Page 9 of Beehive

A bullet whizzed by my head.

I threw myself to the roof as Russians shouted, “??? ??? ????!”

I didn’t understand the words but knew exactly what they meant.

With bullets trailing behind, I raced across the rooftop and leaped atop the neighboring building, then slid down a drainpipe to land on a second-floor balcony. Konrad and I had slept in the abandoned apartment the night before. There was no electricity, but the mid-level placement of the living space kept the wind and chill at bay. The former residents had left a few loaves of bread in the pantry.

“This is as good a place as any to hide,” I muttered, brushing the snow off my coat as I tried to rein in my panicked breath.

Then artillery fired.

4

Heinrich

Itried to relax, but even with the windows closed, the clatter of rifles and pounding of artillery kept my heart racing as though I was still running across rooftops.

“What are they shelling?” I wondered.

Voivodeship was barely a stain on the map. There shouldn’t be troops—or artillery— here. There was nothing worth bombarding.

Apparently, no one had explained that to Uncle Joe.

They fired round after round as though determined to shatter the thickest of city walls.

Each explosion made me wince—not from any sympathy for the locals, who were mostly dead already, but for fear that Soviet guns might point in my direction.

Then the building shook, and plaster fell from the ceiling.

I had to move.

Shoving the camera inside my coat pocket, I grabbed a rifle we’d left in the apartment and stepped out the door.

Another explosion nearly knocked me off my feet.

“Jesus!” I shouted, quickly checking to see if anyone was around to hear my sudden outburst.

I ran down the hallway, took the stairs in twos and threes, then hesitated at the door that led to the alley between the building and its neighbor. Where the hell was I going? The Russians were everywhere and shooting at anything that moved.

A door creaked as I cracked it open and peered outside.

Five Soviets walked alongside a tank as it rolled past. Their heads moved on a lazy swivel, half searching, half exploring. None looked my way.

Once the team passed, I ducked down the alley, crossed the street, then hid in the alley opposite. Pregnant clouds obscured the sun, a foreboding mask that told of another storm to come.

“Bastards brought the Russian winter with them,” I grumbled.

A pair of rifles fired down the street I’d just crossed. I ducked behind a garbage bin, not daring to look to see who might pass. Polish resistance or Russian, it didn’t matter. Either would want a lone Nazi dead.

Where the fuck could I go?

Where would the Pols and Soviets look last?

“The synagogue.”Of course.

There were few enough Jews left in the town. My unit had shipped most to either labor for the Reich or to extermination camps, but the Russians wouldn’t know that yet. They would see the house of worship as a landmark, a place of safety for their newly freed people.

There weren’t many buildings still standing in the town, fewer since the tank rolled in. The troops would seek the last of our units, those left to report on enemy advancement. They would search stores and farmhouses, homes and shops. They would never expect Nazis to hole up in a Jewish temple.

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