Natalya Page 4

  “You wouldn’t wake up, Natalya. Your moaning was so loud, I was afraid it would wake the others. Even though she is your best friend, Marina wouldn’t hesitate to ground you from flying if she thought you were mentally troubled—even if they are just nightmares.” She tucked several wayward blonde curls behind her ears and leaned closer. She paused. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Natalya smiled. “I haven’t thought about Papa in a long time, kotёhok. This was the first dream I’ve had about the day he died. I guess I was more tired than I thought. Night after night, we take to the air and drop our bombs on the Germans attacking our towns and people. So much death. I’m certain everyone in here has had their fair share of nightmares and a moment or two of depression.”

  “She’s right, Lilyann,” another whispered voice said in the darkness, startling them both.

  Natalya sat up on her cot as two of their flight mates materialized from the darkness in their long, white woolen nightgowns and slippers. She smiled at the long flowing gowns that were not at all army issued. War may be raging around them, but these women all had mothers, aunts, or grandmothers back home who worried about them and had sent them wonderful care packages, reminding them of home and those they were fighting for.

  Her smile widened when Raisa and Tatyana were followed by Irina and Aleksandra. Since their assignments to the 588th, the six of them had spent almost every waking moment training together. They were one of the best squadrons in the night bomber regiment. Their precision in the air was unparalleled as they took their aerial turns.

  The first two planes flying in would draw the German FlaK fire and, most importantly, the spotlights. Then they would split apart, making it difficult for the Germans to follow their progress. This was all done so the third plane could fly in and drop its bombs. Because of these women’s flying abilities, their hits were at the top of the list every week.

  Natalya sat on the thin mattress and wrapped her arm around Lilyann’s shoulders, giving her a strong hug. “We all have nightmares—we’re at war. I would be worried if we didn’t. But do you know what will get us through this?”

  Lilyann slowly shook her head. “No,” she whispered, as if afraid of what she was about to hear.

  “Faith.”

  3

  Lwów, Poland

  August, 1942

  Mikhail trudged along the dirt road, his legs tired and achy and his feet blistered from the miles he’d walked from the last accessible—and safe—town. After leaving Lucerne on the Orient Express, he’d managed to make it halfway to Budapest. Unfortunately, German soldiers boarded in Vienna, and train travel, for him at least, had become too dangerous.

  After disembarking, he had walked for hours until catching a ride in the back of a small alpine cart. Leaving the Alps behind, he had traveled the rest of the way alone, sometimes walking, sometimes riding a horse or abandoned bicycle, but he’d finally made it to Poland. He glanced around the ruined town. This definitely wasn’t the Poland he’d last visited. Nazis were everywhere, no matter where he went. And if he were caught….

  He crept from house to house, slowly and quietly making his way to the other end of town. He passed a group of soldiers sitting around a large barrel outside the remains of a stone cottage. Nothing was left—only the front wall and half of the adjoining wall remained standing. The rest was piles of rubble. He dropped out of sight, using a dying bush leaning against the edge of the broken stone wall as cover.

  Several feet away from him, the soldiers joked as they sipped tin mugs of what he assumed was coffee and laughed. He was far enough from them that he heard only a little of what was said, but he heard enough to know he didn’t like it. The soldiers joked about the ease of rounding up the Jews in the town, which Mikhail knew had been the third largest Jewish population in Poland.

  He shivered and pulled his jacket tighter, wishing for some of the heat rising from the burning barrel. Glancing up at the sky, darkening clouds rolled in, forewarning an early winter storm none of them were prepared for. The Germans still wore their summer uniforms, and he only had a wool jacket. Hopefully, it would drop a little rain instead of snow and move on. From the chilled wind cutting through his clothing, he was afraid the night would only bring snow.

  The clatter of a falling rock sounded behind him. He turned, trying to stay under the cover of the bush, but no one was there. He sat and listened. Nearby, something scraped against another surface. Someone behind him hollered, and he glanced back at the soldiers. The tall one grumbled about overbearing superiors but tossed his remaining coffee onto the ground near his mud-splattered boots. The others remained quiet, drinking the last of their coffee then following their comrade back to where an SS officer stood in front of a tent, scowling at them.

  It was now or never, and Mikhail crept to the back of the wall on his hands and knees. Across the street were two more homes; one was completely caved in, but the other looked untouched. He narrowed his gaze and stared at the way the bottom corner of the curtain in the single upstairs window moved. The motion was ever so slight, but it was there nonetheless. Carefully glancing around, he saw no one and stood. As if he was supposed to be right where he was, he walked across the cobblestone street and silently turned the knob on the front door. It opened with a slight squeak.

  He winced but slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Leaning against the door, he waited, half expecting to hear a German soldier shouting at him to come back outside. He breathed in one breath then another in the silence of the house, but still nothing happened. He continued to wait, the seconds turning into minutes, knowing impatience had killed many people in this war. He refused to be one of them. The last two years in the Resistance had taught him to wait until he couldn’t wait any longer—and then wait some more.

  Testing the floorboards with the toe of his boot before each step, he moved through the front hall, catching sight of his haggard expression in a crooked, wall mirror. He hesitated, shaking his head at his reflection. He rubbed the smudges of dirt on his cheek and noticed his bloodshot gray eyes, the skin underneath darker than normal from worry and lack of sleep. Giving up on the smudges, he crept through the small living room. The furniture still sat in place, although each piece was coated in heavy layers of dust and what looked like plaster. He glanced up in the dim illumination of the fading light and noticed several large areas where the ceiling plaster had fallen.

  In just a few steps from the landing, he walked down a narrow hallway and passed two bedrooms on the left and a small bathroom on the right. He stopped and listened, the house’s silence a heavy weight surrounding him. He pulled in shallow breaths until his wait was rewarded, and he heard the unmistakable sound of wood scraping together directly in front of him.

  Frowning, he stared at the once-handsome armoire standing against the wall at the end of the hall. Had a small animal or rodent gotten inside looking for warmth? The nights were definitely cooling as fall would soon turn bitterly cold and winter would hold the area in its unyielding grip. Winter’s arrival would be a good thing. The Russian people were acclimated to the bitterly cold temperatures, but the German soldiers were not.

  The slight scratching sound grew louder, and the armoire seemed to shake. With silent footsteps, he walked to the end of the hall and placed his hands on one side and shoved. The large piece of furniture swung open, and he found himself staring at the surprised faces of two children. A young boy who looked to be around the age of five, and, from the matching dark brown hair and brown eyes, the girl must have been his older sister, maybe twelve or so, but their ages were difficult to guess from their filthy, emaciated state.

  The girl held up a pistol, aiming it just above his belt buckle. “Leave us alone! We will not go with you. You can rot like the other German corpses,” she said in Polish.

  Mikhail’s lips twitched as he bit back a smile. The girl’s expression was as fierce as her words, but it was the adoring expression on her little brother’s face as he stared up at her that ruined the stern effect Mikhail knew she was aiming for. “I am Russian, not German, so you can lower your gun, kotek,” he answered her in Polish.

  The girl frowned. “I am not your kitten. Why do you call me that? And why should we believe you? Germans are all liars.”

  “As I just said, I am not German, little one. I was born in Smolensk, Russia. My mother is Romani and my father is Jewish, so I know the trials you have gone through. As we speak, my family is in a German camp in France.” Surprise flickered across the children’s faces, and they glanced at each other.

  The girl met Mikhail’s gaze again, doubt creeping back in her eyes as she tilted her head to one side. “Then why aren’t you with them too?”

  “I was. Early one morning, a young guard was late to his post. I saw an opportunity and took it. I escaped by crawling under the fence and hiding in the woods. That was a little more than two years ago. I made my way back to Russia where my grandparents lived, and when the Germans attacked my home in Smolensk, I began working with the Resistance.” He squatted down in front of them. “Where are your parents?”

  The fierce gleam in the girl’s eyes dimmed. “It was August 11. We were celebrating our mother’s birthday when the Nazis came. We had only a few minutes before they came to our home. Mama put me and Julek in the armoire and told us not to make a sound. We didn’t.”

  Julek nodded. “We stayed in there for so long—maybe a whole day!”

  His sister rolled her eyes. “Don’t exaggerate, Julek. We were only hiding in there for a couple of hours.”

  He scowled back. “How would you know? It was dark and cramped, and we couldn’t even walk when we crawled out.”

  “It was a little after two o’clock in the afternoon when Mama put us inside—the bird had
just chirped, remember? And when we came out, the clock read twenty minutes after six, so we were in the armoire for four hours.”

  He wrinkled his nose and shrugged. “Well, it seemed like a whole day to me.”

  She brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead. “I know, me, too.” She turned her gaze back to Mikhail. The girl seemed older than she appeared, and he wondered if twelve had been an accurate assumption. “To answer your question, sir, Nazis took our parents, along with everyone else, to the factory at Janowska. I overhead a German soldier talking about the houses they had to build for the prisoners next to it. Another soldier said he’d helped separate the young and healthy from the rest. They’re lucky and get to stay and work in the factory.”

  Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “The rest—the elderly, sick, and the smaller children—are put on trains and shipped to Belzec and gassed.”

  Mikhail knew of the Nazi death camps scattered throughout Poland and Germany but was horrified that these young children also knew of them. “How do you know about the camps?”

  “We have our ways,” the girl said. “To survive, we need to know what we’re up against, no?”

  Mikhail smiled. “You would make a very good soldier…or spy.” He glanced at the boy and held out his hand. “My name is Mikhail Abramovich, and you are Julek…?”

  “Schaerf.” Julek shook Mikhail’s hand and gave his sister a single wave with the other. “And this is my sister, Adela.”

  “Julek! You say too much. This man is a stranger.”

  “Aw, Adela, if he was going to arrest us, he’d have done it by now.” Julek glared at Mikhail. “Right?”

  Mikhail smiled and switched from their native Polish to Yiddish, which he had been speaking since he first learned to talk. “Like I said, I am Jewish, as are you and your sister.” A German shout came from outside and was answered. Mikhail stood. “Do you speak German?” Both children nodded. “Gut. From now on, we will speak nothing but German in case we are overheard. It will be safer for the two of you.” He narrowed his gaze, trying to see into the black hole behind the armoire. “Does it lead anywhere or is it just a room?”

  “Only a room, I’m afraid. Our father owned a winery, and he used the room to store some of his favorites for dinner parties. But when the Germans invaded, he decided it made more sense as a safe room, so he emptied it out.”

  “Your father is a smart man.”

  “You won’t leave us here, will you, Mikhail?” Julek asked, his voice trembling. Adela laid her hand on his shoulder but didn’t say anything.

  He bit back a sigh, not wanting to traipse through town with two children in tow and German soldiers patrolling, but it looked as if he had no other choice. He couldn’t leave them here to fend for themselves. “I am to meet up with a man on the outskirts of town and cannot be late. I also can’t leave the two of you here to fend for yourselves against the Germans. It is too dangerous. I’ve seen what they do to children.” He gave them the sternest glare he dared so as not to scare them. “When I tell you to do something, I will expect you to do it—no questions asked. Do you understand?”

  “We promise,” they said, their voices blending together.

  “No matter what?” They nodded and stood a little straighter. “Good. Now follow me and stay quiet. On the way here, I passed several German units camped close by, and their patrols are scouting the streets.”

  “We know. We can show you the route we take to get from one safe house to the next, if you’d like? It will be easier for us to get past the patrols if we wait until dark. There’s a house two streets over we can go to. There’s food stored in the basement for anyone who makes it there. Someone restocks it daily, but we don’t know who does it,” Adela said.

  He gave her a quick nod. “All right then, you lead, and your brother and I will follow, but we can’t wait until dark, I’m afraid.” He rested his hand on the boy’s thin shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Is that okay with you, Julek?”

  “Yes, sir. Adela won’t steer us wrong.”

  Mikhail followed the girl through the house and watched her as she peeked through the curtain in the kitchen window. The material didn’t even move as she peered into the alley running along the back of the house. No sound, not even the snick of metal, could be heard when she turned the doorknob or when she slipped through the small space left between the door and the jamb. Julek followed her just as quietly, however, Mikhail was much bigger and had to open the door wider. If someone was on the other side of the fence, he could be seen and would be their undoing.

  They stood with their backs against the stone wall of the house for a few minutes, listening. When they didn’t hear the sounds of running boots, whistles, or shouts, they turned and headed down the alley. This part of the city hadn’t been as damaged by the Luftwaffe’s bombs, and the shadowed spaces along the structures provided decent cover until they came to the next street.

  He glanced down the street in both directions. German patrols stood at the far ends of the street. At least two men stood in the middle of the street, but it was the ones he couldn’t see who gave him pause. Why were they guarding this particular street?

  Mikhail groaned aloud. “This isn’t good. Adela, where is the safe house you’re taking us to?”

  She pointed to a brown brick, two-story home across the street and three houses down from where they hid. Someone yelled, and the front door of the safe house flew open. A soldier came out, trying to hold on to a young boy, his brown wavy hair tied at the nape of his neck and dressed in overly large clothing. He looked to be about Adela’s age. The boy squirmed and tried to pull his arm out of the German’s grip. He almost succeeded, but the soldier latched onto the excess sleeve material and pulled the boy back to his side.

  “Stop your squirming,” the soldier demanded, his face flushed from exertion.

  “I’ve done nothing! My name is Peter Becker. I was only waiting for my friend to return home. I’m a good Polish German—not Jewish! Why are you doing this?”

  Mikhail glanced down and noticed the horrified expression on Adela’s face. “You know him?” She nodded. “Is he speaking the truth?”

  She turned her wide-eyed gaze up to his face and slowly shook her head. “He is Romani—like you. His parents were rounded up the day before ours. The house was his grandparents’. He stays to make sure the Germans do nothing to it. His grandparents were German, so that part is true, and his name is Peter Becker. His family took the grandparents’ surname when Peter was born. His mother said it was safer for them to be known as Germans, not Jews.” She tugged on his coat sleeve. “We have to help him...please…,” she whispered.

  “What do you propose, little one? The moment they hear my name, I will be arrested.” He glanced at the boy, now huddled on the curb. A second soldier joined the man who grabbed him, and they talked together in low voices. Too far way, he couldn’t hear what the two men were saying, but he knew it probably wasn’t good. On the way here, he’d passed the Janowska ghetto where thousands of Polish Jews and Romani had been taken. Peter was too young for the work camp and would more than likely be shipped off to the Belzec extermination camp.

  The girl was right—he couldn’t let that happen.

  Glancing down at Adela, his gaze narrowed on her pinched face. “Does the back door of the house lead into an alley or a street?”

  “A street. Remember how I told you food is left in the basement each day?” He nodded. “There is a door leading to a tunnel, but where it goes, I don’t know.”

  He smiled. “Right now that doesn’t matter—it’s our only chance. Follow my lead. You and Julek are my children, and you walked through town to meet me at work. I work on a farm on the town’s outskirts for an old farmer who has trouble getting around. Hopefully, they won’t question the story because it’s all I’ve got at the moment.”