Padlocked, page 8
Max tilted his chin upward as she announced his importance.
“Celina, would you help the next in line, please?”
As Celina made her way from stocking shelves to the counter, she glanced in Max’s direction. She seemed a little older somehow, her brown eyes perpetually smiling, her shoulder-length bob silky. But she was a Jew, and she wasn’t Stella, Max reminded himself. He returned her smile begrudgingly. Something must have been off about it, because her own smile faded.
“Would you like something special today, Max?” Mrs. Weiss asked.
“Several rugelach,” he answered smoothly. “Please put it on the mayor’s tab.”
“Of course, of course.” Though there were several rugelach in the display case, she leaned forward and whispered, “I’ll get them from the back. I have a fresher batch.” She disappeared through a door and emerged a moment later with a neatly folded paper bag. “Is half a dozen alright?”
“Perfect,” Max answered. He bowed his head slightly before turning toward the door. As Mrs. Weiss began assisting the next customer, he made his way out of the open door and onto the sidewalk. Polish troops had started marching down the middle of the street, with tanks and other vehicles interspersed among them, and civilians had stopped to watch and cheer them on.
It startled Max. He had heard a rumbling in the mayor’s office about Germans invading from the west and Soviets from the east, but anything that didn’t affect him directly was meaningless to him. With the troops entering Będzin, the invasion was taking on new significance.
He dipped his hand into the bag, pulled out a rugelach, and ate it leisurely as he watched. The German border was much further to their west, so these troops must simply be passing through, he surmised. Yet, as he continued to observe them, he decided he could elevate his standing by rushing into the mayor’s office and announcing the arrivals. He licked his fingers, crushed the bag closed again, and hurried along the sidewalk, dodging in and around onlookers.
By the time he arrived at the administration building, there was a line of tanks stopped alongside the promenade, and as he rushed into the building, he was stymied by soldiers milling around in the hallway. They grew more numerous the closer he got to the mayor’s office, and as he started through the door into the outer office, one soldier stepped in front of him and placed his hand on his chest.
“Your business here?” the soldier asked.
“I work here!” Max impatiently pulled his coat open to reveal his name tag, neatly pinned to his suit jacket.
The soldier stepped aside without apologizing, and Max rushed in. He plopped the bag onto his desk, started to remove his hat and coat, and turned to the women, who had all stopped their work to observe with wide eyes.
“What’s happening?” he whispered hoarsely to the closest clerk.
She shook her head. Tatiana was a matronly woman. Her hair was always pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, the hair slick and neat. She was normally unflappable, her mouth permanently pursed and ready to cluck disapproval, her sharp eyes taking in every detail.
“You must know something,” Max pressed. “You must.”
“The Nazis are moving quickly,” she hissed. “Too quickly.”
“What does that mean, ‘too quickly’?”
“Across the border. They are overrunning our troops, but fighting is fierce. The mayor is pleading with the Polish Army not to allow the city to be destroyed. They must not fight here.” An uncharacteristic tear showed briefly in the corner of her eye before she batted it away.
An officer stepped to the doorway, but he was half-turned toward the mayor.
“All our offices are yours,” the mayor was saying from deeper in his office. “We will clear things out for you. Our staff is at your disposal.”
A soldier arrived from the hallway and rushed in toward the officer. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. As the officer turned toward him, he whispered something in his ear.
The officer recoiled. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, sir. Quite sure. But no one can speak his language.”
A hubbub grew in the hallway. Max strained to listen to the conversation between the officer and the soldier, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then the mayor’s voice rose above the commotion. “I’m afraid not.”
“No one?” The officer and soldier moved into the office and stopped directly in front of Max’s desk as the mayor stepped to his doorway.
“No one,” the mayor said. “No one speaks English here.”
“I do!” Max almost shouted the words.
Everyone’s eyes turned toward him. He could feel their shock and confusion as the room became silent. Będzin suddenly felt very small, as they stared at him in disbelief. After all, he had spent his entire lifetime in this one neighborhood. They thought they knew him. They thought they knew all about him. But they were about to learn that they didn’t know him at all.
“I speak English proficiently,” he said in English. “I wish you all a good day. The air is warm. The sun is strong. Love live Poland.”
They stared at him in stunned disbelief.
Then, the officer pointed at him. “You’re coming with us.”
10
Hank, Będzin, Poland
Będzin was a vibrant city. Even with the Polish Army spilling into every available street, the city’s culture and economic vibrancy were on full display. As the soldiers drove them into the city, Hank soaked up the city’s essence as only a seasoned international journalist could. He quickly learned that Będzin had a diverse range of industries, including metals manufacturing, chemical factories, and the garment industry. The soldiers debated the population figures, and, with Hank’s limited understanding of Polish, he concluded that Będzin had around 50,000 citizens, over half of whom were Jewish. Many of the Jews’ ancestors had lived in the area since the 13th century.
He tried to relate their ancestry to his own. He didn’t even know where his ancestors were in the 1200s. He’d been told they arrived in America in the mid-1800s, but he had no idea where they had lived before his grandfather settled in rural North Carolina around 1880. That meant, he deduced, his family had roots in North Carolina for a mere 59 years—barely a lifetime—while the Będzin Jews had been deeply rooted there for 700 years.
The imposing Będzin Castle and the equally impressive Jewish synagogue were in proximity, towering over part of the city and the busy Czarna Przemsza River, where shipments of manufactured goods were still being loaded despite the Nazi invasion.
Hank noted that the streets were surprisingly much broader than those in his hometown, and the architecture was awe-inspiring, with the relatively new Będzin Power Station, schools, multi-level office buildings, theaters, art centers, and a bustling rail station. It also boasted fortified medieval town walls. In addition to the original castle, there was the Mieroszewski Palace, which appeared larger than America’s White House.
They passed trams and vehicles on the busy streets, which were intermingled with a growing number of military vehicles and tanks, until they arrived at a dignified administration building with columned terraces on two floors. What struck Hank as they were directed out of the vehicle was the sheer number of people on the overflowing sidewalks.
Hank and Rafe were taken across an expansive courtyard, through the marbled foyer, and up a set of wide stairs to the second floor. An attractive woman with deep brown hair and vivid blue eyes greeted them from behind a sturdy typewriter on a spacious oak desk. The soldiers conferred with her for a moment as she glanced several times in their direction. One of the soldiers handed her Hank’s duffel and Rafe’s rucksack, along with the letter to Dottie and the magazine article.
Leaving the bags on her desk, the woman motioned for Hank and Rafe to follow her. They entered a room where several women were busily typing and filing, then went to another office where a stout woman with short hair was on the phone. She eyed them with interest while she spoke, and when she hung up the phone, she conferred with the receptionist in hushed whispers as she was handed the papers.
As the receptionist returned to her desk, the other woman stood and pointed to the chairs against the wall. “Czy mówisz po Polsku?”
Hank recognized the word Polsku, and he assumed she had asked if they spoke Polish. Both shook their heads and responded with a list of languages they spoke between them.
“Siadać, siadać,” she said, beckoning again to the chairs.
As they sat, Hank said, “Obviously, we’re gonna need a Polish language book.”
“Ya think?” Rafe asked.
The woman disappeared through an office door near her desk. Hank leaned forward and caught a glimpse of expansive windows and a man in uniform. He stood as the woman handed him the papers, glancing up to briefly meet Hank’s eyes. As the woman returned to her desk, the man followed her.
“Jakie języki mówisz?” He asked when he reached them. At their blank expressions, he repeated, “Język?”
“Oh, holy shit,” Rafe breathed.
“American,” Hank said as they both stood. “Spanish,” he added as he gestured toward Rafe.
“Amerykański?”
“Si, Amerykański,” Hank answered, butchering the word as he repeated it.
To his surprise, the man laughed.
“Si is Spanish, you imbecile,” Rafe said.
“Well, how do I know what ‘yes’ is in Polish?”
“Siadać, siadać,” he answered, pointing to the chairs.
As they sat back down, Hank said, “Well, now we know that siadać means sit.”
“Do we?” Rafe responded.
The man spoke to his secretary in rapid-fire Polish, and she immediately picked up a large black phone and dialed a number. After talking for a moment, she said to her boss, “On jest w drodze.”
At that, the man disappeared down the labyrinth of offices.
“He said the word jest. Does he think we’re a joke?”
“I have no fucking clue,” Rafe answered.
They sat in silence for what seemed to be a very long time. When the man returned, another man accompanied him. The second man had an eager air about him, as though he were somehow excited at their appearance there. He was dressed smartly in a business suit, his hair cropped short. Both of them eyed Hank and Rafe for a long moment before the second man spoke in halting English with a hint of a British accent. “Which is the American?”
“I am,” Hank said, standing. He half-waved his hand at Rafe. “We both speak English.”
“Max Kursell.” He shook both their hands as they introduced themselves. “Major Ludwik Adamik. Come into the major’s office, please.”
“Boy, are we happy to meet someone here who speaks English,” Hank said as they followed the men into the major’s office. At Max’s direction, they sat in sturdy wood chairs with leather upholstery in front of Ludwik’s desk as the major handed Hank’s letter to Max.
Max read through it, a small smile crossing his face. Then, he turned to Ludwik and appeared to translate the letter into Polish. Ludwik nodded and directed the letter back to Hank.
“I hope you didn’t say anything sexy in that letter,” Rafe said.
“Not a chance,” Hank said, returning it to his pocket. “She lets the kids read them.”
Max had already turned his attention to the magazine article. He read this one more slowly. When he was finished, he walked around Ludwik’s desk and placed it in front of him. They conferred for quite a while as Max appeared to translate the information and then discuss its contents. After a time in which Hank and Rafe became increasingly anxious, Max turned to them. “You are journalists?” he asked.
They both answered affirmatively. Hank added the magazine's name.
“Yes, yes, but why are you in Poland?”
“That’s a loaded question,” Rafe answered.
By the time Hank and Rafe finished explaining their work during the Spanish Civil War and their coverage of Nazi Germany, the four men had moved to a couple of sofas in the corner of the office. The secretary, whose name they learned was Zofia, had brought in a tray of tea and appetizers, which they all devoured.
“So, you see,” Hank said as he finished his explanation, “we want the world to know that Germany has invaded Poland. We want Americans to know of the Nazi threat.”
Max and Ludwik conferred for a moment. Ludwik nodded, and Max began to speak. “I am a civilian,” he began. “I am the starosta.” He waved his hand as if trying to think of a word. “It is equal to assistant mayor. I manage parts of the government.”
“You speak excellent English,” Hank said.
“I graduated from Oxford.” He adjusted his tie as if he were pleased with himself. “We are very excited that you are here. I will help you to submit this,” he half-waved the magazine article. “And we want you to write more. We want people around the world to know what is happening here.”
“You’ll help us submit it?” Hank repeated incredulously.
Max pointed at the phone. “I assume that you telephone someone?”
“Yes, and dictate the article.”
“Film taker in bag?”
“A camera? Yes. You didn’t remove the film?”
“Remove,” he repeated slowly.
Hank sighed. “It was empty. A new roll.”
“New. You have used?”
Hank hesitated.
“We will find them. Share them willingly, and we will help you contact your magazine.”
“You also want to see what we’ve seen,” Rafe interjected.
“Tak. Yes.”
Hank and Rafe exchanged glances. Then Hank removed his shoes and extracted a film canister from each. The men watched, puzzled.
“Good idea hiding it there,” Rafe said wryly. “A bit puzzled why you disclosed your hiding place so quickly.”
“You keep—?” Max asked, motioning toward his shoes.
Hank nodded. “We’re on the same side,” he said to Rafe loud enough for Max to hear.
“Are we?” Rafe muttered under his breath.
Max shook his head as if he didn’t understand.
“The shoe size is purposely too big,” Hank said sheepishly.
Max and Ludwik conferred briefly. “Good to know we are on the same side,” Max said, turning back to them.
“I can process the film,” Hank said. “All I need is a dark room. I have the supplies in my bag.”
Max adjusted his collar and cleared his throat. His chin was elevated as he spoke. “Here is our offer, Hank and Rafe,” Max said. His tone was amicable, but his words were slow, and red flags began to pop up in Hank’s mind. “You will remain here in Będzin until the Nazis have gone. There is heavy fighting, and we have every reason to believe we will be victorious. We may repel them as early as tomorrow. We want your photographs—” he struggled with the right word, “and pencil reports. We will use them and also allow you to send them to your magazine. I will allow you to use the phone, and I will listen. Once the enemy is out, you will be free to go. Until then, you are our guests.”
“Lodging?” Rafe asked.
“Lodging?” Max repeated.
“Sleep. Roof. Room.”
“Ah. It will be provided.” He slightly slurred the last word. “And you will have plenty to eat. You will be stationed with our soldiers.”
“As prisoners?”
He moved his hand as if in dismissal. “Of course not. You are my guests. You may freely walk the city with a military escort. You will receive the same food and sleep as our soldiers.”
Hank and Rafe exchanged glances.
“Where else are we gonna go?” Rafe asked Hank.
“We’re as safe here as anywhere.”
“Safer, I’d say.” Rafe stood and shook Max’s hand. “It is our pleasure to remain as your guests.”
A few minutes later, a soldier was escorting them down a hallway to a corner office. In the distance, they could hear the sounds of bombardment, the constant cannon fire causing the floor to tremble as if in a minor earthquake.
Rafe glanced behind them. “Do you believe he went to Oxford?” he whispered.
“Not a chance,” Hank said. “I don’t know what it is about him, but I don’t trust him. But, I’m not quite ready to bite the hand that feeds us.”
“Do me a favor, okay? Give me a heads up before you do that.”
“What, so you can outrun a trained soldier?”
“Nope. So I can outrun you.”
11
Agata, Warsaw, Poland
Agata had not returned the next day, as she had promised Elsa. Nor the day after that or the day after that. As the city grew more chaotic, she found herself confined in one sector as her family was restricted to another.
Most of Poland fell within days as the largest and most intimidating army ever seen bulldozed through the country. The Nazi system of war began with indiscriminate aerial bombardment that destroyed block after block of infrastructure, resulting in so many simultaneous fires that the populace could not fight them all. Hospitals, schools, private homes, and daycare centers were set ablaze as casualties mounted. Women and children were as apt to be targeted as Polish soldiers. By the time the ground forces arrived, there was little left of the towns and villages except rubble and ash.
Rumors abounded. Those who fled into Warsaw reported that the Germans were not the supermen they had been portrayed to be; rather, they were drugged. Speed was a priority in the Nazi advance, which meant there was no time for sleep. Instead, there were stations set up in advance of the troops that handed out methamphetamines like one would offer water to marathon runners. The troops never even stopped as they popped stimulants. The result seemed to be men disconnected from reality, their eyes crazed or dazed. The drugs removed any empathy they might have had for those they conquered, leaving behind men so spurred by drugs and hatred that tales of atrocities spread like wildfire.
Polish forces attempted to halt or slow their progress, but Nazi air superiority left them at a woeful disadvantage. The rumor was that over 160,000 Polish troops had surrendered in the first days.
