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Distant voices drifted across my mind, chasing an already forgotten dream from my consciousness. There were male and female voices both, and I fancied I could tell of varying ages. Some were in languages I did not recognize but too were some, at least, in my native Romanian.
I happily recognized Nicolae’s voice among them, calling out to someone, and for a minute or two I lay listening to them, trying to make sense of their fleeting conversations.
I could feel the sun’s warmth on my face, daylight once again upon us. My eyes flickered open, adjusting slowly to the brightness. Above me the tree stood proud, its branches swaying gently in a light breeze scented by a confetti of cascading pastel blossoms that evoked cheering memories of halcyon days. An effulgent sun stood proud in the sky above.
My anxieties of the previous night were gone, for I knew Nicolae to be safe, and as yet concern about Mama was not heavy upon my mind. I felt relaxed in my decumbent position, though I remembered well the pain that attempts at movement had wrought upon me previously. Nonetheless I resolved to defy such discomfort this morning and rise shortly to investigate my circumstances.
I lay still a little longer, enjoying the sun’s warmth and allowing my strength to build, then with slow, cautious movements, made as if to sit up. Searing pain ran through my shoulder at the attempt and I cried out, throwing my body onto one side to try and escape the torment that beset me. All at once I heard a demulcent voice at my side and firm hands took me around the waist, raising me to a sitting position before tilting my body back to rest against the trunk of a tree.
The face of my benefactor now became apparent as he crouched before me, offering a welcome smile and comforting words, but his language was alien, only his tone making sense. He was dressed in peasant clothes yet around his waist an ammunition belt hung, and slung over his shoulder a rifle further challenged this bucolic first impression.
I tried to speak, for the tumescence had subsided and my tongue could at least move, but my lips were still sore, the skin broken and scab-ridden, my vocal chords not yet willing to respond to my will. Realising my bewilderment the man to my fore gestured to someone behind me, and seconds later another figure appeared, similarly attired to the first.
“Anca, how are you feeling now, child?” He spoke in hesitant, broken Romanian, but I was grateful for the familiar words.
I attempted an answer without success and raised my strong hand to my throat to indicate my plight. The man gestured his understanding and, turning to his friend, spoke quickly in a foreign tongue, after which the first man took his leave. The second turned to me again and ventured to explain himself.
“My name is Karol,” he said slowly. “I speak only a little Romanian. I am sorry.” He paused, as if uncertain I had understood him. I nodded for him to continue.
“Do you perhaps speak Polish, or German?”
I shook my head, braving the obtuse pain.
The man calling himself Karol shrugged in resignation. “Then I will try to my best to explain. First, your brother is safe and well, as you will by now know.”
At Nicolae’s mention I tried to look around that I might see him, but there was no sign within the limited range of my vision and pain prevented me searching further afield.
“He is in good hands,” Karol assured me. “He is unhurt. You, however, must rest for many days. You have a... What is the word... An injury, to your shoulder. A bullet passed through you, but no vital organs were touched and you will soon heal. It was a lucky escape for you, Anca. There were very few survivors.”
I nodded slowly. This news was not unexpected, but the confirmation was no easier for that.
He asked, “You are not Jewish?”
I shook my head.
“I thought not. Yet you were in the same wagon?”
Again I tried to speak, to explain, but quickly retired from the challenge. Witnessing my struggle Karol urged me to be silent.
“I will speak. You will listen.”
I nodded again and Karol began a slow and laboured explanation of the events that had brought us together. “You will know already how you came to be on a train full of Jews. More so than I. How so is no longer important. Also you will perhaps know you were bound for Krakow, there to go on to a resettlement camp.”
Again I nodded assent.
Karol paused, choosing his words carefully. “We struck at the train two days ago now. Some few kilometres west of here. Explosives beneath the tracks.”
He saw my look of confusion at this news and added, “Please understand, child, you were not the target. It should not have been your train that we took out, though your fate can only be the better for it.”
I looked into his eyes, trying to understand his meaning, but could make no sense of his reasoning. He was speaking again and I listened carefully.
“Unfortunately we returned too late to save many. The Nazis had already turned their weapons upon the survivors and left you for dead.”
This much I knew already, for the image of the Nazi soldier firing upon us was not one I would soon forget.
“We tracked a few of them,” Karol continued, “but most got away, over the border into Czechoslovakia.”
He saw my surprise at this observation and ventured to add, “You are in Poland now, Anca, far from your own country. Perhaps when you are fully recovered you will wish to try and return to Romania? I cannot say what will be best for you.”
I briefly considered the suggestion while my benefactor chose his next words.
If we had crossed the border then logic dictated Krakow could not be far, for I knew it to be a city in Poland. Whatsoever its distance, I knew that Mama was bound there, and that it must be our destination. But unable to communicate such sentiments I lay still, preserving my strength, concentrating once more as Karol continued his explanation.
“Anca, please try to understand. We can care for you for a few days, but no more. There are too many of you – about thirty in all – and we are not equipped for such a venture. Our comrades in the Resistance will be waiting for us. Already we are behind in our tasks.”
The Resistance. I had heard this word whispered many times by Papa, before his execution. If I still did not understand who or what they were, I drew solace from the knowledge that Papa had spoken highly of them, although I knew such only from overheard snatches of conversations.
Karol spoke again. I was thankful for the pauses as he struggled to select his words, for it gave me time to organize my own thoughts.
He said, “But for now, child, you must rest. Your brother Nicolae is quite safe. He will come to you later. But only by resting will you have the strength to... To survive, once we are gone. So please, rest now. Build up your strength. My comrades will provide you with food and water, but they do not speak your language. We are all Poles or Slovaks, I am sorry. Please be patient.”
He took my hand briefly, and then was gone, back into the undergrowth not far distant, and I was alone, looking forward to seeing Nicolae once more.