“I’m famished,” argues Bill.
I say quietly, “We die from cold out there,” and the others all stop and consider me for a second before their voices tumble over mine.
Ralph says, “You’ve saved our lives. We can manage on this food for one night.”
Max is curious. “What did you ever say to him, to persuade him?”
“Just one word, like ‘open sesame.’” says Bill.
Ralph nods. “And he helped us though you could tell he was terrified.”
I say it again in Polish and Ralph repeats, “Var-shah-vay,” tasting the shape of the word to fathom its meaning, but he can’t guess.
“Warschau,” I say to Ralph in German, and he shakes his head in admiration, then translates for the others.
“Warsaw. Of course. Genius. Warsaw. The one word in the world to persuade him to save our lives.”
“But why?” asks Bill. “Why would that work?”
“When the Nazis broke the Siege of Warsaw, every single one of the civilian citizens was rounded up and sent to prison camps,” Ralph reminds him. “Every man, woman and child. Who knows what they’ve suffered? No self-respecting Pole could deny sanctuary to people who fought the Third Reich and helped his countrymen in Warsaw. That one word reminded him who were his enemies and who were his allies. And he’d think if we escaped, maybe others did too.”
Max nods in respect, while Bill allows himself to gaze on me in wonder. “However did you think of that?”
I shrug, and say aloud, “Just thought,” and I feel a small glow of pride as we divide up the raw turnip and chew it. The first candle stub gutters, and we decide that when it goes out, we’ll huddle together and try to sleep.
The darkness is more complete than I’ve ever seen. The cold from the floor penetrates up through our clothes, and the stone is unforgiving against our bony frames. But we fit ourselves close together. I’m in Bill’s arms for once, because here nobody can see. I have his arm to rest my head on. Ralph sleeps with his back to Bill, and Max is on my other side. Despite our hunger and discomfort, we are so exhausted that one by one we fall asleep.
We don’t know how many hours later it is that we’re woken by scraping above our heads as the farmer clears the trapdoor. Max helps push it open from inside, and although it’s still night outside, it’s a blessed relief to see the light from the stars. In the east is a thin graying, indicating we’ve lived to see another dawn. The farmer pulls us out roughly, wanting us away from the house as soon as possible. As he starts to shovel snow back onto the cellar door, he indicates a rough drift to one side, and underneath is our sledge, with the remains of the final parcels. We heave the sledge out and start to help him with the shoveling, but he’s looking around anxiously and very eager for us to leave. He thrusts the branch of a fir tree at Ralph and indicates how we must cover our tracks, then yanks from his pocket a paper bag, which he gives to me, looking deep into my eyes. “Dla Warszawy.” It sounds like Varsahvay. For Warsaw.
I grip his hand for a second. “Dziękuję ci, thank you,” and the others all echo their thanks, but he’s pushing us away, terrified of being found with us. We pull the sledge over the fresh snow, back toward the farm buildings, which were too full to take us, passing the snow-covered bodies of men who were not so lucky. Ralph crunches backward, obliterating our tracks, and tosses the fir branch under a tree.
Ahead of us, the tall guard is banging on the door of a shed, calling, “Raus, raus.” We slip round behind to look as if we’re just emerging from another building, yawning and stretching into the dawn light. He barely glances at us.
“What did he give you?” asks Ralph, and I open the top of the paper bag. We peer inside. Oats. Like we’d feed the horses.
“Porridge for breakfast!” beams Bill, as if it’s all he could ever imagine wanting in the world. I know we’re all thinking of Scotty, wishing he was here to share it. As we’re making the watery porridge, the tall guard comes around looking for Ralph.
“Arzt, doctor.” He beckons urgently. “Komm mit mir.”
Ralph struggles to his feet. “Cousins, can you come too?” And we follow the tall guard down toward the farmhouse, where we spent the night.
The white-haired farmer recognizes us and freezes, ready to deny everything, but I signal to him to say nothing. The tall guard stumps upstairs to a bedroom, and we follow to where the bald guard is lying on the bed in his long underwear, gasping for breath, his face ashen and sweat pouring down it.
He’s clutching his chest. Even I could make Ralph’s diagnosis: “Heart attack.”
For fifteen minutes, Ralph and the tall guard and I take turns pressing on the bald guard’s chest, trying to bring him back to life, but eventually the tall guard makes a decision. “Nein. It’s no good. He’s gone. Stop now.”
I lift my head and stop the pounding. The room is absolutely still and silent. Ralph leans in to close his eyes and mouth, and I cross myself, while at the same instant the tall guard does the same. He nods to me and pulls the sheet over his comrade’s face.
Ralph and I turn to leave, but the tall guard taps us on the shoulder and puts out a hand to shake. “Dankeshön.” We both solemnly shake his hand, and he seems to be trying to think of a way to thank us. He points to himself. “Hans,” he says.
Ralph replies, “Ralph, and this is Cousins.”
He shakes our hands again, and we escape back down the stairs into the freezing air.
A little farther on, late in the morning, we enter a village where some children come out and walk alongside us, nudging one another. They are laughing and want to ride on our sleigh. Of course we let them climb aboard, two at a time. We are so weak that it takes three of us to pull the extra load, but it’s worth it to hear their squeals and giggles. All around us men are smiling at them, squaring their shoulders, lifting their heads, visibly cheered by the laughter, and gaining new determination to stay alive, to return to their own children. Tonight there are fewer men to house in our section, and we all squeeze together into the designated barn.
In another village, a dark-haired Polish girl smiles at Max, and a passing Hitler Youth boy happens to see. He swings out his rifle barrel and knocks her down. She flies sideways into the snow and curls into a ball, waiting for more blows. Max moves to help her, but the Hitler Youth trains his gun on us.
“He’ll shoot, for sure,” says Bill.
Max wants to argue, but he knows Bill’s right. We reluctantly shuffle forward.
“Fucking scum,” mutters Max.
Until she’s out of sight, one after another of us looks back to see if she’s managed to clamber to her feet. When we turn the corner, she’s still curled up in the snow with the Hitler Youth standing over her. I think about her for hours.
There’s a column of Russian prisoners somewhere out ahead of us. We know this because every day we pass nine or ten of them lying dead beside the road. They are no more than skeletons in coats, and many of them are barefoot. Their feet are lacerated, red and shiny or black from frostbite. Some may have had boots on when they fell, but they’ve been taken by others who needed them more. One has cut the end off of a pair of boots that are far too small for him, and his blackened toes peer out at us. Some of them have been shot, and blood has spread out into the snow around them, like a warning.