Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II by Douglas W. Jacobson Page B
Authors: Douglas W. Jacobson
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ne.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll look around the market.”
The town was a dusty little village called Wiesko, which Anna had never heard of and which didn’t appear on the map of Poland tacked to the door of Leizer’s toolshed. One morning when she had asked about it, the old man had scratched an X on the map indicating a spot between Ostrowiec and the Vistula River.
Night of Flames
75
Across the square from the post offi ce was a tiny, whitewashed church with a tile roof. A faded inscription in Latin, Domus Salvatoris Nostri, painted above the stout oak door proclaimed it as The House of our Savior. A ramshackle stucco building with a rickety wooden porch occupied the left side of the square. It was the village’s only store, and its odd assortment of mer-chandise ranged from animal feed and fertilizer to women’s clothing and cookware. From a counter in the back of the building the Jewish proprietor also dispensed beer, vodka and a very potent fermented apple cider, which Anna had tried once, on her only other visit to the town. On the right side of the square was the market—a dozen wooden stalls where farmers sold vegetables, fruit, dairy products, sausages and a variety of ciders every Wednesday and Saturday morning.
Following the pungent aroma of cheese and spicy sausage, Anna wandered among the stalls, surprised at the number of local people who smiled at her, nodded and bid her good morning.
A voice behind her said, “You’re something of a celebrity, you know.”
She turned around to see a pudgy man of about sixty wearing a black felt hat and a rumpled woolen suit coat.
“We don’t get many visitors out here,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Simanski.
It’s good to see you up and around.”
It took her a moment to make the connection. “Oh, Dr. Simanski . . . yes, of course. Forgive me but I’m afraid I don’t remember much about your visit.”
The doctor laughed and tipped his hat. “No, I’m sure you don’t. You had a pretty nasty blow to the head.” He looked around and indicated a stall where a farmer sold a mixture of apple cider and blackberry wine. “It’s really quite good. Shall we have some while we talk?”
They sat in front of the church, on a bench shaded by a large oak tree, sipping the sweet beverage and watching the bustle of country people on market day. “It’s hard to imagine there’s a war going on,” Anna said.
Dr. Simanski shrugged. “War comes and goes, but the people who work the land continue on, one generation after another.”
Anna regarded the doctor. His face was creased with age, but his gray eyes were sharp and penetrating. “Are you from around here?” she asked.
He nodded. “My family had an estate a few kilometers to the east, near the Vistula. I did my medical training in Warsaw, spent some time in Radom, but this is home.” He took a sip from the clay mug. “I understand you’re 76
Douglas W. Jacobson
from Krakow. You’re a university professor?”
“Associate professor, actually—European history.”
“Ah, history. Then you can appreciate my comment.”
“That war is an inevitable part of life? That we just set aside our routine tasks to kill each other then pick them up again when it’s over?”
He sighed. “Well, history teacher, when has it not been so?”
Anna shook her head and sipped the wine. “I keep hoping that one day we will rise above that.”
The doctor touched her arm. “You’re young and you have hope, two very good things. Do you have any plans?”
“No,” Anna said, staring into the distance. “I want to get home but, to be honest, I haven’t thought very far ahead.”
The doctor glanced up at the huge tree towering above them. He set his empty mug on the grass and turned toward Anna. “I’m the only doctor for quite a distance so I travel between a dozen or so towns. I also go to the hospital in Ostrowiec every week. I see and hear a lot of things.”
Anna didn’t
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll look around the market.”
The town was a dusty little village called Wiesko, which Anna had never heard of and which didn’t appear on the map of Poland tacked to the door of Leizer’s toolshed. One morning when she had asked about it, the old man had scratched an X on the map indicating a spot between Ostrowiec and the Vistula River.
Night of Flames
75
Across the square from the post offi ce was a tiny, whitewashed church with a tile roof. A faded inscription in Latin, Domus Salvatoris Nostri, painted above the stout oak door proclaimed it as The House of our Savior. A ramshackle stucco building with a rickety wooden porch occupied the left side of the square. It was the village’s only store, and its odd assortment of mer-chandise ranged from animal feed and fertilizer to women’s clothing and cookware. From a counter in the back of the building the Jewish proprietor also dispensed beer, vodka and a very potent fermented apple cider, which Anna had tried once, on her only other visit to the town. On the right side of the square was the market—a dozen wooden stalls where farmers sold vegetables, fruit, dairy products, sausages and a variety of ciders every Wednesday and Saturday morning.
Following the pungent aroma of cheese and spicy sausage, Anna wandered among the stalls, surprised at the number of local people who smiled at her, nodded and bid her good morning.
A voice behind her said, “You’re something of a celebrity, you know.”
She turned around to see a pudgy man of about sixty wearing a black felt hat and a rumpled woolen suit coat.
“We don’t get many visitors out here,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Simanski.
It’s good to see you up and around.”
It took her a moment to make the connection. “Oh, Dr. Simanski . . . yes, of course. Forgive me but I’m afraid I don’t remember much about your visit.”
The doctor laughed and tipped his hat. “No, I’m sure you don’t. You had a pretty nasty blow to the head.” He looked around and indicated a stall where a farmer sold a mixture of apple cider and blackberry wine. “It’s really quite good. Shall we have some while we talk?”
They sat in front of the church, on a bench shaded by a large oak tree, sipping the sweet beverage and watching the bustle of country people on market day. “It’s hard to imagine there’s a war going on,” Anna said.
Dr. Simanski shrugged. “War comes and goes, but the people who work the land continue on, one generation after another.”
Anna regarded the doctor. His face was creased with age, but his gray eyes were sharp and penetrating. “Are you from around here?” she asked.
He nodded. “My family had an estate a few kilometers to the east, near the Vistula. I did my medical training in Warsaw, spent some time in Radom, but this is home.” He took a sip from the clay mug. “I understand you’re 76
Douglas W. Jacobson
from Krakow. You’re a university professor?”
“Associate professor, actually—European history.”
“Ah, history. Then you can appreciate my comment.”
“That war is an inevitable part of life? That we just set aside our routine tasks to kill each other then pick them up again when it’s over?”
He sighed. “Well, history teacher, when has it not been so?”
Anna shook her head and sipped the wine. “I keep hoping that one day we will rise above that.”
The doctor touched her arm. “You’re young and you have hope, two very good things. Do you have any plans?”
“No,” Anna said, staring into the distance. “I want to get home but, to be honest, I haven’t thought very far ahead.”
The doctor glanced up at the huge tree towering above them. He set his empty mug on the grass and turned toward Anna. “I’m the only doctor for quite a distance so I travel between a dozen or so towns. I also go to the hospital in Ostrowiec every week. I see and hear a lot of things.”
Anna didn’t
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