Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II by Douglas W. Jacobson Page A

motionless, staring into the open fi eld at the smoking debris and dead bodies.
    Stefan gripped his shoulder. “Jan, they’re gone, let’s go.”
    Jan turned and looked at Stefan. His friend had lost his helmet. His black curly hair was matted with sweat and his face streaked with dirt and blood.
    Jan wondered if he was hurt. Then he blinked and shook his head. “Yeah, let’s go.”
    Chapter 12
    Anna dropped the garden rake and held her hand over her eyes, squinting at the massive bomber formation fl ying overhead. A few moments earlier she had been perspiring in the heat of the sun, but now she was cold. The rivulets of warm, soothing sweat running down her back turned to icy fi ngers of fear.
    She wrapped her arms around her chest and watched the droning airplanes disappear over the northern horizon. It was the sound, the thumping vibration, that brought back the memory of that horrifi c early morning in Warsaw.
    In the peace of the Berkowicz farm it had almost been possible to believe the war wasn’t happening. She was regaining her strength, the headaches had all but disappeared and the work in the gardens had lifted her spirits. But the bombers brought it all back. The thundering formations, heading north in the morning and south in the afternoon, brought with them the memories of death and destruction.
    As she reached down to pick up the rake she heard someone shout, “Anna!”
    and looked up to see Leizer on a horse-drawn wagon entering the farmyard. The elderly farmer called out again and waved her over as he climbed off the wooden seat. She waved back and stepped carefully through the garden to the stable.
    “I have some news,” Leizer said as he unhitched the mellow, dappled gray gelding. “I heard a report on the radio at the post offi ce. A counterattack is underway.”
    “A counterattack? Where?” Anna asked, following the old man as he led the horse to the stable.
    “North of here, along the Bzura River, near Kutno and Brochow.” He opened the door to the stall and gave the horse a pat on his massive hindquarter. The 74
    Douglas W. Jacobson
    animal trudged into the stall, and Leizer turned to Anna, looking her in the eye. “The report said the Poznan Army and the Wielkopolska Cavalry Brigade are involved.”
    Anna stared at him. The icy fi ngers returned.
    “They’re brave lads,” he said, “heroes. Don’t you worry.”
    Anna heard a shuffl ing behind her and turned to see Irene and Justyn. “You heard?” Anna asked.
    Irene nodded. She put her arm around Justyn and they walked away.
    The next day Anna rode into town with Leizer. Sitting on a bench at the post offi ce, gripping the arm with white knuckles, she listened to the announcer read a disjointed fl urry of reports from the battlefi eld. “ . . . Wielkopolska Brigade . . .
    battling the Fourth Panzer Division . . . Brochow . . .” Her stomach heaved.
    She stood up and started for the door just as a man in the corner of the room muttered, “Poor bastards. Guys on horses aren’t going to have much of a chance against those tanks.”
    Anna whirled around and glared at the man, who was standing with two companions near the spittoon. “One of those ‘poor bastards’ is my husband,”
    she hissed. “Don’t you dare say they don’t have a chance! Don’t you dare lose hope! Don’t ever . . .” Tears streamed down her face as she turned away from the startled man and ran to the door.
    She stopped outside the post offi ce, bending over and taking deep breaths, praying she wouldn’t get sick.
    Leizer followed her out and stood next to her, shuffl ing his feet in the dirt.
    “I’m sorry, Anna. The man’s a boor. He has no idea what he’s talking about.”
    She straightened up. “I understand. It’s all right.”
    “I’ll take you home,” Leizer said.
    Anna glanced around at the activity in the town’s central square. It was Saturday morning—market day. “No, let’s stay awhile. You’ve got things to do. I’ll be fi