Part 3 The Frenchman's Table

Yves and Paula worked hard to make the house a home. Up until this point, they had managed to keep all their precious belongings collected over the years from Yves's travels. Intricate art pieces lined the hallway, and an array of delicate bowls and silverware lined the cabinets and wooden countertops in the living room. None of the children had seen anything like the treasures in this home but appreciated the beauty of what was there. Although Yves and Paula's mission was to ensure the children had skills to use, they recognized their time was limited and were thankful for the children they saved. Both knew the children missed their loved ones and had seen many horrible things as many a night of waking to the sounds of cries and nightmares reminded them all everyday life would not be forgiving. After evening meals and clean up, Yves would pull from his library of books and sit by the fireplace at night and read aloud to the children, all six of them. Sometimes the stories were kept short because he would come in late or when he was not there, Paula would read to them. They preferred Yves reading aloud, his tone of reassurance, and the profound, calming way he had about talking things out without sounding harsh or loud. The thunderous noise from outside so differed from inside their temporary sanctuary.

And then one early afternoon, sometime around December, Tom disappeared. He had been missing for hours, and it was Mila who was the first to notice. She brought her concerns to Brigita. Usually, Mila saw he rummaging through Yves library pulling books down and squatting in a corner reading, soaking up the adventures of cowboys and Indians and tales of magic and folklore. He liked all the books he found; he had asked Yves if he could go into his library-and Yves, thinking this would improve Tom's English- encouraged him to read and learn. One particular book by Mark Twain had been a discussion at the dinner table. Tom would recant the stories of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, fact-checking with Yves if some of the stories could be true or not.

Yves shared that he had read the books in his youth and tried out many of the adventures mentioned in the storyline. He recanted the first boat he made from carving out a log he had found near the river and the fires he learned to prepare to cook the fish he caught during the day. Yves laughed aloud about the fishing poles of reed he constructed and how they kept breaking into, losing his fish on the other end. Tom felt like he could relate to the boys in the book as he had lost his parents and had been on his own for some time. The adventures were a good distraction from the horrors beyond their doors, and Yves supported Tom's creative mind. Tom wanted to have adventures like the boys-not the kind he was living through now but was hopeful things would change for him once he got to America. Yves told him it would, and he believed him. But now, he was missing. "How long has he been missing?" Brigita asked Mila.

"I don't know." Looking at the clock on the mantle.

"Well, when is the last time you saw him?" she queried further.

"This morning, at breakfast. He was reading that book."

"The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn again?"

"Yes, that's the one," Mila replied, looking around the room, behind the chairs, and under the tables.

Paula walked in from the kitchen; her hair pulled up into a ponytail tied with a yellow ribbon; she always had a natural beauty. She carried a load of clean towels, Millie and Mary following behind carrying a basket of vegetables. Her face was red from the struggle and heaviness of the basket of linen. "What are you girls up too? I could use some help."

Brigita gave Paula a worried look and started, "Tom, is missing."

"This can't be good, do we know for how long?"

Both girls responding "No" at the same time. It sounded like a shout.

Immediately concerned, Paula proceeded toward the front door gathering her scarf and coat; over her shoulder, she instructed the girls to stay put and to lock the door behind her. And with that, she was out and down the walkway. Watching her from the window, they saw her start searching beyond the safety of the house's wrought iron fence, the memory of her still etched in their minds as it was the last time they saw Paula.

Yves was out on one of his missions, and they had no way of communicating with him. Brigita and Mila took the lead and gathered the rest of the family together in the dining room. The girls explained to the rest of the group what was happening and realized they had little to no information. All were worried but did decide to wait inside and pray Yves would get home soon. Dinner was a quiet meal of warm chicken broth and cured meat. Brigita leads the prayer, followed by all responding, "Amen." They sat there in silence for a rather lengthy time, slowly one by one, each finished their meal, taking their plates into the kitchen and veering off to their rooms. No one slept. Compounding their fears was an eerily quiet city. They all laid there in their beds, praying and hoping for the safe returns. Their prayers went unanswered. The twin's red-eyed sat together in silence. It would be the first time they had ever been without their mother, and they were unsure of what to do. It was the next day, around noon, when Yves came back entering through the kitchen--covered with dirt and grime from wherever he had come from. His smile quickly erased as he came upon the remaining members sitting around the dining table. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

Kill or be killed

Jakub was rounded up with several other young men. He noticed he could see over the top of most men standing next to him. They whispered among themselves about what they knew and didn't know. All were trying to learn what information they could and survive. Their train ride had been freezing, and they had remained standing the entire trip, as the cargo carriage was loaded with men, shoulder to shoulder. No one had any weapons on them. And they were all weak from dehydration, starvation, and war-weary. They had been left of the tracks for two days, and the temperatures outside had dropped into the single digits. Somehow caught in the middle of the chaos, Jakub had managed to stay warm enough not to have suffered frostbite. Not everyone on the trailer had the same outcome. He could hear the soldiers gathering outside and large bangs of metal hitting up against the openings of the cargo doors. The rattle of chains, clanking, hitting the hard frosty ground. Then in one loud, forceful yank, the doors fell open, and with that, several deceased bodies rolled out hitting the ground. Jakub looked and wished he hadn't. Their faces, white and purple from the cold, their bodies stiff and contorted. No one knew who they were. A couple of the soldiers on either side of the metal blank, kicked the debris to the side, making way for the survivors to exit. Their body swayed forward, and they stumbled out down the metal walkway unto the snow-covered ground. Long Icicles hung from roof's edges, trees, and telephone lines. The gray clouds covered the entire sky. The bark of trees across the rails was black stood like eerie gallows. All looked bleak and desolate. Past the fence in front of him were several one-story white buildings. Two large smokestacks in the very back of the last two buildings were belching large plumes of gray and white clouds. Numerous large piles standing 4 to 5 five in height, covered with snow, littered the compound. They were shoved into a single line in front of the train by the butts of the machine guns strapped to every soldier he could see. One soldier with a clipboard proceeded down the line, looking up occasionally, eyeing the survivors.

He would point with his pin, and one of the soldiers would grab a man and move him forward, and then yank them back again in line. He proceeded down the row. Walking back, he stopped and stood in front of Jakub. "This one and that one," the man spoke in perfect English. Jakub was shoved forward again, along with another man who had been standing near him. He was marched past the remaining column with soldiers of either side through the bobbed wired fencing, tethered barking dogs, and into the first building. It was a long one-story white building made of wooden slats. He immediately felt the warmth of the fire burning at the other end of the room, but kept his mouth shut, thankful to be out of the cold. Two more soldiers appeared from behind eyeing Jakub and the other man as they walked past.

"Is this one you can use?'

"Ya. Ya," said a soldier standing in the middle of the room, his back toward Jakub. He never looked up. Jakub was nudged forward and stood directly behind the man now. "Can you read?' he asked.

"Yes, sir," Jakub responded quickly, although his voice felt parched and dry. He could not keep his teeth from chattering and concentrated on biting down on his tongue to remain quiet. The man asked the same question to the other survivor. Before the man responded, a spray of several machine gunfire drowned out his answer from outside the building. Jakub knew what that meant. He dared not turn and look, but just stood at attention.

Jakub and the other companion worked through the night, loading the wagon of bodies and carting them over to the back buildings. They stripped the corpses of clothing, shoes, and anything of value. The collection of gold and silver wedding bands lined up next to the large box watches. Catching his breath, he stared at the box and dismayed to see several watches still ticking away without their owner. He wondered how long the hands would continue to move, piled on top of each other. For the most part, he and his companion worked well together. Jakub was a bit taken back when his companion handed him a pair of pliers and watched him pull, tug and wrench gold fillings leaving the mouths gaping open. A fitting scene of silent cries of horror never heard. He repeated the movements swallowing hard to keep the bile from creeping up. After the stripping, they would move the naked bodies over onto a flat metal bed and pushed it into building at the far end of the compound. He was met with other working men near the fiery kennels- those he had not seen before. Their sweaty and breathing emaciated bodies and gaunt faces told him, their days were fixed. It made him wonder what his timeline would be. He watched the burning sun come up over the horizon and noted the camp was quiet-most sleeping in their quarters. Following the other shattered souls, he found a place to lie down inside the last building and drew over the remanence of a blanket to await the next arrival.

A few hours had past when he felt a kick at his foot. He had been summoned and wondered what this would mean. Jakub was led back to the first building the night prior, through a second doorway that he had not seen before. The room was medium-sized and had a long eight-foot counter in the middle. On the counter were stacks of what appeared to be mail--bags, and bags of small mail and packages. Behind the counter, a closed closet door, and an intact nailed down window overlooking the yard. From behind him, a voice he recognized from last night asked, "Since you can read, these need to be sorted and distributed. Our last worker didn't solve the problem."

"Yes, sir." Jakub realized his timetable might be lengthened if this was done right, or if not, rather shorter than he had hoped. The officer clicked his heels, turned, and left Jakub standing there without any further instructions. It had appeared the bags had been opened, and stacks of attempts made of sorting. Jakub picked up some letters and recognized the importance of getting this right. He started doing what the last man had been working on when he realized he was making the same mistake. Walking over to the closet, he found a large structure apparently discarded. Pulling it out, he could tell with some manipulation, tying, and lifting he reconstructed the mail letterboxes whole again. Once satisfied it wouldn't collapse, Jakub started separating and loading mail into the slots. As he went through the mail, he wrote down the senior officers' names and penciled them above the slots. About noon, the officer walked back in and stopped at the door. Surveying Jakub's progress, he nodded his head and threw Jakub a bread roll.

At night, for the rest of the week, Jakub stayed in that area of the camp, sorting and delivering letters and small packages. He slept on the floor near the door, as he could just make out the feel of warmth from the next room's fireplace. At least he wouldn't freeze to death. Sometimes he received a potato, at other times more bread. Never meat. He looked down at his form and could see his ribs. He was slowly wasting away until another replaces him. Standing there, sorting mail, gave him quiet time to think. He watched the clocks, the soldiers' movements, the officers, their breaks, their dogs. From the window, he could see areas where no one walked. Most of the soldiers didn't go back to the two buildings where the smokestacks billowed. The smell of bodies burning and decomposing was nauseating. The dogs were kept back in a long pen with individual fenced kennels. Jakub had watched one of the handlers; a tall, lanky soldier come in for his mail. The soldier always had a cigarette in his mouth and squinted his eyes from the trail of smoke puffing at the end. Jakub studied his movements as he handled the dogs' kennels, taking them back and forth throughout the day for water, walks, and the changing of stations. There were times when he would spray the dogs with cold water from the hoses causing them to yelp and bark. No one ever corrected the handler about his methods and looked the other way. Jakub wondered how this soldier would have treated prisoners and didn't think it would have been much better. Jakub didn't think he was very good with the dogs, and noted that he didn't feed them enough- but at least they had shelter and food.

Eleven days had gone by when the second train arrived. Much like what he had experienced, it sat on the tracks for the night. He felt sorry for the bastards trapped in the cargo and knew what laid ahead for them. The sounds of moans and pleading drowned the night owls hooting. As the morning sun crested over the horizon, there was silence. He had hoped that some would be spared. It wasn't likely.

He heard the soldiers and the barking dogs making their way to the train--the clank of metal and shouts reminiscent of his encounter. One soldier came into the building where Jakub was busily sorting and told him to come outside. Jakub stiffened, not sure what it meant. He dropped the letters onto the counter and preceded out. Standing on the porch of the building, he saw men dirty and tired lining up along the train's length. Again, the soldier with the clipboard started down the line. Jakub closed his eyes for what happened next, squeezing them as tight as he could to block out the nightmarish wall of hollowed men standing, with the backdrop of the cold black train. The sounds of excited voices, barking and the clicks from the heavy guns strapped to the uniformed soldiers drew the attention of the captured, some raised their arms attempting to shield themselves from the spray of fire, others more resolute, mouthing silent prayers with clasped boney fingers imploring God for forgiveness. The sounds of pleas ended abruptly. He opened his eyes and watched the dog handler walk down the row prompting the animals to sniff out lone survivors and then upholstering his weapon shooting point-blank, finishing the kill.

Without being told, Jakub grabbed the metal cart and started toward the debris. He started loading the bodies and carting them through the gates to the back buildings. Each cart with stacked bodies averaged about ten. He made the trip twelve times. He tried to keep up with the numbers. The wheels made ruts in the mud mingled with blood, but he pushed through. And, like before, removed the clothing, gold fillings, rings, and watches unto the trays laid out on the ground before moving toward the burners. His mental mantra-I've got to get out of here kept him running through the next few hours. Exhausted and cold, he slumped down next to the furnace and fell asleep.

Morning came, and the coldness woke him. He pulled himself up and started walking back to his mail room role. From his scruffy beard peppered with frost, he mouthed small pillow clouds and watched as he walked his feet, sinking into the soft snow and making fresh prints. A fleeting thought of his childhood came to mind-this snow would make great snow angels. As he crossed the yard, he could see the dog cages-most were wrapped in tight balls of fur for warmth, and he went unnoticed. He had only been in the mailroom a few moments, when from behind the dog handler walked in, carrying a dog chain and lead line. The handler left the chain and lead line on the table as he turned his back to Jakub to pull out his letters and boxes from his mail slot. It wasn't even a plan, just more of a reaction, and taking a moment which might never occur again, Jakub grabbed the chain and from behind, lounged at the guy-who was caught entirely off guard. They fell forward to the floor, with Jakub quickly wrapping the chain around the neck of the guard and pulling with all his might. His knee pulled up against the handlers' back for better leverage, he held pressure to the throat and somehow managed to sit the other half of his body weight onto the butt of the soldier. There was no give. The movement so swift blocked the guard from screaming out, his vocal cords collapsing under the pressure of the tightening chain. Just a few more minutes and the struggling body went limp. Jakub could feel the release of life and, for a moment, felt dizzy from the exertion. He thought he would just pass out next to the body, and shook his head, grabbing hold of the table and stumbling toward the door- to lock it. Pulling and tearing off the soldier's clothes, he shoved his arms down the sleeves, quickly buttoning the jacket, sliding on the pants, and wrapping the laces across the top of boots. He dragged the still body across the room and heaved the mass into the closet, pulling papers over to cover what he could. Jakub thrust the cap on his head, grabbed the dog's lead line, and shoved his sweaty hands deep in pants pockets to hide his shaking. And out he walked, toward the dog kennels, past other early morning risers, never looking up. He followed the tracks in the snow from where the handler had come from. Once to the pens, he continued walking past the sleeping hounds and straight back to the end of the compound, and taking the very pliers from the night before, he cut a hole through the wire- just big enough for him to squeeze through.