The Polish Girl

THE POLISH GIRL AN UTTERLY HEART-BREAKING AND GRIPPING WORLD WAR 2 HISTORICAL NOVEL THE SECRET RESISTANCE SERIES GOSIA NEALON BOOKS BY GOSIA NEALON The Secret Resistance Series The Polish Girl The Polish Wife CONTENTS PART 1 1. Wanda 2. Wanda 3. Finn 4. Finn 5. Gerda 6. Wanda 7. Wanda 8. Finn 9. Wanda PART 2 10. Wanda 11. Finn 12. Wanda 13. Finn 14. Wanda 15. Finn 16. Wanda 17. Gerda 18. Wanda 19. Finn 20. Wanda 21. Finn 22. Wanda 23. Finn 24. Wanda 25. Wanda 26. Wanda 27. Finn 28. Wanda 29. Wanda PART 3 30. Finn 31. Finn 32. Wanda 33. Finn 34. Gerda 35. Wanda 36. Finn 37. Wanda 38. Gerda 39. Finn Epilogue The Polish Wife Hear More from Gosia Books by Gosia Nealon A Letter from Gosia Acknowledgments To the lost generation of young people whose dreams faded away with the war. PART 1 When I hear him play Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” something good dies in me. I stare at my blood-stained hands and then at the devil who’s playing Tata’s piano. And as the cuckoo clock announces another hour, I vow to myself that one day, I will kill the monster. ~Wanda Odwaga ONE WANDA 1 APRIL 1944 Warsaw, Poland I move along with crowds of people and a swirl of pigeons. One word sounds out, over and over: Łapanka. Roundup. Unable to think straight, I rush down a cobbled street toward the ruins of Royal Castle. Overhead, the giant clouds curse me with continuous drizzling rain, but I’m more determined than ever to escape all this madness. Jostled by people with unfamiliar faces, I just want to reach Castle Square and disappear into one of its alleys, but the German tarpaulin-covered lorries are already upon us. Halted by a swarm of armed soldiers, women cry and men curse. The body of a man killed mid-run lies on the pavement in a puddle of blood. I can’t help but think how easily life can be taken away in a few seconds. Maybe right now someone is waiting, worried sick about him, the same way I have been worrying about my brother. I step backward and shrink behind a tall, older man in a felt hat and raven overcoat. When I’m able to steady my breathing, I clutch to my chest a small package wrapped in brown paper—Biuletyn Informacyjny, a forbidden journal with anti-Nazi propaganda. The last thing I need is to be classified as a political prisoner, and I will be if they find it on me. I want to dump it into that pile of rubbish behind me, but I can’t get rid of it. I must see it delivered. So I helplessly search for a cellar window I could escape through. It’s how Mateusz once fled from another roundup. Then I feel a gentle pull on the back of my coat. A one-armed boy waves me into a tiny passageway. Since I’m behind the crowd, the German soldier across the way most likely can’t see me. I know it’s my only chance of a getaway, so I watch the soldier with a wild heartbeat. The moment he looks away from the crowd, I swallow hard and squat back, expecting to be shot at any moment. After squeezing through the tiny passage, I settle next to the little boy who now lingers behind the pile of rubbish. Still trembling, I wipe the sweat from my forehead. The smell of a dead animal makes me almost choke, but at the moment, I’m more concerned about the cement wall at the rear. The only way out of this small alley is via the main street, so I would have to back out the way I came. I can’t help sighing in despair. The boy gestures for silence by pressing a finger to his lips. I nod without another peep. This child is smart for one so young. Why is he here alone and not at home with his parents? Are they caught in the roundup too? Maybe they just couldn’t hide with him since there’s so little space here. For the first time, I thank the Creator for making me petite. A moment later, it all begins—a clang of rifles fired into the air and desperate cries from people. Cries that slice with the force of a knife through my broken heart. Some scream for mercy, some curse with bravery, but all are powerless. Soldiers bark, “Schnell!” to keep everyone from crowding. A child calls while sobbing, “Mamusia, where are you, mamusia?” My first instinct tells me to run out to aid this innocent child, but fear glues me to my spot. Why is this cruelty happening? This is so unfair. As the trucks drive away and the commotion dies down, I struggle to move, paralyzed by the thought of what would happen to the captured people. I press my palm to my chest and try to suppress sorrow. This is the first roundup I’ve been caught up in, but lately, they have been more frequent and done in retaliation for the resistance activities. The thought of the Germans punishing random people turns my stomach. They drive through Warsaw and take anyone who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hitler wants to terrorize us into submitting. But I know very well that will never happen. We won’t stop until this damned war ends and we get our freedom back. We stay in the hideout until the street is peaceful. The boy’s blue eyes squint at me from his gaunt, dirty face. He’s wearing a muddy overcoat that dwarfs him. Someone does care for him, though, because his coat is full of patches. He looks to be no more than five or six. An uncomfortable lump builds in my throat. “What’s your name?” I ask in a quiet voice. “Kubuś,” he whispers with his chapped lips while his gaze is fixed on the ground. I smile to encourage him.