a short story with a wartime Polish setting
Pigtails flying, I’m humming happily as I’m cycling home through the autumn sunshine. Mum will be pleased with the blaeberries ...
Suddenly a loud honking, roar of a powerful car, I swerve, nearly topple off my brother’s big byke as I lurch towards the hedge, a huge grey staff-car hurtles past. Bloody Germans. I steady myself, press on uphill, it’s quite a stiff climb, but my legs can do it. Round the sharp bend, then I brake sharply, the grey car’s stopped, blocking the narrow lane.
A tall man in the sharp-cut grey cloth and black leather of an SS Officer steps out, strides towards me. “Heil Hitler!” he snaps, “Heil Hitler,” I reply, as half-heartedly as I dare. “A pleasant afternoon for a ride, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is, Sir,” I reply glumly. My German’s not bad, we have to learn it in school – it’s about all we do learn these days. What’s your name, kid?” Kid! “Zuzana” I hiss, feeling my cheeks burning “Zuzana Stoltz.”
He stands in front of me, looking me up and down. I’m standing self-consciously, holding the byke straight with my long thin legs stretched wide to the sides, my threadbare cotton dress rucked up on the crossbar. “That’s a big byke for a little girl – a boy’s one, too.” “It’s my brother’s.” “Ah, so you have brothers?” “Two, Sir. Andrzej’s an apprentice electrician. Pawel’s away working in Germany.” As a slave, I don’t add.
“And what have you been doing, Zuzana?” “I’ve just been into town Sir.” “What for?” “To see Father Jerzy...” “Oh, why?” I’m blushing, eyes lowered under his cold, steel-blue gaze. It’s not something a girl likes to talk about, least of all to an obviously unsympathetic man ... “T-to make my confession,” I mumble. His thin mouth curls to a sneer. “Father Jerzy has an enjoyable job, hearing the confessions of pretty young ladies. I think I could do his job – rather well, eh, Golo?” His driver, a swarthy, thick-set brute who’s standing beside me now, eyeing me nastily, guffaws.
The Officer strolls around, still drinking me in with his stare, my hands are quivering as I grip the handlebars. Please stop this game, I’m wanting to say, please let me get on home to mum... “What’s in your bag, Zuzana?” He’s spotted the saddlebag where Andrzej puts his tools. “Blaeberries, Sir ... I picked them on the moor.” His face hardens. “You picked them! You know that’s not allowed, stealing State property!” “S-sorry Sir – I only picked a few ... they’re for my mum, Sir, she’s really not well, and we’ve not had any fruit for months...” “Get off that byke!” he barks, “You can tell your sob stories to the Polish police, they’re not my problem – handcuffs, Golo!”
Shaking, I swing my leg over the saddle, let the byke fall on the roadbank, hold out my wrists. The brute produces handcuffs, pulls my arms behind my back and locks them. Even at their tightest, they’re loose on my thin wrists, but not loose enough to slip out of. “Get the byke in the boot,” he commands the driver, and grabs my bare upper arm so tight it feels like he’ll snap it, hauls me sobbing to the car, shoves me in onto a posh leather-covered seat. I glimpse a long shiny riding-crop lying on the back shelf. He gets in and sits close beside me.
As I wriggle, my bum sliding back on the wide seat, the hem of my frock rides up on my thighs, but my manacled hands can’t do anything about it. Shit, I’m thinking, picking blaeberries is hardly a capital crime. With luck they’ll just send me home with a whipping. I only hope the bastards don’t demand a bribe from mum.
I hear the boot slammed shut, the driver climbs in. Before pulling the starter, he turns round and hands something to the Officer. “Found this caught on the pedal-shaft, Sir.” The Officer looks at the object without much interest, but suddenly his expression changes, he swings round and thrusts it in front of my face. “You know what this is?” he growls. “N-no Sir ....” It’s just a bit of wire. “It – it’s something of my brother’s Sir, he’s an electric-“ He slaps my face, “Lying puppy! You know fucking well – it’s wire for a bomb fuse!”
My whole body seizes with terror, I feel I’m going to be sick. “Straight to HQ, Golo, this brat’s got some talking to do!” The engine roars, the car starts off at a lunatic speed, racing through the narrow lanes, away from the town, away from my home.
My mind’s flashing back in terror to last night. Andrzej was out, mum was peeling vegetables, I was lying half-asleep on my bed in the corner of the kitchen. In the distance, the long rumble of one of those heavy trains that come through every night. There was a bang, not a huge one, a loud crack like a fog signal – but there was no fog. The train rattled to a stop. Mum stopped her peeling, she seemed abstracted, anxious. After long, silent minutes, the train started up again, slowly rumbled out of earshot.
Andrzej didn’t come back for a couple of hours. When he did, he was pale, shaking. He muttered a few words, all I caught was “bloody detonator failed....”
We sweep past the turning to our cottage, soon we’re out on the main road to Warsaw...
)
