We Were the Lucky Ones

Bella sets off at a jog, headed northeast toward the bridge off of Wójtowska Boulevard, ducking into an alleyway when she hears the drone of approaching Luftwaffe aircraft. Pressing her body to the brick, she cranes her neck and counts six planes. They fly low, like vultures. She wonders if she should wait it out, make a run for it once the skies have cleared, but decides she’d better not waste any time. She needs to be with Jakob. You’ve walked this route dozens of times, she reasons—it’ll be ten minutes on the road. Just get there.

Bella picks up her pace, trying her best to keep one eye on the sky as she runs, but the uneven cobblestones make it difficult. Twice, she catches herself a millisecond before twisting an ankle, and finally decides she’s safer watching her step and listening for planes, rather than stepping blindly, her chin cocked to the sky. She’s made it six blocks when the growl of a Stuka returns. She ducks into another alleyway, just as a shadow darts overhead. Please, God, no, she prays, squeezing her eyes shut, pressing up against the wall behind her, waiting. The growl fades. She opens her eyes and takes off again. Where is everyone? The streets are empty. They must be hiding.

The uprising is no surprise. Everyone in Warsaw had heard rumors of it happening, and everyone had a plan for when the day finally came, although no one knew exactly when it would. Bella and Jakob had been lucky to have Adam to rely on for updates through the Underground. “It could start any day,” he said the weekend before. “The Home Army’s just waiting for the Red Army’s approach.”

Axis powers, as reported in the Biuletyn Informacyjny, were finally beginning to falter. Allied troops were breaking through Nazi defenses in Normandy, and there was talk of a massive Allied campaign in Italy. The Polish Home Army, Adam explained, hoped that with the Red Army at their backs, they could force the Germans out of their country’s capital, and in turn, tip the scales toward an Allied victory in Europe.

It sounded noble. Jakob and Adam had talked about sneaking their way into the Home Army—they wanted desperately to help. Bella is grateful now that Halina had convinced them otherwise. She, too, wanted nothing more than a liberated Poland. But the Home Army, she reminded them, didn’t look favorably upon Jews, and not only that, the Poles were greatly outnumbered. Warsaw was still overrun with Germans. Look what happened, Halina prompted, after the ghetto uprising. And what if the Red Army doesn’t cooperate? The Home Army was counting on Stalin’s help, but he’d let them down before, Halina warned, begging Jakob and Adam to keep their wits about them. Please, she said, the Underground needs you. There is more than one way to stand up to the enemy.

Bella bears a hard right as she heads east on Wójtowska Boulevard, grateful to see river water ahead. As she nears, however, she slows. Where is the bridge? It’s—gone. Destroyed. A pile of sizzling iron and wide-open water in its place. Picking up her pace, she veers north, hugging the curve of the Vistula, praying now for a bridge that’s intact.

Ten blocks later, her lungs on fire and her blouse saturated with sweat, she is relieved to find the Toruński Bridge still standing. The sky, however, is now crawling with Junkers. Ignoring them, along with the searing pain in her chest, the burning in her quadriceps, the voice inside her screaming to find a ditch somewhere and take cover, she runs as hard as she can.

Halfway across the bridge, a dozen men appear. They rush toward her with frantic, loping strides. Bella’s legs go numb until she realizes from their attire that they are Poles. Civilians. Several have rifles slung around their necks. Others carry pitchforks and shovels. A few grip butcher knives. They gallop in her direction, yelling, but Bella is too exhausted, her breath too loud to make out the words. It isn’t until their paths nearly intersect that she realizes the men are yelling at her. “You’re running the wrong way!” they roar, holding their weapons over their heads like warriors. “Come fight with us! For Poland and for victory!” Bella shakes her head as she sprints by, watching the ground to keep her balance. She doesn’t look up until she reaches Jakob’s door.



It’s their eighth day in hiding; the bombing hasn’t stopped. Bella and Jakob agonize incessantly about whether the others—Halina, Adam, Mila, Franka and her family—have found a safe place to take cover, about what Warsaw will look like when the bombing finally lets up.

They share the basement with a couple who had arrived toting an eighteen-month-old child, a hay bale, and, to Jakob and Bella’s amazement, a dairy cow. It took some work, but they’d finally coaxed the recalcitrant animal down the stairs to the basement. The cow smells—there’s nothing to do but scoop her manure into a pile in the corner—but her udders are always full. Twice a day, fresh milk is carried in a bucket upstairs to boil over the stove, “so it’s suitable for the baby to drink,” the mother of the toddler had said, although Bella was convinced that fresh cow’s milk wouldn’t harm the child. She’d thought of protesting—venturing upstairs was dangerous and downright foolish under the circumstances—but instead she held her tongue, not wanting to disturb the friendly dynamic of the group. Today it’s Bella’s turn to boil the milk.

She checks her watch. It’s been nearly thirty minutes since the last explosion. A lull. Jakob, standing with her at the foot of the stairs, nods.

“Be safe,” he says.

She returns the nod and makes her way up the staircase, bucket in hand, then hurries down the hallway to the kitchen. At the stove, she pours the milk into a saucepan, lights a match, and turns the black knob under the burner to ignite a flame. As the milk begins to simmer, she tiptoes to the window. Outside, the cityscape is surreal. One of every three buildings along Danusi Street is leveled. Others are still standing but missing their roofs, as if they’d been decapitated. She scans the sky and curses as a swarm of Luftwaffe planes buzzes into view. Dammit. The planes are small at first, but they inch closer, and as they do, they change course and disappear. Bella steps away from the window, wishing she could keep an eye on them. She listens intently, glaring at the milk, willing it to boil. After a moment, the drone of engines overhead grows louder. She can hear Jakob knocking the floor below with a broom handle, signaling for her to return to the basement. He must hear it, too. And then, somewhere not so far away, a bomb drops and the room shakes, jostling the porcelain dishes on the shelves. Jakob knocks again, harder this time. She can hear him calling for her through the floorboards.

“Bella!”

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