“I have complete faith in this army,” Pawlak continues, nodding. “This is Anders’s moment in history. This is Poland’s moment to shine. Together, we will make our country proud!” He raises his first two fingers to his cap and the tent erupts as men leap from their chairs, cheering, pumping their fists, saluting, yelling. “This is our time! Our moment to shine! God save Poland!” they shout. Genek follows suit and stands, although he can’t bring himself to partake in the revelry. His knees are soft and his stomach churns, threatening to disgorge his dinner.
As the men settle back into their seats, Pawlak explains that the French Expeditionary Corps has already begun secretly constructing camouflaged bridges over the River Rapido, which Anders’s Army will need to cross in order to reach the monastery. “So far, the bridges have gone unnoticed,” he explains. “As soon as the last is complete, we’ll leave our position here and move east to a location along the Rapido. To maintain secrecy, we’ll travel in small units by night, under strict radio silence. Pack your things, gentlemen, and prepare yourselves for battle. Our orders to move will come at any moment.”
—
Sitting cross-legged in his pup tent, Genek rolls his spare socks and undershirt into tight, damp bundles and stuffs them into the bottom of his pack. He adjusts his headlamp, Pawlak’s words clattering about in his mind. It’s happening—he’s going to battle. How will the mission unfold? There’s no telling, of course—and it’s the unknown that scares him the most—even more so than the thought of climbing up a 520-meter hill toward an army of Germans with weapons trained at him from behind a fortress of stone.
What Genek does know is that the Poles are one of some twenty Allied divisions, among them American, Canadian, French, British, New Zealander, South African, Moroccan, Indian, and Algerian, positioned along the thirty-kilometer stretch from Cassino to the Gulf of Gaeta. Why would the Allies assign the Poles, of all armies, what one might call the most daunting task of all? Why choose the men who have come not from elite training camps but from labor camps—men who required nearly a year of rest and recuperation in the Middle East before their leader deemed them fit enough to fight? It doesn’t make any sense. For the world to have that much faith in Anders’s Army is an aberration as much as it is an honor. And then of course there is the notion Genek refuses to believe—that the ragtag group of Poles is so devoid of value, they’re best put to use as cannon fodder on what is surely a suicide mission. No, Genek reminds himself, they have been chosen for a reason; they are Poles and what they lack in preparedness they will make up for in fervor.
He slips a pair of woolen undergarments and gloves into his pack along with a journal and his deck of cards. Eyeing a worn copy of Jasieński’s I Burn Paris beside his mat, he pulls a spare piece of army-issued letterhead from the inside cover and reaches to his breast pocket for a pen. Taking a break from packing, he lies on his side, setting the blank page on the book’s cover.
Dearest Herta, he writes, and then pauses. He’d feel better if he could tell her about his mission—his first: to capture the Cassino! The linchpin of German defense! He tries to picture himself in battle, but the image feels surreal, like a scene out of a film. Would she be impressed to learn of his orders? To know he was about to be part of something so noble? So monumental? Or at least something that had the potential to be monumental? Or would she be terrified, as he is, by the enormity of the task at hand—by the prospect of finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time? She would be terrified, Genek knows. She would beg him to be safe. But Herta will never know, Genek reminds himself. He’s been forbidden to put anything to paper that would, if intercepted, offer a clue of their plan. So instead he writes:
How is Tel Aviv? Sunny, I hope. We are here still on Italian soil. The rain is relentless. My tent, my clothes, everything is perpetually damp—I can’t remember what it feels like to pull on a dry shirt. Without much to do but take cover and wait, I’ve spent hours playing cards and reading and rereading the handful of books passed around—Strug, Jasieński, Stern, Wat. There’s a work of poetry by Le?mian which you would enjoy, called Forest Happenings. You might look for a copy.
Genek listens to the drum of raindrops on the A-frame of his tent, thinking of the weekend in the mountains when he first laid eyes on Herta. He pictures himself in his white cable-knit sweater and English tweed pants, Herta close by his side in her smart goosedown ski jacket, her cheeks pink from the cold, her hair freshly washed and smelling of lavender. How surreal it felt now, looking back on it—as if he’d dreamt it.
Despite the rain, he continues, morale here is surprisingly high. Even Wojtek seems to be in good spirits, lumbering happily around camp in search of handouts. You should see how big he’s grown.
Private Wojtek, the only official four-legged member of Anders’s Army, is a bear. He was discovered in Iran as an orphaned cub. Wojtek, Polish for “smiling warrior,” is now the unofficial mascot for the Polish II Corps. He’s traveled with the army from Iran, through Iraq, Syria, Palestine, and Egypt, and finally to Italy. Along the way, he’s learned to haul ammunition and to salute when greeted; he enjoys a good boxing match, and he nods in approval when rewarded with a bottle of beer or a cigarette, both of which he eagerly devours. Understandably so, Wojtek is easily the most popular member of the Polish II Corps.
Genek rolls onto his stomach, reads what he’s written. Will his wife see through it? Herta knows him well enough to sense when he’s hiding something. He flips to the back of I Burn Paris and retrieves a photo. In it, Herta, perched on a low stone wall in Tel Aviv, wears a new gray collared dress. He’s standing beside her in his army attire. He remembers when Otto took the photo. Julia had held Józef while Otto counted to three, and just before he snapped the picture, Herta had looped her arm through Genek’s, leaned into him, and flipped her toe playfully, like a school girl on a date.
He misses her—more than he knew was humanly possible. Józef, too.
I’m not sure when I’ll be able to write next. We’ll be restationed soon. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can—please don’t worry.
Of course Herta will worry, Genek thinks, regretting his word choice. He’s worried. Petrified. He chews on the end of his pen. Three failures. An army of ex-prisoners. The odds aren’t in the Polish II Corps’s favor.
How are you? he concludes. How is Ze? Reply soon. I love you and miss you more than you can imagine. Yours, Genek
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Addy
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil ~ April 1944
On the night Addy returned from Minas Gerais, he and Eliska ended their engagement. They weren’t meant to be married, they agreed. It wasn’t easy—neither of them wanted to be alone, nor did they want to be seen as people who would voluntarily give up, even though they both knew that giving up, in this case, was for the best. They would remain friends, they said. And as hard as it was, Addy felt a thousand kilos lighter on his feet, once the decision was made.