Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II by Douglas W. Jacobson Page B

soldiers were sitting in the back, one of them holding a bloody cloth to his head with his left hand.
    When he noticed Jan, the injured boy saluted. Jan straightened up, put on his helmet and returned the salute.
    Chapter 10
    Thaddeus Piekarski was only half listening to the conversation going on around him at the back table in the White Eagle Pub. He took a sip from the glass of beer that had been sitting untouched in front of him and, once again, his thoughts drifted to the frustrating, endless quandary about Anna. It had been ten days without any word of her whereabouts and now that Krakow was under German occupation the prospects of getting any information were nil.
    A fi st banged the table, and Thaddeus swallowed hard, almost choking on the beer. His friend, Jozef Bujak leaned across the table and pointed a thick fi nger at Fryderyk Wawrzyn, a legal counsel for the city of Krakow. “The French and British will attack Germany, anyone can see that,” Bujak declared.
    He shot a quick glance at the others sitting around the table then lowered his voice, drawing them in. Thaddeus had seen his burly colleague in action many times. His theatrics were surpassed only by his passion. Bujak pressed on.
    “Hitler has made a gross miscalculation. Germany is fi nished. Our allies will not let him grab Poland without a fi ght.”
    “I think you’re dead wrong,” Wawrzyn said. “The French are sitting comfortably behind their Maginot Line, and they’re not going to stick their necks out for Poland. If they wouldn’t help the Czechs why would they help us?”
    “Christ, Fryderyk, England and France have declared war on Germany,”
    Bujak hissed. “Of course, they’ll attack.”
    “Oh hell, the French were coerced into that by the Brits, Jozef. You’re beginning to sound like those jackasses running our government. The Brits can’t do anything without France and the French aren’t going to attack Germany. That declaration of war was just an attempt to throw Hitler off balance. It’s hollow.”
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    Douglas W. Jacobson
    Bujak glared at him, took a gulp of beer and called out to the waiter to bring another round. He set the empty glass down with a thump and turned toward Thaddeus. “Thaddeus, help me out here. That friend of yours in Belgium, the one Anna lived with for awhile, what the hell’s his name?”
    “Do you mean Rene Leffard?” Thaddeus asked, looking at his friend with concern. Bujak’s fl eshy cheeks had reddened as they always did when he got worked up, a result of his excessive weight and high blood pressure.
    “Yes, that’s it. If I recall, he’s pretty well connected in France and Belgium and you correspond with him. What’s his view on this?”
    Thaddeus pushed his beer glass to the side and placed both hands on the table in front of him. “Well, it certainly won’t be possible to correspond with him any longer, not until this is all over. But in his last few letters he sounded increasingly doubtful that the French would attack Germany to help out Poland.”
    “But damn it all, Thaddeus, what about—”
    Thaddeus held up his hand. “Let me fi nish, Jozef. Leffard thinks the political situation in France is too unstable, and I have to agree with him. The French will talk tough but, in the end, I think they’ll just sit tight and see what happens.”
    Bujak slumped back in his chair with a scowl and turned back toward Wawrzyn. “Well, Fryderyk, if we’re in this alone, what’s the city government going to do to protect its citizens now that we’re under occupation?”
    “What city government are you talking about?” Wawrzyn shot back. “It’s all under German control now. Our advice to the city offi cials who are still in place is to take a low profi le and try and cooperate. You heard about what happened in Poznan, didn’t you?”
    Bujak shook his head.
    “The SS moved in right behind the Wehrmacht and dragged the mayor and his wife out of their home and shot them, right in their own