Page 7 of Beehive

Neither of us believed my words, but they were the mantra of our Führer, which made them true.

Konrad snorted again, lifting his glasses and peering across the horizon.

Another round of gunfire sounded, then artillery boomed.

A plume of smoke rose a dozen blocks away.

“So close,” he mumbled. “Should we go? Fall back a few blocks? I do not think they are moving quickly.”

I scanned the nearby streets and buildings. Voivodeship was insignificant, far enough from the main road to Warsaw that I was surprised the Red Army had even bothered with the place.

But here they were.

We guessed some four hundred men marched toward us, a fraction of the wave that would surely follow. Most were likely scouts, but one never knew in war. The presence of artillery spoke more of the tip of a spear than mere scouts getting the lay of the land.

Four hundred soldiers outnumbered the residents of the town.

“Shit.” Konrad dropped his binoculars.

“What?”

Gunfire, distant only a moment earlier, sounded so loud I nearly bolted for cover.

He rolled onto his side and fumbled in his heavy cloak, ignoring how much snow he scooped inside the fold that kept him warm. When his hand reappeared, a black-cased camera with silver dials took the binoculars’ place at his eye.

“What are you doing?”

“The Soviets are rounding up civilians.”

“They’re what? What do you mean? Jews?”

“Do Soviets care about Jews?” he snapped.

“No, not really; but if they’re killing Jews, that’s fewer for us—”

“Heinrich! This isourland. Those areourPols. If they are Jews, we can deal with them later. For now, Soviets are rounding upourpeople.”

Seeing the red banner invade territory we occupied was horrifying, but I didn’t understand why Konrad was so workedup over someone else killing a few Jews. Given enough time, we would do the same. The Soviets were doing our work for us.

“Here.” He shoved the binoculars at me while he continued observing through the camera. “Look for yourself. There must be three, maybe four, dozen men down there . . . and . . . they’re bringing in a line of more. Women and . . . there’s children, Heinrich,smallchildren.”

“And a couple hundred Soviet soldiers,” I muttered, unable to wrap my head around the scene unfolding below. A group of Pols—factory workers and farmers, by the look of them—huddled in the center of the town square, a small, open space ringed by buildings typical in any town in Eastern Europe. A fountain, its water frozen by winter’s wrath, stood silent behind the group.

We were close enough to fire off a shot at the outer ring of Soviets. Maybe Konrad had been right. We should’ve left when we had the chance.

“Is that a colonel?” I asked, squinting through the binoculars.

“Maybe. It’s hard to tell their epaulets apart up close. From up here, he could be Stalin himself. They’re all gold with stars or stars with gold. It’s a wondertheycan tell the difference.”

The colonel, or whatever he was, strode forward like he was the king of Poland. His chin raised, he clasped his hands behind his rigid back. His men leveled rifles at the cowering civilians.

“Can you hear him?”

Konrad shook his head. “Wouldn’t matter if I could. I don’t speak Russian.”

Hedidspeak Polish, though, which was the whole point of us being left behind. Surely, the Soviet commander did, too. Why else would he be marching back and forth before those people, speaking as calmly as if he attended a dinner party?

Unfortunately, all we could hear was the commander’s tone. His words were lost to the wind.