Ten minutes later, they stood at the crest of a hill looking down on the winding Oder River, a band of silver that snaked down from the north. Fifty or sixty yards across, the river was dotted with blocks of ice floating in the slow current. The banks were gently sloped, with frozen reeds and marshes on either side. On the far bank, a large grove of trees extended down to the river. Open fields and grassland circled the grove of trees. Beyond the river, Brzeg. Dirty buildings. Brick and wood homes. An old rock church. An abandoned Jewish synagogue. An ancient graveyard on the outskirts of town. On the south edge of the village, a railroad station stood next to a gleaming track. Fingers of water stretched toward the town in marshy bogs and inlets.
Cela stared at the river. “I can’t do it,” she muttered in fear.
“You can do it,” Lucas assured her. “I know you can.”
Cela shivered in despair. “It’s going to be so cold.”
Lucas knelt beside her and pointed to the opposite bank. “It’s only sixty yards across. Waist deep. Maybe less. We can make it. I know we can.”
“But I can’t swim!” Cela cried.
“That’s why I’m going to carry you.”
Aron stood beside them with his hands on his hips. “You don’t have to carry me,” he said defiantly. “I can do it by myself.”
Cela glared at him, and Lucas had to hide a smile. “Once we get to the other side, we’ll move to the trees and build a fire,” he said as he pointed to the trees. “The Germans won’t follow us across. We’ll be safe there. And remember, the train is coming. This is the last hard thing we have to do, but we have to do this, Cela. It’s the only choice we have.”
“But it’s too wide! And so cold!” Her voice cracked with hopelessness. She had been so brave for so long, but she had nothing now to give. She shook her head, then started crying, burying her face in Lucas’s arms.
Müller stood at the top of a gentle hill a quarter mile to the east. The riverbank was just below him, no more than two hundred yards away. Half a dozen German soldiers milled anxiously around their military transports. Zarek stood in silence behind the colonel. Müller glanced at him with disdain. He was but a slave, a man clinging to his life on nothing but the whim of his master’s voice.
Müller studied the river through his binoculars. Command Sergeant Fisser stood beside him, peering through a set of field glasses of his own. But the sergeant wasn’t looking at the river. He faced in the opposite direction, toward the sound of thunder. The approaching Russians. The coming doom of war. “Russian tanks and artillery,” he offered in a calm voice. “Three, maybe four miles beyond the ridge.”
Müller lowered his glasses and turned to glance toward the approaching Russian army. Without responding, he raised his glasses and turned back to the river again.
Scanning along the nearest bank, he searched for any sign of the rebel. But all he saw were thick clumps of reeds…lavender shrubs…a small embankment that hid part of the nearest bank…frozen chunks of ice jammed along the shore. On the other side of the Oder River, he studied the grove of trees. Beyond that, there was a small farmhouse, but it was too far away to be of any interest to him. Movement caught his eye far to the south, and he turned to see a pair of German military patrol boats retreating along the river toward the German border. He dropped the binoculars and pointed to the receding military craft. “Those will be the last of our patrols.” He said it almost smugly, as if he were proud of their position. They were the last ones. The brave ones. Those who didn’t reassemble to the west.
Fisser watched the patrol boats recede beyond a turn in the river. “I’m surprised to see any of them are still here,” he said.
Müller lifted his eyes to the clear skies overhead. “And we don’t see any more of the Luftwaffe.”
“They’re hitting the Bolsheviks along the highway,” Fisser explained. “I could see them going at it just before dawn. But the aerial battle has moved west. We’re far behind the line of our own troops now.”
Müller nodded at the forest. “He’s out there. He has to be. He couldn’t make it to the bridge, not with those children…” His voice trailed off.
Zarek stepped toward him. “Unless they’re dead,” he offered simply.
Müller pulled out a cigarette, one of the few he had left, and lit it without responding. Then he turned and stared at Zarek. “You were wrong about the children,” he said. Zarek shifted his feet while Müller glared at him. “Let’s hope that you’re not wrong about the train. You said it was supposed to leave this morning?”
“Sir, that’s what I was told.”
Müller grunted and lifted his field glasses again. “They’ll have to try to cross the Oder, then,” he said. He moved his glasses up and down the ice-filled river. “But could anyone be so stupid?” He stopped, stared, then focused the lens. He pulled the glasses down to check what he was seeing, then smiled broadly and shook his head. “Yes, I guess they could be.”
Lucas stood at the side of the river. No shirt. No shoes. His backpack strapped high around his shoulders to keep it dry. Aron was sitting on his shoulders, crying with cold and fear.
Lucas put his foot into the water. Shocks of icy pain shot through his leg. Another step. Another shot. He waded quickly up to his waist and his entire body seemed to cramp, painful knots forming in both legs. He was already shivering from the bitter cold. Chunks of ice brushed against him and he moved against the current as fast as he could. Feeling the shock of the water on his feet, Aron nearly panicked and started pulling at Lucas’s hair and scratching at his face. Lucas was in water up to his waist now. Then his chest. And then his neck. The bottom of the river changed from small rocks to slimy mud, and he almost slipped and fell. Feeling him reel, Aron kicked in fear. Only his legs were in the water, but he was shivering from the biting cold. Lucas’s face was contorted in pain, and he kept his head down, concentrating on his footing, knowing it would be a disaster if he slipped and sent Aron into the icy water. He leaned forward, keeping his eyes on the opposite side of the river where the high reeds rose up above the waterline. Halfway across. He stumbled. Aron panicked, clawing desperately at his face again. “Aron, I can’t see!” Lucas cried through chattering teeth while reaching up to push Aron’s hands away. He stumbled once more, and Aron cried again. Lucas doubled his pace until he was almost running. He was shivering uncontrollably now. Ten more yards to go.
He heard the angry buzz just above his head. He knew instantly what it was and instinctively ducked. A spout of water shot up beside him, throwing icy spray in his face. Half a second later, the sound of the gunshot rolled across the river. Another buzz. Another geyser, this one right beside his head. Another echo across the water.
Lucas lunged for the reeds, crossing the last five yards in just two steps. He pushed through the thicket, hit the dry ground, and rolled immediately to his right while pulling Aron from his shoulders and cradling him in his arms to protect him from the fall. Coming to rest beside a small bush, he cuddled Aron tightly and then rolled again.
“Don’t move!” he commanded Aron when they came to rest. “Hold still! Don’t let him see the reeds move!”
Silence. The sound of lapping water. The rustle of the reeds. Then the ground erupted as more shells impacted fifteen feet to their left. The sound of the rifle shots echoed across the river. Long moments of silence followed. Lucas finally released Aron and lay back, shivering uncontrollably from the cold. Aron started crawling through the reeds and Lucas followed, both of them stumbling into the grove of trees.
Müller’s black leather coat was stretched across the snow. He lay atop it, the rifle to his shoulder, his legs extended, his toes dug into the ground. He stared through the scope, moving his field of view up and down the riverbank, searching intently through the reeds.
He swore in frustration. Where had the rebel gone? He lifted his head to look at the riverbank, then bent down and stare
d through the scope again. He fired another shot and then another, constantly cursing in rage.
Lucas was shivering so violently he could barely move, his hands wrapped around his chest, his teeth cracking in his head. Aron moved beside him, scrambling on his hands and knees. They made it to a small clearing in the trees and Lucas fell, his face tight, his lips already blue. “So…cold…” he muttered through chattering teeth.
Aron scrambled across the ground beside him, his bare hands sifting through the snow, searching desperately for pieces of wood. “Got to build a fire!” he muttered, his young voice cracking. “Got to get him warm. Got to get him warm.”
Lucas shook his pack from his back, ripped it open, and pulled out a small metal canister. His hands were shaking so violently that he couldn’t open it, and he dropped it on the ground beside Aron. “Cloth patches…” he mumbled through chattering teeth. “Soaked in grease. Use them to…start a fire.”
Aron grabbed the box, his small hands trembling to force it open. Then he suddenly stopped and looked back through the trees toward the river. “Cela!” he cried. He looked desperately at Lucas. “We can’t leave her. Even if they’re shooting, we can’t leave her!” Tears were rolling down his cheeks.
Lucas dropped a box of matches on the ground beside the metal canister. “Get…a fire…going,” he chattered. “I’ll be back.” He turned and started limping on frozen feet toward the river.
“Where is he?” Müller muttered as he looked through his rifle scope. He was still lying on the ground, and he moved the barrel of his rifle erratically, jerking from the riverbank to the reeds, from the trees to the icy water.
Fisser was standing over him. “There’s nothing we can do, sir,” he said. “Unless you’re willing to brave the water. He’ll be dead in a few minutes anyway. No one could survive that water. That alone will kill him, especially on a cold day like this.”
“Don’t be a fool! He’s coming back for the girl! Do you think he’s going to leave her?”
“He’s not that stupid, sir.”
“That’s the problem with war,” Müller snorted. “It makes people do stupid things.” He lowered the rifle, rubbed his fists in his eyes, then lifted it and stared through the scope again. “He’s coming back. I know he will. He’s coming back.”
“He won’t, sir, not now that he knows we’re up here. I promise you, he’s not going to cross the river again. We can go.”
Müller held the rifle still, focusing on one point. He pulled away from the scope and looked above the rifle barrel across the river. “You don’t think he’s coming back?” he asked.
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“Then look at that,” Müller said, pointing at a black log that was moving across the river. He shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll give him this,” he muttered as he turned back to the rifle for his final shot. “He’s going to die a hero.”
He took a breath and held it to steady himself.
Lucas pushed the log against the current. He kept his head pressed against the frozen wood, and the cold water lapped in his face. His arms were draped over the log and his skin started freezing to the bark. A large block of ice brushed against his head and knocked him under, almost forcing him to lose his grip. He heard an angry buzz and felt a spout of water. Another buzz. Another geyser. The top of the log suddenly exploded from the impact of another shell, sending bits of frozen wood scattering around his head.
He groaned in pain, his teeth chattering so violently it hurt. He peered through icy eyelids to the opposite side of the river. Cela was waiting beneath a bank of dirt where she was protected from the gunfire on the hill. “Lucas! Lucas!” she shouted to encourage him on.
More shots. More spouts of water. He pushed harder, moving the log toward the shore. Cela paced and jumped along the muddy waterline. He pushed harder, feeling the riverbed below him turn from mud to sharp rocks. The water was getting shallower, and he stumbled forward, falling on his knees below the embankment. He crawled forward until he knew it was safe, and Cela dropped beside him.
Lucas was barely conscious. “I’m sorry. I promised I…would carry you,” he mumbled weakly. “But you’ll…have to…get…into the water.” His teeth were no longer chattering, and he didn’t shiver anymore. His mind was slow. Clouded. Everything was covered in darkness and cold.
Cela looked at him in terror. “It’s too deep, Lucas. I can’t make it. I can’t swim!”
Lucas didn’t answer for a moment.
Cela grabbed his hands and blew on them in a ridiculous attempt to warm them. “We have to make it, Lucas! We have to make it! I can’t leave Aron!”
Lucas pushed himself to his knees and motioned for her to come to him. “Okay, then…together. But…going to be…cold.”
Cela didn’t wait. She stood and ran into the water. Gasping from the cold, she grabbed the log and started pushing it across the river. Lucas forced himself to his feet, then turned and followed. He fell forward until he was beside her, tossed her onto his back with one hand, then started pushing the log. “Hold…to me!” he cried. “Keep…your head down. Hang on!”
Keeping the log between them and the gunfire, he started pushing across the river. The water got deeper. Soon he was up to his neck. He was silent as he pushed, concentrating on one more step…one more step.…He no longer had the strength to hold the log against the current and they started drifting downstream, toward the shooter. He kept his head down, water slapping in his face. He waited for the sound of shells to hit the water.
But the gunfire didn’t come.
Müller lay prone, watching the log move across the river through the scope. “He’s got to expose himself when he climbs out of the river,” he said.
Fisser was also watching the log move across the river. He was completely befuddled. It was the stupidest thing he had ever seen. But he didn’t care about the rebel or the log. He didn’t care if the man was stupid or a hero. All he wanted was to get away from the Russians before it was too late. The Bolsheviks were no more than a mile away now, so close that he could hear the rumble from their tank engines. The time they had to get away was down to minutes. “Sir,” he offered desperately, “I could bring one of our snipers forward. It would be an easy shot for one of them.”
Müller pulled away from his rifle and glared up at him. “Do not insult me with your snipers!” he sneered before turning back to the scope.
He kept the crosshairs on the other side of the river, concentrating on the spot where the rebel would have to climb out of the water. He would kill the rebel. He would kill the girl. Then they could go home.
Lucas pushed against the current. They were almost halfway across the river now. Cela clung desperately to him, one arm around his neck, one arm over the log. She suddenly gurgled with a mouthful of icy water, spitting and crying in fear. Her teeth were chattering, and she tightened her grip. “I can’t touch the bottom,” she cried.
“Hang…on…me!”
“I can’t touch the bottom!” She was panicked now.
“Hang on…we are almost…there.”
Lucas was nearly unconscious from the cold. He could barely hold his face out of the water, and he constantly gasped to catch his breath. Tiny icicles hung in his hair and on his eyelashes. He sputtered and pushed and forced his way forward without looking up. He was slowing down. Slowing down…they might not make it…
The water started to get shallow. Lucas grabbed Cela and pulled her to his side to keep his body between her and the gunfire. “Stay…close…” he muttered. He could feel Cela helping to push the log now, having found her footing in the riverbed.
The familiar buzz sounded again, and Lucas jerked. The shot echoed across the river. Lucas fell facedown in the water and Cela screamed. She grabbed Lucas’s hair and pulled his face out of the water. The river around him painted bloody red. Cela heard another buzz, and the log exploded
around her. The sound of another gunshot echoed across the cold water. Cela lunged forward, trying to drag Lucas out of the river. He lifted his head and started crawling through the reeds, streams of blood smearing down his chest. Hitting the riverbank, he pushed into the tall brush and collapsed.
Rolling to his back, he looked up blankly at the sky. “So…cold,” he muttered before he closed his eyes.
Müller stared through the scope, waiting for any sign of life, any movement, any scrambling through the reeds. He scanned the brush, the grove of trees, the riverbank, the water. Then he brought his focus back to the reeds again. Everything was motionless. As still as death. A stain of red was still drifting in the water. He focused on it, then laid the gun aside. Standing, he brushed off his uniform, lifted his coat, and shook it. Draping it over his shoulders, he turned to Zarek. “You may go,” he said.
Zarek bowed, moved forward as if to shake Müller’s hand, then suddenly stopped and turned. He started walking away, and Müller watched him go. “Good luck,” the colonel called out in a sarcastic tone.
Zarek kept on walking.
“You’re going to need it.”
Zarek froze.
“Your people know who you are. They know what you’ve done,” Müller mocked and then laughed.
Zarek kept his eyes staring straight ahead.
“Your blind daughter—her child—neither of them will survive the winter without you. And you, my Polish friend, won’t survive a week on the streets of Gorndask.”
Zarek slowly turned around to face the German. “I’ve been told that before, Colonel Müller. But yet, here I stand.”
Müller shook his head in disgust. “You stand because I let you. But you won’t be left standing once you get back to Gorndask.”
“Perhaps, sir. But there is a Polish saying. Don’t curse the day until the sun sets.”
Winter Sky Page 12