“Curse it or not, you’ll be dead within a week.”
Zarek turned away. “The sun has not set,” he mumbled as he walked.
Müller watched him go, then turned to Fisser. “Have you made contact with command post?” he demanded.
Fisser swallowed in anticipation. “We have, sir.”
Müller smiled. “The villagers here think they’re going to leave. Run off to the Americans. I don’t consider that an acceptable option for our Polish friends. Do you, Command Sergeant?”
“Sir, there are many things I find unacceptable. But I would say the more important thing now is that we—”
“That’s what I thought,” Müller said to cut him off. “I find it unacceptable as well. Get the radio operator up here. And get me the coordinates for the rail station in Brzeg.”
Cela stood shivering among the reeds, her lips blue, her face tight with cold and fear. Tears fell down her cheeks and she angrily brushed them away, then tugged desperately on Lucas’s arm, trying to pull him away from the river and to the safety of the trees. Aron dropped suddenly beside her, out of breath, his teeth chattering. A smear of blood spread down Lucas’s chest. Cela looked at it and cried, then reached up again to brush her tears away. Aron held Lucas’s shirt in his hands, and Cela grabbed it and pressed it against the wound. “We’ve got to get him to the fire,” she stammered.
“So cold…” Lucas started mumbling as he rolled over and tried to stand. Cela reached out to steady him. He struggled to his knees but fell again. Cela bent over him and pulled on his arm again. “You’ve got to stand,” she cried. “You’re too heavy! We can’t carry you!” Lucas mumbled and rolled over and tried to stand again. Cela and Aron helped him to his feet and they stumbled through the reeds, up the gentle bank, and into the trees. Reaching the clearing, they stopped. Lucas brushed the frozen water from his eyes, looking frantically around. He saw a pile of wood but no fire.
“Fire…” he stammered.
Aron was crying now. “I couldn’t…I couldn’t start it. The matches were wet!”
Lucas barely had the strength to point toward his pack. “Flint,” he muttered as he stumbled to his knees. Cela dropped beside him, put her little arms around his shoulders, and pulled him close. Aron fumbled for the pack, bent over it, and reached in. He moved his hands around, searching desperately, then pulled out a small block of black magnesium. Rushing to the pile of wood, he grabbed a rock and began to strike the flint. A spray of yellow sparks scattered before him. More sparks. But no flame.
Aron looked over at the others, hopeless tears rolling down his cheeks, then turned to the flint again, striking frantically. Another spray of sparks. But still no flame. His hands jammed the rock against the flint as fast as he could. Another spray of yellow sparks. The patches of greasy cloth finally caught and a whiff of smoke drifted in the still air. He carefully piled on a few twigs and the small flame grew. Aron glanced up to heaven as if to give thanks, then carefully began to place larger twigs and then sticks onto the flame. Cela shuffled toward the growing fire. Within minutes the fire roared.
Lucas opened his eyes and pulled himself toward the flame. Cela grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. When she pulled her hand away she looked down and saw that it was smeared with blood. She looked at Aron, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “You’ve got to go get help!” she said sternly. Whether from hopelessness, shock, or bravery, her voice was calm now, the panic and desperation having disappeared.
Aron looked at her, his eyes wide in fear.
She pointed through the trees with a shivering hand. “The village…that way. Go now! Go get help!”
Aron stood and ran.
Half a mile from the river, the town of Brzeg spread underneath the winter sky. Small and more remotely situated than Gorndask, without the factories to demand attention from the bombers, it was still torn from war. Bombed-out buildings, homes, and highways spread from the river to the empty fields in the north.
The brick railroad station was relatively undamaged, and dozens of villagers were packed together on the wooden platform that lined the west side of the building. Everything about them screamed of destitution. Their hungry faces. Their clothes. Their thin bodies. Behind them, a couple of hundred more villagers were crowded on the streets. A large pine tree sat in the center of the village square, a chain of colored paper and silver stars its only decorations. Though it was Christmas morning, few were thinking of the holy day.
A low rumble began to emerge in the distance. Every eye turned. They could hear it. The hiss of steam. The clang of metal wheels on the tracks. The villagers crowded toward the station. Then they heard the whistle in the distance and saw the pitch of black smoke above the tree line. The train came into view from a gentle turn in the trees, a spot of black metal in the distance.
The villagers started pushing and shoving toward the tracks.
Cela watched Aron disappear through the trees, then turned to Lucas. She leaned over him and wrapped the blanket tighter, but Lucas pushed it off. He spread the blanket on the snow beside the fire and fell upon it. Shivering, Cela moved toward the fire, steam rising from her wet clothes.
Lucas closed his eyes. “Cela,” he said through chattering teeth, “you’ve got to…stop bleeding. I’ll…be all right, but you have to…stop…the bleeding.”
“What do I do?” she asked him.
Lucas tried to reach behind to touch his back but failed and fell limp. “Did bullet go…through?” he groaned.
Cela moved quickly to his side. “How do I know?” she asked as bravely as she could.
“Is there an exit wound?”
Cela rolled him gently to his side, bent over to examine his back, then looked up. “There’s another small hole,” she said anxiously.
Lucas smiled grimly. “That’s good. No bullet left inside me.” He lay back again. “How large is the exit wound?”
“I don’t know,” Cela stammered. “Big as a…big as a marble, I guess.”
“Okay. I think I only took a fragment. The bullet must have ricocheted off the log before it hit me. Where is the wound? I can’t feel…”
“I don’t know. Just below the shoulder.”
“All right, I’m not going to die from that. But you’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
Cela began to fear what he might ask her to do. “Aron went to get help,” she offered before he could say it. “We should wait. Someone will come.”
“No, Cela,” Lucas moaned. “No one is going to come. You have to stop the bleeding.” He pointed to his pack. “There’s a medical kit. Sulfa. Pour it on. There are bandages.” He lay back and closed his eyes again.
Cela didn’t move.
“You can do it,” Lucas said.
“Help is coming…”
“No, Cela. You have to do this.”
She swallowed against a tight throat and then nodded. After warming her stiff hands, she reached for the pack, turned it over, and shook it. The contents scattered across the snowy ground. The last of their food. Flares. The medical kit. Her wooden box of memories. The gun. Cela stared at the weapon in surprise, then shoved it back inside the pack. Grabbing the medical kit, she took out the package of sulfa and the bandages and turned to Lucas. “Okay,” she said with determination, “what do I do?”
“Tear the sulfa package open,” Lucas started. “Use some snow to clean the wound…”
She swallowed hard again, then set to work.
Behind her, her wooden box lay upside down on the ground, the contents spread across the snow: a braided lock of dark hair, a white comb, and a folded photograph of her family, the back of the picture facing the clear blue sky.
Müller stood in front of his military transport, a large map spread across the hood. The terrifying whine of Russian BM-13 Katyusha multiple rocket launchers suddenly screamed from somewhere in t
he north. He lifted his eyes calmly and looked toward the sound. The Russians were shelling the German army as they fled. But Müller knew most of the Germans had already crossed the river on the Byki Bridge. Staring at the cloudless sky, he tried to see the rockets in flight. But it was impossible; they were too small and too far away. Listening to the flying hunks of explosive metal, he thought they sounded…he didn’t know…beautiful. Eerie and unearthly. And though he listened for the powerful thummppp of the rockets impacting the ground along the unseen highway on the other side of the forest, he never heard it. The impact zone was too far away.
His men instinctively ducked for cover at the sound of the flying rockets. A few of the rookies yelped like pups and pulled their metal helmets tightly around their heads.
Müller looked at them with disgust, then lifted the radio handpiece to his mouth. “There is a train approaching the station at Brzeg,” he said to the fire control officer who would direct the artillery fire. “You have to hit it with our mortars!”
He listened, swore, then shouted into the mouthpiece again. “I don’t care about the Russians. That train is the only thing that matters now!”
Cela was wiping her hands in the snow, leaving bloody smears between her feet, when she heard the sound of breaking twigs from the brush behind her. She turned as Aron crashed breathlessly into the clearing. His face was scratched from running through the brush, and he looked desperately around.
Lucas sat by the fire. Bent in pain, he looked up and smiled as Aron emerged from the trees. Lucas had his jacket on, but it was unbuttoned, showing a bloody bandage at his shoulder. Aron ran to him and dropped at his feet. “I found a farmhouse on the way,” he said breathlessly. “A boy is coming…”
Lucas turned to the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow. A young man appeared at the edge of the clearing. He stopped and looked suspiciously at Lucas, his eyes wide, an ancient rifle in his nervous hands. He lifted the rifle and pointed it at Lucas. “Don’t move!” he shouted while thrusting it dramatically.
Lucas ignored him and turned to Aron. Reaching down, he patted him on the head.
“Are you all right?” Aron asked.
Lucas nodded hopefully. “Your sister is a fine doctor.”
The stranger took a few steps into the circle. He looked to be about twelve, with unkempt hair, a patched-up coat, and dirty hands. He thrust the gun toward Lucas again. Lucas considered the grungy weapon, then looked into the youth’s eyes. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Rahel,” he answered carefully.
“I hope you’re not going to shoot me, Rahel. I’ve been shot once already. It hurts.”
The young man kept the gun up. They all stared at each other, not knowing what to say. Aron was the first to smile. Lucas looked down at him and smiled too. Cela was last, but she finally broke into a sheepish grin.
The black locomotive spouted steam from the wheel brakes and dark smoke from the single stack as it approached the station. The refugees were forced off the tracks as the conductor leaned out of the side window, waving his hands and shouting at them to get back. The brakes hissed, and the troop cars rattled as the train slowed and finally came to a stop.
A greasy-faced man dropped down the side steps of the locomotive and immediately pulled on the hose to fill the water tanks that powered the steam engine. The desperate refugees watched him for a moment, then rushed forward, pushing and shouting and clawing their way for the doors to the seven transport cars. Children cried. Mothers held their babies close. Fathers cursed as they pushed others out of the way.
The equation was pretty simple. Those who got on the train might live. Those who didn’t would likely die.
The panicked villagers pushed forward, but the doors on the sides of the transport cars didn’t open. Half a dozen men slipped from the locomotive and climbed onto the roofs of the seven transports. “Get back!” the engineer screamed from the locomotive window. “We will have order. Get back!”
Some of the refugees started climbing up the sides of the transports, hanging onto the metal rods that covered the windows as they scratched their way to the roof of the cars.
A gunshot rang out, and the refugees fell back.
Lucas and the children sat on logs around the fire. Rahel remained at the edge of the clearing, his rifle still in hand. Lucas motioned for him to come toward them. “Thank you for coming,” he said in a weary voice.
Rahel gestured to the patch of trees. “You’re on my land.”
“I think it’s about to become the Russians’ land.”
Rahel finally lowered the gun. “I heard gunshots.”
Lucas pushed his open jacket aside and adjusted the bandage around his shoulder. Rahel moved toward the fire, the ancient gun pointing at the ground now. Lucas checked it out as he approached. It had a cracked stock, and the butt was held together with strands of wire. The barrel was a five-sided pentagon, and the bolt action was rusted to a burnt orange. Lucas had no idea how it possibly could shoot. Rahel noticed that the man was looking at his gun, and he moved it to his other hand. “Are you all right?” he asked, gesturing toward Lucas’s bloody shoulder.
“It’s not too bad,” Lucas answered weakly. “I got lucky.”
Rahel looked at the desperate children, the bloody bandage, and the smears of red spread across the snow. “You don’t look so lucky,” he answered.
“It’s really not too bad,” Lucas said. “It was the cold that nearly killed me. But Aron got this fire going. And Cela doctored me up.”
They all heard it at the same time. A terrifying whistle. The sound of German artillery flying over their heads. All of them looked up with terrified eyes. Lucas instinctively reached for the children and pulled them close. Seconds later, an explosion pounded beyond the trees. Another whistle of artillery fire. Another explosion. Lucas struggled to his feet. “He’s bombing Brzeg!” he hissed in rage.
Cela looked confused. “The train?” she muttered.
Lucas kept his face to the sky as a third shot flew over.
“The train!” Cela cried. “They’re shelling the train!”
Lucas turned to Rahel. “How far to the station?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. Ten minutes, if you’re fast?”
“You’ve got five! Take the children! Get them to the train!”
“What are you going to do?” the boy asked.
“I’m going to stop him,” Lucas answered. He glanced toward the river, then back to the children. “Get them to the train,” he commanded again.
“No,” Cela screamed. “You’ve got to come with us!”
Lucas pushed Rahel angrily on the shoulder. “Go! Get them out of here!”
“No!” Cela cried again.
Lucas knelt in front of her. “Go, Cela,” he said firmly. “Go now. This is your only chance!”
Rahel hesitated, looking to the sky, then grabbed Cela and Aron by the hand and started pulling them toward the trees. He suddenly stopped and turned back to Lucas, extending the rifle to him. “You might need this,” he said.
Lucas reached out and took the gun. “Go!” he said.
Rahel started running, then turned and came back to Lucas one more time. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a single bullet. “It’s the only one I have,” he said bashfully.
Lucas looked at it and shook his head. Rahel smiled sheepishly, then took the children’s hands again and started pulling them toward the trees.
Thick fog moved up from the river, stretching its gray fingers along the bogs and the fields but stopping short of the town, leaving Brzeg covered in nothing more than mist.
Through the fog, the children ran.
Ahead of them, the next round of the mortar shells impacted on the outskirts of town. The explosions created instant chaos: black clouds of smoke, exploding metal, clods of frozen earth falling from the
sky. The whistle of more shells screamed toward the village, and explosions erupted along the river, in the empty fields to the south, beside the highway, on the southern end of the station. A huge fire broke out in two wooden buildings on the outskirts of town, and the sky filled with black smoke.
The refugees turned to face the incoming mortars. For a moment, they stood in stunned silence. They knew the terror that was coming, the powerful explosions, the fires, the ear-shattering percussions, the blood and shattered bodies. A few of them glanced at the train in disbelief. The train was here! Freedom was so close! But as the third shell exploded just a few hundred meters to the south of the station, they broke into a panic. Some of them started running down the street, toward the center of the town. Others stood and cried without moving, knowing there was nowhere safe to hide. Families huddled desperately together, holding each other tight.
As the ground rumbled and the dirt fell, most of the villagers realized that the shells were moving toward the station. The train had to be the target! The few refugees remaining on the station platform turned and ran.
The conductor had climbed out of the locomotive to supervise the refugees. At the sound of the first explosions, he stood in confusion beside his train, a look of terror on his face. Then he started running toward the crew ladder, screaming to the engineer who was waiting inside the locomotive. “Cap the water tanks,” he cried as he slapped the side of the engine. “Get the fires going! Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s get out of here!”
Lucas limped painfully across the snow. One arm hung loosely at his side, jolts of pain shooting through his aching bones with every step. It felt like his chest was on fire, and he was light-headed from the cold and loss of blood. He stopped to steady himself, his head bent, then moved forward, one hand at the side of his face as he hobbled across the slushy snow. He fell to his knees amidst the scattered contents from his pack, his fingers sifting through the slush. Not finding what he was looking for, he straightened up and stared ahead, his mind racing. It has to be here! Looking to his side, he saw the pack itself lying in the snow, and he reached down and picked it up. Feeling the heavy weight at the bottom of the pack, he nodded with relief.
Winter Sky Page 13