Chapter Twenty-Five: Confined and Unconfined
Louis fell eventually. He was overcome by exhaustion. When he woke up, it was mid-morning. He knew because two guards hauled him out of the cooler, and into the bright sunlight. It took him a few moments to get rid of the blindness, and he was finally able to look around. He was definitely in a POW camp, but no prisoners were in sight. Louis realized that they must be out working. He was hurriedly escorted around some barracks and into a small compound. In the middle, there was a hut. It looked to be around twelve feet long, five feet wide, and three feet high. Louis blanched when he saw it. Sturmbannführer Jöchmann stood beside it, looking smug. There was another fearful prisoner as well. Jöchmann said something to the prisoner. Then, the prisoner looked to Louis.
"What were you doing out in the woods last night," he asked in French.
"Escaping," answered Louis. He found no loss or gain in lying. The prisoner gave Louis's answer to Jöchmann. The Sturmbannführer smiled, and replied. The prisoner sorrowfully looked back at Louis.
"He said: then you must be punished," responded the prisoner.
Jöchmann moved away from the little hut. A guard pushed Louis forward and another guard opened the hut. Louis could see two still figures lying down inside. He grimaced.
"Schnell!"
Louis was prodded forward with a club. Carefully, he knelt down and went inside. He sat down as close to the door as he could, bringing his knees up to his chest. When the door was shut, he was engulfed in darkness again.
It was not complete darkness, however. Some light found its way through the cracks between the entrance and the walls. After Louis's eyes adjusted again, he could make out some of the inside. The walls were tin, and held together with plywood. The air was thick, even right by the door. It smelled like the cooler had. There was no movement for a time. Louis saw that the two men lying down were the two prisoners who had been captured the night before. He wondered how they were. He recalled that they had been shot. Louis eventually closed his eyes, trying to imagine being somewhere else. He felt like the walls were closing in on him.
Then, one of the prisoners began to move. He was waking up. He had been lying on his stomach, and now he sat up, and leaned against the wall. It was only after rubbing his eyes some, that he noticed Louis. Louis looked back at him. They were silent for a moment, and then the prisoner spoke.
"Dlaczego czy jesteś tutaj," he asked.
Louis shook his head, trying to convey that he could not understand. He remembered what the Polish farmers called him. "Francuski."
The prisoner was silent for a moment. "Speak English?"
Louis was silent and then nodded. "A little." He did not want to give away that he was fluent in English.
The Polish prisoner nodded. "Ummm, me too?" He gave an awkward smile, and shifted his weight some. He winced, though, when he leaned on one arm. Louis squinted in the dark, and saw that this man was shot in the arm. Louis looked at the Pole worriedly. But the Pole smiled and waved his hand dismissively. "Bullet go through. I tie arm to halt blood."
Louis nodded his understanding. Then, he pointed to the other man, who was showing no signs of waking up anytime soon.
"'Im," asked Louis.
The Pole looked back at him mournfully. "He die." He sighed heavily, and sniffed.
Louis turned his head away to give the man some privacy.
"He was friend best," the Pole went on. "One day, I escape, avenge him. Maybe, one day, I come back, kill Sturmbannführer."
Louis looked back at the man sharply. "SS officer?"
The Pole nodded. "One day," he repeated.
Louis nodded and then averted his eyes away from the grieving Pole. After a few moments he asked, "Why put us in 'ere?"
The Pole looked up, shocked, as if Louis should have known. "You escape, this punishment. Sturmbannführer call it the Przeprowadzanych Dziura." Louis cocked his head uncertainly. The Pole struggled to find the right word. "Hungry…Nr…starving…za, za…the starving hole."
Louis's eyebrows shot up, his stomach already growling at the very name. "'Ow long?"
The Poe prisoner shrugged. "Till Sturmbannführer say no more, go back work. Sometime, leave till die. Sometime, so long wish dead."
Louis groaned, letting his head fall back against the wall. Why him? He closed his eyes, wishing that dreams would take him out of there. Then, another thought struck him.
Peter!
Louis guiltily remembered his English friend. He had forgotten about him. He hoped that wherever Peter was, he was far away from this hell hole. He hoped that if Peter decided to really come back, he was found by the Wehrmacht. Louis was sure, after hearing the story about the Sturmbannführer that Peter would be shot on the spot.
Please, Peter. Just leave. Don't come back here. Just get out and never come back. There's no point anymore. If this is what the camps are coming to, just leave and get back in the fight. Or rather, tie yourself down to a desk and don't get recaptured.
But Louis smiled, knowing that if Peter ever got back home, he would try and get right back in the fight. Louis knew he would as well.
Wherever you are, be safe.
***** ***** *****
Peter was now directly in front of the old man, who was precariously directing him down the mountain. They were on a path, making the trek easier. Peter kept his hands on his head, assuring the farmer that he was up to nothing. When they reached the base of the mountain, the farmer said "Halt." Peter was saddened that German would be their communication language.
The old man walked in front of Peter, but kept his distance. He pointed to himself. "Za mną idzie. Jeśli się nie ja zawołam przez hitlerowców."
Peter shook his head. "Angielski."
The old man scowled in frustration. After a moment of concentration, he impatiently motioned for Peter to follow. Peter nodded in comprehension. The farmer told the little girl something and pointed across the field to a patch of trees opposite them. The girl nodded, and then ran off.
The old man watched her go. When he was satisfied that she was safely on the other side, he looked at Peter. He put his hand low to the ground and pointed across the field. He crouched for emphasis. Peter realized what he had to do.
"Schnell," ordered the old man.
Peter did not hesitate another second. He crouched low and ran across the field. The old man was surprisingly quick and right behind Peter the whole way. They stopped at the patch of trees. The girl quickly returned to the old man's side. The old man then motioned for Peter to get in front again. They went through the trees, and Peter stopped when he could see a house in farmland clearing ahead. But the old man prodded him along. Peter put his hands back on his head again to show his cooperation.
When they came to the edge of the trees, the old man told Peter to stop again. Once again, the girl was sent ahead. She sprinted towards the house, and the old man stepped back with Peter so that they could not be seen.
When the girl came back she told the old man something. Peter was put in front again, and they hurried to the house. They entered through the back door, which led into the kitchen. The old man, now feeling more authoritative, pushed Peter down in a chair in the corner of the kitchen. He held his shovel firmly in his hand.
Peter watched as the girl ran out of the room. Peter tried to peer around the corner to see where the girl had gone, but the old man moved in the way. Peter just smiled and put his hands on his head again. Still, he could hear the girl pounding up the stairs. He heard some voices above, and then more footsteps coming downstairs. Then, the girl led a young woman into the kitchen.
Peter could not tell if this was the girl's mother or not. She seemed too young to appropriately be her mother, but she was still a woman. She looked like the simple housewife one would expect to find on a farm. She wore a faded work dress with an apron tied around her waist. Her dark hair was pulled up, so that nothing obscured her equally dark eyes. She had a very calm, kind face, and looked at Peter with curious eyes. She looked to the old man questioningly, and they spoke for a moment.
She looked back at Peter. "My grandfather tells me you are English."
Peter smiled. Although her accent was thick, she was very understandable, and her syntax was good. "Aye," he answered. "I am an escapee from the POW camp over the other side of those hills." He spoke as clearly as he could, not wanting to confuse the girl with his usual dialect.
The woman nodded. "That is what my grandfather assumed. And my sister says that you were lying out in the sun. That does not sound like an escaping POW."
Peter smiled at the little girl clinging onto her older sister's apron. "I was waiting for night before I moved again. It is less risky."
"Yes," agreed the woman. "Well, my name is Irena. This is my sister, Anna Maja. And this is my grandfather, Rupert. We will help you however we can. But we will not take you anywhere. We cannot afford it."
"Don't worry," said Peter. "I will only need some more food and perhaps a map to look at?"
Irena smiled. "Of course. But first, it is supper time. You will eat with us."
Peter was so relieved, all he could say was, "Yes, mum."
Irena chuckled. "You can put your hands down now, Angielski."
Peter smiled sheepishly and quickly put down his hands, sweeping his hat off in the process. "Anything I can do to help?"
"Za," replied Irena sweetly. "You can sit right there and stay out of my way."
"Yes, of course," said Peter. So, he leaned back in the chair some. He listened as Irena explained to her grandfather what she was doing. Grandfather Rupert seemed calmer now, since communication was successful. He went outside and returned without a shovel. Peter smiled at him, and Rupert just nodded back. He went into the den and took out a pipe and smoked contently. The little girl, Anna Maja, curled up in his lap, and watched Peter from there.
Peter watched Irena take bread out of the oven, and then stir the pot some as she put out the fire. His mouth was watering by now with the smell of the food. He looked at the pot longingly, as the scent of meat and vegetables rose in the air. Peter could not believe his luck. He would be eating a home cooked meal again.
"Might I ask what your grandfather and sister were doing in the woods with a shovel," asked Peter suddenly.
Irena smiled. "I do not mind. You see, Anna's rabbit passed away this morning. She had found it up there on the ridge a few years ago. So, she insisted on burying it there."
"I understand," said Peter. "I suppose that it's not the only rabbit, then."
Irena chuckled knowingly. "Oh no. My father had it locked up always and if it was ever out, there was always someone besides Anna watching it."
"Your father," asked Peter uncertainly. "Is he…uh…around?"
Irena smiled. "You do not need to be afraid of him. He will be all too eager to help you. He is working at a factory right now."
"Oh, I see," said Peter. "And your mother?"
"She passed a few years ago," answered Irena simply.
"Oh, I'm sorry," replied Peter. "I shouldn't have asked."
"No," said Irena. "It is okay. She died just after Anna was born. There was a flu outbreak in the town, and she was sickly to begin with."
"Yeah, my mum died from illness too," said Peter. "Don't even know what it was. She just got sick."
"I am sorry," said Irena, as she set the bread out on the table. "Was it recent?"
"About a year ago," answered Peter. "But don't worry about that. I want to know where you learned to speak English so well."
"I went to university in Warsaw," replied Irena proudly. "I wanted to study abroad one day, so I took English as well."
"University," said Peter with awe. "I've never even been in a university. How come you're back here? Was it because of the invasion?"
Irena nodded. "I almost got a degree, but when we were invaded, I wanted to be home, with my sister and father. And it was the right thing to do. When I returned, the land was not in much good shape, and then father had to go work in the factory. So, now my grandfather and I work our little farm mainly. It is not big, but we make a little business in town. Since the large farms must sell everything to the Nazis, we can sell our products to the townspeople."
"Sounds good," said Peter.
"Yes, it is working out for now," replied Irena. She finished setting out the bowls, which were filled to the brim with hot soup. There was also cream on the table for the bread, and a bowl of milk.
"Er… is there a place where I can wash up," asked Peter, looking down at his grimy hands.
"Oh, of course," said Irena. "There is a room with a sink across the hall from the stairs."
"Thanks," said Peter. He got up and went to the little room. Inside there was only a sink with some soap and a mirror. Peter stopped when he saw himself in the mirror. He had not seen a mirror since leaving England. There were no mirrors in the barracks. When they needed to shave or get their hair cut, other prisoners did it.
Peter studied himself, noticing differences that had come only in five months. The first thing he noticed was how worn down he looked. There were sagging circles underneath his eyes, and a few more wrinkles on his face than he could remember having before. His cheeks had sunken in some as well. His skin was somewhat darker, which he assumed was from working outside a trifle more than usual.
He noticed differences even in his uniform. It looked thinner, and with the coat made from a blanket, he looked bedraggled. There were mud stains all over, especially on his pants. As he looked down at his pants more carefully, he noticed how terrible his boots were becoming. They were muddy and worn down more than he had cared to notice. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he was getting a bit of a draft around his toes.
Only five months, he thought. How long am I going to be here? And what kind of condition am I going to be in after that?
He scrubbed his hands raw, and then went back into the kitchen. The small family was already seated. He sat down awkwardly. Anna watched him curiously. Once Peter was seated, the family put their heads down. Peter realized with a jolt that they were saying grace. He quickly bowed his head too. Irena murmured a Polish prayer. Peter just stared down at the food.
Thanks for letting me eat a real meal, he thought. Watch over Mavis, Louis, Luke, Stephen, Marcel, Kingsley, Thom—he was cut off when Irena said "Amen". Everyone looked up and began eating.
Just watch over everyone, he finished.
Then, he picked up the spoon and dug in. Actually, dug in was an extreme understatement. Peter was sure he had never tasted something so great. There was real meat in the soup, with fresh vegetables and warm gravy. He avoided the potatoes; he had had enough potatoes. But once he got towards the end, he could not deny that he wanted more, so he ate the potatoes as well. He wiped up the bowl with two pieces of warm bread, and washed it all down with cool milk topped with cream.
He gave a grateful sigh when he was done, and looked up to see his hosts looking at him. He smiled sheepishly.
"Sorry. I was hungry," he said quickly.
Irena smirked, and looked to her grandfather. Rupert was staring at Peter. Peter bowed his head, feeling ashamed for eating like an animal at their dinner table. Then, a soft chuckle made him look back up. Rupert was chuckling. Peter could feel his face turning red. He believed that Rupert was laughing at his behavior. Rupert said something. Irena smiled and translated for Peter.
"He says that you remind him of when he was a boy, and when he ate like he would never see food again," she said.
Peter was relieved that he was not being admonished. "Well, it's likely to be a long time before I ever do see real food like this again."
Irena smiled, but with a sad undertone. She translated for her father, and Rupert stopped laughing. He patted Peter's wrist, and said something.
"He says that in the Kingdom of Heaven there will always be food for a good man," translated Irena.
Peter smiled. "Dziękujemy." (1) He had no heart to tell the old man that Peter Newkirk was no heaven bound being. Instead, Rupert was thrilled to hear another Polish word emanate from Peter.
Supper ended, and Rupert took Anna back outside. Irena picked up the dishes, and began to wash them.
"Would you like any help with that," asked Peter.
"No," said Irena. "You look exhausted. You should get some sleep."
Peter bit his lip. "Actually, I was thinking that I ought to get going again. The food was great, but the longer I stay, there's a greater chance that someone will find me here."
"But you cannot go now," said Irena. "It's broad daylight! Someone could see you!"
"Don't worry," said Peter earnestly. "I can make it into the woods, and I should be fine till night. Besides, you and your family would be better off if I were found out there. Don't you know what would happen if they knew you harbored me?"
That seemed to change Irena's mind. "Okay, but I will pack you some food then. And water. And I will show you a map."
"Thank you," said Peter.
Irena went to the kitchen door and called for Rupert to come back. He came, with Anna in tow, of course. She quickly told him what was going to happen. He nodded and left the room. Irena told Anna to stay put in the living room.
Irena cut up the remaining bread and refilled Peter's canteen. Rupert returned with a small satchel and map. He set them on the table. Irena wrapped the bread and put it in the bag, and Rupert added a small, but dry blanket. He also handed Peter some sturdy gloves. Peter thanked him again. Then, Irena rolled out the map. Peter gawked; it was a map of Poland, Germany, the Baltic Sea and the Scandinavian countries.
Irena quickly told him of everything nearby. He traced what he thought was his best shot at getting to the Sea. Then, she spoke of what lie in that direction: cities, railroads, rivers, wilderness, and well-known Nazi posts. Peter took it all in. He had to memorize all of it and bring it back to the camp. Finally, when he was sure he was through, he said he needed to be going.
"Thanks for everything," he said. "I appreciate all of it. And I won't forget you."
"Good luck," replied Irena. "I hope you get home."
"Thanks," said Peter. He shook her hand and Rupert's. Anna just smiled at him shyly.
Rupert took him to the edge of the farm, and with one final good bye, Peter took off across the field and into the woods at the base of the hills.
Once he was there, Peter climbed up a bit, just to get out of sight. When he was comfortable, he sat down, thinking of his next course of action. It was now a little after two o'clock. He knew had quite enough information to bring back to camp. And it was more than enough that would be welcomed. However, he had no desire to go back to camp. Why, if he was careful enough, he could stay out at least another three days with the bread he had now. Peter smiled to himself. That idea appealed nicely to him.
With his mind made up, he searched for another place to rest until nightfall. Without climbing back up the mountain, the best he could find was a dense concentration of bushes. He settled down underneath the brush and was pleased to find that the ground beneath it had no snow. He pulled out the blanket that Rupert had packed him. He quickly fell asleep a little warmer, and with a full stomach.
***** ***** *****
Louis wished he could fall asleep. By late afternoon, he realized how tormenting the hut was. It was small, cold, and reeked. Also, having a dead man just lying beside him was unnerving. Louis was a soldier, somewhat calloused to death, but not in this nature. Not this blatant cruelty of man killing man…just for the heck of it. It was more justified out in the field when you were shooting at one another. Out there, it was survival. Within these barbwire fences, it was brutality.
He and the Polish prisoner had exchanged only a few other words. But since English was limited, it was hard and tiresome. The other Polish prisoner became still, but with sleep. Louis, however, could not get his heart to stop pounding. He was becoming more irked with the tight space. He wanted a breath of fresh air. He wanted to stand up and stretch his legs. He wanted movement. He felt like he was even becoming sick with it.
He tried to think of something else. He tried to think of home, but it only worked in small periods. Something would always bring him back to present. If his eyes were open, he could not completely visualize home because of the dark walls. If he closed his eyes, the smell might jump out at him. And if not the smell, a soldier outside would say something, reminding him of where he was.
Instead of thinking of the past, he tried for the present, just not where he was. He thought of Peter, and wondered what he was doing. He wondered how far away he was, or if he had even gotten far away at all. He just prayed that above anything, Peter was not captured by the SS. He would not wish this treatment onto anyone.
As his thoughts drifted in and out of the hut, Louis tucked his head down between his knees, waiting for release.
(1) Translation: Thank you