Chapter 3 – The Graveyard Shift

The evening of August 15, 1942

As daylight broke, a rooster’s cock-a-doodle-doo was heard in the distance as the brothers sifted and shifted through the thick pine coniferous forest. Their guerilla warfare tactics kept them invisible until they had to expose themselves at a farmers’ haystack. Here, the brothers hid any evidence of involvement in the Polish underground. But today was different.

“The haystack is gone! God damn it. Where will I put the pistol?” exclaimed Andrzej.

Stanisław, being a voice of reason, replied, “Did the farmer move the haystack? Did the Nazis? We can’t abandon the pistol, as we don’t know when or if we will ever be able to get a replacement.”

Their faces grew puzzled as they pondered what to do. “I’ll have to hide it later tonight,” Andrzej said. “For now, I will put it inside my pillowcase until we find a new hiding spot. We are only a thirty-minute trek from home. Come on, let’s get some sleep.”

As they walked the final leg of their journey back to their parents’ home, neither spoke a word of the deeds they had done. They arrived in the small town of Sochaczew at their parents’ home. The Cobaltski brothers promptly bathed and rested their weary bodies.

Stanislaw was born on December 11th, 1924 and lived in Sochaczew with his three brothers (Józio, Valerian, and Andrezj), sister (Helen), mother (Maria), and father (Henryk). On September 3, 1939, the small town in central Poland had been bombed on the third day of World War II. The Polish Army, during the Battle of the Bzura, was able to retake Sochaczew during their counterattack, but the Poles abandoned Sochaczew on September 15, after a fierce and bloody battle. Almost half of the town lay in ruins two weeks into the Second World War. Stanislaw’s high-school career abruptly ended only a few days into his freshman year. By August of 1942, the war had ravaged into its thirty fifth month.

Mother had almost completed the evening meal. It was feasting time! The table was filled with kielbasa, pierogies, czarnina, cherries, kruschiki, plums wrapped in bacon, oscypek, and plenty of Zubrowka Vodka—a local spirit from the Bialystok forest where Europe’s largest land mammal - bison roam. Each vodka bottle contained a single piece of long thick bison grass; the vodka was their father’s favorite spirit to imbibe. Today was the 15th of August—a holiday that the Poles celebrated for beating the Soviet Union in the Polish–Soviet War. Twenty two years earlier their father marched into the Soviet Union and was victorious in taking large swaths of land away from the Bolsheviks.

“Come out to the dining room before the meal gets cold! It is time to imbibe! Conviviality will not wait!” yelled their mother.

The father laughed. “You should really use smaller words with our children. There might not be any school, but the other kids in town will never speak these words unless they peruse a dictionary!”

A sleepy Stanisław came into the living room to join his father, younger sister Helen, brothers Józio and Valerian, as well as his mother, but Andrzej was still sound asleep, exhausted from their morning deeds. Growing impatient, his father went into the bedroom so that the evening meal could be served while warm.

“Supper, supper! Wake up!” Yelled his incessant father. When Andrzej did not budge, he grabbed the pillow from under his head and started smashing it on his cranium. The first strike of the cushion was playful and did not alarm Andrzej. The second strike was oddly much harder! He realized the pillow’s weight was heavier than normal when it smashed into his head. The pistolet! Andrzej’s eyes opened, darted around, as he realized the illicit contraband was still hidden inside the pillowcase. He knew his father would curse, scream, and beat him mightily for bringing such a dangerous weapon into their house!

He went to stop his father before he could strike a third time; but it was too late. The corner of his father’s eye caught a black gleaming WZ 35 VIS falling out of the pillowcase and onto the wooden floor. The handgun was exposed. Andrzej lunged his arm to pick up the gun but his father kicked his hand out of the way and grabbed the pistol first. The furor in the father’s eyes grew satanic! He shook the handgun viciously in the air.

A loud thudding noise penetrated off Andrzej’s face. Instead of a pillow, the butt of the handgun went straight into his cheekbone. Enraged, his father placed the handgun inside his waist and turned toward the kitchen.

“Thank god, you didn’t leave this gun loaded! Who knows what I might have done!”

He stopped walking, turned around, and his hands grabbed his head as a fit of fury overtook his mind. He knew his sons were part of the Underground, but this didn’t bother him or his wife. What struck a chord was the stupidity of his son. You never bring evidence inside your home. Any weaponry could have them all killed!

“Imbecile, what a moronic imbecile” he mumbled and walked into the kitchen.

He sat down at the dinner table with his sons and gazed at the Zubrowka bottle. His family members were staring at him, worried about what the next few hours would entail. What would his father do? The vodka had been poured into shot glasses and he devoured three ounces of bison grass to calm his nerves. He stood up and ordered Stanisław and Andrzej to follow him into the bathroom.

Andrzej proclaimed, “I wasn’t thinking! The Żelazowa haystack was moved and I didn’t want to lose the handgun.”

“Dad understand us, we need it to fight for freedom. For liberty,” chimed in Stanisław.

Once again waving the pistol violently in the air, their father slammed the bathroom door. “I know about defeating the enemy. It is a fact of life in Europe. Don’t you ever bring evidence into this house. Asinine fools! You dingbats weren’t thinking clearly!” His cheeks reddened, veins popping from his forehead, as he started smashing the pistol onto the bathroom floor tiles. The dismembering had begun. Piece by piece it was broken into smaller fragments. The frame, trigger, and barrel were all broken into smaller snippets. He approached the toilet and flushed the gun’s remnants into the sewer system. He wanted no evidence that his sons were in the resistance.

As they left the bathroom for the dining-room table to enjoy the evening’s dinner, Andrzej, with a bruised puffy cheek, cried out, “I’m sorry, pop. Never again, I’ve learned my lesson.”

His father’s anger subsided and he put his arm around Andrzej’s shoulder. “A lesson learned. Come on; let’s eat our meal in peace.”

The family was sitting at the dinner table and their youngest child was devouring a bacon-wrapped plum. Her mother smiled. “Helen! Slow down, if you eat too fast it will go down the wrong pipe! My silly dilly daughter.” Stanisław was enjoying the Oscypek cheese—a rare occurrence saved for special occasions. The smoked cheese is made of salted sheep milk exclusively in the Tatra Mountains region of Southern Poland where climbers practice for mountaineering expeditions to the Himalayas. Oscypek reminded Stanisław of more pleasurable times in his life, before war, when he could frolic on vacation in Southern Poland’s Zakopane valley.

Despite the war starting almost three years earlier, the family was able to get by with enough rations to enjoy a hearty meal a few times a year. They cherished these moments, as at any second life could change in their occupied country.

“Why do Nazis always patrol in groups of three?” asked Stanisław.

His father replied, “That’s a good question. I bet it is because one of them knows how to read, one knows how to add, while the third is there to observe the two suspected intellectuals.”

His mother looked dumbfounded by the joke. “You can do better than that. That’s barely laughable.”

Helen began giggling at her parents. Her chuckles turned into laughter causing the plum seed in her mouth to become a projectile, which landed in a cup full of water that splashed onto Józio. The laughter grew to the entire Cobaltski family. Only a few moments later, a loud knock was heard at the door.

“Did anyone hear that?” asked Helen. “I think someone is at the door?”

“Of course we heard it. It’s the sugar plum fairy,” chimed Józio.

His mother rationalized. “It’s the Gestapo! No one else would dare knock after curfew! Everyone be on your best behavior.” She waved her finger wildly in the air, “Do not be taking shots at or in front of them. And I mean that both figuratively and literally.”

The entire family’s senses were on heightened alert as the brash aggressive knocking at the door intensified. “Open up, open up. This is the SS. Bring outside all men!” Stanisław knew they were to be interrogated.

Knock! Knock! Knock! The Nazis were yelling and screaming and demanded the Cobaltskis come outside.

Within milliseconds, fears of violence led her mother to dash towards the door. She opened slowly, only exposing her face to the SS officers. “May I help you? We are feasting in honor of the Polish–Soviet War. A victory against our common enemy. Would you like a plum wrapped in bacon or another delicious appetizer?”

A tall slim slimy Nazi with sharp polished black leather boots pushed the door open and took one step inside. “Andrezj Cobaltski, come forward! We know what you have done. Not just to the railcar but other crimes against the Third Reich! No excuses will save you from the evidence of your...