She sat in the cockpit with her face leaning on her arms. She took this moment of cool silence to play over in her head the end of her twin brother’s life. Leopold’s bright face, flushed pink with success and pride as his comrades roared their thanks. The way Leopold had swung down from the cockpit of the P‑11 fighter with such easy confidence. The brutal SS officer and the sudden gunshot …
And the terrible speed of that shot. Leopold might not even have had time to realise what was about to happen to him.
At least it was painless, Kristina told herself. At least it was fast.
But she got no comfort from that thought.
Now she was nagged by the practical demands of her aircraft. Kristina knew she needed to check to make sure the plane’s undercarriage and control surfaces hadn’t been harmed in her hasty take‑off. Ripe apples from the nearby trees could keep her going for the rest of the day. It meant she could check the plane, eat and rest, and then try to get some sleep. She didn’t think she had the strength to take off again before tomorrow morning.
Kristina raised her head from her arms and straightened up.
The back of her head met a point of hard metal with a bang. For half a second, Kristina thought it was some rod or strut in the aircraft’s structure that had come loose and hit her.
Then a gruff voice said, “Put your hands up.”
Kristina realised that someone in the cockpit behind her was holding a gun to her head.
Kristina knew that no one could have climbed into the plane since she’d landed. The armed soldier must have been there all along.
One of the Nazi soldiers must have climbed into the plane right behind her at Birky. He had hidden in the rear cockpit and kept his head down during her entire getaway flight. He only dared to confront her now they were safely on the ground.
This was it, then. She’d seen how fast the Nazis executed people. There was no point in fighting. Kristina raised her empty hands above her head.
“Stand up,” the soldier ordered.
It wasn’t easy to stand in the cockpit. Kristina struggled to balance her feet between the rudder pedals in the tight space below the pilot’s seat. She felt the soldier move the barrel of the gun away from her head and reposition it in the small of her back.
Kristina froze, her breath shaking now. A shot in the head would be fast and painless. But a shot in the lower back would mean a slow and agonising death. She didn’t dare to move or even to speak.
“Are you …” the voice behind her started, the tone rising oddly higher. It almost sounded as if it was a different speaker. Then the gruffness returned, and the soldier asked, “Are you armed?”
Kristina remembered the last time she’d held her pistol, when she’d been sheltering behind the oil drum.
“In my tunic pocket,” she croaked. “The right pocket.”
She felt the soldier fish around in her pocket and snag the pistol from her tunic.
Now she was completely defenceless.
“All right, get out,” the soldier ordered. “Get out of the plane.”
She felt the gun at her back fall away. Kristina sucked in a sobbing breath of relief, then braced herself with her hands against the sides of the cockpit. She got her feet up on the pilot’s seat and turned to lower herself over the side of the plane. It was then that she saw her attacker for the first time.
He stood in the rear cockpit pointing both guns at her.
He wasn’t a Nazi soldier.
He was a child.
CHAPTER 10
The young boy wore a school tie and blazer. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old – if that. He had black hair and green eyes that glinted like emeralds, and the whitest face Kristina had ever seen. The knuckles of his hands on the guns were also white with strain, but the hands themselves were chapped raw and red.
Those hands that held the heavy pistols didn’t shake. The boy was as steady as a rock. And the look on his dirty face wasn’t desperate, it was grim.
Kristina jumped from the plane and her feet hit the ground. She stood back, still holding her hands above her head to show her submission, and looked up at her attacker. This boy might not have been a Nazi soldier, but he was still aiming two pistols at her from a metre away. Kristina thought he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her as surely and swiftly as an SS officer – if he decided he had to.
“What do you want?” Kristina asked.
“I want to get to England,” the boy said.
If Kristina hadn’t been so stunned with grief and fear, she’d have laughed.
“The best I can probably do is get you out of Poland,” Kristina said. “I’m heading for Romania. But if you want to fly there in this plane, you’d better not shoot me.”
The boy lowered the pistols, and Kristina lowered her arms.
She took a long, deep breath. The boy wasn’t shaking, but Kristina was. She didn’t want him to notice, and she dared to put her hands in the pockets of her tunic to hide them.
“Who are you?” Kristina asked.
“My name’s Julian Srebro.”
His voice was clear and youthful now. He’d been putting on the gruffness on purpose to fool her so he could disarm her. He was short and slender and small boned, and looked so light that Kristina thought she could sit on him in a fight – if he wasn’t armed with two loaded guns.
“How did you get in my plane?” Kristina asked.
Julian frowned at her, as if she were asking a stupid question. “Climbed in last night while it was dark,” he said. “And I couldn’t get out this morning because of the battle.”
“I mean, where did you come from?” Kristina said.
Julian spoke through his teeth, his voice now choking with rage and grief. “My father is – was – the headmaster at the Birky Language School and my mother was … was Head of English. When the Germans came through the village yesterday, they just chucked everybody out of the school – like rat‑catchers clearing a barn. They kicked the younger students out into the street and then took the fifth and sixth forms and the staff out on the playing field and shot them.”
He was bitter and matter‑of‑fact as he continued, “They shot all of them. All the senior students and all the teachers, the dinner ladies and the boiler man – everybody. The younger kids watched through the fence. And then the Germans piled the bodies into a flat‑bed lorry, and they shot at the little kids who ran after them.”
Kristina felt her eyes going wide with horror. She’d heard terrible things about what the Nazi invaders did to Polish civilians, but this was the most horrendous thing she’d heard yet.
“How did you get away?” Kristina asked softly.
“I was hiding in my dad’s office in the main building while it was going on,” Julian said. “Dad saw the smoke, and the trucks coming up the drive, and sent me with his keys to get things out of his desk – the gun and … and other things. He told me to get out if he didn’t come back, and to go to England. We’ve got family there. Dad told me I should run to the airstrip – the school wall ends just by the field there. He thought the airmen might help me.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at Kristina from the rear cockpit of the RWD‑8. “Airwomen,” he added. “Whatever. My dad was a pilot too – in the last war. There weren’t any women flying back then. But you seem to know what you’re doing.”
“How old are you?” Kristina asked.
Julian murmured something that she couldn’t hear. Whatever he’d said – fourteen, maybe, or fifteen – she could tell that he was lying.
Then he startled her by saying defiantly and loudly, “I’m eleven.”
Julian had changed his mind and told her the truth.
“You were there while the battle was going on,” Kristina said. “Did you see our P‑11 fighter ram the Luftwaffe Messerschmitt?”
“Yes,” Julian said. “I was already hiding in this plane by then, but I could look up and see what was going on in the sky.”
“So
you didn’t see what happened after that?”
Kristina waited for Julian to answer, but he didn’t say anything, so she told him.
“The Germans executed our pilot just after he landed.”
“What did you expect them to do?” Julian asked.
“The pilot was my twin brother,” Kristina told him. “Leopold Tomiak.”
Julian was silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. “So you understand me,” he said. “You’re alone now too.”
Kristina swallowed. She turned away and tried to think.
She couldn’t leave this boy by himself here in the middle of nowhere.
Kristina had expected to go to Romania with Leopold to rejoin the Polish Air Force in exile. She still meant to stick to that plan, and it didn’t include taking an eleven‑year‑old orphaned refugee. But she’d have to help Julian get out of Poland, to Romania, where he’d be safe from the invading German Army. Then she’d have to get rid of him.
“Give me back my gun,” Kristina said.
Julian gazed down at her from his place in the rear cockpit. “All right,” he said in a low voice.
Julian climbed out of the plane. It wasn’t easy – in addition to the two guns, Julian had a school satchel that got in his way. Kristina held her breath, afraid he’d shoot her – or even himself – by accident. But Julian made it safely to the ground and gave Kristina back her pistol. She took it, put it away and held out her empty hand.
The boy hesitated. Then he reached out and shook Kristina’s offered hand carefully. His fingers felt cold and small. Touching his skin made Kristina realise with a jolt how young – and how alone – he really was.
There was no sound but birdsong and the rustling of the leaves of the apple trees overhead in the wind.
“I guess we’re going to have apples for dinner,” Kristina said. “I’m going to need more fuel to get to Romania, and I don’t want to waste the afternoon hunting for it only to get stuck at another airfield that’s under siege. I can’t fly at night, so we’ll wait till tomorrow morning to look for fuel.” She saw the flaw in her plan even as she spoke. “I guess that’s a gamble too – maybe there won’t be any place left that hasn’t fallen to the Germans. But if I take off now, I’m worried I’ll fall asleep in the air. So we’ll have to spend the night here. It won’t be very comfortable, but I think the best thing to do is to try to sleep in the plane—”
“Oh!” Julian interrupted. “You said ‘we’?”
“I’m not going to leave you here,” Kristina snapped.
Julian let out a heavy sigh of relief. “So I can come with you?” he said. “Thank you, Miss … Miss Tomiak, right?”
Kristina wasn’t going to be won over by his exaggerated politeness. “I’ll take you out of Poland,” she said. “Don’t expect me to fly you to England. And it’s Lieutenant Tomiak to you.”
“You haven’t got a pilot’s badge,” Julian pointed out.
Kristina answered him with her teeth clenched. “That’s because my brother was wearing mine when they shot him.”
Julian said nothing for a moment. Then, to her surprise, he gave her a salute, and said, “Thank you, Lieutenant Tomiak.”
CHAPTER 11
Kristina slept badly. She was cramped and cold and uncomfortable in the pilot’s cockpit of the RWD‑8. She dozed and woke and dozed again to hideous dreams of Leopold and blood.
Julian wasn’t awake by the time it was finally light enough for her to take off the next morning. He was sleeping like a brick in the seat behind Kristina. He was so much smaller than she was that he could curl like a kitten behind the control column. Kristina was envious of his small child’s ability to sleep anywhere, a knack she’d lost at least five years ago.
She waited for Julian to wake up. She couldn’t force herself to disturb him. But he slept on and on. Kristina grew nervous. She needed to get moving – she needed to know what was happening outside this orchard full of birdsong. She stuffed her pockets with apples for later and started up the plane without waking the boy.
After flying for a short time, Kristina came to a road. Below her, a steady stream of buses and cars and horse‑drawn wagons were fleeing south, trying to get out of Poland as the German Army invaded. She realised how lucky she was to be in the air.
After she’d flown for another fifteen minutes, she came to the railway line that led to Lvov. Now she knew where she was – most of the way to Stanislavov. Still in Poland, but maybe the Germans hadn’t reached this far south yet. Kristina gave a yell of excitement when she spotted the Stanislavov Flight School airfield and saw three RWD‑8s just like hers parked on the grass below.
“YES!”
Finally one thing had gone smoothly. She needed fuel, and here was the peaceful Stanislavov airfield full of Polish planes and maybe fuel as well. Kristina glided down onto the grass. A few people gathered in front of the clubhouse to watch as she landed.
She didn’t really want to have to explain Julian to them, so she parked her plane a good distance away from the building and the other planes. Kristina shut down the engine and turned around to see the boy sitting up in the rear cockpit. His green eyes glinted in his pale, smudged face.
“Keep your head down,” Kristina told Julian. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be carrying a stowaway. I have to go and see if I can find us some fuel, and I don’t want a little kid tagging along behind me.”
“Are we out of Poland yet?” Julian asked as he slid down so that his head was below the rim of the open cockpit. Now he couldn’t be seen by anyone outside the plane.
“No,” Kristina said. “We need to get fuel first. And they might not have any here.”
“And they’ll make you pay for it if they do, right?” Julian asked.
“Wow, I hope not!” Kristina said. She hadn’t even the smallest copper change – there was nothing in her pockets but apples and her pistol. “They’re supposed to be stockpiling supplies for the Air Force so that they can retreat.”
“And you’re the Air Force,” Julian remarked.
He didn’t add “what’s left of it”. But Kristina knew Julian was thinking it. His desperate attempt at humour reminded her painfully of Leopold.
“I’m the Air Force,” Kristina agreed.
She reached back and handed Julian a couple of apples from the orchard. The morning was half gone, and she guessed he was hungry.
“Present from the Air Force,” she said. “A bit late. At least they’re sweet.”
To her surprise, Julian’s face lit up. He gave her a wonderful beaming half smile, as if she’d done something really thoughtful.
“Just a sec – don’t go yet …” Julian said, and stuffed the apples in the pockets of his blazer. He rooted around in his school satchel for a minute, then held out one red chapped hand in a closed fist and pressed something into Kristina’s palm.
“Present from the Birky Language School,” Julian said.
She opened her hand. He’d given her two chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil.
“Chocolate and apples!” Kristina said. “Best breakfast you’ll get till the war is over.” She put the coins in her pocket. “I’m going to find out if I can get fuel. You stay here.”
She climbed out of the RWD‑8 and warned Julian, “Don’t let anyone see you.”
CHAPTER 12
There weren’t many people about. Kristina couldn’t tell if that was because the retreating Polish Air Force hadn’t arrived yet or because they’d already left. The men who’d come out to watch her land looked grim and tired but also curious. There were three tanker lorries parked behind the three RWD‑8s.
Kristina approached the small group of mechanics. They studied her, recognised her uniform, and one of them put out a grubby hand for her to shake. His unshaven young face peered out from under the shadow of his cap’s visor.
“Hey there!” Kristina said. “What’s the news?”
“Welcome!” the mechanic said. “Everyone else seems to have been shot dow
n, and these flight‑school planes of ours aren’t of any use – they can’t fly far. We’re just about to drive these lorries over the border and out of Poland ourselves, to stop the fuel being snatched up by the enemy when they get here.”
“You’ve got fuel, then?” Kristina said, hugely relieved.
“Not to waste on your dinky RWD‑8, we don’t,” the mechanic said. “If you’d brought us a P‑11 fighter, it would be another story. You can come with us in the lorries if you want.”
“Are you meeting up with an Air Force unit in Romania?” Kristina asked.
The mechanic rolled his eyes. “Where have you been?” he asked. “Nobody’s meeting up in Romania. That was yesterday. Ah well, we probably have the last working radio set in Poland, so not everybody’s heard the news. This morning the Russians joined forces with Germany and invaded us from the east. They’ll probably get here later today. All our defences have collapsed. We’re finished.”
It seemed like the end of the world.
Kristina was so stunned she couldn’t speak. The young mechanic added, as if trying to give her a grain of good news, “Anyone who can get to France is supposed to regroup there.”
“France!” Kristina gasped, finding her voice again. It was the other side of Europe, thousands of kilometres away. “What about Romania? How is everyone supposed to get to France?”
“Slowly, I guess,” the mechanic said. “If we can get across Hungary, the Polish embassy in Budapest is issuing new passports to help us get to France. And the Romanian and Hungarian authorities are organising refugee camps for Polish evacuees where we can wait.”
Kristina guessed what those foreign refugee camps would be like: disorganised, lots of forms, terrible food. Worse than being part of the retreating army. The chances were low of getting quickly to the Polish embassy in the Hungarian capital city of Budapest, especially without her own plane.
The mechanic had offered to drive her over the Polish border. Would he be willing to take Julian along too?
White Eagles Page 3
