Padlocked, page 7
As the mob stepped back and then rushed forward in another direction, the man pulled her away from the others. It was easy to see why the crowd had obliged him and given her space. He was a soldier in the Polish Army, his cropped, sandy hair almost hidden beneath a crisp cap bearing the Polish White Eagle. His trim figure was clothed in an olive uniform, and he wore a wide black belt and knee-length black boots.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Fine, thank you.” Agata wiped her hair off her forehead and was surprised to find pebbles from the ground in her hair.
“Where were you going?” he asked.
“I—” She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“The school—”
“No. I need to leave the Jewish sector. I need to be across town.”
“Is that where you live?”
Agata looked around her in impatience. “I am wasting time here. Thank you for assisting me to my feet, but I must go. The Germans—”
“The Germans are coming,” he finished. “And we are digging in. You will be safe if you remain in Warsaw, Jewish sector or no.”
“Then, thank you, and good-bye.” She turned to run, but he held out his hand and stopped her.
“Do you have an address where you are going? I have a motorbike. I can get you there faster than you can run.”
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere right now? Like, fighting the Germans?”
He laughed so unexpectedly that Agata was shocked. “There will be time enough for that, don’t you worry. My name is Piotr. Come. My motorbike is over there, on the opposite corner.”
As Agata rushed across the busy street with him and settled behind him on the motorbike, she took a long look at the school down the street. It was difficult to know what was happening as people rushed in all directions at once. Her eyes fell on the top step, at two figures holding one another so tightly they appeared as if they might be one. A tear rolled down her cheek as the motorbike zoomed to life, and she held onto Piotr as they took off. Soon, the people blended behind them while the memory of Ira and Elsa on the step seared into her mind. “I will be back tomorrow,” she thought. “I will be back, just as I promised.”
8
Hank, Festungsfront Oder-Warthe-Bogen, September 1, 1939
Hank lay prone on the rough ground as he peered over the hill at the ground below. The sun’s path and the forest’s density had cast him in shadow all morning, but that would soon change. He aimed his shroud-covered camera at the unfolding scene, so only the lens was visible.
He was located along the easternmost edge of the Festungsfront Oder-Warthe-Bogen, or the Fortified Front of Oder, Warthe, and Bogen, in far western Poland, his sights set on the border with Germany. Rumored to be the Nazi’s most highly fortified underground network, it consisted of roughly one hundred pillboxes and defense structures, all interconnected underground in tunnels purported to be 25 miles long and up to 130 feet deep.
The Germans had begun constructing the military defense line in 1934. Oddly, they had claimed it to be a crucial defense against a possible Polish attack. As Panzers rolled over the uneven ground between the pillboxes from Germany into Poland, he’d watched countless men emerge from the fortifications on foot before forming loose infantry lines that continued their invasion into Poland. He was not one to overestimate, but he knew he was observing well over a hundred thousand men in his position alone. His report, which he would write this afternoon wherever he and Rafe found a suitable hideaway, would mean even more with these photographs.
The invasion had not been totally unexpected, though he was certain that the scale would take everyone by surprise. Earlier in the year, the Nazis had swept through Czechoslovakia, which the Germans called the Sudetenland, and Austria. Although parts of Europe had protested with fiery speeches in parliamentary halls, Hitler had not received so much as a slap on the wrist. There had been rumors for months about a Polish or French invasion, with the buildup along the Germany-Poland border partly obscured by the expansive underground tunnels and facilities.
As German fighter planes flew overhead in massive formations, Rafe slipped up beside him. “We have to go,” he whispered hoarsely.
“I know. I just want to finish this roll.”
“No,” Rafe said. “We have to go. Now.”
Hank pulled his camera back and peered at Rafe. “What’s happened?”
“We have a visitor.”
Hank jerked around to look beyond them but saw no one. Still, he’d heard that tone in Rafe’s voice too many times to count. They’d become adept at covert photography and following leads into dangerous situations during the Spanish Civil War, but neither of them had ever seen anything on this scale.
“This way,” Rafe said, staying low to the ground and half-crawling behind the hill to the other side. He stopped as Hank joined him behind a particularly dense thicket of fallen trees and underbrush. He nodded, and Hank moved around him to peer around the edge. “Careful,” Rafe warned.
“How many are there?”
“Only one. He arrived a few moments ago.”
“You stopped me for only one?”
“Take a look where he’s at.”
Hank studied a young man standing along the dirt path, a lane so narrow that it was a minor miracle either of their vehicles could traverse it, as it seemed more suited for livestock. They’d left theirs as close to the trees as Rafe could manage, obscuring it between the rolling terrain and forest. He used his camera’s telephoto lens to snap a few pictures. The soldier wore a well-fitting German uniform, but appeared to be a private, especially with his field helmet. “He’s separated from the others,” Hank murmured.
“Maybe he needed a piss?”
“Whatever he’s doing,” Hank said as he watched him lean into their open vehicle, “we’ve gotta get rid of him. Do you have the key?”
“Of course, I do,” Rafe answered. “And our gear.”
They crept closer in a labyrinth manner, both sets of eyes on the German soldier. The man moved into the tree line, where they could only observe his back. “Told you,” Rafe whispered. He picked up a few hefty rocks and pulled his slingshot out of his back pocket. As the man emerged from the woods, he returned to his vehicle. Then, as if he’d thought of something, he went back to the one Hank and Rafe were using. “One more step,” Rafe said as he aimed. “Revelation 12,” he said calmly. “And there was war in heaven... And Satan prevailed not.” There was a high-pitched sound and then a sturdy thud as the heavy rock found its target in the middle of the soldier’s neck. “But I paraphrase,” Rafe added as the young man hit the ground.
Hank and Rafe scrambled down the rest of the hill and raced for the vehicle, only to discover their exit was blocked by the German truck. “Hurry!” Hank said as he dashed to the truck. He threw himself into the front seat as Rafe clambered into the driver’s seat, tossing the gear to Hank. Within a split second, he turned the ignition and began speeding along the road in reverse.
The soldier appeared to make a feeble effort to rise to his knees, but he went down again.
“I hope you didn’t—” Hank began.
“He’s okay. Just knocked a little loopy. I’ve never killed anyone with a slingshot—yet.” He reached an opening that didn’t appear large enough to back into, yet Rafe expertly navigated the truck until he was heading along the road they’d traveled only a few hours before. It turned toward a sloping hill and open fields still brilliant green from summer. The marching men and tanks appeared surreal in the picturesque setting.
“Fuck,” Rafe said. He managed to cut a fresh path through the lumbering underbrush that shielded them from the approaching Germans. “You realize we’re not safe anywhere, right?”
Hank glanced into the back of the vehicle. “There are weapons back there and maybe another uniform.”
“The uniform might come in handy. The weapons won’t. There are too many of them.”
“Turn south,” Hank said, pulling a map out of his duffel bag. “They’re probably heading due east. They won’t turn south for several miles.”
“Confident of that, are you?”
“I’m counting on this being the advance guard. More will come, but it will take days before they truly fan out.”
“I don’t think so,” Rafe said. “There are too many of them, and they’re moving fast.”
“Then we have to move faster,” Hank said as he glanced behind them.
Artillery shells and small arms fire lit up the horizon. Hank looked up from his seat on a bale of hay to catch Rafe standing in the barn’s open pedestrian doorway, silently watching the action. It was unusual for fighting to continue after dark, but the sun had set long ago, and the Germans kept advancing.
“Soldiers need rest, wouldn’t you think?” Rafe asked as if reading Hank’s mind.
“They always have before,” Hank answered. He removed the film from his camera, popped it into a small canister, and shoved it into the steel toe of his boot. Then he slid his foot into the boot and tied it.
“Doesn’t that bruise your toes?”
“Not usually. The boots are two sizes too big. It only bothers me if I have to walk long distances. Besides, if we’re ever searched, nobody thinks of looking in my boots.”
“That’s because they figure you’d be crazy to shove something that big in there.”
Hank smiled wryly. “Maybe I am crazy. Crazy to be here, anyway. Where do you suppose we are, anyway?”
Rafe closed the door, but it did nothing to deaden the noise. The barn was cast into gloom as only slivers of light pierced between aged wood panels. Where usually a full moon might cast blue or white beams across the floor, tonight they were muted red from the fighting, which pooled like blood on the straw-covered ground. It evoked unwelcome memories of the Great War. During that war, the occasional night fight was illuminated by white flares to more easily spot enemy positions, often turning night into daylight. Newer technology had determined that red light provided better night vision, but it seemed surreal, as if they were in a perpetual state of blazing sunset.
Hank watched as Rafe’s dark shape moved across the room to join him at the bales of hay as a horse nickered in a nearby stall. While Rafe retrieved his maps from his rucksack, Hank reread the letter he’d written a few minutes earlier. It read:
Dearest Dottie,
How are you and the kids? I miss so much about North Carolina. I miss watching the stars with you over open fields, sitting in the porch swing, and I especially miss your cooking. There’s no cornbread or fried catfish in these parts, and most especially, no banana pudding!
I am sorry I missed Mary’s 19th birthday celebration! Time is slipping by, lovey. Next year, our oldest can bid those teenage years goodbye! Is she still dating Buck? He seems like a nice young man.
Have Susanna’s grades improved? Only one more year after this one, and once she has her high school diploma, she can get secretarial training and that good job she wants. She’s always had an independent streak. If she applies herself to her studies, she can go far, I betcha.
I must admit, Dottie, I am relieved that Ray is only now turning thirteen. I’ve seen so many young men killed or disabled from the Great War, the Spanish Civil War, and now the Germans have invaded other countries. I would hate to see him at an age where he would want to enlist.
I miss all the kids, but I mostly miss you, lovey. It’s been twenty-three years now since we married in front of that Justice of the Peace. Do you remember the gift waiting for us from the Welcome Wagon? A box of necessities, like toilet tissue and feminine pads! We laughed for days.
Can you believe how fast time has flown? I remember it like it was yesterday. I shipped out one week later to fight in Europe, and I still have our wedding picture, such as it was, in my wallet. I look at it every night before I fall asleep, as I pray that the Good Lord will watch over you and the kids, and even Rufus, that lovable mongrel.
I’m going to ask the magazine if I can do a few domestic pieces soon, Dottie, just like we talked about. I love photojournalism, but it’s tough not seeing you and the kids. I’ll be back home in less than a month, and we can all go somewhere nice for a few days, maybe rent a place at Rodanthe and enjoy the beach. I could do with some swimming and flying kites like we did when the kids were small.
Please give my love to the kids and a hug to Rufus.
I love you, lovey, and hope to see you soon,
Hank
He carefully folded the letter and placed it neatly into an envelope. Before he could seal and address it, Rafe turned on a small flashlight and focused it on the map he’d laid out across the floor. “We should be right about here,” he said, pointing with his free hand.
Hank set the envelope on the hay stack as he slipped to the floor to lean over the map.
“We should be near Będzin,” Rafe said. “Judging by the size of it on the map, we should be able to locate a phone there.”
“Good. I finished the article for the magazine; I can dictate it over the phone. I need a dark room to process the film and a postal service. With luck, the photos can arrive within three weeks.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Rafe said. “We need to get someplace where they won’t be intercepted.”
The wide barn doors swung open so abruptly that it startled both men. Before Hank could fully react, a man shouted in Polish, “Ręce w górze! Ręce w górze!”
As Rafe placed his hands in the air, he shouted in Spanish, “Somos guerrilleros!”
“We’re resistance fighters now?” Hank asked, raising his hands.
“Fuckin’ Affirmative,” Rafe replied.
Two soldiers descended upon them as a third picked up Hank’s letter and the nearby article he’d recently completed.
“¿Dónde están tus papeles?” one asked gruffly. Rafe pointed at his jacket pocket, and the man wrestled the papers out. He shone a hefty flashlight onto the paperwork. “¿Eres español? ¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?”
“What the hell?” Hank said as he presented his papers.
“He wants to know if I’m Spanish and why I’m here.”
Before Hank could respond, the man peered at him curiously. “¿Por qué hay un americano aquí?”
“He wants to know why an American is here.”
“Tell him we’re journalists.”
Rafe replied to the man. His response was lengthy, and as Hank listened, he noticed the uniforms were Polish. The barn had begun filling up with other men, and through the open door, there appeared to be several hundred heading their way on foot and in light tanks. “Tell him we want the Americans to know that Germany is an aggressor in Poland.”
As Rafe complied, the conversation went back and forth. The officer was obviously intrigued by their unexpected presence. The soldier who had picked up the letter and article carried them to his commanding officer, and they conferred in whispered tones. After an interesting back-and-forth, the soldier who had removed their identification was called over.
“Can they speak any other languages?” Hank whispered.
“If they could speak English, they would be.”
“Tell them I also speak—”
“You speak one word of German or Russian, and I’ll fucking slit your throat myself.”
“Dammit.”
“My guess is they can’t read English, either, so they don’t know what they just took off you. It could be German military plans, for all they know.”
The senior officer returned to them and spoke to Rafe in halting Spanish. After a moment of nodding and Rafe pointing at their gear, he turned to Hank. “They’re taking us to Będzin.”
“Wonderful!” Hank beamed. “They’re giving us a ride?”
“Not so fast, Shirley Temple.” As the soldiers patted down Hank and Rafe and inspected their bags, he continued, “They’re taking us to a command post. I suspect they will try to find someone there who can read English. If your writing checks out, they might let us go.”
“What do you mean, ‘checks out’?”
“If they don’t suspect we’re German spies.”
9
Max, Będzin, Poland
Max sat at a desk barely large enough for the paperwork he’d been handed. His chair was even smaller, reminding him of the child-size chairs in primary school. About the only thing you could say about it was that it rolled, which was nice when he didn’t feel like getting up. But it was metal, uncomfortable, and so short that his knees were awkwardly bent.
He shared the office with five females. Most of the time, he felt like he was witness to a typing pool of gossipy girls, though he couldn’t type and he wasn’t part of their gossip circle. They didn’t have a window because they were located in an area between the hallway and the mayor’s office, but if he sat just right, he could see through to the mayor’s window and view the sky. That was all he could see, as the second-floor office was too high to observe the busy sidewalks below.
“Max,” the mayor said, stepping into the doorway.
“Sir?” He stood.
“Get me a couple of rugelach, will you? From that Jewish bakery, what is it?”
“The Mond-Weiss Bakery?”
“That’s the one. Tell her to bill my office.”
“Yes, sir.” Max grabbed his coat and hat and hurried out the door. He dressed nicely these days. With his new paycheck, he could afford a couple of suits he rotated, a pair of dress shoes he kept shined to perfection, a wool overcoat, and a matching hat with a nice brim. Between the footwear and the hat, he figured it added a couple of inches to his height, and he tried to stand tall as he walked, as if he were someone important. He was, after all, an assistant to the mayor.
When he entered the bakery, several women were waiting in line, and Max inwardly groaned at the delay. However, Mrs. Weiss spotted him immediately, waved her arm in his direction, and called for him to come forward. As he stepped in front of the others, she said in a breathless voice, “Max works for the mayor.”
