Heading in the direction of the advancing Soviets, it took us the whole night to make our way through the forest. Toward morning we were at the woods’ edge, staring out at broad fields of asparagus. Past the fields, on a road bordered with poplars, were retreating Nazi convoys. A brick barn with a tile roof stood about one hundred yards in front of us. We would never be able to cross that much open space without being spotted.
“If we have to spend the day here dripping wet, we will die of it for sure,” said Michel. Luckily, we didn’t have to wait long. The rain started coming down harder, reducing visibility. We dashed across the asparagus field and arrived safely at the side of the barn.
There was a pile of potatoes, and I stuffed as many as I could into my pockets. We moved toward the barn’s gate, but stopped when we heard women’s voices and the crying of a child.
Horses were pawing the ground and noisily shaking their harnesses. We were ready to beat a retreat into the forest, when the sound of squeaking hinges made me look up. The hayloft door was flapping in the wind. There is no such thing as a hayloft without a ladder, I thought, and before I could say a word, Jean found one half-buried in the mud.
PART VI
WUSTROW
CHAPTER 21
The sweet smell of hay greeted us. A thick blanket of the loose fodder covered the loft’s floor. We moved about carefully and whispered so as not to attract the attention of the people in the barn below. Through a skylight we could see the woods we had trekked through. A window gave us a partial view of a nearby lake and the small town that sat on its far bank. Michel discovered a padlocked trunk in a corner that we were convinced was full of warm, dry clothes, but unfortunately we couldn’t break the lock.
We stretched out our exhausted, wet bodies in the hay and attended to an extremely important matter—sleep. When I woke up it was dark. My companions were still snoring. The echo of a commanding voice from below made me stiffen. Alarmed, I pressed my ear against the floorboards. “Diese Scheune wird von der Armee be-setzt. Alle Civilisten müssen raus.” (The army has taken over this barn. All civilians must leave.)
“But we are refugees from the east,” an old woman pleaded.
“Alles raus, und schnell!” (Everyone out, and fast!) Someone lit a lantern. Rays of light came through the gaps in the floor. I could see men and women reluctantly picking up their multicolored bundles and shuffling out. An elderly man led a team of draft horses out of the barn while cows mooed. Once they were gone, heavy, blue cigar smoke rose into the loft. Wehrmacht officers were squatting around a map. Couriers began to arrive with reports. The shattered German forces in the area were regrouping.
I woke my friends.
“What do you want?” Michel demanded, his eyes still closed. “Damn, my ribs hurt. What the hell have I been sleeping on?”
Jean began to swear.
“Shh! Do you want to be caught by the boches down there? We’re sitting above their command post.”
Jean’s eyes widened. Michel peered through the cracks. “Shit,” he whispered. “I was hoping you were having a nightmare.”
“What should we do?” I asked.
From beneath the hay Jean pulled out a bottle a wine. “Look what I’ve been lying on. Someone must’ve forgotten this during the harvest.”
“Might as well get drunk. We’re not going anywhere,” Michel said.
Jean handed me the bottle. I forced the cork down the neck and took a swallow. My mouth puckered and beads of sweat broke on my forehead. The wine had turned to vinegar. Jean and Michel choked back laughter.
I was drawn to something one of the officers said and leaned my head against the floorboards. I couldn’t believe my ears. Jean and Michel drew close. “This is no joke. This barn is in between the lines. We’re right in the middle of this battle royal.”
“What are the odds of picking such a shitty place to dry out?” Jean asked.
As the Nazis prepared for their last stand, we resigned ourselves to fate and washed down bites of raw potatoes with the spoiled wine. As tractors and cargo carriers pulled heavy cannons into position, and foxholes and trenches were being dug in the asparagus fields, I fell asleep with a familiar worry: would I survive through tomorrow?
The first Russian shells whistled over the barn around noon the following day. The officers below us screamed orders as their cannons came to life. The barn walls trembled, and large chunks of plaster broke from the bricks. I crawled over to the loft window.
Spooked horses reared and stamped in a courtyard filled with Nazi vehicles, and a terrified ox and cow raced for the woods. The asparagus field was dotted with the white puffs of exploding mortar shells. Clutching their machine guns and Panzerfausts (antitank weapons), the boches waited for the Soviet troops gathered behind a hill. Red Army tanks would emerge over the crest, lob a blind salvo, then vanish. An immense column of black smoke rose from the town while the ripples from errant shells shivered the fire’s reflection on the lake.
I slid back over to my friends, and we sat in a silent circle, our eyes darting toward each explosion. A blast disintegrated the far corner of the roof, and suddenly there was shiny silverware hanging from the rafters like icicles. My hip felt as if it were on fire, and I looked down to find that a fork had pierced the skin of my bony hip.
Unscathed, Jean and Michel stared dumbfounded at the trousseau decorating the roof. I yanked the fork out of my hip. Blood was dripping from the prongs. I dropped my pants and poured the wine on the puncture holes. Michel pointed to the source of the projectiles: the padlocked trunk. The shell had split it open like a melon.
Another shell came screaming through the air. Instinctively I ducked. A thunderous roar erupted and I found myself tossed into the air. Gathering my wits, I realized that I was now bathed in sunlight. There was a gaping hole in the roof above me, and another in the loft floor in front of me. Stunned, Michel stared at the hole while Jean was on his knees rubbing his ass. The armor-piercing tank shell had spared us and exploded below on the stable’s cobblestone floor.
More explosions ripped through the air. Overcome with panic, I could think of only one thing: I have got to get the hell out of here! I slid down a grain chute, hoping the shell had killed the Germans below. Lucky for me I was surrounded only by eviscerated cows. Nitrate fumes choked my throat. There was a little door that led out to the asparagus fields. I opened it a crack and saw a German soldier running toward me. I slammed the door and looked for a way to bolt it. A horseshoe was hanging on the wall. By the time I grabbed it, the Nazi was pushing the door open. I planted my weight against it, but it wasn’t enough to allow me to drop the horseshoe through the eyebolts. The door blew open and I found myself sandwiched between the door and the stable wall. Oh, how I wished I hadn’t come down from that loft.
The panting soldier flung the door closed and fell against it, inches away from me. His eyes would adjust to the stable’s darkness in mere seconds. He took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. I slammed the horseshoe against his temple. To my relief, he dropped like a stone. I picked up his submachine gun. The weapon transformed me like a magic wand. I went from trembling fugitive slave to eager warrior.
I cracked the door open. The field was littered with Nazis corpses. Ten breathing boches still manned foxholes. I poked the gun’s barrel out the door and pulled the trigger. As it barked, I realized what a foolish thing I was doing. I ducked into one of the pens, fully expecting the door to be shot to splinters, but there was no return fire. Puzzled, I peeked out a window and saw the remaining soldiers running toward the burning town. I was quite certain that it wasn’t my hotheaded cowboy shooting, but the rumbling of the approaching Soviet tanks that had sent them scrambling. Still, I felt pretty proud. I had participated, I had made a contribution to the Allies. Yes, it was miniscule at best, but I, a Häftling, had made it.