That was good for a big belly laugh among the guards, and another flurry of words. Stanislaw listened again and translated for Corey: “This one who speaks now, he is angry that he gave some schnapps—schnapps, that is a drink—to one of the prisoners. Because now there is none left. And the next guard . . . he is saying, he should go back and squeeze it out of the prisoner.”
That drew the biggest laugh of all.
“That’s disgusting,” Corey said.
“Yes.” Stanislaw’s face was deep red. The veins in his neck stood out like ropes. Now Corey could hear the soft thump of footsteps coming nearer. He began to raise his head but Stanislaw pushed him down. “Nein!” he said, in a voice barely a whisper. “This man is coming here . . . he said he needs to pee.”
Stanislaw’s teeth were clenched tight now. His eyes stared at the wall so hard that he could almost imagine them burning a hole through it. “I want him to suffer here,” he murmured. “He must know what it feels like.”
“Wait,” Corey whispered. “You wouldn’t try to do anything, right? They’ll hear you!”
“Ja, ja.”
Corey tried to stay as small and quiet as he could. His breaths and Stanislaw’s rose in little white puffs. They both tried to bury their mouths in their sleeves. The man was singing now, way out of tune, getting louder and louder.
Corey stopped breathing. He eyed his dropped coins again, just outside the door. The guard was on the opposite side of the house. Directly beyond the wall now. Maybe six inches away. If Corey were to move across the room or sneeze, or if the guy decided to poke his head in through the window, he and Stanislaw would be dead meat.
The singing became a hum. And then, a shout from below: “Schwein! Mach schnell! Wir gehen! Es ist spät!”
“Ja, ja, ja . . .” the man replied, so close Corey felt his voice vibrating the wall.
The voices continued, growing fainter. Stanislaw made walking motions with his fingers and silently mouthed the words, They are going.
Corey heard the dull clinking of an unclasped belt buckle. The man’s hum became a whistle. Stanislaw drew himself into a crouch. He crab walked around Corey until he was under the window. Outside, the guard was relieving himself and enjoying the sound of his own shrill whistling. Stanislaw crouched, his eyes trained upward.
What was he doing? Corey tried to catch his glance. He shook his head as hard as he could. But as the guards’ voices dimmed, Stanislaw’s expression seemed to grow firmer.
Finally, like a gymnast, Stanislaw sprang upward and out the window. Twisting to the left, he wrapped his arms around the guard in a wrestling hold.
“Was ist . . . Hallo! . . ccccchh . . .” The man was choking, trying to get out of Stanislaw’s grip. Stanislaw planted himself and leaned back hard, lifting the guard off his feet and into the window opening. The guard tried to spread his legs to jam himself in the frame, but the old wood just splintered. The two men came crashing through, tumbling onto the floor.
With a superquick move, Stanislaw grabbed the pistol from the guard’s belt. Holding it in two hands, he stood and pointed it at the man’s head.
The guard stayed flat on his back, staring up at Stanislaw and Corey, his face ashen with fear and bewilderment. “Sie . . .” he said to Stanislaw.
Corey knew that word. You.
“Ah, he recognizes me,” Stanislaw said. “For the first time, he sees me as a human. What is my name? Wie heiße ich?”
The guard’s eyes went wide. “Ich . . . ich weiss nicht.”
“He doesn’t know. Of course.” Stanislaw cocked the gun. “Say my name. Sagen Sie meinen Name!”
The guard flinched. “Das kann ich nicht!”
“You—you’re not going to shoot him . . .” Corey said.
“The other guards walked off without him,” Stanislaw said. “As I said, they are not patient fellows. Even for each other.”
“They’ll hear the shot,” Corey said. “They’ll come back for him.”
“Perhaps,” Stanislaw replied. “Though it sounds like they have hurried away. Perhaps this is their joke, eh? They are so funny.”
He spat out that last word, jettisoning saliva into the guard’s face.
“Let’s just go!” Corey said.
But Stanislaw wasn’t budging. “I know his name,” he said, leaning down until the gun was inches from the man’s eyes. “Heinrich. He is one of the worst. He is the man who killed Oskar. He did it while yawning. To make the others laugh. This he likes to do very much. And now, listen—they laugh at you!”
Heinrich began to cry, pleading.
“What a surprise,” Stanislaw said. “You do have blood in your veins, yes? I wasn’t sure. I thought it was ice. Maybe now we shall spill it, for the men you slaughtered.”
As he translated that into German, Heinrich let out a squeal. “Nein . . . bitte! Die andere werden kommen.”
“The others will come, he says,” Stanislaw said. “Vielleicht nicht. Vielleicht sind Sie in ihren Augen nur ein Tier.” Perhaps not. Perhaps to them, you are no more than an animal. But I do not believe you are an animal, Heinrich. I believe you are a man. And so I will treat you like one. My name is Stanislaw. And I will give you something you do not deserve. It is called mercy.”
Rearing back with his right hand, he whacked Heinrich in the head with the butt of the gun. Hard.
With a grunt, the guard fell still.
Stanislaw shoved the pistol into his pocket. “We go,” he said. “We must be very far away when the pigs return.”
29
Corey followed Stanislaw out the door. He was climbing up the hill when he remembered his coins. Quickly he ran back and looked for them by kicking up the snow. One . . . two . . . three.
Perfect. That would be enough. He stooped to pick them up and shoved them back into his pocket. He would need them.
“Wait for me!” Corey cried out.
He caught up to Stanislaw at the top of the hill, where the forest thickened and they could easily hide if they needed to. The wind had picked up, whipping the snow from below their feet. The sunlight was dimming behind the clouds.
Stanislaw beat a twisted path through the trees. But it wasn’t until they’d been walking for a half hour that Corey saw he was limping.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Stanislaw stopped, breathing hard. He gazed tensely back in the direction of the shack. But they were way too deep into the trees to be noticed. “Yes, I am all right,” Stanislaw said. “Back in the camp, before we marched, they beat me. Because I gave my bread to a child.”
“They beat you for that?”
He took off his cap. Under it was a dirty, blood-soaked bandage. The wound was just above Stanislaw’s left ear, and the blood was outlined in a yellowish white.
Corey winced. “That’s getting infected.”
“Yes.” Slowly Stanislaw put his cap back on. “The Nazis are crazy. They know they are losing the war, and this makes them crazier. I know this. They are moving prisoners from place to place. To hide us. To hide their shame.”
“This will sound like a dumb question,” Corey said, “but can you tell me today’s date?”
Stanislaw thought for a moment. “February nineteen forty-five. Maybe fifth? Sixth? I do not know exactly.”
Corey nodded. Nineteen forty-five was the year the war ended. “This is going to work out. It will be over soon.”
“Yes, I believe so,” Stanislaw replied. “Sometimes I hear them talk. They are afraid. When we go to villages, I hear radio also. The Allies have learned about the camps. So the Nazis, they need to do something. The weak prisoners, they kill. But those of us who are strong, who can work, they march us from camp to camp. Already I have been to many. Theresienstadt, Auschwitz, Sachenhausen, Flossenbürg, Ganacker. Sometimes we go in trains, sometimes we march on foot. Each camp is worse than the other. I see my family shot, hanged. Why do I live? Because I am lucky. Nothing more. Yesterday we are in Traunstein, Germany. We stop at a farm. Th
is is where I meet a Resistance spy. I can tell by the eyes. I can always tell. Her name is Marlene. No one suspects. She milks the cows! She gives me a map, and I go to toilet to read it. But I stay a long time. Heinrich notices this. He comes into toilet to find me. And for this—for this I am beaten for second time.”
Stanislaw led Corey to a tree stump. He sat, quickly rolling up his right pant leg and rolling down his sock. “The fool,” Stanislaw said with a snort, pulling out a sheet of paper from inside his sock. “He did not see the map. I hid it.”
But Corey was staring at a sharp bulge above Stanislaw’s ankle. The skin around it was bright red. “That’s where the guy beat you?”
“With a metal pipe,” Stanislaw said. “He aimed higher. But I fell.”
Corey cringed. “It looks broken. I don’t know how you can put weight on it. Even looking at it hurts. How did you manage to pull that guard through the window?”
Stanislaw let out a low whistle. He covered his leg up again and stood. “It feels much better if I don’t see it.”
Corey knew he’d been given some kind of superpower. But for strength or bravery, nothing he’d done compared to his great-uncle Stanislaw.
They huddled over the map, trying to shield it from the wind and snow. It was hand drawn with teeny writing, in crazy detail. A path, drawn in deep red, led through the woods. Each turn was indicated with a landmark—a tree with an almost human shape, the ruins of a hut, a steep valley. The last part of the journey was along a river. The path ended at a big star, just beyond the forest. Over the star was the word KURTSTADT.
“I believe,” Stanislaw said with a smile, “we are on the right track. You see that, where I am looking? It is the first turn marked on the map.”
He pointed straight ahead. Looming over the forest was a tree that looked like it had been growing since the dinosaur days. Like some kind of gnarled, petrified, mutant tyrannosaur.
“From there, we go left,” Stanislaw went on. “And we follow. It is important to memorize this path.”
He ran his fingers along the paper from landmark to landmark. Corey concentrated hard, trying to commit it all to memory. Stanislaw pointed to the village at the end of the path, marked Kurtstadt.
“Here,” Stanislaw said, “is where Heinrich and the Nazi pigs were taking us. I was so happy. You see, in Kurtstadt the Resistance has set up a trap.”
“What are they trapping?”
“Not what. Who.” Stanislaw gave Corey a full smile for the first time. The sight of that smile hit Corey hard. It was his mom’s face in his great-uncle. “Kurtstadt is very . . . far from other places.”
“Isolated,” Corey said.
“Ja. Not many people know it is there. One of the Nazi officers, he was born there. So the Nazis believe this is a good place to hide from the Allies. They plan to gather in Kurtstadt and then make disguises.” Stanislaw shrugged. “In a short time, they plan to leave. They make their way across Europe to Atlantic ports. From there they board ships to South America. They feel they must do this or the Allies will capture them. In Brazil, in Argentina, they will get lost.”
“Can’t someone stop them?” Corey asked. “I mean, if you know about it—”
“Yes, mein Junge.” Stanislaw nodded. “I know something else, too. Something the Nazis do not know. You see, the Resistance has captured Kurtstadt. They set up shops, move in families, make a school—every person in the village is a Resistance member. Ha! This week, maybe next, Himmler and Göring arrive. Marlene believes Hitler will be with them, but she is not sure.”
Himmler. Göring.
Corey could still see their smug faces marching down the center aisle of the Bürgerbräukeller. And walking like a triumphant king, his failed art career long behind him, Adolf Hitler.
But that was 1939, and now it was already 1945. It was too late to save most of the lives Hitler destroyed. And way too late to turn him into a famous stage designer. But the war would still be going on for a few more months. The Nazis would be accelerating their murders in desperation. And Hitler would stay in power until he committed suicide. Because history showed that he did this. Which meant the plan at Kurtstadt was destined not to work.
And Stanislaw was destined to die there. Because of a mistake.
But destiny could be changed. Until now, Kurtstadt had never had a Throwback. And mistakes could be reversed.
“I’m on board with this,” Corey said. “I am so on board.”
Stanislaw let out a triumphant laugh, carefully folding the map and putting it in his pants pocket. As he stepped forward, he nearly fell. Corey grabbed his arm, but Stanislaw brushed him off. “I will be fine,” he said. “Being in Kurtstadt to see Herr Hitler’s face—this gives me strength.”
The big guy was moving a lot slower, so Corey stayed close. Stanislaw’s wool cap was changing color now, too. The blood from his first beating was seeping through, and his face was growing paler.
The next landmark was a battered, roofless old hut, not unlike the one where they had met. By the time they got there, the clouds had lifted. It was no longer snowing, and the air felt crisp. Overhead the sun was beginning to set. The decayed remains of a carriage lay covered in snow outside the hut. The interior floor looked no different than the floor of the rest of the forest. “It . . . gets dark . . . in the woods . . . early,” Stanislaw said. “Maybe . . . we rest. Ankle . . . hurts.”
He was struggling to speak now. His right hand darted up to touch his head, near the injury. Corey couldn’t be sure, but it looked like his head was swelling. The ankle injury could probably wait the night, but not the head.
“The hut doesn’t give us any shelter or warmth,” Corey said. “We’re halfway there. If there are doctors in Kurtstadt, we should keep going.”
“We will not have enough light,” Stanislaw remarked.
Corey could see the faint outline of a full moon against the dark blue sky, through the branches of the pines. That was a good thing, for starters. He quickly fished out his phone and saw it was about 70 percent charged. Turning it toward his great-uncle, he toggled the flashlight on and off.
“Aaaagh!” Stanislaw screamed. “Was ist das?”
Corey grinned. “Make it to Kurtstadt, get healthy, and I’ll tell you where to invest your money in a few decades.”
30
Stanislaw wouldn’t die in the middle of a forest, Corey told himself. He knew this from his mom’s story. Dying in the forest was not Stanislaw’s destiny.
But Corey also knew that he’d entered his great-uncle’s life as a destiny-changer. With time travel, all bets were off. Stanislaw could barely move his legs now, and he wasn’t making much sense. At least when he was remembering to speak English.
“Come on, Stan,” Corey said, his arm wrapped around his great-uncle’s shoulders. “You can do this. The valley is our last landmark before the river. And you know what comes after the river, right?”
“Ja,” Stanislaw said. “Wiener schnitzel.”
“No, Kurtstadt!” Corey said. “Remember Kurtstadt?”
“Ah!” Stanislaw shook his head and blinked a few times. “So sorry. I was dreaming . . . about dinner. Isn’t that funny, dreaming while standing up?”
Descending into the valley had been easy. And the floor of the valley was mostly meadow, which meant they could head straight across it.
They slogged through that slowly. “Can you make it up?” Corey asked. He held tight to Stanislaw’s arm as the ground began to rise.
Stanislaw didn’t answer. With each step he seemed to get heavier. He stopped every few seconds. He didn’t seem to be losing any more blood from his wound. But the infection had been festering a few more hours, and it looked awful.
About halfway up, Corey felt Stanislaw’s legs buckle. His weight nearly took Corey down with him. “I . . . am afraid . . . you should . . . leave me here,” Stanislaw rasped.
“Nope,” Corey replied. “Out of the question.”
“I command you!” Stanislaw
peeled Corey’s hand off his shoulder. “Go. I stay here. I rest. You will find a doctor and come back to me.”
Instead of obeying, Corey took his great-uncle’s arm and draped it over his shoulders. The guy was at least eighty pounds heavier, and a lot stronger, but Corey was easily as tall. In Stanislaw’s weakened state, Corey had some leverage. “I’m not letting go,” Corey said, “if I have to carry you.”
“Ha!” Stanislaw blurted out. “You are . . . ein ungewöhnlicher Junge.”
“You don’t have to insult me,” Corey said.
“It means, ‘an unusual boy,’” Stanislaw said. “It is meaning to be a good thing. You are kind. And brave.”
Corey smiled. “That’s what family is all about.”
He cringed as the words left his mouth. The last thing he needed to do was explain what that statement meant.
But Stanislaw showed no reaction.
Together they trudged uphill, the weight on Corey’s shoulders getting heavier with each step. Not twenty feet before the top, Stanislaw buckled again. And this time, when he fell, Corey went with him.
They both rolled downhill. Corey flailed, trying to grab something. Anything. With each inch they were giving back ground they’d worked so hard to gain.
Finally Stanislaw’s body slammed against a sturdy holly bush and stopped. Corey reached out. His hand closed around the big guy’s bad ankle and Stanislaw let out a strangled cry.
“Sorry!” Corey let go and scrambled to his feet.
“I want . . . to die.”
“No!” Corey shouted. “That is out of the question!” His voice echoed up the sides of the valley. His heart was racing. Taking his phone from his pocket, he turned on the flashlight and shone it up the slope.
Forty feet. Maybe fifty. That was all the distance they’d sacrificed in the fall.
“We can do this,” Corey said. He pocketed his phone and dug both his arms under Stanislaw’s. Planting his feet as firmly as he could, he pulled up. “Heeeeeave . . . ho!”
The Chaos Loop Page 15