Only Love Heals A Heart: Steamy Historical Romance

by Gray, Jessica

  Only Love Heals A Heart

  Steamy Historical Romance

  Jessica Gray

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, and places in this book exist only within the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or locations is purely coincidental.

  Only Love Heals a Heart

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2018 Jessica Gray

  This book is copyrighted and protected by copyright laws.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission from the author.

  All characters, names, and places in this book exist only within the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or locations is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by http://www.StunningBookCovers.com

  Contents

  Jessica’s Newsletter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Gray

  Jessica’s Newsletter

  Jessica’s Newsletter

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  http://jessicagraybooks.com/newrelease.html

  Chapter 1

  July 1945 near the town of Lodz in Poland

  Stan Zdanek stared at the burnt remains of his parents’ farmhouse, swallowing hard. The lump of entwined emotions wouldn’t go down as memories assailed him. Those happy childhood days he’d spent with his twin brother Jarek and his younger sister Katrina, the three of them always up to mischief.

  Jarek is dead, he thought bitterly. And he hadn’t seen his sister since that fateful day when they’d all had to flee after helping their Jewish sister-in-law Agnieska escape from the Ghetto in Lodz. Had any one of them survived the brutal war? Would they return to the family farm one day? Would life ever be good again? Would he ever be happy again?

  He looked down at his wooden leg and cursed his fate. Cursed the war. Cursed the Nazis. After a shudder of self-pity mixed with rage, Stan shook his fist into the sky, angry with God Himself. A deep sigh escaped his throat as his gaze wandered to the fields behind the house. They extended all the way up to the nearby forest. At this time of year they should be in full bloom, bearing the heavy load of crops to feed hungry mouths during the upcoming winter. But the fields lay barren, weeds covering the space usually filled with wheat, corn, and potatoes.

  With some difficulty he rounded the small farmhouse, climbing across fallen bricks and beams. Shielding his eyes from the scorching sun, he looked up. Parts of the roof were missing, along with the front wall. He narrowed his eyes at the charred pile of rubble on the ground.

  Hot shudders of rage ran down his spine as he remembered how the Nazis had torched the house. The smell of burnt ashes seemed to still linger in the air, even after more than a year had passed. A year that seemed like an entire lifetime. He scoffed, the suppressed rage bubbling up, boiling his blood.

  If only–

  If only things had been different.

  If only he hadn’t been shot, captured and lost his damn leg.

  He’d returned home hoping – what? To find peace? Officially, peace prevailed since Germany’s unconditional surrender on May 8th, but Stan’s soul was caught in inner turmoil. He’d hoped returning to the farm would somehow ease the pain. But now, gaping at the charred disaster the Nazis had left behind, he seriously doubted his own sanity. He bumped his fist into the wall with a hapless scream, causing mortar to trickle down. There wasn’t much left of the house, certainly no reminder of happier days.

  Stan entered the house through the gaping hole in the front wall as if the door were still hanging on its hinges. Rubble, dust, dirt, and dead leaves covered the floor along with the evidence of rodents who’d made the house theirs.

  Another groan escaped his throat, but this time he knew better than to punch the damaged wall. It would take weeks of hard work before he could even consider it a house. The massive wooden kitchen table had burnt to ashes along with the rest of the furniture downstairs. Only the brick and metal stove had survived more or less unscathed.

  Hesitantly, and not because of his missing leg, he glanced at the stairs to the second floor. How much more destruction would he discover up there? With trepidation he climbed up, one slow and careful step on the stone stairs after another. Bright sunlight blinded him as he stepped onto the roofless upstairs level.

  The walls appeared to be in good enough shape, but without the protection of a roof, the floor had been exposed to the elements. The remains of bird’s nests littered the hardwood and the support beams for the roofing had been reduced to charcoaled trunks. They’d have to be replaced before he could even think of repairing the roof.

  A wave of helplessness hit him and quickly turned into red-hot rage again. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even repair his own roof. He wasn’t a real man anymore. Running a hand across the full blond beard covering his face, he turned around and carefully made his way downstairs.

  Most of the windows in the first floor had been blown out, glass splinters still covering the ground. As far as he could see the only intact place in the entire house was the tiny space beneath the stone staircase, just big enough for a small person to lie down. Not him though. He’d have to find another place to sleep.

  Suddenly a feeling of depression overcame him and he fled through the charred remains of the back door into the backyard, where he stopped in utter shock. His late mother’s vegetable and herb garden was in full bloom. Ripe red tomatoes hung in thick panicles, their sweet-herb scent wafting over, making his mouth water and reminding him that he hadn’t eaten all day.

  He walked inside the stonewalled patch and picked a tomato, savoring the warm and juicy fruit on his tongue. The vegetable garden flowed over with green beans, sweet peas, cabbage in every form and color, plants he recognized as carrots, potatoes and radishes. A smile appeared on his lips as he noticed the bright red currants on the ancient bush in the corner of the garden, only to be wiped off his face when he remembered Jarek and himself fighting over the last piece of streusel pie their mother had made.

  He’d never fight with his twin again.

  Wondering how all the plants looked so vibrant, he spotted the dented metal watering can, neatly stored next to the well, apparently in constant use. Someone must have been tending the garden. The need to pee didn’t let him ponder the mystery for long and he walked to the outhouse at the far end of the garden. On the way back to the house, his gaze fell on the tool shed. A cursory glance revealed it hadn’t caught fire.

  He walked over and found the shed empty except for a few tools, but with the walls and roof intact. He decided to make it his home for now. He’d be perfectly fine inside the shed, protected from rain and wind... until winter arrived. Stan shook his head in a gruff gesture. He’d worry
about winter later.

  With a sour grin on his face, he returned to the house where he’d set down his rucksack with two sets of clothes, a thin sleeping bag, toothbrush, shaving kit and some provisions. Together with the dagger he always kept in its sheath tied around his hips and a few zloty notes, all his meager possessions were inside the bag.

  Well, that and the family farm. Since his older brother Peter had decided to stay in Berlin and try his luck there… and Jarek was dead... it was only Katrina and him. But nobody had heard from Katrina and he feared she might not be alive.

  He rounded the kitchen stove and his gaze fell on the well-hidden trap door his father had installed before the start of the war. He forced the jammed door open and stared down into the gaping black hole. The hidden pantry seemed to have survived without damage.

  “Fuck!” Stan knew there’d be a lantern, and food in the pantry, but how should he climb down the ladder? Another loud growl coming from his stomach sped up his decision to clamber down, and he emptied his rucksack before putting it on his back. Using the strength of his arms, he let himself down into the hole, feeling with the good leg for support, and then he more or less slid down the ladder, using mostly his arms to keep himself from falling.

  Once on stable ground he turned around and fingered in the semidarkness for the lantern he knew must be there. He found it in its usual location and seconds later the matches next to it and lit the lantern.

  When the flame lit up the room he thought for a moment he’d gone to heaven. Thank you, Katrina! His sister had left the small pantry overflowing with canned food, sacks of flour, potatoes, preserving jars with fruits, berries, and vegetables. He also spotted a canister with motor oil for the lantern as well as a large bottle of vodka.

  He packed some food and the vodka into his rucksack, put the lantern back on the shelf at the entrance, extinguished it, and then heaved himself up the ladder, relying solely on the strength of his biceps. Back on the kitchen floor he sat down, wiping the sweat from his forehead, scowling at the wooden leg that hung uselessly from his body.

  With the help of the nurses at the Charité hospital in Berlin, he’d learned to walk, climb stairs and even run, albeit slowly, with his wooden leg, but normally easy tasks like climbing a ladder had become huge obstacles for him.

  A shudder ran down his spine. How many times had he wished to be six feet under rather than a living cripple? Only the persistence of his nephew Janusz, and Peter’s second wife Anna, had prevented him from putting wood behind the arrow.

  He settled his stash on the stove, grabbed the bottle of vodka and two cans of Spam and walked outside to sit on the porch, where he used his dagger to open one of the cans of Spam. He ate with the hunger of someone who hadn’t been properly fed in years and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Before opening the second can, he opened the vodka, tipped the bottle to his lips and took a long pull.

  Leaning against the outside wall of the house and glancing up at the sky, Stan closed his eyes as the liquor burned its way to his gut. Despite its being late in the afternoon, the sun still hung high on the horizon, and it wouldn’t settle until around ten p.m.

  He emptied the second can of Spam, taking ever-increasing gulps of vodka, wishing he could drink enough to dull the aching throb in his leg, and his soul. Finally, the lightheadedness gave way to drunken stupor and his mood plummeted. The cold breath of utter loneliness and desolation took hold of him, slowly spreading across his body until it occupied every single cell.

  Emotions that had been locked up deep inside for much too long burst out, cracking his armor of self-control. With a heaving sigh of whirling emotion, he stopped fighting. Tears spilled and gave way to wracking sobs, as he wept for all that he had lost. His leg. His future. His happiness.

  He wept for all who had died. His parents. His twin. His best friend Bartosz. His brother Peter’s Jewish wife, Ludmila. The kind midwife Magda. And so many more.

  “Why?” he screamed, shaking the half-empty bottle clutched in his fist.

  He slumped down and tossed back another swallow of vodka, seeing his future in the bleakest of colors. He’d have to spend his days in solitude. No woman would choose a cripple like him. He was still so young, just twenty-seven, and he’d never feel the joy of lying with a woman again. The thought had him breaking out into another wave of sobs, until the drunken stupor eventually tossed him into a tortured sleep right there on the porch, his chin dropped to his chest, his back slumped against the wall.

  * * *

  “Stan!” a voice called again.

  Stan opened his eyes to tiny slits, but closed them in the same instant, when blinding sunlight hit the pupils and sent shockwaves of debilitating pain into his head.

  “Stan? Are you alright?” the voice insisted and tiny hands grabbed his shoulder.

  He tried to shake them off, hoping whoever it was would leave him in peace and stop shouting. The shrill voice sent needle pricks into every nerve ending in Stan’s head. He fought the urge to vomit.

  But the other person wouldn’t relent. When the noise persisted, Stan finally cursed and cracked his eyes open. Slowly the small person standing a foot away came into focus. It took Stan much too long to recognize the neighbor’s boy, Tadzio, staring down at him with a sorrowful expression.

  “Tadzio, is that you?” Stan asked.

  “Yes. You’re back! You survived!” The boy made to hug Stan, but he held up a hand, keeping him at a safe distance.

  “Slow down. I’m a bit ruffled.” Stan scrubbed a dirty hand over his beard and grimaced at the pain following the movement.

  Tadzio’s gaze fell on the empty bottle and he stared at Stan. “You drank all of this?”

  “I guess it was a bit too much,” Stan said, trying a small grin. But even this tiny movement caused another wave of needle pricks to his head. “What are you doing over here?”

  Tadzio grinned and then pointed to the vegetable garden. “I came to water the plants and remove the weeds.”

  “The garden is your doing?” Stan asked, looking at the boy carefully and wondering how old he was now. Ten. Eleven. Deciding he was no judge of a child’s age, he asked, “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen. I’m almost a man.” Tadzio proudly puffed out his chest.

  Not quite. Stan didn’t voice his opinion, however, respecting the pride in the boy’s face.

  “I’m sorry about the house. There wasn’t much we could do with the Nazis around. At least the fire didn’t spread to the garden and the shed. When the soldiers finally left, my mom and I doused the embers.” The boy shrugged, giving an apologetic glance. “We ate the produce and used your garden…”

  Stan looked from the thriving garden to the barren plot of land behind the stonewall and said, “It’s alright. The food wouldn’t have served anyone rotting on the ground, now would it?” Although I sure would have liked a bite or two last winter when I was in that hellish Nazi prisoner camp.

  “Right, yes? That’s what my mom said. And we always hoped you and Katrina would return. So we kept the garden tended.”

  Stan’s face darkened into a scowl at the mention of his sister. He still had no idea whether she was dead or alive. The uncertainty pained him, plucking at what was left of his heart. Not knowing was even worse than knowing… He peered past Tadzio and the thriving garden to the fields beyond. Fields riddled with weeds. It would require a Herculean effort to ready the ground for seeding. And it was already too late in the year for crops or potatoes. That ship had sailed months ago. If he’d come here immediately after the capitulation in May… maybe then he’d have had a chance at a decent harvest in the fall.

  “We’ll need food in the winter,” Stan murmured mostly to himself.

  “I will help you.”

  Stan stared at the young boy for a moment. “You?”

  “Why? I’m thirteen. If you show me, you’ll see how much of a help I am.”

  “Good, let’s get started.” Stan nodded and struggled to get
to his feet. “Can you get me some water?”

  Tadzio grinned and left, returning within moments with a bucket of clean, fresh, water from the well.

  “The well’s still working?” Stan asked with surprise, cupping some water in his hands and drinking deeply before using another handful to splash and scrub his face.

  “Wasn’t easy to fix, but my mom asked old Jakub to help us.”

  Stan faintly remembered the man who lived about a mile further down the road. He’d been ancient even when Stan was a child, and he briefly wondered how the old man had managed to stay alive throughout the war.

  “That is fortunate,” Stan said, dumping the remaining water over his head and shaking it vigorously. Some of the water splashed Tadzio and the boy jumped back with a laugh.

  “Would you like something to eat? I have brought some bread,” Tadzio offered, pulling a cloth from his pocket and revealing a large crust of dark bread.

  Stan’s mouth watered at the sight and he eagerly nodded. Tadzio broke a piece of the bread off and handed it to Stan. After eating every last morsel, Stan dusted his hands on his thighs. “Shall we get to work?”

  Chapter 2

  Agnieska waited in line at the Red Cross office in Warsaw, wringing her hands for several moments before she clasped them together tightly and took a deep calming breath. Like everyone else queuing up, she carried a list with names of friends and family. Hoping, praying, yearning that some of them were still alive.