Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (4 page)

As her eyes began to clear, Anna squinted, trying to see through the haze.

The small room was completely shattered with a gaping hole in the outside wall. On the left, where the bed had been, she spotted the ten-year-old boy lying still, face down under a pile of wood and plaster.

Irene shrieked and rushed to her son, clawing away at the rubble.

Night of Flames

13

Anna knelt down beside her, and they turned the limp boy onto his back.

His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow; blood oozed from a ragged gash on his forehead. Anna spotted a pillow amid the rubble. She pulled off the pillowcase, shook out the dust and ripped it in half. As Irene held her son’s head, Anna wrapped the makeshift bandage around the wound, tying it tightly to stop the bleeding.

Justyn’s voice croaked, “Mama? What . . . ?” The boy fl inched in pain, tears welling up in his eyes, and Irene cradled him in her arms, rocking him back and forth.

Anna stood up and rubbed her eyes, which were burning and irritated from the thick dust.

She smelled something.

It was more than dust.

Smoke.

She reached down and grabbed Irene by the arm, yelling over the wailing siren, “We’ve got to get out of here!”

Irene looked up at her, clutching her son, not comprehending.

“The building’s on fi re!” Anna screamed, pulling her friend to her feet. She hoisted the boy into Irene’s arms and pushed her out of the room.

The hallway was quickly fi lling with smoke as they scrambled down the stairs. By the time they reached the ground fl oor Anna’s eyes were burning, and she could barely fi nd her way through the foyer to the front door. She grabbed Irene’s arm, pulled open the heavy wooden door and they burst out, coughing and gagging into the humid predawn air.

In the street it was chaos. Dense, black smoke fi lled the air. People clad in nightclothes screamed and ran in every direction. The howling sound of the sirens echoed between the buildings, broken by deep, booming thumps from anti-aircraft batteries.

Anna rubbed her temples, trying to collect her thoughts, when she was jolted by a piercing, high-pitched screeching noise that shot through her like an electric shock. She spun around and stared, dumbstruck, at an airplane swooping in above the rooftops. Before she could react, the plane’s machine guns erupted in a hammering clatter, and a crowd of frantic people swarmed over her, crushing and jarring her, knocking her backward as a lightning trail 14

Douglas W. Jacobson

of bullets ripped through the street in a shower of concrete and dirt.

An instant later the clattering stopped, the screeching noise fading into the distance. Anna tried to move, but a woman had collapsed on top of her.

Struggling to her feet, Anna grasped the woman’s arm to help her up then recoiled in horror. The arm swung from her hand, severed from the woman’s limp, bloody body.

Anna went rigid as her brain struggled to comprehend the nightmare scene.

She heard a scream and staggered backward, dropping the severed arm. A man crawled across the ground in front of her. Another man shoved Anna aside and dropped to his knees in front of the fallen woman.

Anna blinked and shook her head. Irene? Justyn? She spun around, searching the faces of the panic-stricken crowd. “Irene!”

Nothing.

Her heart was in her throat. “Irene!”

“Anna.” The voice was muffl ed.

Anna shoved her way through the throng of people and spotted Irene huddled against the building with Justyn in her arms. She knelt down beside them and looked her friend in the eye. “Irene, we’ve got to get off the street. Is there anywhere we can go?”

A blank stare.

Anna gripped her shoulders. “Irene, think! Do you know anyone?”

Nothing.

Anna stood up and looked around, fi ghting panic. Three men lifted the body of the fallen woman and started down the street, pushing others out of their way. One of them carried the arm. Anna looked back at Irene. “Irene, think! Do you know anyone in the neighborhood?”

No response.

“Irene!” she screamed at her friend.

“Mrs. Kopernik?”

The soft, tentative voice startled her. Anna turned to see a short, thin man with a black beard and wire-rimmed spectacles pushing through the crowd. He wore a skullcap and a blue suit coat over his pajamas.

“Come quickly,” he said, motioning with his hand.

Anna stared at him. He looked familiar.

“I’m Bernard . . . Bernard Simowitz,” the man said. “I was at the funeral. Come quickly. Get Irene and the boy and follow me. We’ve got to get off the street.”

Night of Flames

15

Anna reached down and pulled Irene to her feet. She picked up Justyn and followed the man through the rubble to an undamaged building on the other side of the street.

Bernard Simowitz held the door open for them, then squeezed past and led the way to a staircase, beckoning them to follow. “Down here, in the cellar.

Follow me.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Anna set Justyn down and looked around in the dim light. They were in a damp earthen-fl oor room about ten meters square. The walls were made of stone, and a single bare light bulb hung from the rough, wooden ceiling. Across the room, a group of people sat on blankets.

One of them, a plump, blond woman, got to her feet and rushed across the dank room. “Irene! Mrs. Kopernik! Thank God, you’re safe.”

Anna stared at her, confused. Who was she?

The woman knelt in front of Justyn. “Come with me, sweetheart,” she said.

“We’ll get you cleaned up.”

Then Anna remembered. It was Bernard Simowitz’s wife, Cynthia. Irene had introduced them at the funeral.

Cynthia took charge, leading Justyn by the hand and calling over her shoulder, “Bernard, get some water from the cistern and bring it over here—quickly now. Mrs. Kopernik, please come. Bring Irene over here and sit down.”

Three other women and two men who had been sitting on the fl oor moved over to make room. Another blanket appeared, and one of the men spread it on the fl oor. Bernard arrived with a clay pitcher fi lled with water, and Cynthia began undoing the crude bandage on Justyn’s head. “I spotted you from our window as we were running down to the cellar,” she said, glancing at Anna.

“It’s a good thing you stand out in a crowd.”

Anna was used to hearing comments like that. She was an attractive woman, taller than most, and her long red hair did indeed make her stand out in a crowd. This morning it had saved their lives. “I’m very grateful,” she said. “I was frantic not knowing where to go.”

Cynthia smiled at her then motioned with her head toward Irene, who sat clutching her knees, staring straight ahead, her eyes wide and vacant. Anna nodded and leaned back against the cold stone wall, putting her arm around her friend.

• • •

Douglas W. Jacobson

An hour passed, perhaps more. It was diffi cult for Anna to tell. The sirens stopped and the anti-aircraft guns fell silent. The cellar was quiet. The building’s tenants huddled in corners, staring at each other, some of them glancing at the wooden ceiling as though it might collapse at any moment. Anna absently fi ngered the cuts on her knees, struggling to control her fear, the visions still vivid and raw: Justyn lying in a pile of rubble, the diving airplane, the severed arm. She glanced at Irene and Justyn. They were both asleep on the blanket.

Anna heard a shuffl ing sound and looked up to see Cynthia standing over her, holding a bundle of clothing and some shoes. “You must be getting cold,”

Cynthia said. “It’s very damp down here.” The heavyset woman set the bundle on the blanket.

While Anna put on a dress, socks and a pair of brown leather shoes that fi t reasonably well, Cynthia set the rest of the clothing and shoes next to Irene and Justyn. She covered them with a long woolen coat and looked back at Anna, shaking her head. “All this happening on the day after her mother’s funeral—

it’s no wonder she’s in shock.”

Anna looked curiously at the woman. Her blond hair was neatly combed and she wore an elegant silk robe over her nightgown. Incredibly, she was also wearing a string of pearls. Had she worn them to bed? Anna pushed the foolish thought out of her mind and took Cynthia’s hand. “Thank you . . . for everything. I don’t know what we would’ve done if Bernard hadn’t appeared when he did.”

They sat down on the blanket. “We just thank the Lord that you’re safe,”

Cynthia said. “Irene’s mother, dear Izabella, worried about her all the time, living so far away.”

“Did you know her a long time?” Anna asked.

“Ever since Bernard and I moved into this building, ten years ago. Her husband, Issac, ran the tailor shop in the back of their home across the street.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew them. After he died, it was hard for Izabella with Irene living in Krakow and no other children. Usually, she would celebrate the Sabbath with us, but mostly she kept to herself.”

“I met her just once,” Anna said. “It was two years ago, when she came to Krakow for a visit.”

Cynthia smiled. “I remember. Izabella spoke very fondly of you: Irene’s Night of Flames

17

friend, the college professor. She was pleased that Irene had such a good friend—even if you weren’t Jewish. I believe you just got married, yes?”

Anna nodded.

“And your husband? He’s an offi cer in the military?”

Anna took a deep breath. For months she had tried to convince herself that this day would never come. That Hitler was bluffi ng. That Germany would never be foolish enough to attack Poland now that Britain and France had pledged their support. Wasn’t that what all the politicians had said? Then, when the offi cers were mobilized, they said it was just a precaution. She took another breath and wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

“Jan is a major in the cavalry. It’s his career.”

“And Irene’s husband—Stefan?”

“Stefan was a reserve offi cer in the cavalry for years. When all the tension started with Germany the brigade called their reserve offi cers back to active duty. He’s been assigned to Jan’s regiment.”

Cynthia patted Anna’s hand. “May God protect them . . . and all of us.”

They sat in silence for a while. In the quiet, the horror of the early morning came back. Anna shivered. Maybe she and Irene had been foolish to travel to Warsaw two days ago. But this wasn’t supposed to happen, not now, not so soon. Irene’s mother died unexpectedly. What else could they do?

Anna closed her eyes. Talking about Jan left her feeling empty. It had taken her a long time to fi nd love, a long time alone, focused on her career, looking after her father in the aftermath of her mother’s death. But from the moment she and Jan met, she knew. He was the one. She could see him now, just as plainly as if he were standing before her: tall, blond, broad-shouldered, his face more rugged than handsome, he looked younger than his thirty-eight years. A tear rolled down her cheek. She left it there. It felt better to cry.

She heard Bernard’s voice and opened her eyes. He knelt in front of her, next to Cynthia. “You can stay here with us,” he said, “until this all blows over.

It will be too dangerous to travel by train until this is settled.”

“We came by auto,” Anna said, “my father’s car. His driver brought us here.”

“By auto? But your driver . . . the car?”

“Henryk has relatives in Praga. He dropped us off the day before yesterday and went to stay with them. He’s supposed to pick us up tomorrow.”

The three of them just looked at one another.

Chapter 2

Major Jan Kopernik tightened his grip on the reins and patted the chestnut mare’s neck. The horse snorted and pawed the ground, nervous from the thundering noise of the bombers fl ying overhead. Jan stared at the sky, mesmerized by the awesome sight. There were hundreds of them, black droning machines, blanking out the morning sky like a giant storm cloud. That’s exactly what this is, he thought, a storm . . . an ugly, dark storm. The planes were heading west at high altitude, back to Germany. Of one thing he was certain: somewhere to the east, in Radom or Warsaw, people had already died in this storm.

He turned in the saddle and glanced at Kapitan Stefan Pavelka. His friend glared back at him, acknowledging the grim reality. It was starting.

Jan looked up again at the massive bomber formation, and his thoughts went back to the night he got the call, canceling his leave and ordering him to report for duty. Anna had been standing next to him when he hung up the telephone. “So, this is it?” she had asked, gripping his hand. He had wanted to tell her it was just a precaution. He had wanted to tell her that everything would work out and he would probably be home in a week, maybe two. But he hadn’t. She knew.

Something darted out from the cloud of heavy bombers. Jan reached back and pulled the binoculars from the leather pack. Settling deep into the saddle to calm the jittery horse, he dropped the reins and held the binoculars with both hands, focusing on the tiny objects that had separated from the bomber formation. There were four of them, small single engine airplanes. They banked to the north and began a steep dive toward the ground. A moment later he heard a sound, barely discernable through the roar of the bombers. It was a high-pitched, screeching noise.

Night of Flames

19

“Stefan, over there,” Jan said, pointing toward the diving planes.

Stefan took the binoculars and looked up at the four airplanes. “What the hell?”

Jan looked down over the valley to the north and wondered where they were going. The brigade’s camp was more than fi ve kilometers away, in the other direction. There was nothing down in the valley, no railroads or bridges, nothing that he could see except a small farming village. He scanned the sky and spotted the four planes again. They were rapidly approaching the ground.

“Jan, take a look.” Stefan handed the binoculars back to him and pointed toward the village.

Jan took the binoculars and zeroed in on the tiny collection of ramshackle buildings. He panned slowly to the east, his line of sight following a thin, dusty ribbon of road. Three horse-drawn wagons fi lled with hay plodded toward the village. Then, incredibly, one of the wagons burst apart, wood splinters and hay exploding in every direction. An instant later the next two wagons dis-integrated in a cloud of fi ery smoke. Jan was dumbfounded. He struggled to keep his hands from shaking and raised the binoculars, locating the four black airplanes with white swastikas on their tails. They swooped in a long arc and began climbing.