The Frenchman's Table

First half of Frenchman's Table

The last words he heard from his father still resonates. "Run!" Dropping the shovel and turning toward the plowed field, leaving everything in his life behind. He was leaping over ditches and mounds of earth, sliding in the mud, and frantically trying to keep balance while dodging bullets whizzing through the air, whistling past his ears, and hitting the ground in small puffs of smoke scattering gravel. Reaching the tree line, he ducked behind a large trunk. He was still visibly shaking, scared, and the cold gulps of air burned his lungs. Too terrified to look back, he continued weaving among the brushes and limbs. His thighs ached, his throat dry, and yet he kept pushing hard, feeling the sting of wet grass and weeds slapping at his legs as he proceeded through the next fields. His tears, dried, left the stickiness of salt on his face hours later.

He knew they were dead. He had heard the earsplitting shots from behind and had felt the spray of crimson across his arm as they had moved forward, his mother's form, kicked into her grave, where she had watched her husband digging moments before. His father had dug the hole wide and deep enough for his wife and himself. Jakub's burial hole dug haphazardly was to the left of his father's and his sister grave next to his. Lined up against the side of the field, they had been handed shovels and ordered to dig. It was still early, and the sun was coming up. He had glanced up toward the pale blue autumn sky streaked with thin white lines, searching for hope, watching the crows from the old oak go wheeling into the air scattering across the plain. The very steamy field they had been working that morning would now be their final resting place, and no one would care or stop the slaughter. Had it not been for his best friend, "Blu" hearing the gunshots, he would be dead. From the corner of his eye, he saw Blu breaking off his chain, sprinting and barking toward the soldiers, doing what Blu knew best, protecting the very family who loved him from the moment his father had brought him home. Jakub heard the sounds of Blu barking; he felt another wave of nausea, nothing today, against all odds, nothing would end well. But as the scene played out in slow grotesque motion, the soldiers turned their backs from Jakub, taking aim at Blu, barreling down on his enemies. In that split second, Blu, the loyal family dog, had given him the only gift the family could not, a chance.

Jakub traveled at night, taking the back roads and avoiding any human contact, not sure who to trust. It was early fall, the nights were cold, the skies clear, and the stars helped him keep heading in the right direction, North. Travel and safety had been a conversation he had had with his parents' weeks before, where to go if things got worst. Shivering and speckled with dried mud, he wandered into Lodz's small city, looking for food and warmth. He saw no one--fear lying behind every locked door and boarded window. For five kilometers, the once recognizable main street Piotrkowska lay in ruin. This city had endured previous attacks, but this invasion had more momentum and destructiveness. The German Army was moving through towns and villages, taking down anything in their wake. The shelling left massive damage and had driven forcibly innocent civilians out. Large plumes of smokes billowed from the rubble of the town's church. Those that chose or could not run- their remains now kindling for the ashen safe-hold. "Poor bastards," he thought. Food rotted in the streets; dead cows and horses littered the surrounding fields. The stench burned his nostrils. Jakub hid behind reminisce of buildings at the sound of the planes flying low overhead.

Reality as he knew it unraveled.

Notices of the invasion choked the cobbled streets, further concealing the city he had visited several times prior. Lodz was no longer recognizable, nor known by that name.

Jakub was hungry and tired. He quietly scavenged for anything to eat and a dry place to rest. It was getting colder. The long casted shadows from the wrecked town no longer visible. Ducking down through what remained as a door frame, he looked for shelter walking into a remaining three-sided structure, debris crunching beneath his feet. From the angle of this makeshift shell, he could see the white stone gargoyles from the church smashed and lying in the streets. The evening rain started, and the temperatures were dropping. Tonight, he would rest for a few hours, then start up again before dawn. Wadded up in the corner and wrapped with material that once covered a window with the floral print he lay. His teeth chattering from the cold, his stomach growling in hungry, and the ache in his soul of his lost family and friends were all he had on his mind when he drifted off. Jakub slept sitting up against broken walls, partitioned by a few scattered pieces of wood that he had found lying on the wet ground. The rain clouds made the night darker than usual, and the sounds of movement dulled. Closing his eyes, which felt like a minute, he flashed back to his parents' dazed and confused faces and the evil that so quickly engulfed them. His head jerks back up by the sudden presence of another standing so close he could smell his body odor. He didn't move, squinting his eyes in the dark and watching intently the stranger rummaging through debris. The noise this man generated with shoving and pulling rubble, made Jakub want to be invisible. "He's going to attract attention," he thought.

Suddenly, as if preordained, a shot rang out from a high window on the east side tower, a building once used as a mill. Down the figure went not more than five feet from where Jakub remained hidden. The stranger's head exploding like a watermelon, his arms folded to his sides and worn-torn coat falling by the feet. "Poor man," Jakub lamented. Within hours the rain had stopped; all was quiet. Jakub lost all sense of time; however, the bitter cold remained with him. For what seemed like hours, he stared at the coat. Jakub reached through the slats for the dead man's clothing and tugged at the collar, attempting to extricate the loose fit jacket's corpse. With a final jerk, he retreated slowly, pulling it back into his hiding place. Inside the pockets, he pulled out five Reich mark coins and a small pocket knife used for whittling. Unable to hold the treasures long, his cold fingers stiff and white from exposure. He shoved the objects back down deep into the coat pockets. The change clinked together in the pocket like small bells of hope. He was grateful for the find. Jakub peeked through the slats of his makeshift hovel looking for an escape route, wondering how long the sniper might stay up in the tower. Unable to see him a few yards ahead, his eyes darted upwards toward the stars in the sky. Twinkling dimly, he would not have enough light to navigate through the town safely. He had learned from his father growing up to read the constellations. He used that for hunting for the local game and farming crops in the dark of the night. He used that now to navigate. Lacerta lies to the Northeast. Following the bright star, he could reach Sochaczew by morning if he made haste. His mother's family originated from the foothills of the town, and he toyed with the idea of discovering distant family members. If not, there was always Warsaw. His father had spoken fondly of that great city, his birthplace. He recounted the massive orchards, high walls, and large Armies. As a boy, he would march alongside the soldiers as they paraded through the streets during the annual festivities, celebrating their fledgling democracy. If it still existed, Jakub might find safety.

He slowly eased through the back half of the building, silently praying there would not be another sniper. He had to step over another body that he had not seen before, a small woman with an upturned basket. As he jumped over her frame, his foot slid and hit the basket's side, and out rolled two apples. Bruised and small, Jakub grabbed them both and held them close to his chest, mouthing a prayer, "Thank you, God." He kept his eyes searching for anything to use as a weapon, the pocket knife too small to provide protection. Once past the edge of town, he quickened his pace, no longer hiding in the available shadows of the buildings above him.

Castor Beans

Lying awake in the makeshift bed of hay with the other girls nestled on either side for warmth, Brigita still smarted from her earlier encounters. Tears began to well up in the corners of her eyes as thoughts of her family rushed to the forefront of her mind. She could hear her mother's voice, "My Brigita, honey, what's wrong." She missed her mother's touch and the tender moments where her mother would braid her long hair. Her mouth watered, recanting her mother's fresh zucchini bread picked from their garden and the sweet churned butter so lovingly heaped on the warm slices. At the end of each day, both mother and daughter would wait for her father's return. A history teacher, her father Aleksy, taught at the local Polish school and would tell the most amazing stories of Poland's history and the great European states of old Prussia.

After the evening meal, Brigita would sit at her father's feet near the massive stone fireplace, as he rocked her younger sister Maria, an infant, smoking his pipe with cherry tobacco. He would read the newspapers aloud and use the political climate to educate Brigita on how their lives could be affected as he had lived through the first invasion. Her mother would move to the kitchen and busy herself with meal preps as the discussion of politics and war made her nervous. Alesky knew his wife had endured the first war, too, but her memories were more personal, and she had lost both parents and had to work in the factories during her teenage years. She had never finished school, but back then, one had to eat-so she worked along with others who wanted to survive.

Brigita's mother learned from her Babcia the family recipe of Rosol and, on Sundays, would make the meal in honor of her long-gone parents. Now it was Brigita who missed the simple meals and smells of chicken soup by her mother. It had been just a few weeks in August that Brigita noted how visibly upset her father was when he abruptly came home. Alesky slammed down the stack of loose papers he was carrying on the kitchen table. Those notices had been stapled to the front doors of his school, and he had ripped them down. Mother came running into the room and froze. It was the first time Brigita's father had ever looked at her so sternly. Turning and looking directly into her eyes with a dark, serious stare, he barked out specific instruction on Brigita's role if the soldiers came. Confused, she repeated, "My Role?"

It was Brigita's mother who added further, "We will all have to work together. We all have roles." Brigita's eyes wide with fear, took it all in, scared for herself and her family. Father instructed all to go to bed early as he had some contacts he needed to reach. Obediently, Brigita climbed into bed- but couldn't fall asleep- instead, she prayed that night long and hard. Her prayers went unanswered. The family's farm abutted the railway station at Mosty in the Jablunkau Pass along the Carpathian Mountains.

Her father explained to Brigita that invading soldiers will try to infiltrate or capture the pass, and "We, Poland, must hold it." She closed her eyes tighter as she recanted the evening of machine-gun fire and mayhem that ensued. She had managed to sneak under the barrage of gunfire to the back entrance of the station. Located in the basement, just like her father had told her, was the transmitter. "Brigita, when you get there, just push the alarm."

"And then what?" she queried earlier.

"Then the polish units will arrive and defend the railway and tunnel connecting Warsaw to Vienna." "And, then what?" she queried further.

"I don't know. We will have done what we needed to do, and God will take it from there." She woke with tears streaming down the side of her face.

The aroma, stories, and memories all fading with the short, abrupt shouts coming from the outside of the barn. Even her still moments were violated by Grease Snout, always sneaking about and into the kitchen, consuming everything he could get his hands on.

Brigita's morning had started like any other. She gathered the feed for the cows. Before lifting the bucket of feed, she assessed her strength and her faded bruises from the weeks past. Not a day had gone by that she didn't tremble.

Brigita struggled, dragging the buckets of feed to the troughs, sweat dripping off her raven hair's curled tendrils. The noon sun now beating down on her back. The stickiness of her damp skin and the weeks of dirt left her feeling tired, old, and grimy. Tending to the newborn calf and milking the cows in the barn was arduous. Picking up the large half-filled pail and heading back toward the house, Roma met her midway with a full basket of vegetables from the garden. "Grease Snout has sent me to fetch you." Brigita winced, remembering the last encounter from the head guardsman, "What does he want?"

"What does he ever want? Can you take the lentil and potatoes, since you're headed in?" Roma asked and adding, "I'll finish with the baby, eyeing the newborn affectionately. Brigita dusted her skirt off, taking the basket and started toward the back door of the kitchen.

The stinging blow came so quickly everything in her arms went flying into the air. Brigita's right hip hit the corner table tearing through her worn skirt. "No talking!" His flushed face so close to her ear, she sensed it was not over as he slammed his sizeable fist down again, this time hitting her mid-back. She whimpered in silence, her eyes still puffy from the last beating. His smug smile said it all; he enjoyed being in total control.

Grabbing her by the neck with his thick sticky fingers, she closed her eyes, bracing for the next blow. His nails digging into the side of her neck. She smelled the staleness of the tobacco smoke on his uniform. This time was different. He turned her around, and with both hands encircled and tightening around her neck, he watched her face as he squeezed tightly, his temple vessels bulging with excitement. His intent stare savoring every moment as he choked the life out of her. Her lungs burned, she clawed at his hands for air. Looking into his eyes, a slow black dot grew larger and larger, and she then felt nothing.

The floor was hard and cold. Waking with a gasp, she rolled over, taking in big gulps of air. Mila was cradling her head. "When did she come in?" Brigita clutched Mila's arm and buried her tears in the girl's apron. With fettered breaths, she gasped slowly, "One day, I may not wake up from his blows." Mila, holding her close, nodded in solemn acknowledgment, silently reflecting her own recent incursions. Mila pulled Brigita up to a sitting position, reached up above their heads, for the pitcher of water, and offered to Brigita. Between sobs, she sipped. As her strength returned, so did her resolve. She pulled the flask down from her face and set her eyes on Mila, staring straight ahead. Dead panned, she whispered in a strong low voice, "This has to end, I'm going to kill that bastard."

Two days had passed from her last encounter when from the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of Grease Snout standing at the porch yelling and waving at the soldiers to come in for formation. Curious, Brigita from afar could tell this was serious. His face was redder and more bloated than usual. She momentarily craved good news of Germany's loss but quickly returned to what laid ahead of her. Soldiers entrenched on her family's farm for months eating all the food and abusing the remaining workers. She had not heard from her parents in months and feared the worst. Weeks had passed from any news from the front, and it had been at least three weeks since the last arrival of cattle cars and their captured occupants. From where she stood, she saw Mila standing at the kitchen window. She could tell from Mila's still posture she was listening intently. It reminded her of a posted soldier.

Brigita finished feeding the cows and led the newborn calf, she affectionately called Bell, in the stall. As she turned to lock the barn door, Mila came running out and met her at the corner of the enclosure. She examined Mila's face and saw from her expression that there was something of great importance. Still, both waited until they were no longer exposed to the guards' prying eyes before exchanging fast whispered information and assessments.

"They are moving out!" Mila breathless with excitement, adding, "what does that mean?'

"I don't know. Where's Roma?" Looking around for her friend- she had not seen all morning. She scanned the horizon and turned to Mila with a worried expression.

"Mila, find out as much as you can-keep getting as much information as possible so we can piece together a plan." Without looking back, Mila sprinted up toward the house, closing the door behind her. Of the three girls, Roma was perhaps the prettiest and youngest. She had sandy blonde hair with a smattering of freckles across her upturned nose and pale face. But it was her beautiful liquid blue eyes and high cheekbones that always drew attention. Often unwanted. Brigita was never sure she knew the whole story of why Roma was at the farm. She wasn't a Jew but had a Slavic look. She told Brigita her family was catholic and had lived on the outskirts of Hungry in a small village. They had been farmers, but she had arrived without her family, just a few weeks before Mila.

The three girls had stuck together. Brigita had suspected the younger soldiers had taken an interest in Roma and would take opportunities to leave their posts in search of her, which is why Brigita tried to keep an eye out for her and kept her close to the house.

Brigita climbed to the second story of the barn to get a better viewpoint. Her heart sunk to a new low when she spotted at the edge of the field, the floral pattern of Roma dress waving in the breeze as if calling her over. Half falling and jumping; she landed on one foot. The jarring and tingling sensation up her leg made the run much more painful. Tearful of what the whole truth would uncover but desperate to help her friend, she reached the end of the field. Only to find, just the discarded dress.

Brigita stunned, picked up the material, and looked around for tracks. It was then she heard the whistling sound. It came from beneath the beamed bridge where a small stream from the lake water filtered through. The water was never deep during the summers and was used to irrigate the fields. During the fall, the snow and rainy winters filled the stream where rippling water waves would eat at the soft mud embankments, taking earth and expanding the waterway heading toward the river two miles away. Today, it measured only a couple of feet, and it was clear and cold. Bending down quickly, she moved up under the bridge, sliding at bit at the edge of the water. There she stood next to Roma, who stood next to a naked body. Roma was dressed in a soldier's uniform, adjusting the collar; Brigita guessing it was from the one who was lying on the cold ground stuffed up close to the rafters.

"Is he dead?" she asked.

"Yes, but it took a while." Starring at the corpse in disgust.

"What did you kill him with?" Brigita queried, noting no blood, bruises, or weapons.

"These." She handed over an ole silk purse, filled halfway with what appeared to be bean pods.

"What are those?" looking into the bag, pulling one out to examine and then taking a sniff. Brigita handed her back the bag.

"Those are castor beans. They came from my family's farm."

"He ate castor beans?" Now, Brigita stared down at the body. She was amazed that her friend had pulled this off.

"I told him we ate these when we didn't have peanuts, and I gave him some to eat, and he did. Honestly," she added, "he was sort of stupid, so this wasn't as hard as I thought. Keeping him quiet as he died, well, that was the hard part." As she motioned over to his head, "I had to hold his head underwater. I'm not sure if he had an allergic reaction or if these killed him, either way, he's dead."

"How many did he eat?" curious to know how it worked.

"Hmmm, about 10, I think. It was sort of hard to keep up, as he grabbed a couple of handfuls."

They both stood there in their thoughts. Finally, Roma announced, "I'm leaving." She tossed the bag at Brigita, adding, "I left a little surprise for you."