War Girls Complete Collection Chapter 205

Chapter 19: Peter

H

unger pangs attacked him and he lit one of the precious cigarettes to make it go away. For the umpteenth time he cursed himself for turning a deaf ear to Anna’s pleas to help him escape. He could be somewhere less awful than this place, with food to fill his stomach and winter clothing to keep him warm.

An hour later it was finally dinnertime and he presented his empty bowl to the man in charge of distributing the soup, watching like a hawk that the ladle was filled to the brim. One, two…the man stopped.

“Hey, the ration is three ladles of soup,” Peter protested.

“Sorry, chap. Not today. They cut the provisions again,” the man answered stoically and waved him away. The other prisoners in line pushed at his back, eager to get whatever little food they could.

The constant hunger was the worst. The cold, the boredom, the rough treatment, even the hard work – nothing compared to the gnawing at the intestines the hunger caused. Peter took his bowl and a tiny piece of bread and returned to his barracks, sitting next to Bartosz.

“My mother makes the most delicious

piroggi

,” Bartosz said with a dreamy expression on his face.

Peter spooned his soup, the image of small filled dumplings forming in his mind, while Bartosz continued, “Her piroggi dough is the finest in all of our district. She grinds the flour herself and adds a generous drop of fresh butter from our cows to it…”

All eyes flew to Bartosz, everyone eager to hear about yet another delightful treat from the past. “…then she would take minced meat, from cattle not from pigs, and add an onion, salt and pepper to it…” Peter’s mouth watered as he listened intently to Bartosz’s descriptions and he deluded himself into tasting delicious piroggi instead of the awful dishwater-like soup he was eating. “…then she would add whatever vegetables she had, mostly mushrooms, or tomatoes chopped into tiny pieces…”

By now the experience of eating piroggi completely overwhelmed Peter and his spirit had escaped to a better time when his own mother had still been alive and made this popular Polish dish for her four children. He took up the description where Bartosz left off and added, “We children would beg our mother to roast the piroggi in the pan after boiling them. She’d use a generous amount of butter and the scrumptious smell of roasted piroggi would soon fill the house.”

Everyone in the barracks sighed, as imaginary smells wafted through the air. “She then served the golden piroggi with a light brown crust and each child could eat as many as we wanted.” Wistful sighs roamed the barracks. “Biting into these delicacies was almost like going straight to heaven.” Peter took another spoonful of disgusting soup and sniffed it, eager to recognize the smell of roasted piroggi.

Another prisoner added, “My wife always served them with warm milk fresh from our cows. When I came home after a hard day of work in the fields, she was always waiting for me with fatty, creamy warm milk with every meal.”

Peter licked out his bowl as to not let a single drop of liquid go to waste. Talking about bygone feasts and delicacies was one way to entertain each other and outfox the gnawing hunger – at least for a few minutes. All too soon reality would rear its ugly head again and attack everyone with hunger pangs so strong that the men buckled under the impact.

Shortly before Christmas

restlessness seized the camp. Rumors spread. Gossip mushroomed. Accurate information stayed elusive because the German guards only related the official information of German victories. But new prisoners brought the news that the Allied forces had reached the Rhine.

Peter smiled at this piece of information. Now it wouldn’t be long until the Allies crushed the depleted Wehrmacht and liberated the prisoners of war. Hopes soared in the camp and most everyone wore a wistful smile on their face. They might even be free before the New Year.

Peter already made mental plans to go to Berlin and find his family. A few days later his hopes were crushed as the guards told the prisoners about an offensive in the Ardennes called

Unternehmen

Wacht am Rhein

, Operation Watch on the Rhine, initiated by the Wehrmacht to recapture the harbor of Antwerp and prevent the Allies from landing fresh supplies.

On the morning of 16 December 1944, the Germans completely surprised the Allies by attacking a weakly defended section of the front line. Since the Allies' superior air forces were grounded by the heavily overcast weather conditions, the Wehrmacht scored some quick successes.

Bartosz frowned and whispered, “Do you believe this?”

“I guess at least part of it is true. They haven’t been telling us blatant lies, although they sure know which parts to include and which to leave out,” Peter answered, wondering how much territory the Wehrmacht had actually recaptured.

The guards enjoyed rubbing salt into the wounds of the prisoners and relayed every last detail of the successful attack. “Watch out, losers. Now we’re going to crush you. Our Wehrmacht will encircle and destroy your armies and before the year is over, you’ll beg to negotiate a peace treaty. Once this is wrapped up, our Führer can fully concentrate on the Eastern Front and smash the Ivan.”

The morale in the camp plummeted. Although nobody believed the Germans would be successful with this lunatic endeavor, it certainly meant a considerable delay in the upcoming liberation. More than one of the men wondered how much longer he’d be around. And if he’d ever bear witness to the downfall of the Third Reich.

A few days later members of the International Red Cross arrived to distribute parcels from the family members of the inmates. Just in time for Christmas, the mood surged with the food found inside.

Bartosz carried a package from his mother, and after seeing Peter sitting empty-handed, sat down besides him. “We’ll share. And the next time we’re allowed to write a postcard, you send it to your sister.”

“Thanks.” Peter gave his new friend a warm smile.

His sister Katrina and her boyfriend lived Bartosz’s farm in Poland with Bartosz’s mother, but so far he hadn’t been able to let her know he was alive.

The package was filled to the brim with goods from the farm. Cheese, hard cured sausages, flour, a jar of jam, and dried vegetables. The good woman had even squeezed long underwear and socks into the small box. On the bottom was a postcard, some of the words censored with black ink.

Bartosz pressed the Red Cross issued card against his heart and his face took on a dreamy expression. “One day I’ll see her again. I just hope we both make it through the war.”

“It won’t be long now. The guards can say all they want about the Ardennes offensive, but I doubt the winning streak of the Germans can last. With the Americans fully involved our side has so much more manpower and material…we’ll win sooner or later.”

“Sooner, I hope,” Bartosz answered absentmindedly as he started to read the postcard. “My mom’s fine, but she won’t be able to send another package once the Soviets reach our land.”

“Your mother is a kind-hearted person. The Soviets are about to conquer her village and all she worries about is sending a package to you?” Peter said, knowing full well that the so-called liberators ran rampant in Poland, stealing, killing and raping, not differentiating between German, Polish or even Jewish women freshly escaped from the horrors of the camps.

“She is worried about the Soviets, but she’ll manage. They, too, need the food of the farmers. She writes that she’s glad for the help of Katrina and Richard. With all of us boys gone…”

Peter put a hand on Bartosz’s shoulder, whose three brothers had all been killed in action. He didn’t try to console him with words, because what was there to say?

Nothing. Life was hard and war was unjust.