Lucas nodded slowly, trying to hide his fear.
“They need me. My country needs me.”
“I understand, Father.”
His father leaned toward him. “There will come a time when they will need you, too.”
“I hope so, Father.”
“Don’t hope for that, Lucas. I want you to hope for something better. Hope for a time when our nation no longer needs its young men.”
Lucas started to say something, then bit his tongue and waited.
“You know that things are bad, don’t you, son?”
Lucas felt his heart sink. It scared him to hear his father talk this way. “I do, sir,” he answered simply.
“Evil men have brought pain and rage into this world. They have a vision of the future that is very dark indeed. But we have seen this thing before, and the world seems to find a way through it, depending on the souls of men.” He stopped and stared at the hot tea on the table. “Yes, we have a choice now. But choosing isn’t easy. Do you understand me, Lucas?”
“I understand, Father,” Lucas answered once again.
His father turned away. “I didn’t think it would turn out this way,” he admitted in resignation. “I don’t think that any of us did. But this is what we’re left with. There is no changing it. God never promised us an easy road.” His father hesitated. “But that doesn’t mean He doesn’t love us. You know that, don’t you, Lucas?”
“I do, sir.”
“You say the words. I hope you mean it.”
Lucas forced a smile, then lowered his eyes, not wanting his father to see his fear. The world was crumbling all around him, every good thing in his life hanging on the edge of a cliff. His entire people, his entire nation! How could God allow this to happen? How could any compassionate being allow so much suffering and unfairness in the world? Any god that allowed such a thing was only a god of darkness, and that was no god to him.
His father watched a deep sadness sweep across Lucas’s face. Reaching across the table, he took Lucas’s hand and held it so tight his knuckles turned white. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us, Lucas. I can’t lie to you, I don’t know. But I know we can get through this. Our family can get through this. I know we can.”
Lucas pressed his lips but kept his eyes down.
“Lucas, I’ve thought a lot about this. Many nights. Many days. And even now I don’t know if I can find the right thing to say. I don’t know if I—or anyone—can say something that will make a difference. But I feel compelled to try.
“You see, Lucas, sometimes I wonder too. Why would God do this? Where is the fairness? What are we supposed to learn from this great trial? It has bothered me right down the center of my soul. I have asked, and I have pleaded, and the answer has not come.
“But sometimes I think God wants to see what we will do when we don’t get an answer. Sometimes God will ask us: In the absence of any evidence, what will you choose to believe? Which path will you follow when I don’t show you the way?
“When the night is the darkest, are we still willing to fight? Will we keep on going when the only thing we have is hope?”
Lucas woke. For a dizzying moment he didn’t know where he was. He saw shadows and yellow light from a dying fire. A partially open sky through a bombed-out roof. Low voices coming from the people still whispering at the front of the chapel. Then he remembered, and he closed his eyes again.
He thought back on the dream. He didn’t understand it, but it left him feeling comforted. It was a good dream. It made him happy. He wanted to remember everything. So he thought back, trying to etch every detail into his mind.
The last time he had seen his father. The café back in Warsaw. The night before his father left to fight in the war. The smell of the bakery. The snow outside. The words his father said.
That was when he realized that it wasn’t just a dream, it was a memory. And the memory was very real.
The morning light was just beginning to shine through the broken church windows. It was clear outside, and the sun was reflecting off the new snow, creating a million points of light to illuminate the inside of the sanctuary.
Lucas woke. He lay with his eyes open, staring at the broken roof. It was chilly but not uncomfortable, and he thought back on the dream again. He could picture the old café in Warsaw. His father’s uniform. The smell of baking pastries. The feel of the kitchen’s heat.
The memories were coming back. They might be coming only a piece at a time, but they were coming, and that made him feel good.
He sat up on the pew and looked around. The refugees from the night before were gone, their fire in the corner a smoldering pit of black coals on the stone floor. He thought he was alone, but then he saw her and caught his breath.
Melina was sitting on a large wooden chair that seemed to have been set to preside over the congregation. Same white dress. Same light blue apron. Same dark hair and almond eyes.
She stood and moved toward him. Seeing what was behind her, he took another breath. On the raised platform were two sleeping children. She had covered them with a dirty blanket, and they lay side by side, their heads resting against each other.
His gut tightened up. What was she doing here?
And why the children?
He looked at the little girl’s curly hair and dark skin. He remembered her from his first day in the village, standing on the pile of rubble, tense and ready to run.
“Please,” the little girl had pleaded while pointing to her tummy. “Please pan. We are hungry.”
His instincts were instantly on alert, and he shook his head while staring at Melina.
“Good morning, Lucas,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Melina! What are you doing here?” he whispered.
“I brought you something.”
“You brought me something?”
“Yes.” She motioned toward the children. “You’re going to take them with you to Brzeg.”
He huffed in disbelief. “No! What are you thinking!”
“You’re going to take them with you. You’re going to get them on the train. You’re going to save their lives.”
He looked at her in angry disbelief. “You’re wrong if you think I’m going to take them. You’re wrong for even asking. Even if I wanted to take them, it would be impossible. It’s going to be a treacherous journey just to make it on my own. I don’t have time to carry two little children.” He was struggling to keep his voice low so the children wouldn’t wake. “And think about this, Melina. Traveling with me is guaranteed to get them killed. You know who I am! You know who is out there hunting me down. Do you think the SS colonel cares a whit if they are children? How many Polish children has he already killed?”
She looked at him, a calm expression on her face. “If you don’t take them, they will die here. You know that as well as I do. The Russians are just a few days away. Once they get here, things will only get worse.” She paused and smiled at him knowingly. “No more potatoes. No more onions.”
Lucas didn’t seem to notice.
“If you don’t help them, these two angels are going to starve to death,” she started pleading.
“So will ten thousand others! It’s just the cost of war.”
She looked at him a moment, a shadow of doubt passing over her face. It was the first time that he had seen it, and it caused a pang of sadness and regret. He lowered his voice and moved toward her. “I’m sorry. I really am. But traveling with me would be a death sentence.”
“Lucas, if you don’t help them, they will die. They don’t deserve that. None of these children do. Look at them, Lucas. Look into their faces. You are their only hope.”
“If I take them, I will kill them!” He jabbed an angry finger to the east. “He will kill them. It is hopeless. So much is hopeless…”
“This isn’t about having hope or bei
ng hopeless. This is about the lives of these two children.”
Lucas shook his head in frustration. “You don’t have any right to—”
“What do you do when there’s no hope, Lucas?” Melina interrupted.
Lucas froze. He stared at her, his mouth open. “What did you say?” he muttered.
“What are you willing to do, Lucas?” She took a step toward him. “When the night is the darkest, what are you willing to do?”
Lucas stared at her, unable to speak. He slowly shook his head, his mind flashing back.
When the night is the darkest, are we still willing to fight? Will we keep on going when the only thing we have is hope?
He shook his head again and stared at her.
How did she know!
Melina reached out to touch him, stopping just short of his hand. “Even if we don’t know the way—and neither of us does—you have to ask yourself, are you still willing to fight?” She stepped aside so that he could see the children. “I can’t make you do this, Lucas. The choice is always yours. But if you’re willing to take on a last battle, surely this one is worth the fight.”
Colonel Müller sat in the library in an old leather chair, an untouched tray of sausage and potatoes sitting on the table beside him. His tan combat fatigues hung loosely on his frame, and his pant leggings were tucked into his black leather boots. His dark hair, normally slicked back, hung in strands at the side of his head, and his eyes were red and bleary. He had adjusted his holster so that he could sit more comfortably; his left hand rested upon the butt of the dark pistol at his hip. He pulled a last drag on an unfiltered cigarette, then threw the soggy butt on the wooden floor between his feet. The number of discarded cigarettes around him indicated he had not moved from the chair since at least the night before. But morning sunlight now slanted through the wooden-framed window and cast his face in glaring white light.
Soldiers walked up and down the hallway outside the double doors, their anxious voices adding urgency to the air. There wasn’t panic, but it was close, with the sound of violent artillery thunder constantly in the air. With every rumble, the windows shuddered from the percussion of the Russian fire. No one spoke to Müller, leaving him alone in his chair.
Another roll of thunder vibrated the picture window that looked upon the east lawn, and the Schutzstaffel officer couldn’t help but turn toward the sound. The rumble was so powerful he thought it might shake the glass right out of its frame. The Russians were very close. His dark eyes glinted with cold emotion and he cursed violently.
His command sergeant stood at attention five feet to his right, waiting for his commander to speak. Sergeant Fisser held his metal helmet underneath his arm, and a rifle was strapped across his back. He had been waiting for more than ten minutes. He wearily shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The room was uncomfortably hot from a large fire blazing in the fireplace, and he quickly wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Fire is a curious thing,” Müller said.
Fisser didn’t answer.
“Yes, it brings warmth on winter days, but it has a dark side as well.”
Fisser turned his eyes toward the sizzling fire.
“What a horrible way to die,” Müller concluded.
“It is, sir. And I’m sorry.”
Müller took a drag. “Which squad lost the emergency bag?” he asked. He kept his eyes straight ahead as he talked.
“Fouling squad, sir.”
“And when was the equipment taken?”
“We think that it was yesterday, sir. It was discovered when the squad inventoried their equipment and ammunition.”
“Losing a weapon upon the battlefield is a serious offense, isn’t it, Command Sergeant?”
The sergeant clicked his heels. “I am certain that the men are aware of the penalties, sir.”
“So the rebel has a weapon?”
“It is a possibility, sir.”
“It is not a mere possibility, Command Sergeant, it is a fact. So now I have to ask myself, how many of my men are going to die because we couldn’t secure our own weapons?”
Fisser clicked his heels again.
“Identify the man who is responsible for this failure,” Müller said. “See that he is punished. I leave it up to you to determine the method, but you will report your decision back to me.”
The sergeant’s expression became incredulous and his lips grew tight. He glanced toward the booming sound outside the window, then turned back to his commander and swallowed hard. A long moment of silence passed. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” he finally asked.
The colonel reached down, lifted a china cup, and touched the hot liquid to his lips. After placing the cup back on the table, he answered dryly, “Permission granted.”
“Colonel Müller, forgive me, but I don’t think a single weapon is the greatest of our concerns.”
Müller picked up the cup and sipped at it again. Fisser moved his helmet from one hand to the other. “Sir, again, if I could?”
Müller lifted a dismissive hand to silence him, held it for a long moment, then dropped it to his lap and nodded his consent.
“Sir, we have been given orders to retreat.”
Müller almost hissed. “The German army does not retreat!”
Fisser quickly caught himself. “Of course not, sir. I apologize. We have been ordered to reassemble.”
“The German army does not retreat!” Müller hissed again. He paused, breathing deeply. A moment of silence passed. “And remember, there is the operation against the Allies in the Ardennes. Half a million of our brothers fight there. It may prove to be the battle that turns the tide. But if not, we will reassemble and continue the fight.”
Fisser hesitated, then shook his head, seeming to make a fateful decision. “Sir, the German army has been reassembling for about a thousand miles now. We have to prepare to defend the Fatherland. That’s the only thing that matters now.”
Müller jumped instantly to his feet, china crashing to the floor. He moved with surprising speed toward the sergeant, stopping only inches from his face. “It is not the only thing that matters!”
Fisser took a few steps back. Müller glared at him in rage. A long moment passed. Müller finally turned back to his chair, kicked away the broken china, and sat down, staring back into the fire.
Fisser took a careful step toward him. “Sir.” His voice was soft and submissive. “We cannot face the Russians. Not with the few men we have. If we delay here another day, every one of us will die here.”
“We stay. We still have rebel forces in the area.”
“We have a single member of the resistance,” Fisser argued. “That is not a rebel force, sir.”
“I will not betray the Fatherland. I will not betray my Führer.”
The sergeant stared at him, dumbfounded. The thought of being captured by the Russians had suddenly given him a great deal of nerve. “Sir, you cannot ignore the general’s orders.”
“I don’t care who gave us orders. We will not reassemble until our mission is complete.”
A moment of silence followed. “Sir, you know what the Bolsheviks do to captured SS officers: the torture, the insides pulled out. Would you do that to your men?”
Müller lit another cigarette, then turned to glare at Fisser. “We will face that when it happens. And if it does, you will not save one bullet for yourself. You will fight them till your magazine is empty, and then you will stand and take the consequences like a man.”
The sergeant closed his eyes. He knew it was decided, even if it meant the death of them all. He kept his head down for a moment, a look of resignation on his face. The room was quiet except for the occasional pops from the fire and the deep-throated rumbles against the window.
Hearing something new, the sergeant glanced toward the east. Occasional bursts of short thund
er were now mixed among the deep artillery fire. The colonel turned toward the window, following the sergeant’s eyes.
“German tanks firing to cover our…reassembly,” the sergeant said.
The colonel listened a moment, then threw his cigarette on the floor. He waved a hand toward the village. “I’m supposed to believe a Devil stood among them and no one even noticed?”
“We searched the area. We talked to everyone we could find. No one remembered seeing him.”
“Of course they saw him. Of course they knew he was a rebel. And someone knows where he went.”
“Sir, we could bring some of them in for questioning.”
“What does it matter now?” Müller snapped. “Any information would be hours old.” He stood and moved to a map that had been pinned to the wood-paneled wall and stared at it angrily, then glanced toward the door. “Fool of a beggar,” he sneered. “Bring him in.”
The sergeant moved quickly to the door and pulled it back. The old man was waiting, sheer terror in his eyes. The sergeant pulled him into the room and Zarek fell forward, landing on his knees. He didn’t try to stand. He didn’t talk. He kept his head down, awaiting his execution. The SS colonel stepped to him and pulled his head back to look into his eyes. “I asked you to do one simple thing, and you have failed me. Now what am I to do with you, my friend?”
“Sir, I swear he was in the church.”
“But he is gone. And I have nothing.”
Zarek looked like he might throw up on the floor. “I thought he was going to stay the night there,” he sobbed, dirty tears sliding down his cheeks. “I had to come and tell you that I had found the rebel.”
“But we don’t have the rebel. We don’t have him because he wasn’t where you promised he would be.”
The man sobbed again and the SS officer grabbed him by the coat, lifted him up, and threw him against the wall. The old man pressed his face against the dark paneling as if he were trying to melt into the wood. The colonel pulled him back and jabbed a finger at the map. “Look at this!” he sneered. “You know your people. You know how they think. You know this area. Now look at this map and tell me where he would go!”
Winter Sky Page 8
