Winter Sky
Page 6
Reaching down, Melina pushed aside another curl of Cela’s wild hair. Then she knelt beside the children and held them close. She started singing gently, her voice soft but clear.
Little children you are mine now
Little children go to sleep
Little children I will watch you
From the gates of heaven’s keep.
Little children you are mine now
In the darkness, there is fright
But little children you will find me
In the warmth of morning light.
So little children close your eyes now
Sleep on peaceful through the night
My angels’ folded arms around you
Will keep you safe by heaven’s might.
Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it seemed to fill the empty darkness. The children’s breathing slowed, and they quit shivering as she held them in her arms.
The sun was barely up, its light filtering with a white haze that didn’t have the energy to burn through the overcast. It was cold, the air wet and seemingly on the edge of snow. The streets were already full of people who were busy scavenging, cooking over fires, and talking in small groups here and there. Contradicting rumors were flying among the nervous villagers. “The Russians are just across the river,” some said. “They are getting ready to bomb and mortar the town into smithereens. Why? Because we are Polish. What more reason do they need!”
“No, that can’t be!” another answered. An entire battalion of German reinforcements had already attacked from the northern flank and were driving the Russians back, capturing and killing thousands of Slavic soldiers in a brutal counterattack.
Some said it was better to have the Nazis than the Russians, though many snorted at the thought.
No again, others answered, the war was stalled, both armies unable to gain any ground, with most of the fighting to the south. Thousands of bodies were lying in the snow from the last twenty-four hours of fighting, which meant the townspeople would be forced, once again, to go out and bury them.
Among all the rumors, this much was clear: there was no hope for the city. One way or another, they were going to be bombed and shelled and occupied. There was no way to leave and nowhere to go. Better to stay here and suffer with your friends and family than to be caught by either army out on the road.
Then, sometime after sunrise, there came a sound beyond the pine-covered hills that belied all the rumors and speculation. The crash of heavy artillery impacting the frozen ground could be heard from the east. Everyone stopped and turned at the sound of the first rumble. Within minutes, there was a nearly constant roll of artillery echoing across the snowy terrain. It was an unearthly sound, shorter, deeper, and far more powerful than any natural storm.
But the frightening noise put all the rumors to rest. The lines of combat were at their door.
The inside of the chapel was cast in a pale light. Deep shadows filled the corners, and the wooden pews were cold and hard. Time passed, the mortars rumbled, and the sun continued to rise, but Lucas slept on, shivering underneath his jacket. Then he heard something different and was instantly awake. He jerked up, his eyes scanning wildly around the chapel as he reached for a weapon that was not there. He heard it again and cocked his head. Muffled by the overcast, it was so quiet that he felt it as much as heard it, a barely audible clank in his ear. He turned toward the sound. It was still far off, but getting closer. He unconsciously took a sudden breath.
He could tell immediately what it was. A Sonderkraftfahrzeug, or SdKfz 6 half-track. A long and gangly vehicle, with rubber tires in the front and metal tank tracks in the back, it could transport up to eleven men while pulling a 10.5 howitzer. But its small engine made it dangerously underpowered and lightly armored. The gas tanks were not protected, and even small arms were capable of penetrating and causing a fire or explosion.
How do I know this? he wondered for the first time that day.
It didn’t matter. He knew it. And he knew they were coming toward the square, not more than a few blocks away.
He rolled over on the wooden pew and dropped onto the floor. He was cold and stiff and his head hurt as he began to crawl toward the narrow stairs that led to the second-floor balcony. He stayed low, not showing himself against the broken windows that ran the length of the chapel. Reaching the stairway, he crawled up the steps. At the back of the balcony there was a large oval window that looked out onto the city square. He moved toward it, then pressed himself against the brick wall and looked out. The window was smudged with oily soot, but he didn’t wipe it away, afraid of exposing himself.
He didn’t know it—and he would never know it—but he was standing exactly where Melina had stood the night before.
He peered cautiously through the dirty glass. Two SdKfz 6s were rolling down the street from the north, weaving among the rubble, their metal tracks clattering across the cobblestone street. From the south, two more SdKfz 6s were coming, their engines racing to reach the square at the same time as their companions. He shook his head in despair, knowing that people were about to die.
Lucas could see that each of the assault vehicles contained two drivers. Half a dozen German soldiers were in the open backs, all of them facing the villagers, their rifles ready. One vehicle stopped on each of the streets that led into the square, blocking any exit. The other two vehicles circled the damaged fountain, their soldiers carefully looking for any threat before they stopped. When they pulled up at last, the infantrymen jumped out and quickly set up a perimeter of self-protection, their faces intent and angry. Working in teams, the soldiers began to round the townspeople up, screaming and pushing and herding them together into the center of the square. A little boy stood grounded in fright, unable to move. The nearest soldier brought the butt of his rifle down on the back of the child’s head, and he fell without moving. His mother screamed and ran toward him, but she was forced to join the others, crying and reaching for her child. A thin-faced colonel got out of the first vehicle and strode among the terrified citizens. Dark-eyed and quick, he was dressed in a full-length black leather coat, an eagle with outstretched talons glinting against the dark fabric of his officer’s cap.
The citizens gasped as he emerged from the vehicle. Schutzstaffel. An SS officer! Dedicated to the purification of the Fatherland. Held by blood oaths to maintain absolute obedience to the Führer. With the blood of more than twelve million innocent people on their hands, their enemies were the Jews and Bolsheviks—and certainly the Poles.
The villagers of Gorndask hardly dared to look at him as a hush of terror fell among them.
Lucas turned desperately from the window. His eyes moved around the church, searching for any kind of weapon. A blackened shovel against the coal chute. A metal poker near the ancient fireplace. A heavy broom in the corner. What were any of these against fifty armed men?
He glanced at the back of the chapel, noting the door behind the altar. A way to escape! A place to hide! But he didn’t want to run. He wanted to fight!
“I need a weapon!” he hissed. Then he suddenly stopped.
He knew where he could get one.
The colonel nodded to his command sergeant, who barked at the terrified crowd. “You are harboring a rebel,” Fisser shouted. “Tell us where he is and we will let you live!”
No one spoke.
The Germans selected five old men and lined them up, forced them to their knees, and pushed their faces down.
“If you allow the Devils to stray among you, then you will pay the price,” Fisser shouted. “The choice is yours. Give us what we want and you live. Betray us and you will die.”
A murmur of confusion began to sweep through the terrified crowd. An old man stepped forward. “We have no rebels. I swear, we would tell you if we knew!”
Fisser scowled in disgust. “I ask you for the last time…”
Fisser turned and looked at Müller. The colonel stared at the crowd, rage and blackness in his eyes. He took a slow drag on his cigarette, stared at the burning ember, picked a piece of tobacco from the tip of his tongue, then nodded to Fisser.
Five shots rang out in near unison. The men fell lifeless onto the snowy ground, their warm blood flowing underneath them. It melted the thin layer of snow as it spread, exposing the frozen ground beneath their faces and half-open eyes. The villagers screamed and huddled even closer together. Some of the women turned away from the carnage. A few of the older ones stared in shock. Some didn’t react at all, having seen much worse.
Müller glanced down at his watch, impatient that it was taking so much time.
“You will tell us,” Fisser shouted at the crowd.
The villagers huddled, not knowing what to do. The colonel studied them, furious at their insolence, then motioned to his sergeant once again.
“Five more,” he said.
Lucas crawled across the floor, getting away from the window, then ran down the stairs. Running up the aisle of the chapel, he grabbed one of the window draperies and jerked it down. The heavy cloth fell into his hands, musty and deep purple. Stopping at the coal chute, he bent and pulled the door open. The sides of the chute were coated in black dust. He rubbed his hands through it until they were black, then rubbed it on his face, his teeth, his hair. Taking off his boots, he rubbed his feet as well. He threw the drapery over his head and shoulders, pulling it tight against his neck, leaving only his dirty face exposed. Bending over, he started shuffling toward the door. The transformation was dramatic. He had become a filthy beggar, shoeless and dirty faced, too crippled to even stand. With his black face barely exposed, he could have been twenty or eighty; it was impossible to tell.
Stepping outside, he hurried to the street. One of the horse-drawn wagons that had been used to clean up the wreckage had been left behind the military vehicles. He shuffled toward it. The horses were prancing nervously from the sound of the previous gunfire, drawing tight against the ropes that held them to a corner post. He moved behind the horses, took a handful of their droppings, and rubbed it on his clothes. A dead cat lay half hidden under a pile of the rubble, and he grabbed it by the tail.
Half a dozen soldiers worked their way through the crowd, selecting five more old men. They lined them up and forced them to their knees. Some of the women continued wailing, their voices filling the square with the sound of their desperate cries. One of them screamed and ran forward, falling upon her husband.
That was fine with Müller. Six victims now.
Behind the Germans, a cellar door to a bombed-out storefront suddenly burst open, thrown back on rusted hinges. Antoni hobbled up the stairs from the basement stairwell. Müller smiled, recognizing him instantly.
The colonel moved toward Antoni, stopping just a few feet away. Antoni stood proudly on one leg, the wooden crutch almost hidden underneath his heavy jacket. The square became very still, the crowd of villagers standing in utter silence, grateful for the sacrificial lamb.
“Antoni Geric,” Müller said in a deadly voice.
Antoni looked surprised. “Sir, we’ve never met. And yet you know my name.”
Müller sneered and placed his finger against the other man’s chest. “No surprise, Mr. Geric. I know everything about you rebels. I know your faces, your families. I have made it my mission to know you very well.”
“Not well enough, it seems,” Antoni answered. “It took you much too long to find me. And I’m only a witless cripple. That doesn’t say much about the ability of the mighty Reich.”
“As you say,” Müller answered grimly. “And yet here you are.”
Antoni’s face remained defiant. He was past anger. Past fear. He knew exactly what was coming, and he had accepted his fate. He stared blankly, seeming to look at some unseen spot on the horizon.
“A cripple, yes you are,” Müller went on. “But witless, I think not. How many bridges have you destroyed? How many trains? How many bombs have you hidden? How many of my comrades have you killed?”
“I like to think I did my part,” Antoni answered tartly.
“Did your part? Yes, well, we all do our part.” He glanced toward the terrified villagers. “But do you understand who else you have killed?”
Antoni remained silent. Yes, he understood.
Müller moved back toward him. “Yet in the end it doesn’t matter. I found you, just like I will find the other one. And with that, my work will be done. In the meantime, look at what you’ve done here. Look at how many of your fellow citizens you have killed. So why don’t we get this over with? Tell me where I can find Lucas Capek so that I can finish my work and go home. My men are getting anxious. All of us want to be engaged in more…meaningful work. The fight is coming. We don’t have much time.”
Antoni shifted his weight, leaning on his crutch. The colonel stared at him, waiting, then shook his head in exaggerated sadness. “You know you’re going to die here, don’t you, Antoni Geric?”
Antoni looked up and stared into his eyes. “It’s not the first time I have thought that. But if you look at death often enough, it loses all its mystery. I hate to say it, but death and I have become friends. I know him. He knows me. I’m comfortable with him now.”
“Perhaps. But if death is your friend, he has still betrayed you. He brought me to you. He brought me to these others. He will bring me to them all. So it seems, Mr. Geric, that, friendships aside, your good fortune has expired.” Müller turned and motioned to the crowd again. Every eye was watching, and he smiled at their fear. Turning back to Antoni, he hissed, “Where is Lucas Capek. Tell me and I will let these people live. Defy me and a hundred of them will die here on this miserable square.”
Antoni was silent, his eyes down. Müller reached out and flipped his nose. An insolent child and his father. It was the most demeaning thing he could think to do.
Antoni looked up at him and swallowed, the tendons stretching in his neck. Silence. Müller waited. “Yes, I may die here,” Antoni finally whispered, “but you, sir, are already dead. Given the choice between us, I’ll take my lot, I guess.”
Müller seemed to shrink for a moment, then gathered himself and moved forward until his face was just inches from Antoni’s. “Dying is hard work, Mr. Geric,” he said. “I’ve seen it. It’s the hardest work you will ever do.” Leaning in, Müller whispered in the rebel’s ear, “But I can help you. I want to help you. The choice is yours. I can make it easy, or I can make it slow.”
Antoni pulled back and spat in the Nazi’s face.
Lucas hobbled away from the crowded villagers without being noticed. He had gone nearly twenty feet when one of the German soldiers finally saw him and ran toward him with an angry stride. “Get over with the others!” he demanded with a hiss, afraid of disrupting his commander’s interrogation.
Lucas kept on shuffling down the street. The Nazi took a furious step toward him and slapped his head. “Get over there!” he hissed again. He kept his voice low. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to the fact that they had missed this man.
Lucas showed his black teeth and held out a hand as if begging.
The soldier stepped away from the filthy man. He saw the bare feet, the rotting teeth, and vacant look in his eyes. He caught a whiff of the odor and took another step back. Then he saw the dead cat in the beggar’s hand and snorted in disgust. Were the colonel’s execution not already under way, he would have shot him on the spot, but a gunshot at this moment would ruin the drama of his commander’s scene. So he slapped him again, then kicked the filthy beggar down the street.
Passing by the first SdKfz 6, Lucas hunched over and disappeared behind it. Moving quietly, he slipped to the other side of the transport and
looked back. The soldier had turned and was walking back toward the others. Lucas pulled on the rusty lever that held the tailgate in place and dropped it without a sound. The satchel was just where he expected it to be, stuffed underneath the metal bench running down the driver’s side of the military transport. The emergency bag was heavy, and he had to use both hands to lift it.
Pulling it out, he felt the contents through the canvas: a medical kit, colored flares, dried food, biscuits, a map.
And a gun.
A dirty rope was thrown over a wooden streetlamp and tied to the front bumper of the nearest military transport. The other end was wrapped around Antoni’s neck. They didn’t take the time to tie a hangman’s noose; an uneven fisherman’s knot was all he got. This wasn’t going to be a hanging but a suffocation, slower and far more painful, the kind of punishment the SS preferred.
“Any last words?” Müller asked him.
“I would like—”
Müller didn’t let him finish. Turning away, he motioned to the driver of the military transport. The SdKfz 6 slowly backed up. The rope grew taut. Müller motioned for the driver to stop, leaving Antoni suspended from his one good leg. Antoni struggled to keep the weight off the rope, forcing himself to the very tip of his boot.
And there he stood. Everyone watched him. It would take an agonizingly long time for him to die.
Hobbling past the last of the military transports, Lucas turned and sprinted toward the alleyway that ran behind the church. Pulling the metal door back, he slipped inside, dropped the cloak, and ran for the stairs. Seconds later, he was back at the balcony window.
He looked out, his face tight with frustration and rage. Antoni was still. It was too late. There was nothing he could do!
He turned away from the window and leaned against the wall, slowly sliding to the floor. He closed his eyes, wiping away the tears that were running through the stubble on his cheeks, then hid his face in his hands. He sat without moving for a very long time, listening to the sounds of the villagers crying in the square. He looked up at the heavens and then closed his eyes again.