Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

3. Heinrich

3

Heinrich

Poland, Late Winter 1944 (six years later)

K onrad flinched as the rat-tat-tat of a distant rifle echoed off pockmarked buildings. The Nazi army were the only predators lurking about Poland for the past few years, and, while we had jointly occupied the country with Stalin’s men for a brief span, we were still unused to the odd Soviet-style gunfire.

“They’re getting closer,” he muttered.

Konrad reached up and adjusted his cap, stuffing sandy blond curls beneath the faded fabric before scooting forward, his belly dragging a line in the snow that covered the office building’s roof. Once in position near the edge, he lifted binoculars to his eyes and slowed his breathing.

We were perched atop the tallest building in Voivodeship, a tiny Polish town positioned miles from anything remotely important. Command had selected the village because it was insignificant, a location few but locals knew—or cared about.

Below, a smattering of aging structures surrounded a ramshackle courthouse. Our troops’ retreat, followed quickly by the Soviet advance, ensured the pristine snow of the streets remained little more than murky sludge.

“I know it’s chilly back home, but this feels worse, like living in an icebox,” I said, rubbing my gloved hands together, begging for blood flow to offer respite. “They will control Warsaw soon.”

I immediately regretted my words.

Konrad would be impossible to soothe once that seed took root in his mind. The man had a fragile constitution and an even more brittle will.

“Do you remember home?” I asked. “Before all this? Before the war?”

For a moment, neither of us stirred, then Konrad whispered, “Yeah.”

“Where are you from?”Another moment passed.

“North. Near Denmark.”

Konrad was normally chatty, the man in our unit who never shut up. Perhaps it was the Soviet soldiers below. Maybe it was the winter chill. Something stilled his tongue.

Until it loosened.

“We have so much land, Heinrich. Hundreds of acres of farmland. Between the fields whose grains towered above my head and forests thick with trees, I spent most of my youth lost and searching for a path home. My little sister was even worse.”

His voice softened at a memory.

“My mamalein ran the house.” A wistful chuckle escaped. “Hell, she ran everything . If the High Command ever recruited her, all men would follow. They’d be too afraid of her wooden spoons not to.”

I smiled at the simple pleasure in his tone, then realized he’d said ran .

“Where is she now?”

Unintelligible Russian drifted from below. He lowered his binoculars and looked at me.

“They’re all dead, Heinrich.”

My heart sank. “I am sorry—”

“I don’t think the Allies meant . . . Their bombs fell, and our home burned. We were far from anything. I will never know . . .”

I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. We weren’t close, and I despised comforting another man, loathed weakness that required such comfort, but I needed him stable as we stared down at enemy soldiers.

“I am sorry, Konrad.”

He grunted. “The Führer had already called me. I was not there when . . . I should have been there. I should have died with them.”

What could I say to that? I had no words, no gestures, nothing to offer.

He lifted his glasses and stared for a moment before lowering them and half turning toward me. “Are we the last?”

I kept my eyes forward, searching the empty streets. A pair of Polish children raced across, darting from the safety of one burned-out building to another.

“There are a few teams left. Command needs eyes here if they are going to mount a counter—”

“A counter what ?” He snorted, a too-loud sound that teetered between amusement and disgust. He lowered his voice. “Heinrich, Poland is lost. The Soviets have barely knocked on the door, and our troops are already gone. There is no resistance, no counteroffensive, no anything. Poland is lost. Berlin—”“Berlin will stand forever. We have liberated many people, and more will yet know life beneath our banner. The Reich will outlive us all. You will see.”

Neither of us believed my words, but they were the mantra of our Führer, which made them true.

Konrad snorted again, lifting his glasses and peering across the horizon.

Another round of gunfire sounded, then artillery boomed.

A plume of smoke rose a dozen blocks away.

“So close,” he mumbled. “Should we go? Fall back a few blocks? I do not think they are moving quickly.”

I scanned the nearby streets and buildings. Voivodeship was insignificant, far enough from the main road to Warsaw that I was surprised the Red Army had even bothered with the place.

But here they were.

We guessed some four hundred men marched toward us, a fraction of the wave that would surely follow. Most were likely scouts, but one never knew in war. The presence of artillery spoke more of the tip of a spear than mere scouts getting the lay of the land.

Four hundred soldiers outnumbered the residents of the town.

“Shit.” Konrad dropped his binoculars.

“What?”

Gunfire, distant only a moment earlier, sounded so loud I nearly bolted for cover.

He rolled onto his side and fumbled in his heavy cloak, ignoring how much snow he scooped inside the fold that kept him warm. When his hand reappeared, a black-cased camera with silver dials took the binoculars’ place at his eye.

“What are you doing?”

“The Soviets are rounding up civilians.”

“They’re what? What do you mean? Jews?”

“Do Soviets care about Jews?” he snapped.

“No, not really; but if they’re killing Jews, that’s fewer for us—”

“Heinrich! This is our land. Those are our Pols. If they are Jews, we can deal with them later. For now, Soviets are rounding up our people.”

Seeing the red banner invade territory we occupied was horrifying, but I didn’t understand why Konrad was so worked up over someone else killing a few Jews. Given enough time, we would do the same. The Soviets were doing our work for us.

“Here.” He shoved the binoculars at me while he continued observing through the camera. “Look for yourself. There must be three, maybe four, dozen men down there . . . and . . . they’re bringing in a line of more. Women and . . . there’s children, Heinrich, small children.”

“And a couple hundred Soviet soldiers,” I muttered, unable to wrap my head around the scene unfolding below. A group of Pols—factory workers and farmers, by the look of them—huddled in the center of the town square, a small, open space ringed by buildings typical in any town in Eastern Europe. A fountain, its water frozen by winter’s wrath, stood silent behind the group.

We were close enough to fire off a shot at the outer ring of Soviets. Maybe Konrad had been right. We should’ve left when we had the chance.

“Is that a colonel?” I asked, squinting through the binoculars.

“Maybe. It’s hard to tell their epaulets apart up close. From up here, he could be Stalin himself. They’re all gold with stars or stars with gold. It’s a wonder they can tell the difference.”

The colonel, or whatever he was, strode forward like he was the king of Poland. His chin raised, he clasped his hands behind his rigid back. His men leveled rifles at the cowering civilians.

“Can you hear him?”

Konrad shook his head. “Wouldn’t matter if I could. I don’t speak Russian.”

He did speak Polish, though, which was the whole point of us being left behind. Surely, the Soviet commander did, too. Why else would he be marching back and forth before those people, speaking as calmly as if he attended a dinner party?

Unfortunately, all we could hear was the commander’s tone. His words were lost to the wind.

Click.

Click, click.

“What are you doing now?”

Click.

“Taking photos. If anything happens, Berlin will want to see it.”

Once an intelligence officer, always an intelligence officer, so the saying went. I had to give it to Konrad; he was quick on his feet. I hadn’t even thought to bring a camera, much less a local one most wouldn’t glance at twice. The Leica was a marvelous piece; though, the Soviets would likely sneer at the local brand and etchings that were as far from Cyrillic as markings got.

Click, click.

“You sure Berlin will want to see images of a Soviet lecturing a group of farmers on how he and Stalin just freed them from our tyrannical grip?”

Konrad clicked again.

“Something’s about to happen. I can feel it,” he said. “Look at how the Pols shuffle back. They are terrified. Why would they be scared of men sent to save them?”

I squinted, then raised the binoculars again.

He was right.

The farmers looked pale and as frightened as when we had first arrived with our liberating force, the women even more so. Children cried and clung to mothers.

What was our colonel up to?

“We need to get out of here. Whatever they’re doing, it’ll go badly for us if—”

Gunfire exploded throughout the courtyard below.

The colonel had stepped back so the nearby soldiers had a clear shot.

The Polish—simple farmers and merchants, mothers and sons and daughters—dropped en masse, wheat beneath the scythe.

“Holy shit!” Konrad shouted as he bolted upright, then remembered his camera and began clicking as quickly as the device would allow.

A bullet pinged off the parapet a yard from my head.

Then another to Konrad’s left.

“Get down!” I hissed.

A barrage of bullets flew in our direction, and Konrad’s body flailed like clothing hung out to dry in a billowing wind. He never had time to speak or cry out. He didn’t look down or signal. Blood splattered across snow, weaving the most macabre blanket of crimson and white.

The camera fell from his grasp, and his body dropped so fast I could barely think.

Shouts barked below.

I peeked around the parapet.

Soldiers raced toward the building—toward our position.

The colonel was pointing up at us.

My heart boomed.

I shoved off the edge of the roof and turned to flee. Something tickled the back of my mind, and I turned back and snatched up the camera.

A bullet whizzed by my head.

I threw myself to the roof as Russians shouted, “Вот еще один!”

I didn’t understand the words but knew exactly what they meant.

With bullets trailing behind, I raced across the rooftop and leaped atop the neighboring building, then slid down a drainpipe to land on a second-floor balcony. Konrad and I had slept in the abandoned apartment the night before. There was no electricity, but the mid-level placement of the living space kept the wind and chill at bay. The former residents had left a few loaves of bread in the pantry.

“This is as good a place as any to hide,” I muttered, brushing the snow off my coat as I tried to rein in my panicked breath.

Then artillery fired.