AN ISLE IN THE SKY

Chapter 1

Warsaw, January 7, 1943

Some memories are better left untouched.

Warsaw, a lighthearted place pre-war, greeted Georg with the eyesores of damaged buildings in place of former architectural masterpieces. Dirty snow covered the ruins in a pathetic attempt to camouflage the sweeping transformation, all in vain, for the gloomy faces of Poles said it loud and clear: welcome to the devastation of war.

The chilly draft found its way to his neck through the closed windows of the limousine. Georg raised the collar of his overcoat. “Hans. Slow down, please. I want to see this building,” he told the driver.

The Hotel European, Enrico Marconi’s Neo-Renaissance tour de force, came into view on the right-hand side. Undamaged. An unexpected pleasure rush rippled through Georg’s veins, warming his heart. Five years after he and Rachel had won the Under-eighteen International Ballroom competition, the European’s grand edifice stood as a monument to the Austerlitz of his youth. At least one place had remained intact for an unrushed visit down nostalgia lane.

“I don’t know why you care about those buildings, because all of this,” Hans made a circle in the air with his index finger, “will be razed. The new Warsaw will be erected according to the Fuhrer’s vision. The Aryan landmarks will be preserved, of course. Governor Fischer has a model of the German city of Warsaw in his office, if you want to see it.”

“That’s the dumbest idea,” Georg muttered under his breath.

“What did you say, Herr Hauptmann?”

“Thanks for the tour, Hans. Let’s go back. You can turn right on Jerusalem Avenue.”

“Where?”

“Here.” Georg pointed at the intersection.

Hans hit the brakes. The Opel Admiral limousine voiced its disgust with a high-pitched screech, jolted, and slid sideways on the snow-covered cobblestones of New World Avenue. Hans cursed. “This is Bahnhof Strasse. I don’t know these Polish names you mention, Herr Hauptmann. Do you know where you want to go?”

Georg wasn’t in the mood to argue with the Bavarian about proper names for Warsaw streets. “We’re going to Café Adria. You need to turn right on Marszalkowska at the next intersection.”

“Marschall Strasse?” Hans asked.

“Yes, Marschall Strasse.”

The Opel passed a streetcar and stopped at the intersection, awaiting a signal from a traffic guard wearing a Luftwaffe blue-gray wool overcoat, the uniform identical to Georg’s, except for rank insignia: the plain epaulettes and the sleeve chevron of an Airman in place of Georg’s Captain patch. What is he doing conducting city traffic? Georg marveled at the absurdity of Wehrmacht bureaucracy that reassigned an airfield soldier to traffic duties.

The boxy building of Warsaw’s Central Railway Station ahead reminded Georg of his ill-fated foray four days ago. He had no one to blame but himself for slipping on the icy platform of the station and turning his trip to buy cigarettes into a hospital stay. Doctor Mauch said his ankle wound would have reopened anyway because of the infection. Poor consolation. In a few more hours, he would have been home in Breslau, infection or no infection.

Across Marszalkowska, twenty or so gray figures in rags labored at a pile of rubble in the far corner of the vast space that used to be the old Central Railway Station. Two Polish policemen in blue uniforms supervised the cleaning operation.

A figure wearing pants a few inches too short caught Georg’s eyes. Wide swaths of mottled, bluish skin above the ankles screamed frostbite. The sleeves of the figure's overcoat were also too short, ending just below the elbows, but the sewn-on, mismatched additions reached to the fingers. Displayed above the additions was a yellow Star of David, which also marked the sleeves of the other workers.

"Jews. From the ghetto." Hans too noticed the work party. "Jews are like cockroaches. They’re everywhere. You can go to a most remote place in any country on Earth, knock on a door of the finest house there, and pull out a Jew.

Georg couldn’t contain his laughter. The Bavarian from a village near Oberammergau had not even been to Munich, let alone Berlin or any foreign lands, and yet he knew everything there was to know about the Jews and the world, thanks to the “wisdom” he acquired listening to that idiot, Doctor Goebbels.

Hans misinterpreted Georg’s laughter for a sign of approval and chuckled along. Georg began to regret getting in the car with the dim-witted Bavarian.

The traffic guard must’ve forgotten about them, undoubtedly one of the clueless rookies assigned to a task without any proper training. Georg checked the rearview mirror. Behind the limousine, a long line of carriages and automobiles patiently waited for the guard’s signal. Georg smiled at his reflection. He was going to have a good time at the lunch with Governor Fischer, who’d been kind enough to send his personal driver to bring Georg to their rendezvous at Café Adria. Tomorrow, he would press Doctor Mauch to let him take a train home if he made it on his own through the day. There were plenty of military hospitals in Breslau.

Across the street, the Jewish figure turned, revealing the face of a boy who had outgrown his clothes years ago. The youth passed a large block of cement to a girl wearing a colorful folk shawl with floral motifs wrapped around her head. The heavy block slipped through her fingers; she tried to catch it, but the block rolled down her legs and hit the ground. The Jews broke the line to help the girl, who was bent over, rubbing her knee. With kicks and shoves, the policemen goaded the laborers back into line.

The Opel finally turned onto Marszalkowska. The girl straightened, and Georg got a good look at her. He jumped up, hitting his head against the roof of the limousine. Rachel!

"Stop the car, please," Georg said.

Hans gingerly applied the brakes and pulled over.

Georg bolted out. Immediately, a gust of cold air slapped him in the face. He turned sideways and braced himself against the wind.

Using his cane, Georg limped down the street as fast as his leg allowed. What good fortune to stumble upon her like this. He hadn’t thought he would see her again when she and her family moved east after the Kristallnacht pogroms. How ironic to find her in Warsaw of all places: the city where they’d triumphed, the city where they’d fallen in love.

The chilly air biting into his lungs, Georg slowed down to catch his breath. An elderly Jew behind Rachel spotted him first and stopped working, which drew attention from the other Jews and the two policemen. Rachel too lifted her head, and Georg saw that she recognized him. She’d aged in the four years since he’d last seen her, but her beautiful chestnut eyes remained intact, measuring him, assessing the situation. Poor thing, she’d lost a lot of weight. At least she’d managed to stay alive. How was her family? Her mother had always liked him. Her father—not so much. Oh, what did it matter now?

Georg came closer. "Rachel, it’s me."

Something flickered in those eyes. She swiveled her head around as if looking for somewhere to put the block of cement she held.

Georg took the block from her hands. "Do you recognize me?"

She remained silent, still looking around. No one was coming to the rescue, as the stunned Jews and their guards stayed frozen, their mouths agape, venting plumes of white steam.

"Rachel, don't be afraid." Georg lowered his voice. “I can help you. This time will be different, you’ll see.”

"Ah...I'm not afraid. It's just...I'm not your Rachel."

A policeman came to life. He shuffled closer, vacillated, retreated half a step to a safe distance, and then plucked up his courage to address Georg. "What can we assist, Herr Officer?" he said in broken German.

Georg handed him the block of cement.

"You don't recognize me, Rachel?"

“Ah...I'm afraid you're mistaken, Herr Officer. My name is Sulamif,” she said.

Nothing changed in her expression.

Georg shifted from foot to foot, forgetting about his injury and the cane. His left ankle didn't like the maneuver. Georg waited out the pain, his mind stuck on the icy reception. For some strange reason, he burned to tell her about his discovery of an intact Hotel European. But she already knew that.

After a hard swallow, he found his voice. “Where are you from, Sulamif?” He immediately cursed himself inwardly. What a dumb question.

“Here. Warsaw.”

“Really? Your German is very good. Where did you learn to speak like this?”

“Jagiellonian University in Cracow.”

“Sure.” Georg was losing his patience. Enough of the games.

She stared at him. The familiar cold glint of her irises—the implacable stubbornness that he knew so well—was now accentuated by the dark circles under her eyes. Time and starvation had sharpened her delicate features, but Georg had no doubt it was her. If only he knew what to do or how to confront her. Should he even try under the circumstances? Maybe she was too embarrassed to face him in her current humiliation, dressed in rags and doing slave labor for the victors. Georg’s heart rent. His proud girl was reduced to a forced laborer. What a torture the ghetto life must have been for her.

Cane in hand, Georg opened his arms to hug her. “Rachel, my dear, I’ll get you out.”

She recoiled in fright as if some deranged lunatic was attacking her. Georg’s arms fell down by his sides.

She got a hold of herself, took the block of cement from the guard’s hands and passed it to the old man. She’d always taken the initiative, and this seemed no different. Four years had passed, and their lives had clearly changed, yet in her current untenable situation, she was not in a hurry to take his helping hand. Why?

The line of Jews returned to work. The policemen backed off, leaving Georg to his confusion. He grasped for a suitable course of action, some clever response to regain control. His brain emptied. All he craved was a glance, a sign that she may change her mind or at least give him a chance to explain. Had she grown bitter after years of misery and were taking revenge on him for all the sufferings she had endured? Was she showing him that she had never forgiven him for the way they had parted?

Georg shifted his weight from his good leg to the cane. To hell with formalities. Go, hug and kiss her. His mind prompted him to move, but his body would not obey. A long forgotten sense of loss pierced his heart. Standing only an arm length away from her would not bridge the gap between them, and just as four years ago, he could do nothing about it.

The only initiative Georg could undertake was to shamble back to the limousine, carrying the burden of humiliation on his shoulders. Halfway there, he slipped and would most likely have fallen if not for Hans, who had come over to help him the rest of the way to the car.

Blood boiling, Georg dropped onto the squeaky seat. “Let’s go,” he barked to the driver.

In the distance, Rachel and the Jews stared in his direction, which somehow offended him even more. The elderly Jew put his arm around Rachel’s shoulder, unheeded by the two Polish policemen, and rested his stubbly grey cheek against her colorful shawl. Shipwrecked and miserable, Georg averted his gaze. It should’ve been him. What a cruel fate to find and lose her at the same time.