Their camp faces north, overlooking the shore of the Caspian Sea and beyond that the purple-gray of the Elburz mountains. “Are we in heaven?” Herta whispers as they approach, reaching for Genek’s hand. Two young English women nod from beneath the brims of army caps and direct them toward a series of long, narrow tents with canvas flaps rolled and tied up to allow for airflow. “Men to the right, women to the left,” they explain, pointing at two tents marked STERILISATION.
Inside the men’s tent, Genek is more than willing to undress—he’d traded what clothes he could spare for firewood and extra food rations to help get through the Siberian winter; he’s been wearing the same trousers, shirt, and undergarments nearly every day since. He makes his way, naked, to a hose spraying something that burns his nostrils as he approaches. “You’ll want to close your eyes,” the recruit who is just finishing before him calls out. The sterilization shower stings, but Genek savors the cold bite of the solution cascading over his ribs, sloughing the grime from his skin, cleansing him of his time in exile. When it’s over he opens his eyes, relieved to see that his small pile of threadbare clothes has been removed, undoubtedly to be burned. He shakes a few drops of the sharp-smelling solution from his limbs and joins the other recruit at a bucket of what appears to be seawater, where he rinses off with a sponge—a sponge! With others waiting behind him, it’s everything he can do not to revel for an extra minute or two in his first real bath in months. Smelling now like a mix of chlorine and the sea, he’s handed a towel and guided to another tent, this one stocked with neat piles of new clothes: underwear, undershirts, and uniforms in several shapes and sizes. He selects a pair of lightweight khaki pants and pulls a collared short-sleeved shirt over his head, the cotton luxuriously soft against his chest. In a third tent, he’s handed a pair of white canvas shoes, a cork helmet, a sack of dates, six cigarettes, and a small paycheck. “Breakfast is at seven o’clock sharp,” he’s told by the quartermaster as he turns to leave.
“Breakfast?” He’s so accustomed to living off of a single meal a day, the concept of putting something nourishing in his stomach at daybreak has become foreign.
“You know, bread, cheese, jam, tea.” Cheese and jam and tea! Genek nods, salivating, too elated to speak.
On the beach, he finds Herta sitting with Józef in her lap and a basket of oranges beside her. She’s been issued the same khaki slacks and shirt, in a women’s cut. Józef is naked but for a cloth diaper and a handkerchief that Herta has drenched with ocean water and draped over his head. He kicks his feet in the sand, fascinated by the feel of the tiny hot grains against his skin. A young Persian boy walks by selling grapes. They sit for a while in silence, staring at the horizon, at the shimmering surface of the Caspian Sea, and at the saw-toothed line of the Elburz range looming over it. “I think we’ve come to the right place,” Genek says, smiling.
AUGUST 1942, TEHRAN: Soon after Anders’s men reach Tehran, Stalin pushes hard to send the Poles directly to battle, but Anders insists that they need more time to recuperate. Many of his men die in Tehran—some too weak and sick from the exodus, some unable to stomach the sudden intake of rich food. Others, with the care of the Persians and the supplies sent from Britain, grow stronger. When new battle attire and real leather boots arrive in October, morale at the Tehran tent camp reaches an all-time high.
AUGUST 23, 1942: The Battle of Stalingrad begins. Nazi Germany, supported by Axis forces, pushes the boundary of its European territories and fights for control of Stalingrad in southwestern Russia in what will become one of history’s bloodiest battles.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Felicia
Warsaw, German-Occupied Poland ~ September 1942
Felicia sings quietly to herself—the song about the kitten that her grandfather taught her—as she squats on the kitchen’s linoleum floor, balancing a nest of metal bowls one on top of another. She glances every few minutes at the round clock hanging by the stove (her mother had taught her recently how to read time), counting down the minutes to five o’clock, when Mila is meant to arrive. The apartment belongs to a friend of her aunt Halina’s. It’s much nicer than the flat in the ghetto, but at least in the ghetto her mother came home to her every night. Here in Warsaw, for reasons Felicia still can’t understand, her mother lives in a separate apartment down the street. They spend time together on the weekends, and once a week Mila comes to the apartment to deliver money for the landlord. The couple that owns the place works, so Felicia has grown accustomed to spending her days alone. There’s another stowaway, an old fellow called Karl who arrived a few weeks ago, but she doesn’t interact with him much—he mostly reads, or stays in his room, which is fine with Felicia as it makes her uneasy when people she doesn’t know, men especially, ask her questions.
The lock on the apartment door rattles and Felicia looks up at the clock, at the long hand. It’s too early. Her mother is usually here just after five, not before, and the owners of the place don’t get home until six. For a moment she imagines it to be her father. “I found you!” he’d say as he burst through the door wearing his army uniform. But then she freezes, wonders if she should hide. She’s been told to be careful about strangers. The apartment door opens and closes, and after a moment a voice calls. Felicia softens when she recognizes it as her mother’s cousin Franka.
“Felicia, honey, it’s me. Franka. Your mother couldn’t make it,” she explains as she makes her way from the foyer into the kitchen. “There you are,” she says, finding Felicia sitting on the floor among her bowls. “Your mother is fine, just has to work late today.” Franka sets a box on the kitchen table and bends to give Felicia a hug.
“She has to work late?” Felicia asks, looking past Franka, as if willing her mother to appear.
“She’ll try to come visit you tomorrow.” Franka stands. “Are you all right? Is everything okay here?”
Felicia glances up at Franka. She seems nervous, like she’s in a hurry.
“I’m okay. Are you going to stay with me?” she asks, although she knows what the answer will be.
“I wish I could, love. But I’m working this evening, and Sabine is waiting for me downstairs. She came with me to keep watch while I brought the money. I shouldn’t be seen up here.”
Felicia sighs and stands to get a closer look at the box Franka had set on the kitchen table. “What’s that?” she asks. With her fourth birthday approaching, she’s been begging her mother for a new dress. It occurs to her that perhaps Franka has brought her one.
“It’s shoes. Thought it best to look like I’d come with a delivery, in case anyone asked why I was here,” Franka says.
“Oh.” Felicia’s eyes are level with the box. She stands on her toes to peek under the lid, wondering what a new pair of shoes might look like, smell like. But the oxfords inside are scuffy and worn.
“Is there anything that you need?” Franka asks, pulling an envelope from inside her shirt.
Felicia looks at the floor. There’s a lot she needs. She doesn’t answer.
Franka tucks the envelope into the usual spot—behind a picture frame over the stove. “Where is Mister—what’s the fellow’s name?” she asks, checking her watch.
Felicia is about to explain that Karl hasn’t yet ventured from his room when someone knocks hard on the door. Felicia’s first thought is that it must be Franka’s friend Sabine. But Franka jumps. She looks at her watch, and then at Felicia. They stare at one another, unsure of what to do. After another knock, Franka lifts the tablecloth and points.
“Hide, quickly!” she whispers.
Felicia scrambles beneath the table. There is a third knock; this time it sounds like metal smacking wood. They’re going to break the door down, Felicia realizes, if no one answers it.