Self-conscious about what he was wearing, Alf worried the people in the town might raise the alarm. If they did, with only a pistol to defend himself, he would not last long.
As farmland gave way to houses, Alf could see the town square, full of makeshift stalls surrounded by a morass of people. Beyond the shoppers and traders stood several rows of rundown dwellings. It was clearly the poorer part of town, although from what he had seen so far, there did not appear to be a wealthy one. Small children played noisily with a ball. They ignored Alf, and he did the same to them.
Between the second and third rows, a washing line spanned the street between the two houses, containing several items of clothing blowing in the breeze. His eyes scanned the contents for something appropriate to wear. To his disappointment, most of the items were ladies’ garments, dresses and overalls, but in the middle hung a gentleman’s overcoat which weighed down the line. So much so, some of the clothes scraped the floor. Perfect. He walked alongside it and, in one swift movement, grabbed the coat and pulled hard. The pegs holding it in place pinged off, and he bundled it under his arm without breaking his stride.
At the far end of the road, Alf sheltered in the shade of a tall, brick building which dwarfed everything else in that part of town. He examined his prize. The overcoat was made from a coarse, dark-brown tweed. Alf tried it on and attempted to fasten the buttons. It was tight across his shoulders, but the length was okay. Disappointingly, the sleeves stopped some considerable distance beyond his fingertips. It was a little damp, but he did not mind, just grateful to have another layer to wear on this chilly autumnal morning.
10
Hindered by an icy wind, Alf strolled across the market amidst a scrum of shoppers. Through the crowd, he spied several tables and chairs positioned around a ferociously burning brazier outside a cafe. He needed some respite from the cold, and the wavy, heat haze appeared very inviting. Two older men chatted as they huddled close to the fire. The two men looked at him as he sat on an unsteady seat adjacent to the brazier. He smiled politely, and they promptly returned to their conversation. Reclining in his chair, he lifted the front legs off the ground and placed his hands behind his head while he surveyed the market.
A high-pitched bell tinkled as the shop door opened. Alf returned the four legs to the floor as he rehearsed what he was going to say. A waiter stepped out and muttered something at him in Polish. He ordered a coffee in German, trying to hide his accent. The waiter looked him up and down, sighing disappointedly before briskly walking away. Feeling very conspicuous, Alf pulled up the collar on his coat and fiddled absentmindedly with a pepper pot from the table next to him.
In the market, old ladies wearing brightly coloured headscarves barged their way through the crowd, while groups of menfolk stood around chatting. Reassuringly, several people had walked past him but none had given him a second glance.
The waiter returned with a tray and placed down a steaming cup of coffee in front of Alf. He slid a small paper receipt under the saucer before hurrying back indoors. Morrison gazed at the steam rising before lifting the drink to his lips. The villagers appeared to be going about their business as usual despite the war. After taking a mouthful, he placed the cup down, appreciating the warmth which lingered in his fingers.
A few dogs ran past before darting randomly into the crowd. Alf thumbed the small receipt which the waiter had left. Disappointingly, it only had the price of his coffee scribbled in blue ink, giving no clue to which town this was. The heat from the nearby fire started to permeate his clothing, making him much more comfortable. He would have liked to stay longer but knew he should explore some more.
The coffee had become lukewarm, and he grimaced as he took another slurp. He chose not to drink the rest and returned the quarter-full cup to the table. After placing the lowest value note he had under the saucer, he pushed back his chair and disappeared into the crowd.
Deep in thought, he turned a corner, bumping into two Wehrmacht soldiers, both of whom were carrying submachine guns. One started shouting, calling him an ignorant peasant. Not wanting to speak, Alf shrugged his shoulders and walked on with his head bowed.
He was no more than fifty yards away when one of the soldiers called after him. Alf’s pulse quickened and he began to sweat. With his head down, he carried on, pretending not to hear them. The two soldiers pursued him, continuing to call out, but Alf ignored them. At the first available opportunity, he walked down a sideroad and increased his pace, trying to lose them. His eyes darted from building to building, desperately looking for somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere.
They were now close behind him. Alf started to panic and considered using his pistol, but quickly realised it was a bad idea. He chose to walk up the front path of the nearest house and mimed searching for his keys. The pair of soldiers stopped at the end of the alley. Again, they shouted for him to come over. With few other options, he walked towards them.
They spoke to him in German, but he pretended not to understand. After a few minutes, the taller of the two became frustrated by Alf’s apparent lack of understanding. The soldier held out the wallet he had been carrying. A wave of relief surged through his body. They were not after him, after all. He must have dropped it when he collided with them in the alley. Nodding and smiling his thanks, he pocketed it, having to stop himself from saying thank you in English. With that, they headed towards the market, talking to each other as they went. That had been close. Too close.
Relieved, he retraced his steps before passing a row of shops he had not seen in his earlier haste. Crossing the road opposite a colourful orthodox church, he walked through an otherwise drab residential area.
As he proceeded along the pavement, he heard an irritating, low-level noise. The sound was familiar, but he could not place it. It continued to grow louder. Then, it dawned on him, just as a company of Wehrmacht soldiers turned the corner at the far end of the street and began marching towards him.
Once again, Alf searched around for somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere. He felt like a rat in a maze; whichever way he turned there they were. He continued walking, trying to blend in with the locals. To turn around and walk the other way, or even worse, run, would have been too suspicious.
From the other side of the road came a barrage of abusive shouts. An officer at the front of the parade bellowed a command, bringing the column to a halt. The immaculately dressed infantrymen stood bolt upright, expressionless and unflinching. He strode over to the young Polish man who had been shouting obscenities at the soldiers. The youth continued his tirade. Without warning, the German officer lashed out. A single punch to the abdomen made the young Pole double over, then the officer followed with a kick to the back of the head, leaving him motionless on the pavement. On witnessing this, mothers dragged their children off the street and pedestrians melted into the background, allowing Alf to slip away unnoticed. After the events of the morning, they would be looking for him and his colleagues. He could not afford to stay here much longer. It had already been more than two hours since he had left the others. They would be wondering where he was.
It had begun to rain heavily, so Alf ducked into the nearest doorway to keep dry. From his surroundings, he could tell he was now in a business district of the town as the buildings were mainly made from brick rather than wood. As he sheltered, a piercing shriek filled the air, making him jump.
***
The fine drizzle, which had plagued them for most of the morning, had become a steady downpour. Fed up with waiting, Henry stood up and stretched his legs.
‘Pat, can you and Travers see if you can find us somewhere to get out of the rain? We can’t stay out in this; we’ll catch pneumonia.’
‘By the look of those dark clouds, it’s going to empty down,’ O’Shea said. ‘I’ll see if we can reserve a suite at the Dorchester.’
‘I’ll settle for the Ritz if they’re full. Take your weapons,’ he added, adopting a more serious tone. ‘Be back here in twenty.’<
br />
O’Shea nodded, then woke Travers, who slept against the fallen log.
Pat’s nerves were on edge; every shadow and every rock could conceal a German soldier. He slipped the safety off his machine pistol and held his finger over the trigger. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Travers yawn and stretch silently. The sudden movement made O’Shea turn and level his weapon at his comrade.
‘Easy,’ said Travers. ‘I’m on your side.’
‘Sorry,’ he replied, smiling nervously. ‘This place just makes me jumpy.’
‘What are we looking for, anyway?’
‘Somewhere for us to shelter?’
‘Well, I think it’s stupid. There’s not likely to be anything around here. We’re in the middle of nowhere.’
There was the subtle click of a twig breaking. Both men dropped to their knees instinctively, raising their weapons. Travers stayed where he was as O’Shea crawled forward on his belly for a closer look.
***
They had made this journey many times in the past. Sleeping under the stars used to be magical. However, this trip could not be further from Zofia’s rose-tinted memories. She longed to feel the way she did when Viktor locked up the shop and the children were in bed. Typically, they would chat about their day, along with the usual run-of-the-mill chitchat. There was safety in the familiarity of everyday life.
The boys played in the back of the cart as if the day’s events had never happened. Considering what they had been through during the last forty-eight hours, they were coping surprisingly well. However, the children were not the problem; Viktor was. He usually clammed up when something was bothering him, and he had been silent since leaving Ryszca.
Viktor was hungry and longed for a warm meal and a cosy bed while his wife sat stony-faced, staring into the distance. He was afraid to engage her in conversation. She looked different, older somehow. More lines had appeared on her face, even since leaving Danzig. When would this all be over?
The horse continued to plod onwards, labouring up a steep hill. The children, under the supervision of Zofia, were running alongside the cart in an attempt to make the horse’s job easier. A cyclical rumble filled the air, prompting him to scan for more aircraft, but the overcast sky was empty, apart from the occasional bird. He glanced over his shoulder to see how far they had come. A cloud of dust hung in the distance. Uncertain of what he was looking at, he kept looking back momentarily.
‘Zofia! Take the boys and hide over in those trees,’ he shouted.
She immediately gathered the children in front of her and then ran with them towards a shrub oak. He anxiously fed Miedziak a couple of carrots as the dust cloud moved nearer.
The ground started to vibrate. At less than two hundred yards away, he could discern three large troop carriers and a field ambulance approaching. He tried not to stare but found his eyes wandering towards them as they approached. The vehicles came to an abrupt stop next to the cart. An officer wearing a distinctive black uniform leapt down from the cab of the lead vehicle. Two other soldiers, bearing arms, joined him.
‘I’m Hauptmann Andreas Roehm of the SS. May I ask who you are?’
Before Viktor could answer, the officer nodded to the other two guards. They set about searching through their belongings, unloading the cart roughly onto the ground. He tried to speak, but his mouth had become dry with fright.
‘What is your business here?’ Roehm barked
‘Parents! I’m going to visit my parents,’ he said, blurting out the information like a tap under pressure.
Roehm nodded. ‘So where are you heading?’
‘Allenstein,’ he said, using the German name for Olsztyn, hoping to curry some favour.
Roehm smiled.
‘Are they children of the Reich? For today, they should be rejoicing.’
Viktor nodded, imagining what the officer’s response would be if he had said his parents were Poles.
Roehm wandered around the cart, turning his attention towards Miedziak.
‘This is a fine beast. A good working horse,’ the hauptmann said, patting its neck.
Viktor walked around to where the German officer was now standing.
‘Have you seen any other soldiers on your travels?’
‘N-n-no,’ stuttered Viktor, ‘not since leaving Danzig.’
Roehm listened, removing his pistol from a shoulder holster before holding the barrel against the horse’s head.
‘Are you sure?’ he said, clicking off the safety.
‘Certain,’ Viktor said, accompanied by a desperate, exaggerated nod.
‘I wouldn’t want you to lie to me.’
‘I’m not, Sir. I swear. You are the first soldiers I have seen.’
‘Tell me, why did you leave Danzig?’
‘I was worried about my parents. They’re getting on a bit. I wanted to be near them, what with the war and everything.’
‘War? There is no war,’ Roehm said. ‘We’re liberators. We’ve returned Danzig to the Fatherland. They should understand that.’
Viktor smiled, saying nothing, knowing whatever else he said would cause him grief. The officer slipped the pistol back into his holster before walking away.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he patted the horse again. Suddenly, Roehm grabbed Viktor by his scarf, twisted it, forcing him to his knees. The pressure compressed Viktor’s windpipe, causing him to struggle for breath.
‘You’d better not be lying!’ he said firmly.
Viktor shook his head, now unable to speak. Roehm’s grip tightened further and he stared menacingly with his silvery-grey eyes. Viktor’s face turned redder as the scarf dug into his neck, his vision starting to blur. Just as he was about to black out, Roehm finally let go, sending the Pole to the floor in a crumpled heap.
‘If you see anything of note, remember me to report it,’ he said sternly.
Viktor watched as the officer climbed back into the cab of the lead truck, slamming the door behind him. The two guards dropped their boxes, then rejoined one of the troop carriers.
The vehicles drove off, leaving Viktor kneeling next to the horse, gasping for breath. Once the dust cloud was no more than a blur on the horizon, he waved Zofia and the kids over.
‘Are you all right?’ Zofia screamed, running towards him.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, straightening his tie.
‘What was that all about?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Something about British soldiers.’
‘What? That makes no sense.’
‘I know.’
He dusted himself down, then set about reloading the cart.
11
A relentless drizzle continued to plague them as the day dragged on. Zofia was so cold, her bones ached and she found herself fantasising about a taking hot bath. In her imagination, she could almost feel the warm water lapping around her, and writing with her finger in the condensation on the mirror. She dreamt of using the expensive soap Viktor had given her the previous Christmas. Having kept it for when she really needed pampering, she had only used it once. This was undoubtedly one of those occasions. The more she thought about submerging her aching body, the worse she began to feel.
With her head in her hands, Zofia sobbed quietly, hoping no one would notice. In a rare demonstration of affection, Viktor put his arm around her shoulders while shaking the reins, encouraging the horse to move faster.
By the side of the road, a couple of hundred yards ahead, Zofia spotted a large building. She wiped her eyes for a better look.
‘Is that an inn on the left?’ she asked.
Viktor squinted as the rain blew into his eye. Without speaking, he brought the cart to a standstill outside the building. He handed the reins to Zofia for safekeeping before wearily climbing down.
No lights were on, so he rapped on the door. To his surprise, it opened with a creak. He called out, but the inn remained silent. Tentatively stepping inside, he walked along a short passageway into the bar area. Viktor shouted ag
ain, but no one answered.
The wide, dreary room was dominated by a mahogany counter that over the years must have seen many glasses of ale slide over its surface. The rest of the room contained several haphazardly arranged tables, each with a couple of chairs. A fireplace occupied the far wall, full of ash from a long-forgotten fire, and the furniture was covered with a thin layer of dust. The inn appeared to have been abandoned many months ago. Perhaps its owners fled when the first rumours of the war started.
Beyond the counter was a small kitchen. It was particularly messy; whoever lived here had left in a hurry. Numerous empty cardboard boxes littered the floor, and a cast-iron stove had been upended, preventing the rear door of the property from being opened. Viktor wandered through the other rooms, but no one was around. This was the perfect place to spend the night.
With help from the two boys, Zofia led the horse to the back of the building so they could not be seen from the road. They unhitched Miedziak, tethering him to a nearby fence amidst an overgrown wasteland of weeds. Lifting up her skirt, she climbed onto the cart and started unloading the various bags and boxes they had packed for the journey.
Upstairs, the rooms were in a worse state of repair. Wallpaper was peeling off the walls, and telltale black mould marked the course of rainwater percolating down from the roof. Despite this, Viktor was happy. Several bare mattresses had been left behind. He was under no illusions. The night was not going to be luxurious, but it would be considerably better than another night squashed amongst their belongings on the cart.
He found Zofia in the bar, on her hands and knees, trying to light a fire in the grate.
‘Viktor, go and see if you can find a stream. We need some water for dinner,’ she said without looking up.
‘But there’s a hand pump in the kitchen.’
The Danzig Corridor Page 8