Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (19 page)

Douglas W. Jacobson

guarantee, Mrs. Kopernik. I will issue their visas. Beyond that, unfortunately, I have no control.”

Anna stood and stepped to the window. A solitary woman clutching a paper sack, her head covered with a gray shawl entered a building across the street.

Was it possible? Had a door suddenly opened? From Italy they could get to France—or Belgium. They could get to Rene and Mimi Leffard.

Di Stefano’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “However, you must understand the highly confi dential nature of our mission here. No one must know where you and your friends are going or we will be overwhelmed. You will have to promise me that you will just quietly slip away.”

“When could this be done?” Anna asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Come back tomorrow at this same time, and I will have the visas for you.”

Anna’s eyes widened. “Tomorrow?”

Di Stefano stood up and stepped over to the upholstered chair. He picked up Anna’s coat. “Mrs. Kopernik, I urge you to move quickly. Quite frankly, the German Reich is putting pressure on our government to close this mission.

I have no idea how much longer this opportunity will be available.” He held her coat while she slipped it on. “Given what’s happened to your father, Mrs.

Kopernik, you should leave immediately.”

Chapter 21

The train gathered speed as it pulled away from the last stop in Hungary and crossed the border into Poland. The only remaining passengers in Jan’s car were German soldiers and a few civilian men. The civilians were dressed much the same way he was: dark suits, conservative ties, topcoats folded neatly on the overhead racks. He wondered if they were
real
Gestapo agents.

He slid a hand under his suit coat and touched the leather pouch in the breast pocket for perhaps the hundredth time. He had been rehearsing for two days but was still unnerved by the diplomatic passport, emblazoned with the swastika, identifying him as Heinrich Brunkhorst, agent of the Gestapo.

He heard a
hiss
as the door of the car opened and a Polish conductor stepped into the car followed by two SS offi cers. Jan looked down at his newspaper, pretending to read. The car became quiet.

Shortly after they’d left Budapest, a sloppily dressed Hungarian conductor had given his papers a cursory glance and moved on. But this was a different crew and a different drill. The presence of the SS was clearly having an effect on the Polish conductor. He spoke heavily accented German, demanding “tickets and papers” as they stopped at each row of seats. The passengers gave their papers to the conductor and the conductor handed them to the SS

offi cers who scrutinized them and barked questions. Jan struggled to control his breathing as the conductor and SS offi cers continued down the aisle, approaching his row. He remembered what Ludwik had said about his papers.

“Good, but not perfect . . . should hold up as long as you,”—what were the words?—“looked and acted convincing.”

He felt a jab in his ribs. The German soldier sitting next to him, in the seat 120

Douglas W. Jacobson

by the window, was moving around. Earlier in the trip, the soldier had been drinking out of a bottle wrapped in paper and had eventually fallen asleep.

Now he was awake and mumbling about needing to take a piss.

The soldier leaned over and rolled his head toward Jan. His eyes were bloodshot and his head bobbed around like it was mounted on a swivel. He sputtered, “
Aus,
let me out—or I’ll piss all over you.”

Jan tried to ignore him.

The conductor and the two SS offi cers stopped at the row in front of them.

The conductor had just handed a set of papers to the SS offi cers when the drunken soldier tried to stand up, stumbled and fell on top of Jan. “
Verdammt!

Move!” the soldier slurred, fl ailing his arms in the air.

Jan’s reaction was instantaneous. He leaped from his seat into the aisle and shouted at the soldier, “
Schweinhund!
What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He whirled toward the conductor and shoved a fi nger into his face. “You!

Get this drunken bastard out of here!”

The conductor froze.

Jan screamed at him, “
Jetzt!
Now, asshole! Get this scumbag out of here or I’ll have these offi cers throw your ass out the window!”

The wide-eyed conductor dropped his notebook on the fl oor and reached past Jan. He grabbed the drunken soldier under the arms and started maneuvering him down the aisle toward the end of the car.

Jan stood in the aisle. He could feel everyone in the car looking at him. The two SS offi cers, caught off-guard by his sudden outburst, had regrouped and were glaring at him. Jan smiled at them and slapped the one closest to him on the arm. “Ah, don’t worry about it,” he said. “I don’t really care how drunk he gets. God knows they deserve their fun. I just didn’t want him puking all over my new suit.”

The black-uniformed offi cers stared at him for a moment then broke out laughing. The one he had slapped on the shoulder said, “
Ja,
and I just polished these boots. He better not puke on them.”

The two offi cers moved down the aisle without asking for his papers.

Chapter 22

The visas were lying on the kitchen table. Irene stared at them then looked up at Anna. Her face was pale, and she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “What would we do in Italy?” she asked, her voice raspy.

Anna smiled, forcing herself to stay calm. “It’s a way out of Poland, Irene.

Once we’re in Italy, we can make our way to Belgium—to the Leffards’ home in Antwerp.”

Irene reached out and brushed her fi ngers over one of the visas. It was the one pasted to her passport—the passport stamped with a black J. “The Leffards?”

“You remember, Rene and Mimi Leffard, my father’s friends in Antwerp. I lived with them when I was attending university.”

Irene nodded. “But Stefan and Jan? What if they come back here?”

Anna reached across the table and took her friend’s hand. “You know they won’t be coming back, Irene. They’re on their way to France.”

“Or, they’re prisoners in some camp.”

Anna stood up. “No. They’re not prisoners.” She leaned on the table and looked Irene in the eye. “If they were prisoners—and they’re not—but if they were, they’d never be allowed to return home. You know that. They’re offi cers, the Germans would—” She took a deep breath and glanced at the ceiling.

“They’re on their way to France.”

Justyn’s voice came from the doorway. “How long will it take?”

Irene held out her hand and the thin, pale-faced boy stepped over to his mother. Anna was worried about him. Her father had adored Justyn and always spent time with him when Jan and Stefan were away. Since the arrest, 122

Douglas W. Jacobson

the boy had been sullen and quiet, spending most of his time sitting on his bed with a book. Irene put her arm around her son and smiled. “Not long, dear, a day or two, perhaps.” She wiped a tear from her eye and looked at Anna. “Isn’t that right?”

Anna nodded. “Yes, not long.”

They packed lightly and left that evening, tiptoeing down the two fl ights of stairs. Leaving without saying good-bye to anyone was the hardest part. Anna kept telling herself it was only temporary; they would return when the war was over.

On the ground fl oor they stepped lightly across the foyer, past the door to the Grucas’ apartment. Anna prayed that the elderly couple wouldn’t hear them and open their door. Yet another part of her hoped that they would.

Out on the street, they walked down Ulica Marka, turned the corner on Slawkowska and headed toward the train station. It was three hours before curfew, and though it was dark, there were other pedestrians on the streets.

Irene and Justyn wore their white armbands with the bright yellow stars. Anna knew it was a risk; the Germans had begun randomly pulling Jews off the street. But they had legal travel visas and a reason to be walking to the train station. Would it matter? Anna walked faster. Thinking about it made her sick to her stomach.

The street outside the station was busy, and they headed for the entrance, mingling with the crowd. Out of the corner of her eye, Anna spotted three Feldgendarmes leaning against the building. “Look straight ahead and keep walking,” she whispered to Irene and Justyn.

As they passed the green-uniformed German policemen, one of them called out to Justyn in heavily accented Polish, “Hey, Jew-boy, catch,” and fl ipped a cigarette butt at him. It bounced off the boy’s shoulder. Anna and Irene grabbed Justyn’s hands and hustled him into the terminal.

They waited in the queue at the ticket counter for over a half hour while the only agent on duty, a thickset man of about fi fty with a shock of unruly white hair and thick glasses, methodically collected money and issued tickets. When they fi nally got to the window, Anna said, “Three one-way tickets to Milan, please.”

The ticket agent peered at her, then at Irene and Justyn, his eyes moving Night of Flames

123

down to their armbands. “Milan? You have visas?”

Anna shoved the passports and visas under the window.

The agent took his time, studying each document, comparing the photographs. Finally, he shrugged and shoved the documents back under the window. “There’s a train leaving for Berlin at ten o’clock. You can make a connection there for Milan.”

Anna felt a tingling on the back of her neck. She shot a quick glance at Irene, who looked as if she was going to faint, and turned back to the agent.

“Is there another way? Another connection we can make?”

The agent hesitated for a moment then nodded. “There’s a train to Prague that has a connection with Vienna. From there you can get a train to Milan.

Takes longer, though, and doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning.”

“That will be fi ne; we’ll wait,” Anna said. “Give us three tickets.”

Chapter 23

The trip over the Carpathians from the Hungarian border to Krakow seemed interminable as the plodding train switched tracks countless times, avoiding the Russian-held region of eastern Poland. Jan had fi nally fallen into a restless sleep after several depressing hours staring through dirt-streaked windows at the grim reminders of defeat. Shattered apartment buildings, churches and hospitals. Burned-out market towns littered with wrecked trucks, wagons and other debris of war. And everywhere, in every train station in every town and village, the heavy footprint of the invader—German soldiers, trucks and tanks, swastika banners and large signs with the heading,
Achtung!

It was mid-afternoon when the train fi nally pulled into the station in Krakow. It was overcast and gloomy with a drizzling rain. Jan shook off the cobwebs of sleep and followed the other passengers along the platform, up the steps and out of the station.

He walked along Ulica Pawia and glanced around at the familiar street.

It was bizarre. He felt like a stranger, as if he was trespassing on someone’s property. Through the horrors of the last two months, the one thing that had sustained him was the hope of coming back . . . to his home . . . to Anna. Now he was here and he felt like a stranger.

He pulled his hat down to fend off the rain and thought about his plan. He would make his contact and deliver the documents in his briefcase. Then he would fi nd Anna. The fear crept back, the gripping fear that she might be . . .

No! Stop it!
He would fi nd her and take her with him . . . back to Hungary.

How he would manage it, he wasn’t sure. But somehow he—

The growl of a powerful engine startled him. He glanced over his shoulder Night of Flames

125

and jumped out of the way just in time to avoid being drenched as the accelerating car splashed through a puddle and sped past him. Jan caught a glimpse of men in black uniforms sitting in the rear. He put his head down and hurried toward the hotel.

The tired-looking, dark-haired man behind the reception desk at the Hotel Polonia snapped to attention when Jan handed him his diplomatic passport.

“
Guten Tag . . .
Herr Brunkhorst,” the man stammered in very poor German.

“It is pleasure to have you stay with us. I get bell boy to assist with bags?”

“
Nein,
that won’t be necessary,” Jan snapped. “Is there a telephone in the room? Do they work in this decrepit city?”

“
Ja,
natürlich,
Herr Brunkhorst.” The man was nervous. A bead of perspiration slid down his forehead. “Is anything else I can do?”

“
Nein,
nothing else.” Jan grabbed the key and walked to the elevators. He would never get used to this.

Inside the small, stuffy room, Jan threw the briefcase on the bed and picked up the phone. The same nervous man at the front desk connected him to an outside line, and Jan gave the operator the number he had memorized. On the second ring a man answered and, speaking Polish, Jan initiated the conversation he had rehearsed a dozen times. “Is Mr. Slomak in?”

“This is Slomak.”

“I bring greetings from Ludwik,” Jan said.

There was a long pause. When the voice on the other end responded the tone was cautious. “Is Ludwik well?”

“Yes, he is fi ne. I’d like to tell you about his new project.”

Another pause, this time shorter. “Yes, of course. We could meet at the Café Zarwas, just off the Rynek Glowny. Do you know it?”

A picture fl ashed through Jan’s mind: red and green walls and bright yellow tablecloths. He and Anna had been there the week before he left. “Yes, I know it. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

Jan left the hotel and walked across the busy street, through the gates of the old city and into the Stare Miasto district. It was getting colder, and the rain had turned to sleet. The cobblestone streets were wet and slick. He did not head for the Rynek Glowny. He knew they were not meeting at the Café Zarwas.

Jan shook his head in disgust at the covert activity. He felt ridiculous. His military training had prepared him to meet the enemy head-on, not slink 126

Douglas W. Jacobson