Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (11 page)

Schmidt kept watching as the oberleutnant shook his head and looked up at the sky. “We’re still on alert!” Now Kluge was yelling. “I told Muller the same thing an hour ago!
Verdammt!
The machine guns are already deployed! That’s how we stopped them, but if they bring in artillery we won’t be able to hold them! We’re going to need reinforcements!”

Kluge ripped off the headset and threw it at the radioman.
“Schweinhund,”

he mumbled. “How would I know where they came from? He’s the genius who keeps saying they’re all heading for Warsaw.”

Schmidt turned away, but it was too late: Kluge had spotted him. “Hey, Schmidt, you whining little turd, now you know why we set up those guns every night. If you had your way you’d have one of those sabers stuck up your ass!”

Schmidt looked back, but the oberleutnant had already stormed off, yelling at someone else.

“What a prick,” Willy whispered from the other side of the machine gun.

Schmidt glanced at the ammo tender then turned back to the meadow. It was quiet, spooky, the shadowy heaps lying on the ground barely visible.

He blinked at a sudden fl ash of light.

The concussion from the blast hammered Schmidt onto his back, pelting him with rocks and clumps of dirt. He rolled over and managed to get to his knees when he was fl attened by another blast. With his mouth full of dirt and his ears pounding, he tried to stand but collided with another soldier and tumbled back to the ground. Then a hand was under his arm and he was on his feet, stumbling across the road. He fl opped to the ground between two houses and crawled against a wall, glancing back toward the meadow as a thundering explosion ripped his machine gun into a thousand pieces. He couldn’t see Willy.

Schmidt cowered against the brick wall of the house, choking on smoke and dust, a million pinpricks of light dancing in his eyes. A truck exploded in Night of Flames

61

a searing blast and disappeared into a smoking crater, littering the road with smoking bits of steel and charred body parts. Schmidt went rigid. His stomach heaved, trying to vomit but nothing came out. Thundering detonations and bursting fl ashes of light closed in around him, pounding him down. A shower of broken glass cascaded over him, and he wrapped his arms over his head, whimpering, waiting for the blast that would bury him.

Schmidt didn’t know when the shelling stopped, the constant drumbeat in his head indistinguishable from the bombardment. But gradually, new sounds drifted in: crackling fi re, men shouting, gunshots. He lifted his head and peeked around. Black smoke billowed from the burning truck. A motorcycle roared past then spun off into the ditch. He tried to get up, but he was frozen, his legs turned to lead. Three rifl emen sprinted down the road and ducked between the houses. One of them stopped and looked down at him. Schmidt recognized him, an unteroffi zier from his battalion. He had bummed a cigarette from him the day before.

“
Raus! Raus!
Get the hell out of here!” the rifl eman shouted. “They’re coming through the meadow!” Then he was gone.

Schmidt tried again to get to his feet, but fell back against the brick wall.

He couldn’t breathe. On his butt, he squirmed backward along the base of the house and pulled his knees tight against his chest. When he saw them he pissed in his pants.

Like spirits emerging from hell, the Polish troopers charged out of the meadow, screaming and shouting, bayonets and sabers glinting in the fi re-light. Gunfi re erupted from every direction.

In an instant, they were on top of him, like madmen, stomping over him.

A heavy boot kicked him in the back, and Schmidt rolled over, trying to get away. Out of the corner of his eye, the last thing he saw was the fl ashing blade of a saber.

Jan stood in the middle of the road leading out of Walewice, watching the last of the retreating German soldiers disappear over a hill. He turned to Peracki who leaned against the frame of a wrecked truck, looking exhausted. “Lech, what have you heard about the bridge?”

“It’s secure, Jan. A runner came over just a few minutes ago with a message from Stefan.”

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Douglas W. Jacobson

Jan sighed and put a hand on Peracki’s shoulder. He guessed the young offi cer wouldn’t be complaining any longer about missing the action. “Get a detail to go through all these houses and shops,” he said. “Squadron commanders will meet on the bridge at 0800.”

Peracki nodded and walked away.

Jan wandered back through the now-quiet town. Dead bodies were everywhere. Just boys, he thought. Polish and German boys, distinguishable only by the color of their soiled uniforms.

Smashed and burning vehicles littered the streets, along with some that were completely intact, abandoned by the German troops in their frantic retreat. His men were already attending to the wounded and setting up a makeshift fi eld hospital. A few of the townspeople had emerged from their homes, looking frightened and tentative, but joining in to help. The artillery squadron rumbled in from the meadow, the big horse-drawn howitzers maneuvering around the craters and debris.

Jan leaned against the side of a building and removed his helmet, rubbing his eyes. Three wagons rolled past, bringing in more wounded from the meadow. The dead ones were still out there. How many of his men had he lost? He didn’t want to know.

The pain in his head had returned and his back was sore. He closed his eyes, allowing himself the indulgence of a moment thinking about Anna. The Germans were occupying Krakow, but at least the fi ghting there had ended and he found some comfort in the fact that she was probably safe for the time being. For how long? That was another question. One for which he had no answer.

A horse-drawn cart creaked past. Three wounded soldiers were sitting in the back, one of them holding a bloody cloth to his head with his left hand.

When he noticed Jan, the injured boy saluted. Jan straightened up, put on his helmet and returned the salute.

Chapter 10

Thaddeus Piekarski was only half listening to the conversation going on around him at the back table in the White Eagle Pub. He took a sip from the glass of beer that had been sitting untouched in front of him and, once again, his thoughts drifted to the frustrating, endless quandary about Anna. It had been ten days without any word of her whereabouts and now that Krakow was under German occupation the prospects of getting any information were nil.

A fi st banged the table, and Thaddeus swallowed hard, almost choking on the beer. His friend, Jozef Bujak leaned across the table and pointed a thick fi nger at Fryderyk Wawrzyn, a legal counsel for the city of Krakow. “The French and British
will
attack Germany, anyone can see that,” Bujak declared.

He shot a quick glance at the others sitting around the table then lowered his voice, drawing them in. Thaddeus had seen his burly colleague in action many times. His theatrics were surpassed only by his passion. Bujak pressed on.

“Hitler has made a gross miscalculation. Germany is fi nished. Our allies will not let him grab Poland without a fi ght.”

“I think you’re dead wrong,” Wawrzyn said. “The French are sitting comfortably behind their Maginot Line, and they’re not going to stick their necks out for Poland. If they wouldn’t help the Czechs why would they help us?”

“Christ, Fryderyk, England and France have declared
war
on Germany,”

Bujak hissed. “Of course, they’ll attack.”

“Oh hell, the French were coerced into that by the Brits, Jozef. You’re beginning to sound like those jackasses running our government. The Brits can’t do anything without France and the French aren’t going to attack Germany. That declaration of war was just an attempt to throw Hitler off balance. It’s hollow.”

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Douglas W. Jacobson

Bujak glared at him, took a gulp of beer and called out to the waiter to bring another round. He set the empty glass down with a thump and turned toward Thaddeus. “Thaddeus, help me out here. That friend of yours in Belgium, the one Anna lived with for awhile, what the hell’s his name?”

“Do you mean Rene Leffard?” Thaddeus asked, looking at his friend with concern. Bujak’s fl eshy cheeks had reddened as they always did when he got worked up, a result of his excessive weight and high blood pressure.

“Yes, that’s it. If I recall, he’s pretty well connected in France and Belgium and you correspond with him. What’s his view on this?”

Thaddeus pushed his beer glass to the side and placed both hands on the table in front of him. “Well, it certainly won’t be possible to correspond with him any longer, not until this is all over. But in his last few letters he sounded increasingly doubtful that the French would attack Germany to help out Poland.”

“But damn it all, Thaddeus, what about—”

Thaddeus held up his hand. “Let me fi nish, Jozef. Leffard thinks the political situation in France is too unstable, and I have to agree with him. The French will talk tough but, in the end, I think they’ll just sit tight and see what happens.”

Bujak slumped back in his chair with a scowl and turned back toward Wawrzyn. “Well, Fryderyk, if we’re in this alone, what’s the city government going to do to protect its citizens now that we’re under occupation?”

“What city government are you talking about?” Wawrzyn shot back. “It’s all under German control now. Our advice to the city offi cials who are still in place is to take a low profi le and try and cooperate. You heard about what happened in Poznan, didn’t you?”

Bujak shook his head.

“The SS moved in right behind the Wehrmacht and dragged the mayor and his wife out of their home and shot them, right in their own backyard.”

“Good God,” Thaddeus gasped.

Bujak glanced at him and took a swig from his fresh glass of beer.

Wawrzyn continued. “And, in Bielsko, over two thousand Jews were rounded up and hauled into a school yard. They beat them with clubs and poured boiling water over them. Some they tortured by putting hoses in their mouths and pumping water into them. Christ, this was just two days after the invasion!”

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65

Wawrzyn leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “There’s a lot more. The stories are coming into our offi ce every day. These are not people you can bargain with. The best thing any of us can do is to try and keep out of their way, and if you get stopped or challenged, be as cooperative as you can.”

“So, you’re telling us to act like house pets in our own city,” Bujak growled.

“That’s bullshit! We need to do whatever we can to help root these bastards out.”

“Watch yourself,” Wawrzyn said, glancing around the room. “That’s the kind of talk that’ll get you in big trouble. This is not something to take lightly.

They’re in charge in Krakow now, and they mean business.”

They were interrupted by a thin, balding man who entered the pub and rushed to their table. Thaddeus recognized him: Felek Slomak, a legal assistant to Wawrzyn. “Have you heard the news?” Slomak asked breathlessly. “A major counterattack is under way!”

Wawrzyn shook his head and glanced at the others. “No, we haven’t heard a thing.”

“Where is it happening?” Thaddeus asked.

“The report on the radio said that it was near Kutno, along the Bzura River.

It started sometime yesterday, and they’ve got the Germans on the run.”

Bujak slammed his fi st to the table again, this time rattling the glasses.

“That’s more like it! Now, France and the Brits will get into it for sure.”

Late the next afternoon Thaddeus stood by the window in his second fl oor of-fi ce at Jagiellonian University’s Collegium Maius and looked out at the stone courtyard below. A young man and woman were sitting on the edge of the well in the center of the courtyard. Only a few students were on the campus since the start of the fall term was still three weeks away, and Thaddeus wondered if classes would go on as usual. He hadn’t heard otherwise, but no one knew anything for sure.

He stepped over to his desk and stared down at the jumble of papers and books. He had work to do. He had to prepare for the seminar he would be teaching on contract law, and he hadn’t made much progress on the paper he was to present at the symposium in Amsterdam. Amsterdam in October—he shook his head at the foolish notion. It had been planned in another lifetime.

“Are you about to leave, Thaddeus?”

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Douglas W. Jacobson

He looked up. Jozef Bujak stood in the doorway. Thaddeus glanced down at the cluttered desk again, but it was useless to pretend. He couldn’t concentrate on any of it. “Yes, I am,” he said.

“I’ll walk with you. Perhaps we can get a drink.”

They left the ancient building and headed toward the Rynek Glowny. “Did you hear about what happened earlier today, right here in Krakow?” Bujak asked.

“You mean the family that was shot . . . because they wouldn’t hand over their car? Yes, I heard about it a few hours ago.”

“They were not Jews, Thaddeus! This could have been any of us. And in Mielec—”

Thaddeus heard the clacking sound of iron-shod hooves on cobblestone and glanced toward the street as two German soldiers astride enormous black horses rode past. They wore green uniforms with wide black belts around their waists and the eagle and swastika insignia on their sleeves. Hanging from a chain around each man’s neck was a half-moon-shaped metal badge that Thaddeus recognized from pictures he had seen.

Bujak nudged him with his elbow. “Feldgendarmes.”

Thaddeus nodded. The German military police. He recalled articles he had read about their actions in Czechoslovakia when they followed the Wehrmacht into occupied cities and towns to maintain order. The articles referred to them as
kettenhund—
chained dogs.

They arrived at an outdoor café and sat at a small table off in a corner away from the few other patrons, each ordering a glass of beer. When the waiter left, Bujak leaned across the table. “This won’t stop with the Jews. You know that.”

The waiter returned with their beers and left again. Thaddeus took a sip and set the glass down. “The war’s not over. I still have hope. You should too.”