.”
“Did you ever have a chance?”
“We did, until the Soviets decided not to come to our aid. We did the hard work for them, opened the door, but they sat on their hands and refused to help. Why, I don’t understand. Trust me, the Russians are no friends of ours. But if you aren’t here to help, to give your life for the cause, go home.” The man ran off to join his compatriots.
Pawel continued, but this time he took to the alleys and the back ways, hidden in the shadows, away from Nazi eyes. Over the years, he’d traveled to Warsaw plenty of times to attend conferences and learn new techniques in medical care, so he had a fair idea of where to go.
The putrid odor of death and destruction hung in the air. He came to a street he needed to cross. German soldiers stood to his left, Polish citizens to his right. The bloated body of a teenage boy lay in the gap between the two.
He gagged and covered his mouth. Zygmunt whimpered. What had become of the human race?
Pawel turned on his heel and marched in the opposite direction until he came to another cross street and another alley.
Shouts and shots rang out. A battle, right on the streets of Warsaw. His breath hitched. He grabbed Zygmunt, squeezing his four-fingered hand, and ran. They popped out on another street. Several German soldiers surrounded a group of young men, beating some of them, herding them into olive-colored, canvas-covered trucks. Screams blended with the odor of petrol and burning tires.
Zygmunt’s own cries joined theirs. Pawel covered his mouth and dragged him in the opposite direction. If only he could also block the sight from the boy’s eyes, a sight neither of them would forget.
Back the way they came. Down another street. Into another alley.
Where were they? Nothing appeared familiar.
Out to another street. A group of women scurried down the thoroughfare, their shopping bags banging against their legs as a gaggle of Nazis chased them. One fell. The German yanked her up by her light-brown hair. She screeched.
Pawel motioned for Zygmunt to stay put as he raced into the intersection. “Halten sie! Stop it. Leave her be!”
The other soldiers didn’t break off their pursuit, but the one dropped the woman to the ground and turned his attention to Pawel. The woman scooted backward, away from the melee. “Get out of here, old man.” The pale-faced soldier approached him.
Heat streaked through Pawel’s body. “What do you want with her?”
“This is none of your business.”
“When you harm a woman, an innocent one, it is.”
The soldier moved forward two more steps. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll scat.”
“Leave her alone.”
Pain shot down his neck.
Blackness consumed him.
Teodor couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think. Nie, he could think. He couldn’t stop thinking. About Natia. Her song. Her crying. Her life with Untersturmführer Fromm.
He tossed on his less-than-comfortable bunk and scratched at the fleas that bit him. What was she enduring? What was that monster doing to her? In all the songs she had sung for him, she had never been as sorrowful as she had been today. Lonely? Tak. But now, more than that.
Broken.
He covered his head with the thin pillow to block out the sounds of snoring and coughing. The physical conditions took their toll on the men. Their bodies were shutting down. This suffering wasn’t limited to the flesh but extended to their hearts and souls. The degradation of the human spirit.
How he loved to hear Natia sing. Any song except that one. Not the melody of hopelessness and despair.
But he had a choice. He could improve her existence.
Then again, Jerzy hadn’t promised that Nat
ia would go free. Only him. If he signed that paper, he might do so for no good purpose. If his fellow countrymen found out, his signature on that page could cost him everything. Including his wife.
“You’re deep in thought.”
Teodor jumped. “You startled me, Jerzy.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“You know.”
“My tempting offer?”
“Keep your voice down. Do you want everyone to hear?” Teodor glanced around the room, most of the men slumbering away the Sabbath, their one and only time of rest. A small group held a simple worship service. Otherwise, no acknowledgment of God.
“Most of them are half dead anyway.”
Like Jerzy himself. “They can’t all sign the agreement. The Germans would have no one to work for them.”
“They’re running low on supplies. The choke hold around the Nazis’ neck is tightening. They can no longer get food or raw materials. What are they going to do with us?”
“Perhaps they’ll let us go home soon.”
“Not a chance.” Jerzy shook his head. “Do you think they want the Allies finding out what they’ve been up to? They’ll kill us first.”
“If I would do it—”
“You’re going to?”
“I said if. If I sign, it would only be for Natia’s sake. I would need assurance that she would be able to leave with me.”
“Why wouldn’t Fromm let her go?”
“You make it sound like he’s sure to comply.”
“If he says he’s going to do it, he will.”
Teodor punched his flat, flea-ridden pillow. “Don’t bet on a German. You’re out of your mind if you think he’s going to keep a promise.”
“Then talk to him first thing tomorrow. Do you have anything to lose?”
The sun had yet to clear the horizon the following day when Teodor shuffled down the hall to Untersturmführer Fromm’s office. Teodor’s heart galloped far in front of him. This was crazy. He must have lost his mind. That was it. The lack of food and sleep had clouded his judgment. He wasn’t thinking straight to even entertain the idea of signing the paper.
But here he stood in front of Fromm’s office door, his name in big gold letters on the plaque screwed into the wood. Plant manager.
The secretary was absent, so Teodor drew in a deep breath and wiped his sweaty hands on his pants before he knocked.
“Come.”
He entered, the plushness of the office taking him aback. Fromm sat his well-muscled frame in an oversized leather desk chair situated behind an expansive oak desk. An exquisite Oriental rug of rich blues, reds, and greens softened Teodor’s footfalls as he crossed the room.
Fromm tilted backward in his chair and puffed on a cigarette. “Well, what a surprise. Then again, maybe not so much. After my agreement with your friend, I thought you might show up. Looks like prison knocked some sense into you.”
Teodor almost ran out of the office. But Natia’s sad, sweet song rang in his head. He kept himself planted in place. “Is it true Jerzy is headed home?”
“To whatever might be left after the Russians have been through.”
“The Soviets are that far west?”
Fromm wiped the smirk from his face and schooled his features to reveal no emotion whatsoever. But not before he’d tipped his hand. The Nazi sat forward. “What do you want? This isn’t a coffee klatch. Get to your point or get out.”
“What did he have to do to get released?”
“Just sign the Volksdeutsche paper.”
“Excuse me if I’m skeptical. This late in the war, you’re still providing the option for Poles to turn German? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Because you have no sense.” Fromm tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, glowing embers falling in a flurry into the metal receptacle. “The war is not over. We have not surrendered, nor do we intend to. Whatever rumors you hear to the contrary are just that. Trust me, if we were going to lose the war, if we had to leave this place, we wouldn’t keep one of you alive.” The sneer returned to his lips.
A chill skittered down Teodor’s spine. That was one promise Fromm was sure to keep. “If I sign the agreement, do I have your word that you will not only release me, but also my wife?”
“Why would I do such a thing? She’s handy to have around.” His blue eyes glinted in the harsh office light.
Teodor fisted his hands and spoke through clenched teeth. “You stay away from her.”
“You are in no position to make threats.”
“You’ll be sorry you ever touched her.”
“I’m inclined to withdraw my offer.”
Teodor forced himself to relax. “If I sign, my wife comes too.”
Fromm tilted his head. “Very well.”
“In writing. Put the agreement on paper.”
Fromm withdraw a pen from his drawer, scratched out a note, and signed it. “Are you satisfied? Are you ready to become a loyal German citizen?”
Was he? Could he do this? He stared at the paper. All he had to do was move the pen across the page. Scribble. A couple of black marks, and it would be over.
His Poland. His beloved home. His heart cried. Would it ever be the same, or would it be a desolate wasteland forever? Yet so many had shed their blood for it. Given their lives so he could be free. Could he turn his back on the land that had birthed him, fed him, sustained him? Then again, Fromm had broken Natia. Teodor closed his mind to what that man might be doing to her. If he dwelled on it, he’d kill Fromm for sure. Without a weapon.
She needed the fresh air of home. Needed their children on the hill. Needed him.
For her, he would do anything. Anything to ease her hurt, take away her pain, make her whole again.
Even if it tore him in two.
“I’ll sign.”
Pawel’s brain drummed a mighty beat inside his aching head. His eyelids refused his command to open. He moaned.
“Shh, don’t try to move. You’ve been unconscious for several days.” A young male voice answered his groan. Pawel didn’t recognize it.
He struggled again to open his eyes. This time, he managed to slide the left one open to a slit. Darkness draped the room, though a single candle on a table in the corner attempted to chase it away, lighting a portrait of the Black Madonna of Częstochowa. “What happened?” The sound of his own voice sent shards of pain piercing his skull.
“You’re safe.”
Safe? Why wouldn’t he be? Wait, he was on a train. Had there been an accident? “Injured?”
“That soldier wasn’t happy with you.”
Soldier. A Nazi in an olive-drab uniform, a creased cap on his head. How did the train fit in? What was going on? “Where am I?”
“Warsaw.” The thin young man with the pointed nose blinked a few times in the dim light.
“Warsaw.” He let the word wash over him. Warsaw. That was right. But why was he here?
Zygmunt. It had something to do with the boy.
“Don’t you remember?”
“It’s fuzzy.”
“You argued with a Nazi soldier about a woman.”
The woman’s face flashed in front of his eyes. Light-brown hair. Big sapphire-blue eyes. High cheekbones. Similar in many ways to Antonina. “Is she hurt?”
“She managed to get away, thanks to you. You took quite a risk.”
“I couldn’t let him harm her.”
“Well, you’re both fine.”
“You helped?”
“No one should treat another human being the way the Germans treat us. The Lord sent me to the right place at the right time.”
“Where is Zygmunt?”
“Right here.” The boy’s voice came from near the foot of the bed.
An attempt to see him sent pain coursing through Pawel’s brain. He puffed out a breath. “Are you hurt?”
“Nie, I’m fine.”
The stranger hovered over Pawel. “He had a bit of a fright, that’s all. Nothing a chil
d should have to see.”
The boy had seen far too much in his few years. If Pawel would never forget, what kind of nightmares would Zygmunt have?
“Where are you from? You don’t speak city Polish.”
“Pieśń Nabożna, south of Kraków, near the Czechoslovakian border. I must be going.” Pawel sat up, the world spinning around him.
“Not so fast. You got conked on the head.”
“I’ll be fine.” He needed to leave. His contact waited.
“You can’t. It’s the middle of the night. There’s a curfew. And a battle’s raging.” The young man pointed to the darkened window.
Pawel rubbed his temple. “Where are we?”
“Give me your contact’s address.”
His stomach lurched. What did he know about this kid? Maybe it wasn’t safe to give him that information. For himself, it wouldn’t matter so much. But others depended on him. “What is your name?”
“It’s best you not know. And the same for me. Suffice it to say that I’m a member of the Polish underground, fighting to free our homeland from tyranny.”
“How do I know that?”
“Would I have saved you from that soldier if I wasn’t?”
The pounding in his head muddied his thoughts. “I don’t know.”
“You can trust me. If you want to get somewhere, you’ll have to give me the address. You shouldn’t even be here. At any moment, they could round you up and send you to Auschwitz. Or, if you’re lucky, they’ll shoot you.”
“I know too much about those camps.” Places where people like Zygmunt and Teodor and Natia struggled to survive.
“Then you know you don’t want to go there.”
“I’m a physician. They should have sent me to a camp or shot me when they first invaded the country.” Like they had his son.
The young man stroked his chin, only a few light hairs gracing it. “I’ll take you out of the melee, but not until morning. It’s late. I’ll bring you something to eat and drink.” He left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
His green eyes wide, Zygmunt sat on the bed beside him. “I thought they were going to kill you.”
