Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (27 page)

Jan felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the copilot. “We’ve reached the coast, Night of Flames

177

Major. We’re about twenty minutes from the drop site. You’d better get your gear on.”

Jan nodded at the British offi cer and got to his feet. His left leg ached from the cramped position he’d been in, and he rubbed it vigorously to stimulate the circulation. Once again he felt a surge of gratitude for the skill of the British doctor on board the hospital ship.

The pitch of the propellers changed as the big plane banked to the left and began descending to parachute altitude. Pushed to the maximum extent of its range, the stripped-down Halifax would be dropping Jan just a hundred kilometers beyond the Baltic coast in a remote area of northern Poland. It was a long way from Blizna, but Whitehall had assured him that everything had been arranged and he would be met at the drop zone by agents of the AK.

He wondered briefl y how Whitehall would feel about such “assurances” if he were the one jumping alone into an occupied country, but he put it out of his mind. He just wanted to get it over with without breaking his leg again.

The copilot shouted something unintelligible. Apparently the other crew members understood, however, because they both gave him a “thumbs-up.”

One of them pulled the door open, and the noise level jumped several orders of magnitude. An icy rush of air blasted Jan, and his mind went blank as he watched the two airmen slide heavy wooden crates across the fl oor and shove them out into the black abyss.

Jan snapped onto the static line. He felt a pat on his back, closed his eyes and stepped into the void. In an instant, the noise vanished and the parachute exploded above his head, jerking him upward.

When he looked down, Jan spotted a fl ickering light off to his right. With surprising speed, the ground rose up to meet him and he thumped down hard, tumbling over on his left side.

It was over.

He lay there for a second, fl exing both legs, then jumped up and began hauling in the parachute.

He pulled in the last of the billowing white cloth and stuffed it into the pack just as several shadowy fi gures emerged from the trees. He dropped to his knees and pulled out his pistol, glancing over his shoulder, to the left and right. He couldn’t see anyone else, so he trained the gun on the three advancing fi gures and waited.

178

Douglas W. Jacobson

The fi gures stopped twenty meters away, their rifl es now visible. One yelled out in Polish, “Have you seen the night hawk?”

Jan felt a surge of relief at the expected phrase and started to reply when his voice caught. He cleared his throat and yelled back, “Yes, it’s fl own off to the north!”

The three fi gures exchanged glances. They lowered their rifl es and ran to him. The one who had yelled out, looked beyond Jan to the tree line on the other side of the fi eld. He pulled out a small fl ashlight and switched it on and off three times. Without a word he touched Jan’s shoulder and motioned for him to follow as the three men turned and trotted back the way they had come.

Just before they reached the trees, Jan looked back over his shoulder and saw another group of men run into the fi eld from the opposite tree line. They headed toward the crates.

Jan turned back and followed the three men into the woods and along a narrow path to a small creek. Still without saying a word, they sloshed through the shallow water and up a small rise to a clearing where they fi nally stopped. The one who had spoken earlier wiped his hand on his rough, woolen trousers and extended it to Jan. In a coarse voice he asked, “You are Albin?”

“Yes,” Jan replied with considerable relief. The forged papers in his jacket pocket identifi ed him as Albin Tominski, a Polish citizen from a town near Poznan in western Poland. He gripped the short, stout man’s hand and repeated, “Albin Tominski.”

The man smiled and said, “I am Tadeusz. This is Pavel and Zenek.”

The other two men stepped forward and shook Jan’s hand.

“We’d better keep moving,” Tadeusz said. “It’s another twenty minutes to the cabin. Then we can have something to eat.”

It was a small wooden cabin with a thatched roof, nestled among a clump of birch trees at the edge of a wheat fi eld. Beyond the fi eld, Tadeusz explained, was a dirt road that led to a town where they would be able to catch the train.

They kicked the dirt off their boots and entered the simple cabin, warmed by glowing embers in a stone fi replace. A gray-haired woman dressed in a rough woolen skirt and a threadbare sweater placed a large bowl of steaming stew on the table, which was set with four places. She set out a bottle of vodka and four glasses then retired to one of the other rooms without being introduced or saying a word.

Night of Flames

179

The man called Zenek poured a small amount of vodka into each of the four glasses and passed them around. He raised his glass to Jan and said, “When you return to England, tell our British friends the AK appreciates the supplies.

We will make good use of them when the time comes.”

Jan tilted his glass toward each of the three hard, weathered faces in the dimly lit room. He could tell from their accents they were rural men, most likely farmers or woodsmen. He wondered what these partisan fi ghters had seen and done during the past four years of Nazi occupation. He was sure he would fi nd out soon enough.

Zenek motioned toward the table. “Now, how about some food?”

It was almost nine o’clock in the evening, two days later, when the train pulled into the railway station at Tarnow, still scarred from bombings during the invasion. A fat Polish policeman, his uniform unkempt, his breath smelling of alcohol, examined Jan’s papers. At the end of the platform two green- uniformed Feldgendarmes leaned against the wall of the station, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. One of them held a muzzled German shepherd on a chain.

The policeman handed back his papers, and Jan followed Tadeusz down the platform, silently grateful for the skill of the British forgers. His papers looked exactly like those that Tadeusz carried, dirty and wrinkled, as though he had been carrying them around for years.

As they passed the two Feldgendarmes the dog approached Tadeusz and sniffed at his pant leg. The one holding the chain jerked it and pulled the dog away. “
Nein,
Freda. You’ll catch fl eas from these vermin.”

The other Feldgendarme burst out laughing, spitting his coffee down his chin.

Jan pretended he didn’t understand and kept walking, knowing that most Polish peasants spoke no German. His knowledge of the language might be useful in the right situation . . . but he had to be careful.

When they got outside they stood for a few minutes breathing in the cold air of the November night. After two days of foul railcars and stinking, war-torn rail stations, the fresh air was a welcome relief. Tadeusz put a hand on Jan’s shoulder and motioned with his head. “We’d better move along. It’s not a good idea to be on the streets at night. The fuckin’ policemen have been sitting on their asses most of the day drinking, and at night they try to fi nd a little sport. Most of them are harmless, but there’re some crazy ones out there. The 180

Douglas W. Jacobson

Feldgendarmes are the worst. It’s easy to get shot if you get in their way.”

Jan nodded. “Where are we going?”

Tadeusz glanced around. “There’s a safe house on the outskirts of the city.

They’re expecting us.”

A half hour later Jan and Tadeusz turned onto a narrow gravel road that crossed a fi eld and led to a gray stucco house. Three other houses were nearby, and at the far end of the fi eld stood the remains of a bombed-out factory.

The door opened as they approached the house, and a large man with deep-set dark eyes and a heavily pock-marked face stepped out on the porch.

Without a greeting, he motioned for them to enter, followed them in, and closed and bolted the door behind them.

Jan glanced around. A woman in a red fl owered dress sat on a faded brown sofa on the other side of the small parlor. The other furniture in the room consisted of two upholstered chairs and a small round table with an incongruous oriental lamp.

“We were expecting you yesterday,” the tall man said to Tadeusz. “I was getting worried. Is this our visitor from the West?”

Tadeusz nodded and turned toward the woman who got up and hurried across the room. She embraced Tadeusz, kissing him on the cheek. “Thank God you’re here,” she said. “I always imagine the worst.”

The evening passed with several rounds of bitter potato vodka along with some cheese, dark bread and boiled potatoes. Jan ate with relish. It was the fi rst thing resembling real food he had had since the stew back in Zenek’s cabin.

The conversation with Fryderyk and Helena was friendly and spirited.

Though Jan doubted those were their real names, he could tell they were city people, educated, teachers perhaps. They wanted to know everything he could tell them about what was happening in the West. Were they starving in France and Belgium? Was Churchill well? What about the Americans? Could they be counted on to help? When would the Allies launch the invasion?

“The BBC broadcasts in Polish every night,” Fryderyk said. “We try to listen as often as we can, but we have to be careful. The Gestapo have spies everywhere. If they catch you with a radio, it’s trouble. The fi rst time they usually just take it away. The second time . . . it’s ‘ziiit.’” He made a slitting gesture with his fi nger across his throat.

Night of Flames

181

Jan was quiet for a few minutes, refl ecting on the last two days, traveling through the bleak, war-scarred country. The dusty roads in the countryside were largely deserted except for battered peasant wagons and farmers leading mules and oxen. In the towns, shabbily dressed people queued up in front of shops that had little for sale. As he observed the street scenes and watched people come and go on the train, Jan realized something. Practically all the people he saw were women, small children and old men. There were few young men—and there were no Jews.

Fryderyk leaned across the table and touched his arm as though he were reading his thoughts. “The young men that weren’t killed or captured have all been sent to Germany,” he said. “Forced laborers. A few come back in the winter, when the harvests are over, but they’re sent back to Germany in the spring.”

“Those who are able to slip through the net hide in the forests, working with the AK,” Tadeusz added. “You’ll meet some of them.”

Jan nodded. He hesitated for a moment, thinking about Irene and Justyn.

“Tell me about the Jews,” he said.

The three people around the table all looked at each other. They were silent for several long moments.

Fryderyk took a breath and spoke quietly. “During ’41 and ’42 Jews from all over Poland were rounded up, forced out of their homes and brought into the cities. The SS herded them into areas called ghettos, sealed off with barbed wire and brick walls. All the big cities had ghettos—Warsaw, Krakow, Lodz, even here in Tarnow. Hundreds of thousand of Jews crammed into areas where only fi ve or ten thousand had lived, sometimes fi fty people to a house, all starving.”

Jan looked at the somber faces around the table. He had heard stories. Now it was real. “You said the cities
had
ghettos.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the rest.

Fryderyk gulped the last of his vodka and set the glass down, staring at the table. His voice was barely audible. “Earlier this year most of the ghettos were cleared out. SS troops and Feldgendarmes stormed in, usually in the middle of the night, and rousted out the Jews who were still alive. They herded them into trucks and railcars and sent them away—to the camps.”

Jan’s stomach heaved, thinking about Irene and Justyn . . . and Anna. He 182

Douglas W. Jacobson

knew Anna would never leave them. He stood up, gripping the back of the chair for support. The vodka, the food and the days with little sleep had fi nally caught up with him. Helena took his arm and showed him to a small bedroom on the second fl oor. He was asleep, fully clothed, within minutes.

The next morning it turned colder and a sleeting rain fell. Jan and Tadeusz climbed into Fryderyk’s battered, ten-year-old truck and set out for Tadeusz’s farm near Blizna.

“I am allowed to keep the truck only because twice a week I deliver supplies for the Germans,” Fryderyk said, “to a work camp, twenty kilometers north.

A hundred or so Polish boys are working there, clearing land for one of those camps.”

Jan swallowed hard. “What you told me last night . . . in Britain we’ve only heard stories, rumors.”

Fryderyk glanced at him. “It’s all true, whatever you heard.” He shook his head and stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel with both hands.

The trip took almost four hours over deeply rutted, muddy roads, passing through war-torn towns and villages. They were forced to make several long detours just to fi nd bridges that were passable.

When they fi nally arrived at Tadeusz’s farm, the sun had come out, and a stout woman was hanging wash on a clothesline strung between a tree and the single-story brick house. The woman waved to them and hurried over, sloshing through puddles. She embraced Tadeusz, and kissed Fryderyk on the cheek, then turned to Jan, introducing herself as Lidia. She had a surprisingly strong grip as she shook Jan’s hand. “Krupa is inside,” she said abruptly to Tadeusz. “He arrived this morning.”

When they entered the house a thin, practically bald man wearing steel-rimmed eyeglasses rose from a wooden chair at the kitchen table and stepped forward. Jan found himself looking into the eyes of the man he had met on his mission to Krakow four years earlier. The man he had known as Slomak.

Chapter 34

Leon Marchal leaned across his kitchen table for a closer look at the plans, adjusting the wick on the kerosene lamp. They had been over this at least a dozen times but he was still uneasy about the distance from the north fence line to the repair building. He measured it again, referring to the scale in the lower right-hand corner, and came up with the same answer he had each time before. “
Mon dieu,
it’s almost a hundred meters,” he mumbled and sat down, rubbing his eyes.