Winter Sky

by Chris Stewart

  He turned and shuffled toward the river, the pack and rifle in his hand.

  The children ran through the snowy fields toward the village. Cela clung to Aron’s hand and Rahel ran on ahead of them, constantly looking back to encourage them on. “Come! Run! You can do it!” he cried.

  The fog was thick across the snowy fields, and black smoke hung like a blanket in the air. Running through the fog, they were surrounded by a constant barrage of ear-splitting explosions, the bursts of fire piercing the gray shroud. Half a mile into their race, Aron began to slow. He was exhausted, starved, in shock, and out of breath. Despite Rahel’s encouragement, he slowed to a jog and then a walk. Rahel came back and grabbed his hand, almost lifting him off the ground to pull him along. Cela couldn’t see the town through the fog, but Rahel knew where they were going and kept them headed in the right direction. As they approached the town, the fog thinned to a light mist. Another artillery shell whined overhead, and Cela looked up in terror. A violent burst exploded to her right, and she screamed and fell from the concussion. Aron covered his ears and dropped to his knees. Rahel bent over him. “Come on!” he cried, yanking the children to their feet and resuming his mad dash.

  The sound of another incoming round raced toward them. Shrill. Piercing. It seemed to scream in anger as it approached at nearly the speed of sound. Cela stopped and looked skyward, her eyes wide, her mouth open in a silent scream. Aron fell and rolled into a ball, tears streaming down his face. “It hurts…it hurts…” he muttered in confusion.

  Müller looked through his field glasses toward Brzeg. The mist had settled over the bogs and open fields, but the sun was rising now and beginning to burn it off. Staring across the river, he had to smile. It was a beautiful sight. The fresh snow. The silver water. The yellow and orange explosions. The shroud of fog.

  He pushed the radio microphone to his mouth and started talking. “Take my directions. You’re falling short! You need to walk the fire west!”

  His soldiers milled around behind him, not paying any attention to the site of the artillery barrage that was hitting Brzeg. They were on the verge of rebellion, their faces tight with rage. They paced beside their transports, staring in fear toward the coming Russian army. It was one thing to die, but to face the entire approaching army…and for nothing but one man!

  Their rebellion stiffened with every passing moment.

  Unable to control his rage, Fisser walked to Müller’s side and hissed, “Sir, we’ve got to go!”

  Müller ignored him, concentrating on directing the German mortar team on the other side of the river. “Move fire two hundred meters to the WEST!” he commanded into the radio.

  Fisser swore, then turned away and lifted his field glasses so he could look down the road toward the approaching Bolsheviks. A shadow emerged from a small hill, taking shape as it rose above the slope in the terrain. A Russian T-34 tank. And then another. Russian soldiers moved with the tanks, hunkering beside them for protection. Another tank came into view, surrounded by more men.

  Acker stared angrily at Fisser, then turned and walked back toward his soldiers, spinning his fingers in a “get ready” motion.

  Fisser reached out and grabbed Müller by the shoulder. “SIR! We must go!” he said.

  Müller pushed his hand away and spoke into his radio again. “YES! YES! MOVE YOUR FIRE TWO HUNDRED METERS TO THE WEST!”

  The children were surrounded by death and flame and fog and hell. The sound of incoming artillery shells. Moaning in the distance. Falling rocks, metal, and debris. Crying children. Smoke and heat and flame.

  The explosions were so powerful that Aron’s nose began to bleed. Seconds later a group of villagers ran by them, heading for anywhere but the train.

  Rahel stood, utterly frozen with fear. His mouth hung open, and he had to gulp to breathe. He raised a hand to brush dirt from his eyes and turned slowly in a circle. He had no idea what to do, where to go, how to protect the children, how to protect himself! But Lucas’s words seemed to scream inside his brain. Get them to the train! Knowing no better option, he grabbed Cela’s hand again, lifted Aron in his arms, and started to run toward the station.

  They ran until two shells impacted just before them. Rahel fell, cradling Aron in his arms. Cela fell beside them and screamed, holding her hands to her ears. Mud fell on their heads, a mix of frozen ground and melted snow from the heat of the exploding shells.

  A moment of silence followed. Rahel stood and held his hands out and lifted the children. Together, they ran again.

  Lucas moved painfully through the reeds along the river. He found a large rock jammed against the bank and knelt beside it, then reached up and pushed the reeds away, providing a clear view to the other side of the river. He could see the open fields along the bank, his own and the children’s footsteps creating a trail through the snow. There was a small hill to his right with German military transports sitting at the top. Two men were staring across the river. Others were milling around their transports.

  He pushed painfully away from the rock, then stood and moved through the reeds to his right. He heard another round of artillery shells screaming over his head and quickened his pace. A jolt of fresh pain hit him, and he had to stop and bend to breathe. The bones. The torn muscles. He felt as if flames were shooting through his shoulder. He looked down and saw the blood beginning to soak through the bandage. He tugged it a little higher to keep it over the wound, then forced himself to move again.

  Staying behind the reeds, he moved parallel to the river, then stopped and pushed the reeds aside again. He was lined up on the hill now, as close as he could get. He slowly crawled forward and found another rock along the bank. Squatting beside it, he lifted the old rifle, loaded the single shell into the chamber, and rested his arm atop the rock, his wounded arm hanging to his side. Looking down the barrel of the rifle, he sighted across the river.

  He forced himself to hold his breath as he stared down the rusted sight of the old gun. But he was shaking uncontrollably from the cold and loss of blood, and he had to pull away and catch his breath.

  He looked across the river again. He could clearly see Müller standing on the top of the hill. Same black leather coat. Same black officer’s cap. Another German stood beside him and, as he watched, the second man reached out and grabbed Müller by the shoulder. The officer pushed his hand away, then turned back to speak into his radio.

  Müller pointed toward Brzeg and started pacing, gesturing in rage.

  “Almost there!” Müller spoke into his radio. “Another hundred meters to the north…”

  Fisser watched him angrily. This wasn’t about the rebel any longer. This was something else. He knew what he had to do now. He had a responsibility to his men.

  Fisser moved to the first vehicle, grabbed Acker by the shoulder, and leaned toward his ear. “Get your men into the transports,” he whispered carefully, keeping his eyes on the back of Müller’s head.

  Müller lifted his glasses again to study the town across the river. Two more shells flew in from the German firing positions along the highway. He watched as they impacted. One of them hit just beyond the train. The second hit a building beside the station, blowing it to bits.

  The mist had lifted completely now, and he could see the villagers running in every direction. “One more adjustment,” he said into the radio. “One more and you will have the train.”

  Lucas braced the rifle with one hand and aimed at Müller. His hand continued shaking violently. Taking a deep breath, he held the weapon tightly, his mind flashing back to the conversation with Antoni.

  “No one can hit a target at one-sixty meters with a handgun,” Antoni had said.

  “I can,” Lucas had replied.

  He sighted down the long barrel to the other side of the river. “I’ll give that forty meters,” he whispered to himself. He pulled away from the rifle, twisted off a small piec
e of dry reed, and threw it up to test the wind. Satisfied, he lifted the gun again. The end of the rifle moved up as he continued to estimate the distance.

  Halfway up the hill.

  “One hundred meters,” he whispered as he exhaled.

  To the top of the hill.

  “Two hundred meters.”

  He focused the sight on Müller. “Two hundred forty meters,” he whispered to himself.

  He drew a bead on Müller, then took a final breath and held it. Exhaling slowly, he let half of the air escape from his lungs. Müller paced again, and he lost his target. He was shaking much too violently. He started over: moved his head away from the rifle, shook his arm, held the weapon loosely, leaned against the rock again. Looking down the barrel of the rifle, he drew the sight on Müller, who had come to a stop while he talked into the radio. He aimed a fraction of an inch above the German’s head. A smaller fraction to the left to adjust for the wind that was blowing across the river. He put pressure on the trigger and leaned into the rifle. A touch more pressure…a fraction of an inch…

  The sound of gunfire shattered the morning air.

  “I need more rounds on the train,” Müller was shouting when the bullet snapped just a few inches above his head.

  Fisser jerked around and crouched, his rifle ready. Lieutenant Acker dropped beside him, his weapon also drawn.

  Müller remained standing. He slowly turned to face the river, his brow tight in rage. He watched as Lucas stood up from behind the rock, exposing himself above the reeds. The rebel stared at him from across the river, then lifted a hand and pointed at him.

  The rebel was alive—and he was mocking! He was mocking! The German cursed in rage.

  Müller reached down and grabbed Acker’s collar, jerking him to his feet and pulling his rifle from his hands. Holding it at his shoulder, he started firing at Lucas while walking down the gentle hill that sloped toward the river.

  Behind him, the sound of Russian gunshots erupted through the air. The Russians had finally seen them. Fisser followed the colonel as he walked, his voice raging. “SIR, WE’RE GOING TO DIE HERE!”

  Müller ignored him as he walked deliberately toward the river, shooting as he moved. One shot. Two shots. He stopped, held the gun tightly against his shoulder, and fired a third time.

  Lucas didn’t move. Standing in defiance, he held his arms out, presenting an even larger target for the colonel to shoot.

  Müller fired again. The ground exploded three times around Lucas. But still, he stood.

  Müller lowered his rifle and ran to the edge of the water, stopping as close as he could get. He raised the rifle and aimed it carefully. Lucas waited on the opposite bank, taunting, his arms still stretched out. Müller knelt to one knee, lifted his weapon to his shoulder, and took his final aim.

  Fisser appeared behind him, his rifle in his hands. He lifted it menacingly at Müller’s back. “Sir, we are going to go!” he said. His voice was calm now. Determined. Resolute.

  “You, Sergeant, will stand your ground!” Müller hissed.

  Fisser raised his gun and pointed it at Müller’s head. The colonel finally stood and turned to face him. “You’re going to shoot me?” he jeered. “You’re going to kill your commanding officer? No, Sergeant, you’re going to stand your ground. Just like we talked about. We save no rebel. We save no bullet. We fight until we can’t fight any longer, and then we take it like a man. We do everything we talked—”

  A single shot rang out.

  Müller stood still a moment, a look of surprise spreading across his face. Then he fell forward, a red spot emerging just below his throat. He rolled over and moaned, staring blankly at the sky. Fisser ran forward and knelt beside him. “Tell them…move…their fire…” Müller said in dying breaths.

  Acker grabbed Fisser by the arm, pointing back toward the Russians. Fisser stood and looked across the river. Lucas remained in the fire position, his pistol pointed at Fisser now.

  Fisser almost smiled realizing the rebel had lured the colonel toward the riverbank until he was close enough that he could shoot him with a pistol. He nodded in appreciation, then lifted a hand in salute.

  Lucas nodded in return and slowly lowered his gun.

  Turning away from the last rebel, Fisser and Acker ran toward the waiting transports. Reaching the passenger door, Fisser hesitated long enough to look back across the river a final time. The rebel was gone. He climbed into the transport and the tracked vehicle lurched forward, turning sharply to avoid running over Müller’s radio that he had left in the snow.

  The entire village was frozen in fear, no one daring to move. The villagers looked expectantly to the sky, waiting for the next round of deadly mortars.

  But the shells did not come.

  The train whistled to clear the track, and villagers started running and jostling back toward the train.

  Rahel pulled the children forward. They were close now, closer than almost anyone. Down the tracks they ran. Approaching the train from the front, they ran past the engine, coming to a stop at the first transport car. People were crushing forward, pushing and shoving toward the train. Cela and Aron were first in line. Rahel pushed them up the steps. Cela stopped and turned to face him. “Come with us,” she cried.

  He shook his head and pushed her up the stairs. Cela stopped and leaned down to kiss him quickly on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered gently, then rushed into the transport car.

  Cela moved to the nearest window and stared through the metal bars, peering back across the fields from which they’d come. Aron stood beside her, craning his neck to see. Cela reached through the bars that guarded the open window. “Lucas!” she cried.

  Lucas limped into the clearing. The dying fire smoldered in the center of a ring of melted snow and muddy footsteps. He looked around weakly, seeing bloody spots and red patches everywhere.

  He heard a whistle in the distance. The train was leaving. He had to go.

  He saw his gear where Cela had left it, scattered across the snow, and he hobbled forward and started to jam it into his pack. The last thing he reached for was Cela’s wooden box.

  It lay upside down, its contents spilled upon the snow. A braided lock of hair. A comb. A picture that was folded over. He reached down to pick up the photograph. Before stuffing it into the box, he unfolded the picture and looked at it.

  His entire world froze. The air seemed to turn to ash. His lungs filled with cotton, and he struggled to take in a breath. His mouth dropped open and he stumbled back, his balance faltering, his breath coming in short gasps. His vision seemed to blur, and he stared ahead with unblinking eyes.

  With trembling hands, he took out his own picture and held them side by side. Yes, they were the same. There he was, a little boy, standing beside his mother and his father. But where his picture had been torn, he could see from Cela’s picture that a young girl had stood beside him. Almond eyes. Long dark hair. Melina as a child.

  He fell to his knees, his hands clenched at the sides of his head. He closed his eyes and muttered in confusion. And then he heard a voice.

  “You did a good thing, little brother.”

  He lifted his head and opened his eyes.

  Melina was sitting on a log in front of him. She wore the same dress and light blue apron, but she was radiant and beautiful, and she smiled at him confidently.

  His mind suddenly flashed through a series of jumbled images that showed the passage of his life: Their house. Their family dog. Running through the grass as a child, his father chasing after him, his mother smiling from the doorway, a newborn baby in her arms.

  Melina holding Cela on her lap. His father in a uniform. Lucas as a teenager, watching soldiers in the streets. Cela as a little girl, the same curly hair and large brown eyes. She ran to Lucas and coaxed him to pick her up. He held her, and she rested her head upon his shoulder. “
I’m going to miss you, Cela,” he whispered into her ear.

  Another flash of memory: His mother grabbing him by his shoulders and looking into his face. “Lucas, I’m going to miss you! Be careful! Please be careful!”

  The memory was replaced by sudden images of war: Gunfire. Running through burning trees. A dying man in his arms. Explosions all around him. Blurry images of the German field hospital. Hanging on his fellow rebels’ arms as they carried him away.

  Melina in the church, her face down as if in prayer. She looked up at him and smiled.

  The memories faded as quickly as they had come.

  Lucas dropped Cela’s picture and pushed himself to his feet. He turned to his sister and stared at her, tears rolling down his face. “Melina…” he whispered.

  “You remember now.” She smiled at him gently.

  “But you’re—”

  “No, Lucas. I am not. You know that life goes on beyond this world.”

  Lucas wiped his eyes, then looked desperately through the trees toward the village. “My little brother…my little sister.”

  She smiled at him again. “You saved them,” she said through tears of gratitude. “You saved them, Lucas.”

  The train whistled through the trees, and Melina glanced toward the village. “You have to go,” she said calmly.

  Lucas took a step toward her. The train whistled a final time.

  “Go!” Melina whispered. “You’ve got to be with them.”

  Lucas turned anxiously toward the trees, then looked back at her again.

  “Merry Christmas, Lucas,” she said, her countenance shining bright as the sun.

  And then she was gone.