Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (13 page)

She stood up and started for the door just as a man in the corner of the room muttered, “Poor bastards. Guys on horses aren’t going to have much of a chance against those tanks.”

Anna whirled around and glared at the man, who was standing with two companions near the spittoon. “One of those ‘poor bastards’ is my husband,”

she hissed. “Don’t you dare say they don’t have a chance! Don’t you dare lose hope! Don’t ever . . .” Tears streamed down her face as she turned away from the startled man and ran to the door.

She stopped outside the post offi ce, bending over and taking deep breaths, praying she wouldn’t get sick.

Leizer followed her out and stood next to her, shuffl ing his feet in the dirt.

“I’m sorry, Anna. The man’s a boor. He has no idea what he’s talking about.”

She straightened up. “I understand. It’s all right.”

“I’ll take you home,” Leizer said.

Anna glanced around at the activity in the town’s central square. It was Saturday morning—market day. “No, let’s stay awhile. You’ve got things to do. I’ll be fi ne.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll look around the market.”

The town was a dusty little village called Wiesko, which Anna had never heard of and which didn’t appear on the map of Poland tacked to the door of Leizer’s toolshed. One morning when she had asked about it, the old man had scratched an X on the map indicating a spot between Ostrowiec and the Vistula River.

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Across the square from the post offi ce was a tiny, whitewashed church with a tile roof. A faded inscription in Latin,
Domus Salvatoris Nostri,
painted above the stout oak door proclaimed it as The House of our Savior. A ramshackle stucco building with a rickety wooden porch occupied the left side of the square. It was the village’s only store, and its odd assortment of mer-chandise ranged from animal feed and fertilizer to women’s clothing and cookware. From a counter in the back of the building the Jewish proprietor also dispensed beer, vodka and a very potent fermented apple cider, which Anna had tried once, on her only other visit to the town. On the right side of the square was the market—a dozen wooden stalls where farmers sold vegetables, fruit, dairy products, sausages and a variety of ciders every Wednesday and Saturday morning.

Following the pungent aroma of cheese and spicy sausage, Anna wandered among the stalls, surprised at the number of local people who smiled at her, nodded and bid her good morning.

A voice behind her said, “You’re something of a celebrity, you know.”

She turned around to see a pudgy man of about sixty wearing a black felt hat and a rumpled woolen suit coat.

“We don’t get many visitors out here,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Simanski.

It’s good to see you up and around.”

It took her a moment to make the connection. “Oh, Dr. Simanski . . . yes, of course. Forgive me but I’m afraid I don’t remember much about your visit.”

The doctor laughed and tipped his hat. “No, I’m sure you don’t. You had a pretty nasty blow to the head.” He looked around and indicated a stall where a farmer sold a mixture of apple cider and blackberry wine. “It’s really quite good. Shall we have some while we talk?”

They sat in front of the church, on a bench shaded by a large oak tree, sipping the sweet beverage and watching the bustle of country people on market day. “It’s hard to imagine there’s a war going on,” Anna said.

Dr. Simanski shrugged. “War comes and goes, but the people who work the land continue on, one generation after another.”

Anna regarded the doctor. His face was creased with age, but his gray eyes were sharp and penetrating. “Are you from around here?” she asked.

He nodded. “My family had an estate a few kilometers to the east, near the Vistula. I did my medical training in Warsaw, spent some time in Radom, but this is home.” He took a sip from the clay mug. “I understand you’re 76

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from Krakow. You’re a university professor?”

“Associate professor, actually—European history.”

“Ah, history. Then you can appreciate my comment.”

“That war is an inevitable part of life? That we just set aside our routine tasks to kill each other then pick them up again when it’s over?”

He sighed. “Well, history teacher, when has it not been so?”

Anna shook her head and sipped the wine. “I keep hoping that one day we will rise above that.”

The doctor touched her arm. “You’re young and you have hope, two very good things. Do you have any plans?”

“No,” Anna said, staring into the distance. “I want to get home but, to be honest, I haven’t thought very far ahead.”

The doctor glanced up at the huge tree towering above them. He set his empty mug on the grass and turned toward Anna. “I’m the only doctor for quite a distance so I travel between a dozen or so towns. I also go to the hospital in Ostrowiec every week. I see and hear a lot of things.”

Anna didn’t respond.

“The German army marched in from the west and swept through Ostrowiec in a day,” he said. “The hospital administrator told me that he was relieved it was over so quickly.” The doctor shook his head. “Out here, in the countryside, the people know that it’s not over. Poland has always had more than one enemy. They remember—and they watch the east.”

Anna turned and locked eyes with the old doctor. “The Russians are coming, aren’t they?”

“They always do, Anna.”

Chapter 13

Jan handed the binoculars to Stefan and backed away from the perimeter.

He’d seen enough. Scattered among the dead horses, smashed wagons, and burned-out trucks and tanks lay the bodies of a thousand young men rotting in the midday sun. The brigade had fallen back, out of range of the German guns, their casualties staggering and the chance to take the bridge over the Bzura River lost. As he headed for the HQ tent, Jan knew it was only a matter of time before the Luftwaffe discovered their location and fi nished them off.

He stopped at the fi eld hospital where a few haggard doctors were doing what they could. As Jan moved among the injured soldiers, talking quietly with them and squeezing their hands, he was amazed at how they smiled at him. Some could barely lift their heads, but when he took their hand they smiled and asked how it was going. He thought they were all so young.

When Jan arrived at the HQ tent Colonel Romanofski was standing outside conferring with one of the brigade’s reconnaissance offi cers. “Any news about reinforcements?” Jan asked.

“Forget it,” Romanofski snapped. “Lowicz has just fallen. Lodz fell last night. And we just got word from a messenger that the Germans are moving part of their Tenth Army toward Kutno.” Romanofski glanced at the reconnaissance offi cer. “I need to talk with Jan for minute.”

The offi cer nodded and walked away.

Romanofski looked tired and when he spoke his voice was raspy. “The counterattack is collapsing. There’s a real danger that the Poznan Army will be trapped between Lowicz and Brochow within the next forty-eight hours.”

Jan stared at the colonel, not knowing what to say.

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Romanofski pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to Jan. “I just came from a meeting with General Abraham,” the colonel said, striking a match. “He’s received orders to move the brigade out of here.”

“We’re abandoning the Poznan Army?”

The colonel took a long drag on his cigarette and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

“Yes, we are. The truth is the infantry is stuck here and will eventually have to surrender. But the High Command wants to get the cavalry out.”

“To where?”

“Warsaw, if we can make it . . . through the Kampinos Forest.”

“The Kampinos? Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, I know,” Romanofski said. “It’s rugged country, and the Germans have held the whole area for over a week. But at least we might have some cover from the fuckin’ Luftwaffe. Every other route is completely closed off.

Abraham says the city is almost surrounded. It’s the only possible way in.”

“So, when do we leave?”

“Tonight. They want us out of here now, before the air attacks get any worse and we all get blown to hell.”

The brigade moved out that night, circling well to the south of Brochow. As they forded the Bzura River and headed east for the Kampinos Forest, Jan felt empty. In a little over two weeks the Germans had all but crushed the bulk of Poland’s armed forces. Just a few days ago the Wielkopolska Brigade charged into the Bzura valley at full gallop, bugles blowing and banners streaming, one of Poland’s proudest and most formidable military organizations. Now they were escaping under the cover of darkness, leaving behind a hundred thousand of their fellow soldiers.

Jan knew it was unfair to think about it that harshly. They had no choice, the military doctrine was clear. The cavalry could save itself from the graveyard along the Bzura and the infantry couldn’t—it was that simple. He was a career offi cer and he knew all that. Still, he felt empty.

The Kampinos Forest covered an area of more than three hundred square kilometers from the Bzura River to the outskirts of Warsaw. The Twenty-ninth Uhlans were at the head of the brigade as they entered the forest under bright moonlight. Jan had never been here before, and it was not what he expected.

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spaced with virtually no underbrush. Dense tracts of pine trees were inter-spersed with marshes and sand dunes. Frequently they had to dismount and lead the horses through valleys of rocky, uneven terrain. The narrow, winding trails were diffi cult to follow, and some of them would abruptly spill out onto open, fl at expanses where the cavalry had no protection at all.

It was grueling work, and by the time the sun came up the brigade was spread out over a wide area. With the daylight came Luftwaffe bombers, wave after wave of giant Heinkels that sent the cavalry troopers scattering through the trees like frightened rabbits. When the bombers drove them into the open, they were strafed by dive-bombing Stukas. From all directions Jan heard staccato bursts of artillery and machine-gun fi re as other regiments ran into pockets of German forces.

By midmorning they had to stop, and Jan led the Uhlans into a low-lying area densely populated with tall conifers that offered a measure of protection from the air attacks. The regiment was down to less than half of its men, and they were desperately in need of rest. Many of the horses were lame, and those that weren’t were weak with fatigue. They were so low on basic supplies that the groomers were forced to wrench the shoes off the dead horses to re-shoe those that could still walk. The worn-out troopers slid off their mounts, and as soon as they unsaddled the weary beasts and found some water, they collapsed on the ground, keeping close together in the middle of the hollow where the big trees provided the best cover.

Jan snapped awake, feeling a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see a messenger kneeling next to him holding a small brown envelope.

“It’s a message from Colonel Romanofski,” the messenger said.

Jan ripped the envelope open and read the handwritten note. He glanced at the messenger then read the note a second time.

“The colonel is expecting an acknowledgement,” the messenger said.

Jan studied the note and nodded. “Tell the colonel, I acknowledge.”

As the messenger rode off, Jan got to his feet, rousted Stefan and Peracki and led them to a small hill where they were out of earshot of the troopers. “I just received a message from Colonel Romanofski,” he said. “The Russians attacked early this morning.”

The two squadron commanders stared at him.

“I don’t have any details,” Jan continued, “but the message says they’re 80

Douglas W. Jacobson

spread out over the entire length of the border and heading toward Warsaw.”

“Don’t suppose they’re here to help us beat the fuckin’ Germans, are they?”

Peracki quipped, pulling a cigarette out of a crumpled pack.

Jan and Stefan looked at Peracki for a second then broke out in spontane-ous laughter at the absurd notion. Patting Peracki on the back, Jan stood up and looked over the regiment’s fatigued troopers sprawled all over the hollow.

“We’ll spend the rest of the morning here,” he said, glancing up at the lofty pine trees. “At least we have some cover. The men and the horses need the rest.

Our objective is Laski. That’s the last major hurdle before we get to Warsaw.

We move out at 1200.”

Oberleutnant Kurt Meier felt confi dent as he piloted the Stuka over the treetops of the Kampinos Forest. He had fl own several sorties over this area in the past three days and was now quite familiar with the terrain. This had turned out to be easier duty than the missions he had fl own over Warsaw. There were no anti-aircraft batteries to worry about out here, only Polish cavalry troops trudging through the forest, and whenever they caught them in the open they were easy targets.

Meier recalled his fi rst sortie over the area and that fi rst attack on the cavalry troops. They had spotted them galloping across a sandy fi eld, heading for a stand of trees. Approaching from behind, the Stukas had swooped in and caught them by surprise, mowing them down like gophers. It had been exhilarating. But every sortie after that had been the same, and now the exhilaration was gone. It was becoming routine, almost boring. He kept expecting that the Polish troopers would give up, but each time out, there they were, trotting through the trees then darting at a gallop through the open fi elds. A few would escape, but they would kill most of them.

The plane jolted as they passed through some low clouds, and Meier cleared his mind for the task ahead. Each day their sorties had taken them farther east as they tracked down the tenacious cavalrymen. This morning they were fl ying over the easternmost end of the forest, near Laski.

As he banked the plane into a turn, Meier listened to the scratchy sound of the voice coming through his earphones. Cavalry troops had been spotted at the edge of the forest. He knew the drill. Dive in at low altitude, just over the treetops. The cavalry troopers wouldn’t hear them until it was too late.