German hands, the abuses began in earnest. A thirteen-year-old boy found out after curfew was beaten to death, leaving terrible marks in the snow. Another who had thrown stones at a passing truck was dragged from his mother’s kitchen and disappeared. Rape of any young woman became commonplace. Yet the incident that most stirred the hearts of those left in Piorun was the abuse of a fifty-six-year-old grandmother who was set upon in her own home by three drunken soldiers of the Wehrmacht. They subjected her to unimaginable indignities, and only let her live so that she could tell the tale. Piorun was catching up rapidly with the rest of the country.
And then the rumor spread that the retreating Nazis, as a last act of hatred for the Poles, were executing all elected officials in the communities they were being forced to abandon. The local doctor heard it first, and he whispered it to the innkeeper. It spread quickly and soon the whole town knew. Stanislaw Nowak was the only elected official in Piorun: he was not only widely respected for his common decency but also related by blood or marriage to many others in the town. So at mass on Sunday—the only community gathering allowed by the German authorities—he was instructed by his fellow townsfolk to leave. The priest—also a Nowak, the mayor’s brother—even took for his text Exodus 14, the flight of the Jews from Egypt. Partly because of the common decencies for which he was renowned, Nowak was at first reluctant to quit his post, but he had already lost both sons to this war and he was told, with inflexible firmness, that it was his duty to draw a line under his family’s suffering and to go.
The priest blessed him, every member of the congregation hugged him, and by nightfall he was with the underground of the Home Army in the forest. He was fortunate that, after the worst and most vicious winter of the war, the thaw was setting in: it erased his footsteps and left no trail.
The same thaw was also slowing the Russian advance through Poland, turning frozen tracks to mudslides, but everyone knew that was only temporary. The tide might slow, but it wouldn’t turn.
It was mid-morning on Monday when the German Kommandant, Kluge, discovered that the mayor had fled. Within an hour he had arrested Nowak’s wife. By the time the light was fading he had announced that, unless the mayor returned, she was going to hang in his place.
❖ ❖ ❖
Churchill studied his friend the President from across the table in the ballroom at the Livadia. There seemed to be empty spaces in the American’s suit, as though he’d shrunk, or perhaps he’d always overestimated his size and, in truth, had never quite measured up. They’d been discussing the unconditional surrender of Germany and were getting nowhere, partly because Roosevelt, the presiding officer at this conference, didn’t know where he wanted to go. Kept changing his mind, shifting his position. It hadn’t always been like that with Roosevelt—in fact, at times, quite the opposite. Too damned keen to rush in and grab the initiative, or was it just about grabbing the headline?
Churchill remembered the first time the subject of unconditional surrender had come up. Early 1943. North Africa, near Casablanca, where Roosevelt and he had met to decide Allied priorities and to knock together the heads of the feuding French generals. They’d held a press conference and Churchill had listened as the President had suddenly announced a new war objective, without consultation and, perhaps, without consideration, and all built upon some rickety piece of American history.
“Some of you Britishers know the old story,” Roosevelt had begun. “We had a general called U. S. Grant. His name was Ulysses Simpson Grant, but in his day he was known as Unconditional Surrender Grant. That’s our policy too.”
And that was it. A policy born. Fallen out of the desert sky. It was the first Churchill had ever heard of it. Roosevelt had
And then the rumor spread that the retreating Nazis, as a last act of hatred for the Poles, were executing all elected officials in the communities they were being forced to abandon. The local doctor heard it first, and he whispered it to the innkeeper. It spread quickly and soon the whole town knew. Stanislaw Nowak was the only elected official in Piorun: he was not only widely respected for his common decency but also related by blood or marriage to many others in the town. So at mass on Sunday—the only community gathering allowed by the German authorities—he was instructed by his fellow townsfolk to leave. The priest—also a Nowak, the mayor’s brother—even took for his text Exodus 14, the flight of the Jews from Egypt. Partly because of the common decencies for which he was renowned, Nowak was at first reluctant to quit his post, but he had already lost both sons to this war and he was told, with inflexible firmness, that it was his duty to draw a line under his family’s suffering and to go.
The priest blessed him, every member of the congregation hugged him, and by nightfall he was with the underground of the Home Army in the forest. He was fortunate that, after the worst and most vicious winter of the war, the thaw was setting in: it erased his footsteps and left no trail.
The same thaw was also slowing the Russian advance through Poland, turning frozen tracks to mudslides, but everyone knew that was only temporary. The tide might slow, but it wouldn’t turn.
It was mid-morning on Monday when the German Kommandant, Kluge, discovered that the mayor had fled. Within an hour he had arrested Nowak’s wife. By the time the light was fading he had announced that, unless the mayor returned, she was going to hang in his place.
❖ ❖ ❖
Churchill studied his friend the President from across the table in the ballroom at the Livadia. There seemed to be empty spaces in the American’s suit, as though he’d shrunk, or perhaps he’d always overestimated his size and, in truth, had never quite measured up. They’d been discussing the unconditional surrender of Germany and were getting nowhere, partly because Roosevelt, the presiding officer at this conference, didn’t know where he wanted to go. Kept changing his mind, shifting his position. It hadn’t always been like that with Roosevelt—in fact, at times, quite the opposite. Too damned keen to rush in and grab the initiative, or was it just about grabbing the headline?
Churchill remembered the first time the subject of unconditional surrender had come up. Early 1943. North Africa, near Casablanca, where Roosevelt and he had met to decide Allied priorities and to knock together the heads of the feuding French generals. They’d held a press conference and Churchill had listened as the President had suddenly announced a new war objective, without consultation and, perhaps, without consideration, and all built upon some rickety piece of American history.
“Some of you Britishers know the old story,” Roosevelt had begun. “We had a general called U. S. Grant. His name was Ulysses Simpson Grant, but in his day he was known as Unconditional Surrender Grant. That’s our policy too.”
And that was it. A policy born. Fallen out of the desert sky. It was the first Churchill had ever heard of it. Roosevelt had
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