Read Online Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II by Douglas W. Jacobson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Douglas W. Jacobson
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apples out of the bag and turned it over in his hand, trying to decide exactly where to take the fi rst bite. Justyn liked being here. He felt safe. He bit into the apple with a crunch, and the juice ran down his chin.
That was his favorite part, the fi rst bite. He wiped his chin and leaned back against the tree.
A week had passed since his grandmother’s funeral, but it seemed longer.
That was before . . . before the bombing, and the long drive, and . . . the airplanes. He stared at the apple, watching a drop of juice trickle down the slick red skin. Visions of the funeral fl itted through his mind: old men with black beards and dark coats, women with powdery faces who smelled like fl owers, patting him on the head or putting their hands on his shoulder, telling him what a brave lad he was. It was the fi rst funeral he had ever been to, and he wondered why he hadn’t cried. He cried when they buried Henryk and he wasn’t even a relative. That wasn’t really a funeral. They didn’t even have a rabbi, although his mother told him that Henryk wasn’t Jewish, so they wouldn’t have had a rabbi anyway.
Thinking about Henryk made him remember the attack. He shivered and gripped the apple in both hands. He didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t help it. It was just there, in his mind. He remembered Anna spotting the airplanes, then Henryk honking the horn at the wagons in front of them.
Night of Flames
53
Then it was all a blur, the car bouncing through the fi elds and the noise—the noise was the worst, the loud screeching noise. He had covered his ears, and then he saw the tree.
How could Henryk have been killed? He was so strong. He remembered opening his eyes and seeing Henryk slumped over the steering wheel. He remembered the blood. Anna was next to Henryk in the front seat, lying on her side, her long red hair soaked with blood.
“Justyn!”
He blinked and looked around.
“Justyn!”
His mother was calling. He stood up, took another bite of the apple and slung the heavy sack over his shoulder. He trudged across the farmyard, past the brick, tin-roofed barn, and headed for the house.
His mother stood on the porch and when she saw him she yelled, “Run and get Mr. Berkowicz! Anna is awake!”
Justyn dropped the apple and the bag in the dust and sprinted toward the toolshed, shouting, “Mr. Berkowicz! Mr. Berkowicz!”
Standing at the door of the toolshed, shuffl ing his feet in the dust, Justyn watched Mr. Berkowicz wipe his tough, gnarled hands on a dirty rag, toss it into a bucket in the corner and pluck a black felt hat from a nail on the wall. As they walked to the house, Justyn felt the reassuring grip of the old man’s hand on his shoulder.
They stood in the doorway peering into the tiny bedroom. Anna was lying on a wrought iron bed underneath the only window, which was propped open to let in some air. It didn’t help much. The room was hot and sticky.
Anna’s face was white, like chalk, and her red hair was plastered to her forehead. Justyn’s mother sat on the edge of the bed, wiping Anna’s face with a wet cloth. Mrs. Berkowicz stood next to the bed holding a pan of water. She was a short, round woman and took up most of the extra space in the small room.
Justyn wiped a tear from his eye as he looked at Anna. He had tried not to think about it, but he realized now that he had been terrifi ed she would die, too. The doctor Mr. Berkowicz had fetched from the town that fi rst day had said something about a concussion, that there was nothing he could do and they would just have to be patient. Justyn held his breath as Anna lifted her head and looked around the room. Her eyes seemed glazed and distant. She started to say something then fell back on the pillow.
54
Douglas W. Jacobson
“Anna?” Justyn’s mother leaned over and stroked Anna’s forehead with the cloth. “Anna, it’s Irene.”
“Irene?” The word formed slowly. Anna looked up at her. “Where . .
That was his favorite part, the fi rst bite. He wiped his chin and leaned back against the tree.
A week had passed since his grandmother’s funeral, but it seemed longer.
That was before . . . before the bombing, and the long drive, and . . . the airplanes. He stared at the apple, watching a drop of juice trickle down the slick red skin. Visions of the funeral fl itted through his mind: old men with black beards and dark coats, women with powdery faces who smelled like fl owers, patting him on the head or putting their hands on his shoulder, telling him what a brave lad he was. It was the fi rst funeral he had ever been to, and he wondered why he hadn’t cried. He cried when they buried Henryk and he wasn’t even a relative. That wasn’t really a funeral. They didn’t even have a rabbi, although his mother told him that Henryk wasn’t Jewish, so they wouldn’t have had a rabbi anyway.
Thinking about Henryk made him remember the attack. He shivered and gripped the apple in both hands. He didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t help it. It was just there, in his mind. He remembered Anna spotting the airplanes, then Henryk honking the horn at the wagons in front of them.
Night of Flames
53
Then it was all a blur, the car bouncing through the fi elds and the noise—the noise was the worst, the loud screeching noise. He had covered his ears, and then he saw the tree.
How could Henryk have been killed? He was so strong. He remembered opening his eyes and seeing Henryk slumped over the steering wheel. He remembered the blood. Anna was next to Henryk in the front seat, lying on her side, her long red hair soaked with blood.
“Justyn!”
He blinked and looked around.
“Justyn!”
His mother was calling. He stood up, took another bite of the apple and slung the heavy sack over his shoulder. He trudged across the farmyard, past the brick, tin-roofed barn, and headed for the house.
His mother stood on the porch and when she saw him she yelled, “Run and get Mr. Berkowicz! Anna is awake!”
Justyn dropped the apple and the bag in the dust and sprinted toward the toolshed, shouting, “Mr. Berkowicz! Mr. Berkowicz!”
Standing at the door of the toolshed, shuffl ing his feet in the dust, Justyn watched Mr. Berkowicz wipe his tough, gnarled hands on a dirty rag, toss it into a bucket in the corner and pluck a black felt hat from a nail on the wall. As they walked to the house, Justyn felt the reassuring grip of the old man’s hand on his shoulder.
They stood in the doorway peering into the tiny bedroom. Anna was lying on a wrought iron bed underneath the only window, which was propped open to let in some air. It didn’t help much. The room was hot and sticky.
Anna’s face was white, like chalk, and her red hair was plastered to her forehead. Justyn’s mother sat on the edge of the bed, wiping Anna’s face with a wet cloth. Mrs. Berkowicz stood next to the bed holding a pan of water. She was a short, round woman and took up most of the extra space in the small room.
Justyn wiped a tear from his eye as he looked at Anna. He had tried not to think about it, but he realized now that he had been terrifi ed she would die, too. The doctor Mr. Berkowicz had fetched from the town that fi rst day had said something about a concussion, that there was nothing he could do and they would just have to be patient. Justyn held his breath as Anna lifted her head and looked around the room. Her eyes seemed glazed and distant. She started to say something then fell back on the pillow.
54
Douglas W. Jacobson
“Anna?” Justyn’s mother leaned over and stroked Anna’s forehead with the cloth. “Anna, it’s Irene.”
“Irene?” The word formed slowly. Anna looked up at her. “Where . .
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