Padlocked, page 19
A set of offices was located at one end of the room, each consisting of a desk and chair, and some contained typewriters or fans. The desks were covered with paperwork in various stages of organization; some were neatly contained in metal organizers, while others were far more haphazard.
She discovered a metal lunch pail on one desk with a bowl and spoon beside it. Without hesitation, Agata sat in the creaking metal chair and devoured the bowl of bean and yellow turnip soup. In earlier days, she might have considered it meager and unsatisfying, but today she felt like a queen. She found a biscuit inside the pail; it was about half the size of a pack of cards and made with a type of flour she didn’t recognize, but she forced it down with the half-full glass of water beside it. With the glee of someone finding gold in a mine, she also located three nuts at the bottom of the pail.
As she finished eating, she considered the food and the abandoned village. The soup had been cold and partly congealed, the biscuit hard. She would have heard the villagers had they been marched into the woods the morning she’d been dropped off. Besides, she reminded herself, Celeste had already discovered them. They must have been killed the day before she met Celeste, their factory work interrupted as the manager was eating his lunch.
It didn’t make sense. She made her way back to the factory floor and picked up a finished shirt. It was sturdy and stiff. The threads were a mismatch of brown and olive, but the work was good. While it was impossible to tell if they were meant for Germans or Poles, she quickly determined that, due to the occupation of Poland, the factory had been making German uniforms. Why, then, would the workers have been slaughtered?
A feeling of dread crept up her spine. She had to reach Elsa quickly, before it was too late.
She tracked down a duffel bag, carefully selected several long-sleeved shirts, and placed them inside. Skirts were harder to find, but she eventually found a corner of the factory with skirts that fell just below her knees. She closed the bag with care.
Agata made her way to a window and peered into the center of the village. Other than a stray dog wandering at the far end, it appeared completely deserted. With a prayer for protection on her lips, she rushed from the factory into the nearest open structure, an end unit in a block of connected homes. It was dark inside, the heavy curtains falling across the small windows. She made her way upstairs to find ladies’ clothing, which rounded out her new wardrobe. The lady of the house had larger feet than her own, but she stuffed the shoes to keep her feet from sliding inside them.
She hesitated at a bathroom door to stare at the clawfoot bathtub. Unable to resist, she turned the faucet. As the pipes creaked and moaned, brown water spewed into the tub, followed by water that was a bit clearer. She quickly stripped, filled the tub, and climbed in. A sliver of soap made her feel luxurious as she removed weeks of grime from her body, face, and hair.
Although the water was only tepid, she did not want to leave the tub. The water made her feel cradled in its embrace. She lay back and considered her plan. If she were to survive and find Elsa, she would have to be resourceful, cunning, and shrewd. She couldn’t question whether it might be possible for her to rise to a level of survival she’d never had to experience before. Her life depended upon it. Perhaps Elsa’s life did, too.
As the sun traversed the sky to the other side, indicating that darkness would soon arrive, Agata knew it was time to leave. She would not take the road from which she’d arrived, but a different road that led toward the southwest and Kraków.
As she left the home, carefully closing the door behind her, she was dressed in a new shirt and skirt with an aged, dark coat over one arm and the duffle bag in her hand. The shoes felt strange as she walked down the empty street toward the far edge of town, and she hoped she could break them in easily. She had miles to walk.
As Agata came to the last cross-street before leaving the village, she was startled to discover a banged-up vehicle parked along the edge of the road. She hesitated, listening for signs of life. Hearing none, she moved to the side of the vehicle. There was no roof, leaving open two bucket seats in the front and a narrow bench in the back. The doors were missing, the tires had dangerously smooth tread, and its serviceability was questionable. But as Agata leaned in further to peer inside, the gleam of a key in the ignition caught her eye.
At that moment, a sound caused her to bolt upright.
In the doorway of a building on the opposite side of the vehicle was a man who appeared as startled to see her as she was of him. Even from the distance that separated them, Agata could see his eyes scanning from her to the vehicle, and she could have sworn she saw the recognition on his face as he realized the key was still in the ignition.
She moved, and he quickly held out both hands with his palms out. “No, no,” he said, shaking his hands. “No, no, no.”
Agata froze. He was dressed similarly to her, in a mixture of olive and brown, though his clothing showed signs of age and wear. His boots were covered in layers of dirt and muck, unacceptable in the German army unless the men were marching. His head was bare of the customary German helmet or field cap, and she could see no insignia. As he stepped toward her, she instinctively stepped backward by the same degree, though her eyes raced to the key and ignition.
The man asked something in a language she did not understand. She looked back at his face, the concern in his voice still lingering in the air. When she did not reply, he asked, “Polsku?”
Agata continued to stare at him. He was so close to her that she could see his widened eyes and the anxiety etched on his face.
“Deutsche?”
As her silence continued, another man appeared beside him. He was younger and dressed more sharply in an obvious German uniform, a cap in his hand, though the uniform was ill-fitting. Her first impulse was to run. Her mind raced ahead of her, picturing her running out of the village as they effortlessly caught up with her in their vehicle. Just as rapidly, she envisioned an attempt to lose them in the village in one of the many deserted structures.
The younger man asked in German, “Do you speak Polish or German?”
She hesitated. The wrong answer could endanger her.
He repeated his question in Polish. “Which is it?” he asked when she did not reply.
She looked to the older man. For the first time, she noticed a camera hanging from one shoulder, its massive lens protruding as if it had just shifted into position behind him. His hands were still outstretched as if imploring her. “Either,” she answered. “Both.”
The two men appeared to relax slightly, though the younger one took a step toward the vehicle. The older man said something, which the younger translated into German. “Are you a villager here?”
She shook her head.
Once again, the older one spoke, and the younger one translated. “Do you know what happened here?”
She hesitated and looked away.
The younger one took the opportunity to move swiftly to the vehicle and extract the key. He was dark with olive skin that appeared almost swarthy. His hair was black, and from this distance, his eyes seemed alluring. It was unusual to see someone with his coloring in Eastern Europe, and she wondered if he was Italian or Spanish. Agata felt her heart sink as he placed the key into his pocket, though she knew she could not have escaped in their vehicle. Perhaps if the men had not appeared when they did, she might have been miles down the road in it already.
With the translator between them, the older man said, “My name is Hank. What is your name?”
“Agata.”
“Agata,” he repeated.
The younger man added, “I am Rafe.”
Agata frowned. “Hank. Rafe. What nationalities are you?”
“We could ask the same of you,” Rafe replied. They conferred between themselves before Rafe added, “Hank is American. I am Spanish.”
“American?” Agata seized on the word as her eyes became riveted on Hank. “Are the Americans here? The Americans are in Poland?”
At the sight of her face suddenly aglow, they both relaxed. Hank reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a pack of cigarettes. She took one offered to her and stepped closer so he could light it.
“Just Hank,” Rafe said. He smiled briefly at Hank. “We are still awaiting American soldiers.”
“Are they coming?”
His smile faded. “The Americans are busy in North Africa at the moment.”
“And the English?”
“The same.”
Agata’s face fell.
“Do you know what happened here?” Hank asked through his translator.
Agata nodded toward his camera.
“I am a photojournalist. I am here to document the war.”
“I see.”
“Are you Polish?”
“Yes,” she answered, adding, “But I prefer to speak German. I need the practice.”
Hank laughed before Rafe had translated entirely, leading her to believe he understood a bit more than he had let on. “We all do,” he answered.
“I am not from the village,” she answered. “I was told there was a clothing factory here.” She held up her duffel bag.
“It is unusual to find an unescorted woman in these parts,” Hank said through Rafe’s translation. “It is also extremely dangerous.”
“Yes. I know.”
“Where are you going?”
“South.”
“Toward Kraków?”
She nodded.
They exchanged worried expressions before speaking at once. “You can’t go there.”
“You don’t know what is happening there.”
Agata swallowed. “My sister is there.”
“On her own accord?”
She shook her head.
“Where was she taken from?”
“Warsaw.”
Again, they exchanged telling looks.
Agata looked toward the sky. It was beginning to darken, and she needed to get moving. “I go to Kraków now.”
As she started to take a step, Hank moved to stop her. “Wait,” he said. As Rafe translated, he continued, “We can take you with us. You can ride, not walk.”
“To Kraków?”
“To the east.”
“Into Soviet territory?”
Hank and Rafe nodded reluctantly.
“No, thank you.”
“The Soviets are fighting on the side of the Americans now.”
Agata chuckled wryly. “The Soviets fight on the side of the Soviets. Always. They are as bad as the Germans.”
“Yes,” Rafe said. “But we travel to Allied territory, away from the Germans.”
“My sister is not there.”
“And you travel to reach your sister,” Hank added.
“How do you propose getting past the Germans?”
Agata pointed at Rafe’s clothing. “How did you?”
The men chuckled. “Point well taken,” Rafe responded as he pointed at her outfit. “I take it this clothing was not yours? That is why you wanted to reach the clothing factory?”
Agata nodded as she looked again to the skies. It looked like a cloudy night, and she silently prayed that there would be no more rain.
“If you insist on trying to find your sister,” Hank said, “then get to the west of Kraków. You are more likely to find your sister at Oświęcim. Are you familiar with it?”
Agata shook her head. “Only the name. It is small, yes?”
“Yes. That is where the trains go from Warsaw, from Kraków, also.”
Hank locked eyes with Agata’s. His eyes were wide, soft, and sad, somehow a mixture of compassion and having seen too much. “You must understand that you are unlikely to find your sister.”
“Perhaps,” she answered, tilting her chin upward. “But I must die trying, if that is my fate.”
“The Nazis are taking anyone who isn’t German. It no longer matters if they are Jewish, political dissidents, or what they call undesirables. You must be German to get through.” He hesitated before adding, “A woman is in particular danger.”
As Rafe translated, Agata prepared to leave. “Perhaps,” she said. “But, again, I must try.”
“Can I get your name and your picture?” Hank asked.
Agata hesitated.
“If your family searches for you later, it could be helpful,” Rafe said.
“And if the Germans find your camera and your notes?”
“We will only have a picture on the camera and a name and date on a pad.”
“Not the location?” Agata asked.
“No.”
“And if you are tortured?”
“To give up information on you?” Rafe smiled. “Are you a spy they are after?”
“No. Not a spy. Agata Heinrich.”
Hank held up the camera. “Your picture?”
She nodded. The cigarette had long ago burned down, but she still held the stub in her hand. She stared directly into the lens without blinking, her expression immobile. It was an odd feeling to have her photograph captured here in this peculiar village, and a strange feeling to know it might be seen around the world: a lone young woman wandering between Warsaw and Kraków, searching for her sister. Perhaps, Elsa might see it.
Hank and Rafe shook her hand and offered again to take her east with them. She declined and turned to go. Then, abruptly, she turned back around.
“You asked earlier if I knew what happened here.”
“Yes,” both men said in unison.
She pointed toward the traffic circle in the middle of the village. “Take the road to the northwest. You’ll see woods about a mile beyond the village. They slaughtered them there.”
“Who?”
She shrugged. “I suppose it was the Nazis. Who else could it be?”
“Why?”
“Why?” she repeated. “If you were a Nazi, why not?”
As she turned her back on them and began to walk, she heard activity behind her. A moment later, their vehicle’s engine sputtered to life. The sound of the engine grew fainter as they sped away from her, and she realized that she had never felt so alone in her entire life.
24
Hank
An onslaught of emotions threatened to derail Hank, and only his years of experience kept him from falling apart. Journalists relied on objectivity and on keeping their feelings and personal beliefs at arm’s length to cover a story impartially. But as Hank took photographs and Rafe counted the bodies and made notes, it was increasingly difficult to hang on.
The stench was overwhelming, with some of the bodies in various degrees of post-mortem edema and others turning black, their faces and limbs contorted. Wild creatures, including vultures, had further violated many. They had to drive off the latter to investigate the scene; it hadn’t been difficult, since vultures are easily spooked, but it had left a haunting impression. The dead consisted of children, women, and men of all ages. For the first time, Hank witnessed able-bodied men who might have served the Third Reich as slave labor, gunned down instead. Retaliation, he thought. The woods were littered with toys, suitcases, clothing, and other personal belongings, leading him to speculate that the villagers had been duped into believing that they were being relocated. One infant still had a pacifier in his mouth, the back of his head blown off, and several children clutched their dolls or wooden toy trucks.
“I didn’t get an exact count,” Rafe said, joining him. He had a bandana tied around his face to prevent the smell from permeating his nostrils. “I estimate close to five hundred.”
“Five hundred! How is that possible?” Hank peered through the woods, where barely any ground had been left uncovered. “How many soldiers would have been needed for that?”
“Maybe only a handful. They had weapons; these people were unarmed. Some were scattered as if they were running, trying to escape.”
Hank clenched his jaw. “I don’t even have words for this.”
“I do,” Rafe said. “‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.’”
“Revelation?”
“Shakespeare. Now do you believe me?”
“About what?”
“Revelation 12, verses seven to nine.”
“Oh, please.”
He continued undeterred. “And I paraphrase: when Satan was cast out of heaven, he and his angels were hurled to the earth. Not hell, Hank. Earth. The battle between good and evil continues here, with us.”
“Fine. I’m beginning to believe you.”
“Only beginning to?”
Hank moved toward the tree line, where he could attempt to breathe fresher air. “If you’re right, then it’s obvious who is winning.”
“First John, chapter 5, verse 19—”
“And you paraphrase,” Hank interjected.
“The whole world is under the control of the evil one,” Rafe said as he joined him at the edge of the woods.
“Well, that’s helpful.”
“However, the Bible goes on to say in the Book of John, chapter 12, verse 31: the ruler of this world will be cast out.”
“So, the Jews we saw assembled and marched out of Będzin were not an anomaly,” Hank murmured as if he hadn’t been listening.
“I’d say it is standard operating procedure,” Rafe said as he lit a cigarette. He offered Hank one, then rocked back on his heels. “The orders came from higher up. Berlin, probably. I’d bet anything on it.”
Hank strolled to the vehicle, his feet feeling heavy and his movements slow. When he reached it, he leaned against it and puffed on his cigarette. “I don’t understand it. How many countries has Hitler invaded now; how many does he have complete control over?”
Rafe removed his bandana from his face but left it dangling around his neck. “Poland, obviously. Czechoslovakia, or what they refer to as the Sudetenland.” He held up one finger and then two.
“Austria. Denmark. Norway,” Hank added. Both men now held up five fingers.
“Belgium. Holland. France,” Rafe said.
“Two more are in play now. The Soviet Union,”
“And Italy, now that the Italians ousted Mussolini, and Hitler reinstated him in the north as his puppet government.”
