Magda was efficient, especially when it came to bullet wounds. One day there had been so much blood, so much anguish, and she recognized that one soldier would bleed out. She grabbed her dagger, undid the man’s tunic, cleaned out the wound, and dug into it to retrieve the bullet. Afterward, she cleaned and sealed his shoulder. Ula and Natalia praised her, and Magda had told them about Dr. Tauber, told them—as they smoked together—about the models of the heart and the brain and the organs in Dr. Tauber’s office and how much she had enjoyed examining them. Magda stopped short of talking about the circumcision kit, and not because she had pushed her way through the cloud, which the third shot of vodka had created, but because of the past and the guilt those memories brought had choked Magda up. She had vowed long before to never cry again. Tears were wasted in war.
For the first few months, she also told herself love would be a waste as well. She was usually located far behind the fighting troops, but when she saw the bodies being carried and transported, when she knew that the men had been deployed to the front or sent to a skirmish, Magda could not sleep. She tossed and turned, worried about Karol the entire time and became so anxious that she told him she no longer wanted anything to do with him. They could remain friends, but the idea of losing yet another person who had become so close to her was more than she could bear. It was easier if they maintained a distance.
Karol, however, had his own ideas about how to handle Magda’s insecurities. In the late spring of ’43, he yanked her out of the makeshift hospital and led her to a field where several soldiers—thanks to a raid—had found munitions and weapons and were practicing firing. Karol’s hair was shorn away, his body lean and hard beneath the half-opened tunic, and his cinched trousers accented his hunger.
“It’s time to make you into a real warrior, Magda. It’s time you learned how to take control and defend yourself. I believe you will feel better if you learn how to use this properly.”
Magda walked away.
Sometime later, the division enjoyed a rare respite. They were all together in a small village, the willows iridescent green, the blue brooks meandering into the horizon. The villagers held a dance, but Magda avoided Karol, and she was never more miserable in her life. She smoked and drank and then she lured a Russian field soldier into the woods. She climbed on top of the man, and when he tried to take over, Walter swam before her face. She dug her nails into the man’s shoulders, raked them across his chest, and bit him on the upper arm, drawing blood.
The Russian screamed, threw her off of him, and walloped her with the back of his hand. With his trousers halfway around his ankles, he fled the forest, calling her a crazy whore.
Magda put her hand on her face, her left cheek throbbing—alive!—and laughed, wide mouthed and silent, her entire body shaking. She wondered—not for the first time—how she had become all this.
That event, however, made an impression on the field soldier and the men in his četa. Her reputation proceeded her as the rumors were passed on from one squad to the next. Magdalena Novák was not someone to mess around with—she was to be avoided at all costs. She was touched, not right in the head. She might be fun and she might be able to drink you under the table, but she would likely cut your manhood off if she could. To this Magda almost had to smile. The irony of that rumor was hers and only hers to appreciate.
A week later, certain she had no other choice but to accept her pariah status, she coolly watched Karol as he approached her nurses’ station. She expected him to be angry, jealous, broken. Anything. He was disheveled and had not shaved his beard, but instead of words of reprimand, he swung his rifle off his shoulder and thrust it at Magda.
“We’re pushing west,” he said. “And the Americans are moving east. This war is going to end, and I feel it will be sooner than later. Are you ready to show them what they really have to fear? It’s time to live up to your reputation, Warrior Queen.”
She opened her mouth. She stared at the rifle. She did not want this war to end. She did not want to face the woman she was at the other end of it.
Magda followed him onto the range, ran with him, trained with him, and made friends with the other women who had also volunteered to fight. Within a few weeks, Magda earned the right to be outfitted and sent on her first detail. Winter was around the corner again, and she felt she had only begun to recover from the previous one. At first she was assigned to simple things: scouting out a ridge. Reporting how many tanks, how much artillery, how many soldiers. Return to base, report, and then go sit down and let the men do the fighting. But when there had been a surprise attack on their division, Magda whipped up her rifle and ran headlong into the battle.
A grenade exploded to her left, and it sent her flying into the air. She met the ground again, the wind knocked out of her, and rolled away from the crush of soldiers. Next to her, just a few feet away, lay Karol’s closest companion, another Jew, quite a bit younger and someone Karol had taken under his wing. The boy lay with his torso separated from the rest of him, his eyes wide with fright and rapidly losing their life light. His mouth opened and closed like a fish stranded on a river bank. Magda crawled to him, lay an arm across him, and held him next to her until he passed. Nothing else in the world mattered more than holding on to him. They could have killed her, she knew. A German running by her could have taken aim at her head and simply killed her. Instead, they had either ignored her or had assessed that she and the twisted body of the boy were simply two more casualties in this hell of a war.
The mission Magda was going on was for the purposes of obtaining information. Uncertain whether the guesthouse owner or the Germans themselves were setting a trap, the commander instead arranged to send three of the commander’s women to work in the kitchen under the pretense—as he and the guest house owner decided—that the women were hired from the village to come and cook. They would serve the meal and drinks and extract as much information as possible. When the commanders approved Magda, Ula, and Natalia as that team, Karol followed Magda to her dugout.
“You’ll be recognized,” Karol pleaded. “I can’t believe that he’s given up on you so easily.”
“It’s been two and a half years,” Magda said. “And a few officers on the run are not going to be interested in arresting Koenig’s stupid housemaid.”
“You’re underestimating the situation,” Karol said.
“Am I really?”
“Yes.” He stroked her chin and lifted it, but she pulled back. His lips quivered. He had promised to respect her wishes, to simply be friends. “You’re not a stupid housemaid—that’s all I meant.”
She wanted to kiss him as badly as he must have wanted to kiss her. Instead, she walked away. Again.
For years he had been the only person she had turned to. She had clung to him, and she knew that—if anything happened to him—she would die.
“Magda!” He was chasing after her. “Magda, stop!”
In his hand was her brother’s revolver. “Listen, if you’re going to be with those bastards”—he rubbed a hand over the scruffy beard—“I just think it’s time you learn to shoot at close range.”
Magda glared at him. Hated that twitching smile trying to break through. Hated those elegant arched eyebrows. Hated that look of victory on his face.
She snatched the revolver out of his hand and walked into the woods. “From here on in,” she called ahead of her, “everything moves forward.”
15
April 1945
“Magda.”
Magda smiled in her sleep. It was such a sweet dream.
“Magda, it’s time.”
She opened her eyes to Karol. The sky was barely light. She remembered where she was. She remembered what she had to do.
“I love you.” Karol kissed her forehead.
Still in the glow of her dream, Magda reached for his face and kissed him back. There would be time for regret later. Time to chastise herself for her weakness later. For now, she bathed in his light.
�
��Listen,” he said, “after this detail, I want you to join me. There’s a group of us who want to head west and join the Americans.”
Magda awoke. “Who?”
Karol took in a deep breath. “The rest of us Jews, here. We should have left with that unit when they asked.”
No. Safety in numbers. That was why they had survived so long. It was one of the reasons anyway. “Why do you want to go?”
Karol looked over his shoulder. “The division needs us like the Germans need their prisoners for menial labor. But, Magda, these people here? They’re not fighting for Czechoslovakia.”
He was echoing her own concerns about hidden—and conflicting—agendas.
“Karol, just wait. Wait until I come back and then we can talk. All right?”
He frowned but agreed.
Magda rose and dressed in the civilian clothing laid out for her and acquired for the mission. She tied the scarf beneath her chin to better cover up the birthmark. Karol helped Magda strap the revolver to her calf. Then she pulled on the boots and checked that the length of the skirt hem covered the tops. He handed her the fake identification papers.
“Anna Gąsienica, huh?” He winked.
She squeezed his hand. “I have to go. Natalia and Ula must already be waiting.”
Karol kissed her one more time. “Be careful out there.”
“You too.”
“You’re a hero, you know, my warrior queen.”
She closed her eyes. “I’m not.”
The booming and the rumble from the front was nothing new to Magda, except that this time she was truly heading into the eye of the storm and behind enemy lines. Accompanied by Ula and Natalia, Magda’s heart hammered in time to the artillery.
The chill from the night slowly evaporated. It was no later than eight when the three of them arrived at the guesthouse, located some miles outside of the nearest town surrounded by nothing but wide-open spaces, easy for any guards to see oncoming danger. It was a two-story house with beveled glass windows all the way around. The weathered shingles were dark with age. To the south, the Carpathians were a dark green. It was peaceful here. A cuckoo sang, the sun was out, the sky had just the slightest wisps of clouds. A picket fence surrounded the guesthouse yard. An apple tree, laced with white blossoms, shaded half the benches and tables set outside, still covered with dew. The other half were in the sun.
As Magda and the women approached, two field soldiers rose from the steps of the front porch.
“Papiere,” one ordered. He had such light eyelashes it made his eyes look alien. There was a little mole just above his lip.
Magda fished out her fake identification, and Natalia and Ula presented theirs. The guard told Natalia to raise her arms, and he frisked her. Then, in Polish, he asked whether she spoke German. Natalia shook her head.
Blood rushed to Magda’s head, and she felt dizzy. When the guesthouse owner burst outside, her insides jumped. His bushy mustache quivered. His beady eyes darted to the women and the soldiers.
“There you are, ladies!” He opened his arms, as if to herd the group of women in. “These are the girls I told you about,” he said to the soldier with Natalia. “They’re cooking the meal this evening for your officers.”
The second soldier tilted his helmet back, dark-brown eyes having long alighted on Magda with interest. He beckoned for Magda’s papers and examined them. Magda had to look away. His chiseled features made him exceptionally handsome, and there was something warm and lively about him. He seemed completely misplaced in this war, in his uniform. He should be playing soccer, or tennis, going out with girls, falling in love…
“Anna Gąsienica.” He looked up at her, still holding the identity papers. He smiled quickly, one eye narrowing as he looked at her face. “You speak German?”
She smiled stupidly.
“How did the other guy fare?”
She waited patiently, still pretending not to understand. “Your nose.” He touched his eye. “And that.”
Magda flushed. She cleared her throat. She raised her arms and looked down at the ground.
He chuckled, uncertain.
“Come on,” Natalia said, pushing past them. “We’re late as it is.”
The soldier handed Magda her papers back.
She stuffed them into her pocket and followed the owner and her friends up the stoop, still holding her breath. They entered the guesthouse through a spacious dining hall with wood-paneled ceilings. The scent of lemon oil was layered atop the lingering stink of stale beer and boiled sauerkraut.
The kitchen was at the back. Despite the residue of smells, it was neat and clean, meaning nothing had been prepared. There was a relatively large serving hatch that left the women unprotected should they need to speak to one another but would also help them to overhear the discussions. Their commander had warned them of this but had also delighted at the layout. Natalia would filter the Ukrainian information from the representatives of the Ukrainian Legion and their guards. Magda spoke German and would focus on what the Germans had to say. Ula was the only authentic Pollack to add to their cover. In either case, they were well-suited to the mission.
“How many are coming?” Ula asked the owner. She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and surveyed the workspace.
“Eighteen, maybe twenty.” The man’s nervousness grated on Magda’s own.
“And who are they?” Natalia asked.
“All lower ranks. The higher command wouldn’t risk coming this close to enemy lines. The Germans are meeting with a few officers from the Ukrainian Legion. The legion’s been helping the Nazis. They don’t want the Soviets to win, of course. Everyone’s pretty high strung. I wouldn’t be surprised if my guesthouse goes up in flames tonight. Your commander assured me that with you girls, it would not.”
“Uh-huh.” Ula inhaled and blew out a puff of smoke just to the left of the guesthouse owner’s face, then shot Magda a look. The man talked too much. “And you know all of this how?”
His cheeks reddened. “My, uh, my nephew joined the legion. We’re originally from Ukraine, see, and he thought…well, it doesn’t matter. Either way, he referred them all to me, and I—”
Natalia put her hands on her hips. “Our commander vetted you, but do tell us why you don’t support the Nazis yourself.”
His chin quivered. “The Germans have no…” He shrugged. “Scruples. I had a friend…” He looked pleadingly at the women, as if begging them to keep a secret. “He was Jewish.” He pointed to the countryside beyond the back of the house before turning back to them. “There was a village. A dozen or so families. They’re all gone now.”
Magda stepped forward, raised herself on tiptoe to be at his eye level. “And what did you do to help this Jew friend of yours?”
The man raised his palms and shook his head. “I couldn’t do anything before. You understand? Nothing. What could I do? But I’ve called you here now, haven’t I? To finally put an end to it?”
“We’ll see about that.” Magda moved her foot in her boot. Just to assure herself the revolver was still strapped to her calf.
There was nothing special about making spaetzle. Magda mixed the flour and eggs with water, let the dough stand a few minutes, and then pressed handfuls of mixture through the ricer and into a pot of boiling water. When they floated to the top, she fished them out with a rusted slotted spoon and piled them into a big bowl that sat on top of the oven.
Natalia worked on the cabbage rolls filled with barley and herbs. Ula pounded horse meat with a tenderizer that she would roast with the little lard they had. For soup, they had wild leek and potato.
The owner carried in a box of bottles. Beer and schnapps. The potions that would loosen and liquify tongues, at the very least among the patrols that would be here to protect the delegation, the ones who were more likely to give something away.
The three women were resolved to dislike the guesthouse owner, but that resolve melted when he arrived from the cellar with a few sausages and potatoe
s for them to boil for their own meal.
“What about dessert?” Natalia asked, after they had eaten.
Magda leaned back. “Dessert? Really?” She frowned at the sensation rising in her.
Ula stood and went to one of the cupboards. She reached in and removed a tin, opening it up and inhaling deeply. “I found some poppy seeds.”
Natalia huffed. “I don’t have butter, remember? I can’t bake a poppy-seed strudel without butter, and you need the lard.”
Magda, still fighting the tightening in her chest, pointed to a crate beneath one of the worktables. It contained browned pears and a few bruised apples. “Compote?”
Natalia smiled. “Perfect.” She blew Magda a kiss. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
Magda wiped away the stray tear. She frowned and hurried back to the stove to busy herself. “Nothing.”
“That’s not true. You’re crying.”
“I’m not.” Magda turned away. Why was she crying over dessert?
Ula came over and leaned against the stove, her arms crossed. She blew a strand of hair out her face and lit another cigarette. “It’s strange, isn’t it? This normalcy? To be cooking in a kitchen like this?”
Magda stared at her. That was it.
“We’ve accepted a lot of things as normal these days,” Ula said. “This”—she indicated the kitchen—“is not it anymore.” She pushed herself away, heading back to her station. “But it will be. Trust me.”
What a thought! Magda stared at Ula as she went back to work. Now the tears spilled over, and she needed quite some time to collect herself.
The light in the kitchen shifted and changed as Magda and the women worked. It must have been past two in the afternoon when she spotted a convoy of vehicles heading up the road. She scurried to the window, Ula and Natalia behind her.
Natalia pointed to the first four men who pulled up in a truck. “Those are the Ukrainians. See their armbands? The trident?” They also wore berets instead of the Wehrmacht caps.
The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII Page 46