Free Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II by Douglas W. Jacobson

.”
    “Here, take a drink of water,” his mother said. She put her hand behind Anna’s head and brought a small glass of water to her lips.
    Anna took a sip of the water and looked around the room again. “What . . .
    Where are we?” Her voice was raspy. She coughed.
    Justyn’s mother held the glass as Anna took another sip. “We’re in the home of Leizer and Beata Berkowicz. They found us after the attack by the airplanes.”
    Anna’s eyes widened. “The airplanes . . . Justyn?”
    Justyn took a step forward. “I’m here, Anna.” He squeezed into the room and stood at the foot of the bed. Mrs. Berkowicz set the pan on the fl oor and put her arm around him.
    Anna’s lips curled upward into a thin smile. Then she looked around again.
    “Henryk? Where’s . . . Henryk?”
    Justyn’s mother took Anna’s hand. “Henryk is dead, Anna.”
    “Henryk . . . dead?”
    Justyn clenched his fi sts, but the tears he had tried to hold back spilled over, running down his cheeks.
    Anna stared at his mother. Her lips moved but no sound came out. Then she closed her eyes and laid her head back on the pillow.
    The next afternoon, Anna sat on a wooden rocker on the porch of the farmhouse looking out at the fi elds of dark, rich soil that had been recently harvested. The trees in the orchard were heavily laden with ripe fruit, and a gentle warm breeze carried the pungent scent of farm country. It was as though she were in a dream, far away from the horrors of Warsaw and the desperate trip in the night.
    It was barely possible to believe Henryk was gone. He had been with her father for as long as she could remember, and he always seemed so capable, so indestructible. Her father must be beside himself with worry, she thought.
    He’d be crushed when he heard about Henryk.
    The door creaked, and Irene came out of the house carrying two glasses fi lled with dark brown liquid. “How are you feeling?” she asked, sitting down on a bench next to the rocker. She handed one of the glasses to Anna.
    Anna managed a smile. “Still groggy, like being in a dense fog.” She took a Night of Flames
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    sip of the drink. It was cool and sweet. “Apple cider?”
    Irene nodded. “They make it themselves and store it in the cellar.” She took a sip from the other glass. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.
    Anna turned slowly, trying not to move her head any more than necessary.
    “What is it?”
    Irene glanced down at the rough wooden planks of the porch fl oor then looked back at Anna. “The Germans have taken Krakow.”
    “What?” Anna jerked her head, and a searing pain shot through her skull like a knife. She spilled part of the drink trying to set the glass on the fl oor.
    Irene reached out and took the glass. She put a hand on Anna’s arm. “The doctor from town told us when he came out to check on you—four days ago.
    He heard it on a news bulletin.”
    Anna pressed her hands against the side of her head. “Germans in Krakow?”
    Irene nodded. Her thin face was pale, her dark eyes fearful.
    Anna leaned back in the rocker and looked out at the serene farmland. Cows grazed on a distant hillside. A fantasy crept into her mind that she and Jan were together, right here in this place. They would stay here and pretend the war was happening on some other continent. He would take her hand, and they would walk through the lush fi elds and sit together under a tree . . .
    She heard Irene say something. “What?”
    “There was very little damage,” Irene said. “In Krakow. It happened so fast; the news bulletin said there was very little damage.”
    Anna rubbed her temples and thought about her father. German troops were in Krakow. He must be devastated. But, if it happened that fast, at least he was probably out of harm’s way. He wouldn’t have left, she was certain of that. Although her father had been born in England, the only son of a Polish nobleman and his class-conscious wife—who’d insisted on