Winter Sky

by Chris Stewart

  “That’s a funny answer. You’re either from here or you’re not.”

  “Like I said, it would take a long time to explain.”

  She moved toward the nearest pew and sat, her face cast in shadows from the distant flame. He watched her carefully. Yes, indeed, she was elegancki.

  “I know many people in town,” she said. It seemed as if she were talking to herself, trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together. She shook her head in conclusion. “Are you sure this is your home?”

  He suddenly felt homeless and alone. “If it’s not, then I have nothing.”

  She watched his reaction and then smiled again. Even in his loneliness, he couldn’t help but smile back.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Are you from Gorndask?”

  She shook her head. “I’m from somewhere else.”

  “Somewhere close?”

  “Close enough to get here.”

  It was his turn to laugh a bit. “That seems a little evasive.”

  Melina smiled shyly. “It’s a dangerous time. One must be careful.”

  “But you’re alone?”

  “No, I have a family.”

  Lucas motioned around the empty church. “But here you are…alone…at night…”

  Melina stared away in thought. Lucas waited until she finally turned back to him. “My family has been scattered by the war.”

  “You and I are the same, then.”

  “You and I and ten million others,” she said.

  “It’s not good to be alone. Like you said, it is a dangerous time. Much more dangerous for someone like yourself,” Lucas warned.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  Lucas looked around the empty chapel, then stared through the broken windows to the darkness outside. “If you say so,” he shrugged.

  She smiled at him again. “You’ve created a bit of a stir here. A lot of people are wondering who you are, why you are here. They think you are one of the rebels, which makes it hard for them if that is true. It puts them in a hard place. So some of them don’t trust you.” She folded her arms as if she were suddenly cold, and the candles seemed to flare up, casting lively shadows across her face. “You seem the trusting kind. I don’t want to ruin that, but you shouldn’t trust, at least not everyone.”

  Lucas snorted. “Believe me, I know that people will disappoint you.”

  “It’s just that people get hard when they’re fighting to survive. They lose a bit of their humanness when they think that they might die. A bit more when they are hungry. A bit more when they are cold. A lot more when they have children who are also cold and hungry. It doesn’t mean that they’re bad people, just that they’ve had a bad time. But you have to know the difference, and I’m not sure you do.”

  “I’ve seen enough to know the difference.”

  Melina thought a moment, then flipped her hands across her apron, hopelessly brushing at the dirt. She stopped and looked up at him. “I don’t know if you do,” she said.

  “I don’t think you know anything about me.”

  She looked away and nodded. “Of course not. Forgive me. How could I know?”

  SCHUTZSTAFFEL HEADQUARTERS BUILDING

  THREE MILES OUTSIDE OF GORNDASK

  Zarek limped toward the SS headquarters building, stumbling through the metal gate in the high stone wall that led to the rock mansion. Behind the gate, a rock path wound between two rows of large oak trees, their bare branches a thousand crooked fingers against the overcast sky. The snow had stopped, leaving a thin skiff of white clinging to every branch. The night was quiet, the shelling having stopped until morning, and the old man’s halting footsteps were muffled by the fresh snow.

  His heart was beating wildly in his chest. He’d seen the colonel kill for less than what he was about to tell him, and though he didn’t have a lot to live for, he wanted desperately to live.

  The large house was nestled fifty yards back from the gate. Rock arches loomed over every window. Soft yellow light shone from the gas lanterns illuminating the lower windows. But as with everything in Poland, the war had been hard on the mansion, and it desperately needed repairs. The paint was worn and peeling. Broken red tiles clung to the roof. The shrubs were overgrown and bent beneath the weight of the snow.

  Five minutes after knocking on the huge oak front door, Zarek was shown into the library. He stood alone, a frail and bent old man underneath the vaulted ceiling. The room was hot from a roaring fire in the fireplace. He savored the warmth. Time passed. He didn’t move.

  Taking a quick look around, he realized the library was much emptier than when he’d been here before. No more paintings. No more valuable porcelain vases or marble busts. Much of the beautiful leather furniture was gone as well. A half-eaten tray of food sat on a small table beside the only chair in the room. Looking at it, he felt his mouth start to water, thick saliva forming in the back of his throat. He was tempted to grab the food and stuff it in his coat pocket, but of course he didn’t move.

  Beside the silver tray of food, he noticed a silver-framed picture. He slowly bent over and focused on the photograph. Müller stood proudly beside another Nazi officer, his silver SS rank shining on his officer’s cap. The commander of the Schutzstaffel stood beside him, Himmler’s face all scowl, his shoulders drooping. Both men had their hands stuffed in the pockets of knee-length overcoats. It was overcast and muddy. Behind them was a brick wall, mangled strands of razor wire coiled along the top. To the right of the wall, a train of boxcars extended into the mist. Looking closely, Zarek could see human arms reaching out desperately between the slats of the cattle cars.

  A handwritten inscription was scribbled across the photograph: LOYALTY AND HONOR.

  The old man stared at the picture, squinting just a bit. Even though it was only a photograph, he could feel the evil, the cold and fear and pain.

  He turned suddenly to see Colonel Müller standing beside him, and he stepped back in surprise. The colonel looked at him, then down at the photograph. Reaching across the old man’s body, Müller took the photo and walked toward the fire. Glancing back, he tossed it into the flame.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  The old man quivered. “I saw one of the Devil’s Rebels,” he answered quickly.

  The colonel scowled. He wore a black shirt with gray pants, and an SS Mauser C96 handgun was strapped to his leather belt. He stared at Zarek, then turned and started to walk away. “We killed all the rebels on the train,” he said as he walked.

  “No, sir. He got off the train this afternoon. I recognized him. I even know his name.”

  Müller stopped. He slowly turned around and stared at the old man, his eyes smoldering with rage.

  “It was Lucas Capek,” Zarek stammered. “The young man who—”

  “I know who Capek is!” Müller snapped. “Are you certain it was him?”

  Zarek gulped. “I am certain, sir.”

  The Schutzstaffel officer started moving around the room. It only took a moment before he was pacing in rage. “Why did he get off the train?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Was he injured?”

  “No, sir, not that I could tell. A little blood on his face, but what is that in this war?”

  Müller continued pacing. “Why did they let him off the train?” he demanded again.

  “I don’t know, sir. Maybe it was what you said before. They are disbanding. Running like rats before a fire.”

  The colonel snorted. “The Devils don’t run. They are the most highly trained combatants the Poles have produced. German speakers. Expert snipers. Expert at demolition, infiltration, sabotage. Does that sound to you like the kind of fighter who would run?”

  Zarek kept his head down and didn’t answer.

  The colonel swore bitterly. Of all of the enemies to the Reich, he co
nsidered the rebels the most despicable. Worse than the Jews. Worse than the horse-head Bolsheviks! Had any of his enemies caused any more damage to his Vaterland or more insult to the Führer?

  “Where did he go?” he demanded.

  “Sir,” Zarek stammered, his voice thick with fear, “I lost him in the crowd. Then I came—”

  “You don’t know where he is!”

  Zarek started choking. “Sir, I thought it best to come and tell you. I thought—”

  “Shut up!” the colonel hissed as he stepped away from Zarek. He resumed pacing, deep in thought.

  How to find the rebel? How to kill him?

  At one time there had been ten thousand people in Gorndask, but there were fewer now, thousands of them dead already from the war. He would line them up and shoot them all if he had the time and the ammunition. But he didn’t. Even if he couldn’t kill them all, however, he had to find the last of the rebels. It would haunt him for the rest of his life to let any of them live.

  He turned back to his cowering spy, one of the few men in the city who was willing to betray his countrymen for a block of cheese.

  “What is the one thing you want, my Polish friend?” he asked tartly.

  Zarek kept his head down. “To live, sir.”

  “That much we’ve established. And why do you want to live?”

  “Sir, I have a family.”

  “Yes, that wretch of a family. A blind daughter. Her bastard daughter of a German traitor. Now, how long do you think they’ll live without my protection and what I pay you?”

  Zarek swallowed hard. “Sir, it is my greatest desire to never know.”

  “So what must you do now?”

  “Find the rebel, sir.”

  “Yes. Find him so I can kill him. Now go.”

  The night was quiet, cold, and dark as only winter nights can be in the middle of a war. The fighting would continue in the morning, but that was a few hours away yet.

  Lucas moved to the altar and leaned against the white stone, the corners worn smooth as glass from five hundred years of worship. He didn’t look at Melina but kept his eyes on the deep shadows in the corner of the sanctuary. Melina watched him, her face illuminated in the yellow candlelight.

  “I’ve been told that you are looking for your family,” she said, her voice soft as a whisper.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled his picture out, and extended it toward her. She moved closer to the candles and held it up to the light.

  “My parents,” he explained. “The picture is torn, but that’s me, holding my mother’s hand when I was just a boy.”

  “When you were just a boy?” she said as if she were talking to herself. She studied it a long time, turning it from side to side to catch the best angle in the flickering light. Watching the intensity with which she looked at the picture, Lucas grew suddenly tense. He had expected her to glance at it quickly and then hand it back, but she hadn’t. He felt his chest tighten, and he realized that he was holding his breath.

  She finally turned to him, her almond eyes soft in the dim light. “I’m sorry,” was all she said.

  He looked away, lost in sadness. She watched him and then took a step toward him. “Lucas, do you even know if they’re alive?” she asked him gently.

  He took a breath, then dropped his head, staring at the floor in sudden anguish. He didn’t answer. She waited. The sigh of the wind blowing through the shattered windows was the only sound. The candles flickered again and the shadows danced. The smell of smoky drapes and wet stone permeated the air. His face was darkened by the moving shadows.

  “Lucas, do you really think they are alive?” Melina prodded.

  His chin started to quiver, and he raised a hand to hide it. Inside, his heart was breaking.

  “No…no…they’re not alive,” he whispered. “I don’t know how I know that, but I know that they are dead.”

  They stood in silence. Lucas kept his eyes down as he slowly shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” Melina said again. She watched him a long moment and then said, “I need to tell you something.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “There is a train leaving from Brzeg on Monday morning. Christmas Day. A refugee train. Very few know of its departure. It’s going south, toward the American lines. It is your only hope for life, for freedom, your only chance of escape. If you stay here, you will die.”

  Colonel Müller stood by the fireplace, staring into the flames. His arms were crossed against his chest, and the firelight reflected in the darkness of his eyes. He looked tired but defiant. Angry and cruel. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the worn notebook, stared at it a moment, then shoved it back into his breast pocket and sat down in the single chair.

  “Command Sergeant!” he called.

  Sergeant Fisser immediately walked into the room. He wore the usual crisp combat uniform, with its black boots and bloused pants. But, unlike before, he carried a helmet underneath his arm and a rifle across his back. As he opened the door, the commotion of men at war could be heard from the hall.

  “Sir,” he answered wearily.

  Müller motioned to the open door, and the sergeant pulled it closed. “You heard what our Polish friend told me?” he asked.

  “I did, sir.”

  “And your thoughts?”

  “I think, sir, that you would kill everyone in Gorndask if that’s what it took to find this rebel.”

  Müller pressed his thin lips into a smile. His aide-de-camp knew him well. “Indeed, I’ve considered that already. But it’s rather impractical, isn’t it, Command Sergeant. Seven or eight thousand people. Seven or eight thousand rounds of ammunition. A week to round them up and kill them. I don’t know if we have time.”

  The sergeant seemed to think. “They’re doing it in Warsaw.”

  “But that’s a long way from here. Many miles from the Russians. Their situation is not as urgent. They simply have more time.”

  Fisser nodded. “They do, sir.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the French doors and the chaotic work that was going on throughout the headquarters building. “We have only a few days. Maybe less.”

  Müller lit a cigarette and sucked in a mouthful of smoke, then let it drift out, pulling it in through his nose again. He lifted the tray of food from the table and set it in his lap. Chicken legs and wings soaked in brown sauce and black pepper. He lifted a piece of meat and studied it.

  “Let me ask you something, Command Sergeant. Of all of our enemies, who do you think is the most dangerous?”

  Fisser hesitated. Müller took a single bite from a leg of chicken, chewed it slowly, then threw the rest of the meat into the fire.

  “That is an interesting question, sir,” Fisser said.

  “Interesting? Or dangerous?” Müller lifted another chicken leg.

  “Both, sir.”

  “But why would it be dangerous? The answer is so obvious. I see no threat in examining the question.”

  Fisser remained silent. Müller stared at the leg, took a single bite, threw the rest into the fire. “All right, let me rephrase the question. Who is the most dangerous of our enemies to me?”

  Fisser knew immediately. “The rebels, sir, of course.”

  Müller picked up the last of piece of chicken, stared at it, and threw it into the fire without even taking a bite. “Yes, the rebel traitors. For you see, Command Sergeant, our Führer, our Master . . .” Müller caught himself and quickly pressed his lips together, then spit out the next words. “The…Führer gave me a task. So I’m going to kill the rebels. It will be my last mission. Then, as a final act of submission, I’ll do what he commanded me to do but what I wouldn’t do before.”

  The room was cracked and crumbling, the floor covered with pieces of shattered brick, patches of exposed wood and scorched plaster covering the walls. Though t
he battered home had been deserted, much of the furniture had been left behind. It had been pushed into one corner and was now covered in dirt and debris. The children huddled together on the worn couch, their arms around each other. A filthy blanket was tucked around their faces. The little boy’s head was resting on his sister’s shoulder. He took a deep breath and shivered in his sleep.

  Melina walked through the front door, a small lantern in her hand. She quietly closed the door behind her, held the lamp up, and smiled at the little girl. “Hello, Cela,” she whispered.

  “Melina, what are you doing here?” The girl could barely contain the relief in her voice.

  Melina nodded to her sleeping brother. “I don’t want to wake him,” she whispered as she walked toward the dusty table. She pulled out a loaf of bread and laid it there. Cela watched her expectantly.

  “Why are you so good to us, Melina?”

  “Because you need some help,” the woman answered.

  “You hardly know us. We’re only strangers. And there are lots of children who need help.”

  Melina walked over and knelt beside the old couch. She reached out and brushed aside a strand of Cela’s hair. “I had a little sister just like you. When I look at you and Aron…well, it just makes me want to help.”

  Cela leaned her head against her little brother. “Aron and I are glad you’re here with us tonight.”

  Melina smiled. “I don’t know if Aron really cares. I think that he’s asleep.”

  Cela was already drifting off as well. Melina reached out and tucked the blanket up around her chin. “Go to sleep now,” she whispered.

  Cela closed her eyes. “Will you sing to us?” she mumbled through deep breaths.

  Melina looked at the children, her head tilted to the side. Their frail bodies had obviously suffered from constant hunger, but they were beautiful children still. And they looked so much alike: the same unruly hair, the same dark skin, the same long eyelashes.

  It was heartbreaking to watch them shiver from the cold.