‘Can anything else possibly go wrong? he muttered to himself.
Sensing his frustration, Zofia placed her hand on his knee, but it did little to ease his agitation. He jumped from the cart and walked along the queue, talking to the various tradesmen and other refugees; all victims of the traffic.
‘Apparently, the bridge has been washed away,’ a grizzled farmer said, sitting high up on a hay cart.
‘What? It hasn’t rained that hard!’
‘Oh, no! They say there has been a problem with the dam at Pomoroze. The whole valley is flooded. Hundreds of people have been killed.’
‘How awful.’ Viktor’s face saddened. ‘When do you think they’ll reopen the road?’
‘A soldier came by about half an hour ago. He said we’re going to be here for at least a couple of hours. They’re waiting for some engineers from Danzig to repair the damage.’
‘I’m trying to get to Olsztyn. Is there any other way through?’
‘I don’t fancy your chances. They say all the bridges around here have been knocked out by the flood. So, wherever you go, I suspect you’ll find the same problem.’
‘Thanks,’ he said despondently, trudging back to his cart.
Viktor walked back with his hands in his pockets, the weight of the world on his shoulders.
‘What is it?’ Zofia asked.
‘There’s been a flood. We’re going to be here for a few hours.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘What are we going to do now?’
‘Just wait, I suppose. There’s not much else we can do, is there?’
After an hour of waiting, the two boys were becoming restless and whined continually. To prevent the usual squabbles, Zofia suggested they should all go for a walk. Viktor declined immediately, saying he should stay with the cart. So, taking the two children by the hand, she headed into the trees at the side of the road.
Their shoes frequently disappeared as they struggled down the soft, muddy hill. Zofia held them tightly, stabilizing herself as they descended the slippery bank. Peter was the first to stumble, but she managed to pull him to his feet before he touched the ground. A couple of steps later, she caught her foot awkwardly and went over on her ankle, landing on her knees.
An expanse of fast-flowing water prevented them from going further. Standing at the water’s edge, Zofia took in the unusual scenery. The river was clearly much deeper than usual. Water submerged some of the trees and someone’s boot lay at her feet next to an unhinged cupboard door. Her thoughts turned to the bakery in Danzig. What state would it be in now? Would it even be standing?
Peter attempted to show Niklos how to skim stones on the river. The boy was unable to copy his older brother and was beginning to sulk. Peter tried to show him again, but the younger child’s pebble sank as soon as it made contact with the water. Niklos started to cry, so Zofia intervened.
‘Choose a long, flat one,’ she whispered.
The young boy scrambled around, trying to find a suitable stone.
‘No, that one’s too round.’
Niklos showed her another.
‘No. That one will be too heavy. What about this one?’ she said, pointing to a stone about the right size and shape.
He held it in his hand, about to lob it.
‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘The secret is to throw underarm, like this, so the stone just touches the surface and bounces.’
Zofia bent down, picking up another. Having not done this since she was a little girl, her recollections brought a smile to her face. She went through the motions of swinging her arm so Niklos could observe how to do it.
‘You try,’ she said encouragingly.
Concentration was etched over the little boy’s face. His tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth, firmly held between his teeth. Every sinew was focused on making this stone bounce. He planted his feet, then swung his arm as he had been shown. The stone hit the water, bounced once, before plopping under the surface. Niklos jumped up and down, cheering. The enthusiastic celebration was infectious. Soon the three of them were hugging each other joyfully.
‘Well done,’ said Zofia. ‘Now let’s see how many times you can make it jump.’
The boys scoured the ground for appropriate pebbles, while she sat on a rock, staring out across the river. More debris floated by—pieces of wood from a doorframe and, to Zofia’s surprise, an armchair bobbed past in the surging current.
‘Those poor people,’ she thought.
Niklos and Peter continued to skim stones on the water, unable to understand that the items floating down the river had belonged to someone.
After an hour, she decided it was time to head back. The road might be open.
‘C’mon you two, it’s time to go,’ she said.
‘Can’t we stay a few more minutes?’ asked Peter.
‘One more throw each and then we’re going.’
The two boys took their remaining turns before obediently taking their mother’s hands.
She took one last look at the river as the bloated body of an old woman floated past. The old lady was obviously dead, her body swollen and purple. The corpse had weed around its face, her leg grossly deformed. Zofia quickly looked at her children, but they were concentrating on climbing the hill and had not seen what was behind them. Silently holding their hands, she climbed back up to the road.
As they emerged through the trees, a large truck, emblazoned with Nazi insignia, headed for the front of the queue at speed. This was shortly followed by two troop transporters full of SS soldiers.
After the vehicles had passed, Zofia led the children towards the cart.
‘What have you been up to?’ Viktor asked the boys as they approached.
‘I’ve learnt how to skim stones,’ Niklos said proudly.
‘Well done,’ he said.
‘Mine skipped six times,’ bragged Peter.
‘Six?’ their father said with mock astonishment in his voice. ‘That really is clever.’
Viktor turned to Zofia, who was pale and shaken.
‘It looks as if they’re here to repair the bridge. Hopefully, we’ll be able to set off soon.’
She did not reply.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, noticing his wife’s demeanour.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said tearfully.
‘Is it the boys?’
‘No. I’ll tell you later when they’re asleep.’
He put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the forehead.
They sat in silence as the soldiers constructed a temporary bridge over the river. Every time Viktor tried to speak, she would close down the conversation, refusing to make eye contact. After two long, painfully quiet hours, the road reopened.
19
Daylight had begun to fade as the cart neared Olsztyn. Ahead, Viktor caught sight of the fields of his parents’ farm on the other side of the city. The boys lay in the back, hiding from the early-evening chill under a threadbare blanket. Famous for its surrounding lakes and forest, Olsztyn had been part of many different empires, but since 1932, it had been ruled by the regional Nazi Party. The Germans preferred to call it Allenstein, whereas the native Polish minority called it Olsztyn. There had always been cultural tensions, but he knew his family would be safer here.
To be honest, he had never understood why his parents had come here, leaving behind their family and lifelong friends. In his eyes, Danzig offered everything they could wish for. He could not comprehend why anyone would choose to leave. For one thing, Danzig was much more cosmopolitan, probably due to the port and the many foreign travellers it attracted. In comparison, Olsztyn somehow seemed sleepy and lethargic, a place for visiting rather than inhabiting.
‘Nearly there,’ he said to Zofia, who snuggled into his side as they plodded along.
‘I can’t wait. All I want to do is curl up in bed,’ she said, stifling a tired yawn.
‘I know what you mean,’ he smiled, stretching his aching shoulder
s. ‘But, it’s going to be a while before we can turn in for the night. The cart will need unloading, the horse will want feeding, then my parents will want to talk.’
‘I hope we’re not expected to stay up too long making polite conversation,’ she said. ‘I’m struggling to keep my eyes open as it is.’
‘You know what they’re like. We haven’t seen them in months, so they’ll want all the gossip, not to mention news of what’s happening in Danzig.’
Zofia rolled her eyes in frustration.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘You can sit with them while I get the boys settled for the night. That way we’ll get to sleep much quicker.’
‘Don’t you leave me on my own with them. They’re your parents. You talk to them, and I’ll put the kids to bed.’
Passing through the impressive high gate in the medieval wall of the city, they trundled along the cobbled streets. He could not help noticing the vast number of pro-Nazi flags decorating the houses and shop fronts. These were new; never before had he seen such strong expressions of German nationalism here.
As they lumbered along, Viktor gazed absentmindedly at the goods on display in the stores. First, there was a jeweller, next door to a greengrocer. At the end of the row stood a bakery, half the size of his premises back in Danzig. From its external appearance, it was making a kingly profit. He smiled to himself. When all this was over, if they had no house to return to, then maybe they could open up shop here in Olsztyn.
‘Viktor, look out!’ Zofia screamed.
A young woman wearing a bright red headscarf stepped into the path of the horse, pushing a pram in front of her. Pulling back hard on the reins, he caused Miedziak to veer to the left, making the cart mount the pavement. The woman continued across the street, blissfully unaware of the danger.
Viktor struggled to gain control, his forearms aching as he prevented them from fishtailing along the road.
‘Whoa, boy!’ he said, trying to calm the startled animal.
After a few nervous moments, he finally brought them to a halt. Leaving his seat, he started to pat the frightened horse.
‘You’re okay,’ he said, stroking the anxious horse’s neck. ‘Not long now, then you can have a well-deserved rest, eh?’
He stroked Miedziak for several minutes until he looked less agitated before starting the final leg of their journey.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Zofia said in hushed tones. ‘They didn’t wake up.’
Viktor checked over his left shoulder. The two young boys were cuddled together under a blanket, still soundly asleep.
‘They’ll soon be in warm beds, and then we can relax,’ he said.
She smiled, hugging his arm as they set off once more.
They passed the castle with its elaborate, round tower and continued through the inner heart of the city. The trees growing beside the road swayed in the gentle breeze, causing Viktor to instinctively turn up the collar of his overcoat. Half a mile on, the cart rounded a bend, bringing the impressive sight of St. Jacob’s cathedral into view, the last landmark before their destination. It gave him a tremendous feeling of relief.
With a jolt, they turned onto the driveway. Viktor’s parents appeared at the front door of the black and white farmhouse. His father was a tall, gaunt man who had been quite handsome in his youth. In contrast, his mother, a short, squat lady, wore many layers of clothing which exaggerated her rotund figure.
‘Hello, Mama,’ he shouted.
Zofia waved halfheartedly.
Woken by the voices, the two boys started calling out to their grandparents. Viktor brought the cart to a standstill next to the house. Instantly, the children jumped down and ran towards them. Niklos grabbed hold of his grandmother’s waist as Peter was hoisted aloft by his namesake grandfather.
‘Come inside,’ said Viktor’s mother, embracing her daughter-in-law. ‘Supper won’t be long.’
Zofia and the boys went into the house as Viktor and his father set about unloading the cart and settling the horse for the night.
‘How was the journey, son?’ the older man asked, carrying some of their belongings under his arms.
‘Awful,’ he said. ‘I can’t see us going back for a long time. We were lucky to get out alive.’
‘Were things really that bad? The newspapers said Danzig fell with little resistance.’
‘Don’t believe the propaganda you’re spoonfed by the press. The reason for the ‘little resistance’ was they bombed the city from the air,’ he said.
‘Thank God, you all escaped. It sounds terrible.’
‘It was truly awful,’ said Viktor, unhitching the horse.
The old man frowned as his son recited the horror of the last few days.
‘Zofia and I are worried about the boys. I mean, seeing all that, it’s bound to affect them, isn’t it?’
‘They seem okay to me,’ the old man said, not knowing what to say.
‘It was terrifying. Planes were swooping down and opening fire. I’m hoping they think it’s a bad dream.’
Viktor’s father placed his arm around his son’s shoulders and gave him an awkward hug before they unloaded the rest of the cart in silence.
Zofia popped her head around the door, leading to the kitchen.
‘Are you two ready to eat?’ she said, more of an instruction than a question.
‘Yes, we will,’ the older man said, waving to acknowledge her.
Viktor led the weary horse into one of the stalls in the stable block, making sure there was plenty of water and fresh hay before bolting the door.
Heavily laden with boxes, he staggered into the dimly lit kitchen and immediately felt at home. The fire burning in the range, the aroma of freshly baked bread, and his mother ladling steaming stew into bowls comforted him. He placed the items on the floor, taking a chair at the table next to Niklos.
‘Not before you’ve rinsed your hands,’ his mother said sternly.
The young boy sniggered as his father, pretending to be a naughty schoolboy, sheepishly walking over to the sink. After washing his hands ostentatiously, Viktor returned to his seat and caught Zofia’s eye. She smirked back. It was apparent who ruled the roost in this household. Once everyone was seated, the old lady tore a chunk from a flat, round loaf and then passed it to Zofia. This was an unofficial signal for the family to start eating without fear of reprimand.
The boys wolfed down their food, fighting over second helpings, while Zofia was less than halfway through hers. Despite the pleasant surroundings and a hot meal, all she wanted was to go to bed.
‘You look tired, my dear,’ Viktor’s father said.
‘You want to take better care of yourself in your condition,’ Viktor’s mother said before she could reply.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t solve.’
‘Well, your beds are ready,’ his mother said. ‘I put hot water bottles in them about an hour ago. They’ll be just right by now.’
‘Sounds heavenly,’ Zofia said.
‘Viktor, I’ll need some help in the morning,’ his father said, changing the subject. ‘I need to butcher one of the pigs.’
‘It’s been a while since I’ve done it, but I’m sure between us we can do it,’ he said, placing a large piece of soup-soaked bread into his mouth.
They washed up while his parents put the children to bed. His father told the story of three brothers—Lech, Czech, and Rus—and their encounter with an eagle. Peter and Niklos’ heads started nodding quickly before they drifted off to sleep.
‘I think we’ll go up now,’ he said, hanging a tea towel over the fire guard.
‘Of course, you know where everything is, don’t you?’ his mother said.
‘Thanks, Mama.’ Zofia kissed her on the cheek.
Viktor walked upstairs, carrying a solitary candle on a wax-encrusted stand. They popped their heads into the boys’ bedroom, relieved to find them fast asleep, then walked across the landing to their own room.
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br /> After changing into her nightclothes, Zofia washed in the bowl on top of a chest of drawers. She pulled back the bed covers, removed the hot water bottle, and wriggled under the eiderdown.
‘Night, my love,’ she said, as Viktor unfastened his shirt buttons. ‘How nice is it to have a roof over our heads again.’
‘It certainly is,’ he said, stepping out of his trousers.
He leaned down and kissed her on the lips, but she was already asleep.
‘Sweet dreams,’ he whispered.
20
The flooding hampered everything. Roads were rendered impassable, and most of the telephone lines were down. Thankfully, the line connecting Pomeroze with Malbork had been restored. Roehm had made it a priority. There had been no further sightings of the British soldiers. It was as if they had disappeared from the face of the earth. He kept replaying the events of the last few days in his head, attempting to recall any clue to where they could be hiding. A thought hit him: Maybe they had linked up with a Polish militia group? Perhaps they were going to be smuggled out of the country? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. They must be getting help from someone locally; it would explain why they had vanished.
Reaching for the phone, he waited patiently for his call to be connected. He had appointed Kruse to lead the search. Having pulled strings with Wehrmacht High Command, Miro had been given the job repairing the damage caused by the flood.
‘Kruse, it’s Roehm. Has there been any more contact with the British soldiers?’
‘Unfortunately not, Sir,’ the familiar voice answered.
‘Do you think some of the locals could be shielding them?’
‘I guess so. We should start door-to-door searches in the villages around here.’
‘I want every house, factory, and outbuilding searched,’ he said. ‘It might be worth having a chat with the local police too. They’ll be able to tell you who the sympathisers are. I think you should pay them a visit.’
The Danzig Corridor Page 15
