Chapter Eleven - Time to Fight
It was with anger that Katka broke open the first lock. The long shaft of a crow bar fitting through the loop of a padlock and physically she ripped it open.
‘Why did you tell him that?’ Paul demanded. He was angry too and he tried to grab hold of Katka’s arm to stop her, pull her back, but she pulled herself free.
‘Because that is what we are.’ She replied angrily and struggling to not raise her voice in the quiet of the station yard. It was not far from where the truck driver had parked and Katka and Paul stood between two boxcars that marked the edge of what must have been a holding point for the railway network. There were rows and rows of carriages, all securely locked and chained and as far as Katka was concerned, all about to be broken into.
‘We are not members of the resistance, Katka. We are nothing to do with them.’ Paul went on, ‘Why did you tell him we were?’
But it was no use. Katka had already decided not to listen. She broke open another lock and slide open the heavy wooden door. ‘Yes we are.’
She replied as she climbed inside, ’And we will stand up to them. We will do whatever we can to cripple this regime.’
‘Katka, please.’ Paul replied, but there was a sound of resignation in his voice as he climbed in after her, more frustrated than angry, and he stood back as Katka stormed to the far end of the empty carriage. ‘I mean, what is it you think you're doing here, and what exactly did you say to the truck driver?’
‘That we will -’
‘- vandalis these train carriages? It hardly makes a difference, now does it?’
But this only made Katka angrier still. But she did not reply, she stood with her back to him, hands on her hips at the far end of the carriage and stared down at a heap of old rags, coloured grey and white, dirty, stained and clumsily pushed against the end wall.
Paul approached but Katka, sensing him approach, turned and pushed past him towards the door.
‘Do not patronize me, Paul, and do not try to stop me. Don't you think we have suffered enough at the hands of these bastards, don't you think everyone has suffered enough?’
Paul was taken aback by Katka’s sudden outburst. He tried to reply but only managed the words, ‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake.’ and he waved his finger in her direction as he said them.
‘No,’ Katka said, ‘Let them hear. Let them come with their guns and their dogs and we can tell them exactly what it is that we think of them.’
‘Please, be quiet,they will kill us if they catch us here.’ Paul said, a note of panic sounding in his voice.
‘We have to do something, Paul. We have to stand up to them.’
‘Katka, please.’
The desperation in Paul's voice was the force that finally persuaded Katka to be quiet. Although she did not regret what she had said, she truly did not care if soldiers came. In a sudden rage she threw down the crowbar she still had in her hands. It thudded loudly against the carriage floor. ‘It's pointless, just so pointless.’ She said.
Paul put his hands on Katka's arms, one on either side to restrain her and with a grip firm enough to keep her still.
Katka did not struggle. Instead she remained still, she breathed hard, she forced herself to be calm and she said, in a voice that was rigid, starched hard, ‘First my mother, then my father, and now it seems all of Europe is being wiped out and there is nothing we can do about it.’
‘The war will be over -’
‘Oh’ shut up!’ Katka snapped, ‘The war will not be over soon.’ and she was only just able to keep the anger from her voice. After the conversation she had had with the truck driver, the conversation with the old man too, it all seemed so clear now and she had to make Paul understand, ‘Paul, they are taking people away by the thousand and killing them. They are killing people. We have to do something.’
‘Katka, no they are not -’ Paul began, and the corners of his mouth beginning to curl into a smile or disbelief.
‘Oh stop trying to deny it, Paul. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed people disappearing, don’t tell me you haven’t seen people moved out of their homes, marked like cattle, herded onto trains.’
‘But Katka, they’re -’
‘- just being relocated? I know, I’ve heard those words. But relocated never to be brought back. They’re killing them, Paul.’
‘You have no proof.’ Paul said, weakly defiant and he hesitated then, as if he he was uncertain of what he was saying.
In reply Katka gestured about her, the empty boxcar they were standing in, then she said, ‘Explain this then.’
But Paul only looked at Katka. He did not know what she meant.
‘Look around you, Paul. Look at what this carriage is being used for.’
And as Paul looked, at the stained floor, the tiny barred windows high up on eother side, the smell - a musty human smell, dirty and sweaty, as
filthy as an animal’s cage, it must have dawned on him. ‘So it's true.’ He said.
‘And look at the end of the carriage.’ Katka said softly, ‘Look at that pile of rags.’
Paul walked over to them. He crouched next to the pile and took a box of matches from his pocket and struck one. And i n the flickering yellow light that was created he squinted his eyes to see better, to see what it was that Katka was trying to show her.
‘What are they?’ he muttered and he lifted a cloth from the top of the pile and raising it to his face. It was with a look of horror on his face that he realised what it was, ‘A uniform.’ he said aloud, ‘The bottom half of a prison uniform.’
‘Someone used to wear that.’ Katka said, ‘Along with everything in that pile.’ and she lifted more rags from the pile, showing Paul each item as she did so, then said, ‘The Nazis are killing people and we’ve been standing back and watching. This makes us as bad as they are.’
Paul was silenced.
The expression on his face, the scowl of deep concentration, it was clear it was not through lack of anything to say. He understood and when he spoke again it was in a voice made brittle through tension, serious and with eyes fixed on Katka and he said, ‘Only what can we do?’
‘We can do whatever we can to stop them.’
Paul began shaking his head.
‘No.’ Katka said, ‘I know what you’re thinking and it’s not pointless. We have to do something. We cannot simply stand by and watch. How could we forgive ourselves?’
Paul nodded. He did not speak.
‘Where do you think they take these people?’ Katka asked, knowing that Paul would not know the answer. ‘How long do you think they keep
them here and how many? They must be able to fit a few hundred in here, shoulder to shoulder, standing room only, and then they tell them to strip and they leave their clothes on the floor in a pile.’
Paul still did not speak. Instead he pushed past Katka to the door, clumsily bumping his way to the carriage door and then stumbling to ground. He dropped to his knees, hands on the frozen ground in front of him and he vomited like a sick cat.
‘They kill them. All of them’
‘Is that what the truck driver said.’ Paul asked, looking over his shoulder at Katka.
Katka nodded.
‘Paul stood up. ‘You’re right.’
‘The driver said there were camps.’
‘I’ve heard the same.’ Paul said, ‘There are camps. I don’t know where, in the north, I think, in Poland, and they take them there. No one comes back.’
‘So we will join the fight against them’ Katka said, ‘We will do what we can to fight the Nazis.’.
There was no need for Paul to answer. Katka had spoken with such authority, such sincerity, there was no way he could disagree. He opened his mouth to speak, breathed out instead.
A sudden shout interrupted them, ‘Hey!’ it said.
Katka and Paul instinctively ducked into the shadows
But the voice who had called out, that belonged to a figure that was running towards them, was friendly, like the greeting of an old friend, or a new friend - Katka let the air out from her lungs, she laughed. it was only the truck driver.
Katka’s relief was imense, ‘Hey, over here.’ she called out, not bothering to keep her voice down.
He ran over, leant in through the door and smiled. A sense of excitement glistening from his face. ‘Quick.’ he said, ‘I’ve found something.’ and then he led them along the track, between the linked carriages and deeper into the maze of the holding depot.
‘This train.’ the truck driver said once they were far from the station building and next to more rows of train carriages. ‘It’s must have just come in.’ and he slid open theheavy wooden doors.
Inside were wooden boxes and crates, stacked high and all marked with stenciled writing in white paint. ‘Look.’ he said and took hold of one of the boxes. He turned it with his hands to show them what was written on the side.
‘Granate.’ he said, reading what was written. Then he translated for them, ‘It’s German for grenade.’
Katka and Paul leant forward to look.
‘All of these boxes, all of them marked the same.’
‘Ammunition.’ Paul said at once.
‘To reinforce the army.’ Katka said, ‘What shall we do?’
But the look on Paul’s face told her it was obvious. ‘It’s our chance to do something.’ he said and he took out the box of matches. ‘Do it.’ he said to Katka, ‘Start a fire and we can watch this whole train be destroyed.’
The truck driver smiled at the idea. He watched intently as Katka put out her hand and took the match box.
‘Quickly.’ Paul said, and putting the edge of the crowbar, that he must have picked up after Katka had dropped it, beneath the lid of the crate, he forced it open. Inside, nestled like eggs were about twelve German army stick grenades, packed in with straw.
‘Light the straw.’ Paul said.
Katka struck a match. But before she could toss it into the dry yellow grass she felt something zip past her ear. It was followed by the sharp crack of a rifle and Katka knew at once what was happening.
‘Get down!’ She shouted.
At once Paul dived to the ground, he rolled himself against the wheels of the train carriage to give himself cover. Katka leapt up into the carriage itself, positioning herself at the edge of the door with just enough time to see the flit of dark grey figures at the far end of the train.
‘Soldiers.’ Paul shouted.
Another crack of a rifle fire, immediately followed by two more.
‘Quick. Move.’ Katka shouted to the truck driver, who was still standing, completely exposed between the train tracks.
But he did not move. Instead he teetered for a second on his feet, supported by his solid build, and the expression on his face transfixed, it seemed, staring ahead at the movement of the soldiers as they got closer.
Katka thought he was scared, paralysed by fear. She had heard this was possible, but when she saw the red stain appear on the breast of his jacket, the open mouthed and vacant stare as he plunged forward, face first into the ground, she knew this was not the case.
It was the first time Katka had seen someone be killed. And the suddenness of it, the awful complete simplicity of it, held her completely. For several seconds she could not move, she could not think and she stared helplessly at his bulky form.
It was Paul that revived her. ‘Katka!’ he called to her, ‘Quick. Now. do it.’
But Katka had not heard what Paul had told her to do.
Quick, she thought, quick what? What do I do? The thoughts swirled in her head, as up ahead the grey movement of soldiers as they zigzagged closer, moving from cover to cover between the railway carriages. One of them went down on one knee and, almost in slow motion raised his rifle and fired two shots in succession. The bullets buried themselves into the wood of the boxcar, sending splinters of wood flying like shrapnel.
This brought Katka to her senses.
Paul was still shouting. Katka heard him now, ‘The grenades.’ he shouted, ‘Give me one!’
Katka wasted no more time. She reached into the box and took hold of one of the wooden handles. It was far heavier than she thought it
would be. She dropped it down to Paul, who caught it, and in one swift movement primed it, lifted himself up and threw it at the soldiers.
Boom!
The light of the explosion, the sound, knocked Katka back.
It kept the soldiers back too. They dived to the ground. Paul took his chance then and stood up and reached into the carriage and took
another two grenades from the box.
He threw again.
Boom!
This time he must have hit someone. It was clear by the cry of terror in the half-second before the grenade exploded.
‘Grab the guns.’ Paul shouted and when Katka didn’t know what he meant he yelled, ‘The other boxes. Open them. I’ll hold them off. Use the crowbar.’
Katka moved fast. She went straight to one of the bigger boxes and forced the crowbar beneath the lid. Just in time, more soldiers must have arrived then, and with the sound of more gunfire. Bullets began hammering like hail stones on the wood of the train carriage. And this made Katka work faster. She blindly pulled whatever she could from the boxes - linked chains of bullets, magazine clips, the long barrel of a machine gun.
‘Quick!’ Paul yelled.
Katka took hold of the long stick-like stem of a magazine, she thrust it into the machine gun she was holding and then dropped it down to Paul.
He seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
He cocked the gun and opened fire.
A sudden burst of light. Loud, angry like a drum roll.
Katka took another gun and loaded it in the same way. She leant through the door and squeezed the trigger. The kick of the gun punched her in the shoulder. The gun itself bucked and bounced in her hands as if alive.
But the enemy soldeirs were too many.
‘We can’t hold them off shouted Paul, then sensing an escape route, shouted, ‘Quick! Let’s go.’ and he grabbed hold of Katkas arm and pulled her from the compartment doorway, ‘We need to get out of here.
They ran through the carriages, climbing over the couplings and spurred on by the shouts of soldiers, who had seem them escape, who were giving chase.
But Katka and Paul were too fast for them, too eager to get away and it was as if their instinct to survive was all they needed. They made it to the other side of the train yard and could only hear the sound of the German soldiers, heavily laden and unable to fit themslves through the gap between the carriages, far behind them.
‘What now?’ Katka said to Paul.
‘We need shelter, there’s no way out.’
‘Where?’ Katka asked, only able, in the frantic rush to escape, to speak one word at a time.
‘There!’ said Paul and he pointed towards a small outbuilding only a short distance from where they stood. It was a risk, a poor place to hide for very long, but it was all they had. It was their only chance at surviving.
‘Why did you tell him that?’ Paul demanded. He was angry too and he tried to grab hold of Katka’s arm to stop her, pull her back, but she pulled herself free.
‘Because that is what we are.’ She replied angrily and struggling to not raise her voice in the quiet of the station yard. It was not far from where the truck driver had parked and Katka and Paul stood between two boxcars that marked the edge of what must have been a holding point for the railway network. There were rows and rows of carriages, all securely locked and chained and as far as Katka was concerned, all about to be broken into.
‘We are not members of the resistance, Katka. We are nothing to do with them.’ Paul went on, ‘Why did you tell him we were?’
But it was no use. Katka had already decided not to listen. She broke open another lock and slide open the heavy wooden door. ‘Yes we are.’
She replied as she climbed inside, ’And we will stand up to them. We will do whatever we can to cripple this regime.’
‘Katka, please.’ Paul replied, but there was a sound of resignation in his voice as he climbed in after her, more frustrated than angry, and he stood back as Katka stormed to the far end of the empty carriage. ‘I mean, what is it you think you're doing here, and what exactly did you say to the truck driver?’
‘That we will -’
‘- vandalis these train carriages? It hardly makes a difference, now does it?’
But this only made Katka angrier still. But she did not reply, she stood with her back to him, hands on her hips at the far end of the carriage and stared down at a heap of old rags, coloured grey and white, dirty, stained and clumsily pushed against the end wall.
Paul approached but Katka, sensing him approach, turned and pushed past him towards the door.
‘Do not patronize me, Paul, and do not try to stop me. Don't you think we have suffered enough at the hands of these bastards, don't you think everyone has suffered enough?’
Paul was taken aback by Katka’s sudden outburst. He tried to reply but only managed the words, ‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake.’ and he waved his finger in her direction as he said them.
‘No,’ Katka said, ‘Let them hear. Let them come with their guns and their dogs and we can tell them exactly what it is that we think of them.’
‘Please, be quiet,they will kill us if they catch us here.’ Paul said, a note of panic sounding in his voice.
‘We have to do something, Paul. We have to stand up to them.’
‘Katka, please.’
The desperation in Paul's voice was the force that finally persuaded Katka to be quiet. Although she did not regret what she had said, she truly did not care if soldiers came. In a sudden rage she threw down the crowbar she still had in her hands. It thudded loudly against the carriage floor. ‘It's pointless, just so pointless.’ She said.
Paul put his hands on Katka's arms, one on either side to restrain her and with a grip firm enough to keep her still.
Katka did not struggle. Instead she remained still, she breathed hard, she forced herself to be calm and she said, in a voice that was rigid, starched hard, ‘First my mother, then my father, and now it seems all of Europe is being wiped out and there is nothing we can do about it.’
‘The war will be over -’
‘Oh’ shut up!’ Katka snapped, ‘The war will not be over soon.’ and she was only just able to keep the anger from her voice. After the conversation she had had with the truck driver, the conversation with the old man too, it all seemed so clear now and she had to make Paul understand, ‘Paul, they are taking people away by the thousand and killing them. They are killing people. We have to do something.’
‘Katka, no they are not -’ Paul began, and the corners of his mouth beginning to curl into a smile or disbelief.
‘Oh stop trying to deny it, Paul. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed people disappearing, don’t tell me you haven’t seen people moved out of their homes, marked like cattle, herded onto trains.’
‘But Katka, they’re -’
‘- just being relocated? I know, I’ve heard those words. But relocated never to be brought back. They’re killing them, Paul.’
‘You have no proof.’ Paul said, weakly defiant and he hesitated then, as if he he was uncertain of what he was saying.
In reply Katka gestured about her, the empty boxcar they were standing in, then she said, ‘Explain this then.’
But Paul only looked at Katka. He did not know what she meant.
‘Look around you, Paul. Look at what this carriage is being used for.’
And as Paul looked, at the stained floor, the tiny barred windows high up on eother side, the smell - a musty human smell, dirty and sweaty, as
filthy as an animal’s cage, it must have dawned on him. ‘So it's true.’ He said.
‘And look at the end of the carriage.’ Katka said softly, ‘Look at that pile of rags.’
Paul walked over to them. He crouched next to the pile and took a box of matches from his pocket and struck one. And i n the flickering yellow light that was created he squinted his eyes to see better, to see what it was that Katka was trying to show her.
‘What are they?’ he muttered and he lifted a cloth from the top of the pile and raising it to his face. It was with a look of horror on his face that he realised what it was, ‘A uniform.’ he said aloud, ‘The bottom half of a prison uniform.’
‘Someone used to wear that.’ Katka said, ‘Along with everything in that pile.’ and she lifted more rags from the pile, showing Paul each item as she did so, then said, ‘The Nazis are killing people and we’ve been standing back and watching. This makes us as bad as they are.’
Paul was silenced.
The expression on his face, the scowl of deep concentration, it was clear it was not through lack of anything to say. He understood and when he spoke again it was in a voice made brittle through tension, serious and with eyes fixed on Katka and he said, ‘Only what can we do?’
‘We can do whatever we can to stop them.’
Paul began shaking his head.
‘No.’ Katka said, ‘I know what you’re thinking and it’s not pointless. We have to do something. We cannot simply stand by and watch. How could we forgive ourselves?’
Paul nodded. He did not speak.
‘Where do you think they take these people?’ Katka asked, knowing that Paul would not know the answer. ‘How long do you think they keep
them here and how many? They must be able to fit a few hundred in here, shoulder to shoulder, standing room only, and then they tell them to strip and they leave their clothes on the floor in a pile.’
Paul still did not speak. Instead he pushed past Katka to the door, clumsily bumping his way to the carriage door and then stumbling to ground. He dropped to his knees, hands on the frozen ground in front of him and he vomited like a sick cat.
‘They kill them. All of them’
‘Is that what the truck driver said.’ Paul asked, looking over his shoulder at Katka.
Katka nodded.
‘Paul stood up. ‘You’re right.’
‘The driver said there were camps.’
‘I’ve heard the same.’ Paul said, ‘There are camps. I don’t know where, in the north, I think, in Poland, and they take them there. No one comes back.’
‘So we will join the fight against them’ Katka said, ‘We will do what we can to fight the Nazis.’.
There was no need for Paul to answer. Katka had spoken with such authority, such sincerity, there was no way he could disagree. He opened his mouth to speak, breathed out instead.
A sudden shout interrupted them, ‘Hey!’ it said.
Katka and Paul instinctively ducked into the shadows
But the voice who had called out, that belonged to a figure that was running towards them, was friendly, like the greeting of an old friend, or a new friend - Katka let the air out from her lungs, she laughed. it was only the truck driver.
Katka’s relief was imense, ‘Hey, over here.’ she called out, not bothering to keep her voice down.
He ran over, leant in through the door and smiled. A sense of excitement glistening from his face. ‘Quick.’ he said, ‘I’ve found something.’ and then he led them along the track, between the linked carriages and deeper into the maze of the holding depot.
‘This train.’ the truck driver said once they were far from the station building and next to more rows of train carriages. ‘It’s must have just come in.’ and he slid open theheavy wooden doors.
Inside were wooden boxes and crates, stacked high and all marked with stenciled writing in white paint. ‘Look.’ he said and took hold of one of the boxes. He turned it with his hands to show them what was written on the side.
‘Granate.’ he said, reading what was written. Then he translated for them, ‘It’s German for grenade.’
Katka and Paul leant forward to look.
‘All of these boxes, all of them marked the same.’
‘Ammunition.’ Paul said at once.
‘To reinforce the army.’ Katka said, ‘What shall we do?’
But the look on Paul’s face told her it was obvious. ‘It’s our chance to do something.’ he said and he took out the box of matches. ‘Do it.’ he said to Katka, ‘Start a fire and we can watch this whole train be destroyed.’
The truck driver smiled at the idea. He watched intently as Katka put out her hand and took the match box.
‘Quickly.’ Paul said, and putting the edge of the crowbar, that he must have picked up after Katka had dropped it, beneath the lid of the crate, he forced it open. Inside, nestled like eggs were about twelve German army stick grenades, packed in with straw.
‘Light the straw.’ Paul said.
Katka struck a match. But before she could toss it into the dry yellow grass she felt something zip past her ear. It was followed by the sharp crack of a rifle and Katka knew at once what was happening.
‘Get down!’ She shouted.
At once Paul dived to the ground, he rolled himself against the wheels of the train carriage to give himself cover. Katka leapt up into the carriage itself, positioning herself at the edge of the door with just enough time to see the flit of dark grey figures at the far end of the train.
‘Soldiers.’ Paul shouted.
Another crack of a rifle fire, immediately followed by two more.
‘Quick. Move.’ Katka shouted to the truck driver, who was still standing, completely exposed between the train tracks.
But he did not move. Instead he teetered for a second on his feet, supported by his solid build, and the expression on his face transfixed, it seemed, staring ahead at the movement of the soldiers as they got closer.
Katka thought he was scared, paralysed by fear. She had heard this was possible, but when she saw the red stain appear on the breast of his jacket, the open mouthed and vacant stare as he plunged forward, face first into the ground, she knew this was not the case.
It was the first time Katka had seen someone be killed. And the suddenness of it, the awful complete simplicity of it, held her completely. For several seconds she could not move, she could not think and she stared helplessly at his bulky form.
It was Paul that revived her. ‘Katka!’ he called to her, ‘Quick. Now. do it.’
But Katka had not heard what Paul had told her to do.
Quick, she thought, quick what? What do I do? The thoughts swirled in her head, as up ahead the grey movement of soldiers as they zigzagged closer, moving from cover to cover between the railway carriages. One of them went down on one knee and, almost in slow motion raised his rifle and fired two shots in succession. The bullets buried themselves into the wood of the boxcar, sending splinters of wood flying like shrapnel.
This brought Katka to her senses.
Paul was still shouting. Katka heard him now, ‘The grenades.’ he shouted, ‘Give me one!’
Katka wasted no more time. She reached into the box and took hold of one of the wooden handles. It was far heavier than she thought it
would be. She dropped it down to Paul, who caught it, and in one swift movement primed it, lifted himself up and threw it at the soldiers.
Boom!
The light of the explosion, the sound, knocked Katka back.
It kept the soldiers back too. They dived to the ground. Paul took his chance then and stood up and reached into the carriage and took
another two grenades from the box.
He threw again.
Boom!
This time he must have hit someone. It was clear by the cry of terror in the half-second before the grenade exploded.
‘Grab the guns.’ Paul shouted and when Katka didn’t know what he meant he yelled, ‘The other boxes. Open them. I’ll hold them off. Use the crowbar.’
Katka moved fast. She went straight to one of the bigger boxes and forced the crowbar beneath the lid. Just in time, more soldiers must have arrived then, and with the sound of more gunfire. Bullets began hammering like hail stones on the wood of the train carriage. And this made Katka work faster. She blindly pulled whatever she could from the boxes - linked chains of bullets, magazine clips, the long barrel of a machine gun.
‘Quick!’ Paul yelled.
Katka took hold of the long stick-like stem of a magazine, she thrust it into the machine gun she was holding and then dropped it down to Paul.
He seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
He cocked the gun and opened fire.
A sudden burst of light. Loud, angry like a drum roll.
Katka took another gun and loaded it in the same way. She leant through the door and squeezed the trigger. The kick of the gun punched her in the shoulder. The gun itself bucked and bounced in her hands as if alive.
But the enemy soldeirs were too many.
‘We can’t hold them off shouted Paul, then sensing an escape route, shouted, ‘Quick! Let’s go.’ and he grabbed hold of Katkas arm and pulled her from the compartment doorway, ‘We need to get out of here.
They ran through the carriages, climbing over the couplings and spurred on by the shouts of soldiers, who had seem them escape, who were giving chase.
But Katka and Paul were too fast for them, too eager to get away and it was as if their instinct to survive was all they needed. They made it to the other side of the train yard and could only hear the sound of the German soldiers, heavily laden and unable to fit themslves through the gap between the carriages, far behind them.
‘What now?’ Katka said to Paul.
‘We need shelter, there’s no way out.’
‘Where?’ Katka asked, only able, in the frantic rush to escape, to speak one word at a time.
‘There!’ said Paul and he pointed towards a small outbuilding only a short distance from where they stood. It was a risk, a poor place to hide for very long, but it was all they had. It was their only chance at surviving.