Two fours ebook

Z A N E J A R R E T

T W O F O U R S

Part one

Copyright © 2026 by Zbigniew Jarzembek

All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination.

First published in Poland 2025 by Ridero

First world edition published in 2026 by Stary Warsztat

ISBN: 978-83-8414-307-0

Chapter 1

Jaffa, Israel 1964

The southern sun beat down on old Jaffa like a relentless spotlight on a stage where every character was the star. Along Beit Eshel Street, not far from the clock tower square, the stone facades baked in the glare. The air was a thick slurry of salt spray, dust, and heavy spices. A chaotic press of children, motorbikes, and delivery trucks fought for space between the market stalls. Someone was hauling crates of oranges; someone else was hollering the price of dates. And so the market moved on in an out-of-tune chant of Hebrew and Arabic.

"Falafel, hot falafel!"

"Fresh oranges! The best in Jaffa!"

"Abead Yadayk! You don’t buy, you don’t touch!" a vendor snarled in Arabic at an overly curious tourist.

Against this vibrant commotion, a white Sussita Carmel, parked by the curb beneath a crumbling wall, was all but invisible. It was an ordinary car, as unremarkable as a metal box could be in the tangled traffic of an old port city. Hardly anyone gave it a second glance.

Inside, two men in dark suits sat motionless, surveying the streets like hawks in the Sahara. White cotton fabric clung to their necks; sweat soaked into the stiff collars of their undershirts. Without air conditioning, the car’s interior had become a pressurized tin can.

The driver, a man with a heavy, square jaw, mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and checked his watch.

"He’s an hour late," he muttered in English. His voice was stern, carrying a sharp German accent. “You’re sure he is still coming?”

The man in the passenger seat, thinner, with hair plastered to his temples, cracked open his window, hoping a sliver of cooler air might slip through the gap.

"If the informant had lied, we’d know by now," he replied, his tone far more level. "He’ll show. He didn’t risk his position at the Jewish Agency archives just to get cold feet today."

Although they seemed to blend into the fray, it only took a closer look to realize they were clearly outsiders. It wasn't just their speech that gave them away, but the way they sat, too rigid, too focused, entirely out of sync with the loose rhythm of the street. Their suits were too heavy for the August heat, their shoes too polished for Jaffa’s sun-bleached cobblestones.

They were Stasi officers. Back in East Berlin, their assignment had sounded simple: find a woman whose name had surfaced in the Jewish Agency files, someone once linked to Israeli intelligence. They didn't even have her current name. Weeks ago, they had flown into Israel, banking on a local contact to navigate the maze of bureaucracy. But unfortunately, that contact had vanished. Now, only one man remained for intel, someone too cowardly to refuse them, yet too clever not to try to mislead them.

And today, he was supposed to appear an hour ago, right here on Beit Eshel Street.

In frustration, the driver glanced again at the clock hanging over a shop with a peeling sign.

"Fifteen more minutes, then we leave," he growled. "I’m melting in here already."

The passenger started to answer, but suddenly went quiet. His attention was fixed on a slight man approaching from the clock tower square. The man carried a scuffed leather briefcase under one arm and walked with a faint stoop, looking like a low-level office clerk, the kind of person a gaze would naturally slide past.

"There he is," the passenger whispered, his lips barely moving. "The briefcase, the height, the gait. That has to be our guy."

The driver straightened, his professional mask sliding back into place.

“No, this can’t be the man our entire mission depends on,” he said. “He looks like he stamps papers for a living.”

Unsuspecting of surveillance, the clerk drifted through the market with the ease of someone who belonged there. He greeted vendors by name, stopped long enough to exchange a joke, and let himself be delayed by small talk. Around him, the market pulsed with its own life: spices piled in canvas sacks, mounds of pomegranates, hand-painted plates, and colorful fabrics fluttering in the sea breeze. But nothing in the man’s frame suggested urgency. Nothing hinted at the prospect of fear.

Still, he never stopped moving.

From the sweltering interior of the car, the two Germans watched him like a target in a crosshair. Despite their initial doubts, they knew this small, hunched man might be their only lead to a woman someone had worked very hard to erase from history.

“We move,” the driver said, opening his side of the door. “Now, before he gets away. And take the gun.”

"I know," the other replied, reaching under his seat for a suppressed pistol.

They stepped out of the car and were immediately hit by a wall of heat. Their dark suits acted like heat sinks, drawing a few wary, sidelong glances from passersby. But in this crowd, everything blurred into motion; they were just two more strangers among the dozens who passed through the port every day.

They stayed several meters behind the man with the briefcase, picking their way past stalls of dried figs, herbs, and vegetables. The scent of coriander and frying falafel mingled with the sharp smoke of cheap cigarettes.

The informant turned into a narrow, cobbled branch of Beit Eshel. Here, the walls were a mess of old advertisements, peeling plaster, and fresh posters shouting slogans about land and independence. Children darted between stalls; elderly men in kippahs and keffiyehs sat in the shade, whispering political commentary over their newspapers.

The Germans played the part of lost tourists. They paused at shop windows, never losing sight of the informant as he moved through the crowd.

"Look at that," the driver grumbled. "An old tenement, Ottoman-era balconies."

At the end of the alley, the informant disappeared through a gateway into a weathered building. Above the low rooftops, a white minaret flashed in the sun. From a distance, the voice of the muezzin rose, mixing with the blare of car horns.

"He’ll slip away if he reaches an apartment," the thinner man hissed.

"Wait a beat, then we go in," the driver decided. "We can’t look like we're chasing him."

Children playing by the entrance shot them a suspicious look before returning to their games. As soon as the heavy door closed behind the man with the briefcase, the agents accelerated. The taller one pressed his ear to the wood, then pulled a thin pick from his pocket. His partner stood to the side, pretending to study a faded Hebrew inscription on a nearby plaque.

"Faster," he whispered. "Someone’s going to walk by."

"Just a second," the other muttered, entirely focused. The lock gave a soft, mechanical click. "Done."

They slipped into the cool, dim interior. The narrow hallway smelled of damp wood and age. To the left, a steep staircase wound upward; the bulb overhead flickered rhythmically, as if struggling to stay lit.

"I hate buildings like this," the driver whispered. "You feel like the walls are eavesdropping."

"Quiet," the other snapped, leading the way up the creaking steps.

The landing was a narrow corridor where two people could barely pass, a row of doors without numbers or names. Small windows at the far end let in the last scraps of daylight.

"Now what?" the driver mumbled. "We guess?"

"We listen," the other replied.

They moved from door to door. At the third one on the left, they heard muffled voices. They exchanged a quick look. This was the one they were looking for. The taller agent gave a polite, measured knock. The moment the door eased open, he slammed his shoulder into the wood.

The man in the doorway didn't even have time to shout. A heavy punch to the jaw sent him reeling, his briefcase slipping from his hand and scattering papers across the floor. The second agent kicked the door shut, cutting off the sound of the scuffle from the hallway.

"Dawid? Who is that?" a trembling woman's voice called from the back of the flat, her Ashkenazi accent thick. "Is everything all right?"

"Deal with her," the taller man snarled. "And don’t make any noise."

The thinner agent moved toward the voice. In the small hallway between a shoe rack and the kitchen, he found a woman in a wheelchair. She was frail, her hair thin and gray, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief.

"Do you understand German?" he asked softly, leaning over her. She nodded slowly. "We only want to talk to your grandson. If he cooperates, nothing happens to you."

The word "only" felt like a cruel irony in the cramped space.

Meanwhile, a dazed Dawid tried to push himself up, regaining consciousness. The taller agent grabbed him by the collar, dragged him into the tiny kitchen, and shoved him into a chair. He found a length of coiled cable in the cupboard under the sink, enough to bind the young man’s wrists.

The kitchen was sparse: a rusted stove, a worn tablecloth, and a few mismatched mugs on an open shelf. The window offered nothing but a view of a stone wall and a sliver of sky.

Dawid sat rigid, his breathing ragged, blood seeping from a cut above his eye. He glanced nervously toward the door where his grandmother sat. The agent in front of him leveled the suppressed pistol, but didn't aim it yet.

"You forgot about us," the agent said calmly in English. "We had a deal. You find a certain lady in the Jewish Agency archives, and we pay you. Instead, we get silence. Where is she?"

Dawid licked his lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood. He looked at the door again, his mind racing.

"I tried," he whispered in English. "I found nothing. She’s gone. Mossad must have pulled the files. Your money is in the cupboard. Take it and leave."

He didn't get to finish. The other agent delivered a sharp, professional punch to his stomach. Dawid doubled over, gasping for air. A muffled sob came from the hallway.

"We don't want your money," the man with the gun said. "We want her."

Dawid raised his head, a shadow of rage flickering in his eyes.

"I have nothing for you. I tried, but Mossad must have retrieved it in time. After all, they are smarter than you both."

The agent’s expression soured. The mention of the Israeli service in this room was a promise of future trouble.

"Kid," he said coldly. "You have no idea how far we’re willing to go."

He raised the gun, aiming it at Dawid’s thigh. The young man clenched his jaw. His only thought was to keep the fear out of his grandmother's sight, even if she could hear everything.

"I know you can kill me," Dawid said, his voice gaining strength. "But Mossad will find you. Just like all the other German pigs who thought they were beyond reach."

The other agent let out a laugh that was far too loud for the small room.

"We’ll see who finds whom," he sneered, though a hint of uncertainty touched his gaze.

The taller man leaned in, grabbing Dawid by the chin and forcing him to meet his eyes. His fingers were slick with Dawid’s sweat.

"For the last time," he hissed. "Her name. Her workplace. Your connection to her."

The only answer was a cough, a spray of blood that flecked the agent’s collar, and a hoarse, "I don't know. And even if I did... I wouldn't tell a pair of German pigs."

The words seemed to surprise even him. For a heartbeat, the kitchen was silent. The gunman glanced at his partner, a quiet, lethal question in his eyes: Do we shoot, or keep at it? The other man gave a barely perceptible shrug, then leveled the gun directly at Dawid’s chest.

"For the sake of your grandmother, Dawid," the lead agent whispered, his voice dropping to a terrifying softness. "Give us a name. Her new identity. Give us anything, and this stops."

From the hallway came the quiet, desperate whisper of the grandmother, a prayer in a Hebrew tongue they didn't speak, a rhythmic, frantic plea for mercy. Dawid tightened his bound fingers, the twine biting into his skin. He thought of her, the way she brewed tea, the way she sat by the radio in the evenings. He knew that if he broke now, he wouldn't just be betraying a woman who had trusted him with her life; he’d be admitting that their fear was stronger than everything his family had ever taught him.

"I don't know," he said again, his voice eerily, devastatingly calm. He paused, managing a crooked, bloody smile. "But if I did... You aren't worth an answer."

Something shifted in the taller agent’s eyes, perhaps a lingering human reflex, possibly cold, professional calculation. The hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second, but in that cramped kitchen, it was as tangible as a change in the weather.

Outside, the world remained cruelly indifferent. A car horn honked down the block, someone laughed at a joke on the sidewalk, and the muezzin’s call sliced through the salt-heavy air. In the next apartment over, a spoon clinked against a porcelain bowl as someone stirred their soup, perfectly unaware of the blood being spilled inches away. The world had no intention of stopping for two Stasi agents and an office clerk

Time in the kitchen slowed to a crawl. Sweat, copper-tasting blood, and raw fear clotted into a single, suffocating layer.  It was just one conversation, one name that no one wanted to speak aloud. Yet for the men from the Stasi, it was only the first step on a long, dark road through other people’s secrets.

Chapter Two

Liverpool, England, 1999

October carried a cold, damp wind off the Mersey.

Rain drummed a steady rhythm against the windows of the terraced, red-brick houses, rows of nearly identical homes that defined the neighborhood. Morning fog drifted over the docks like a ghostly afterimage of the city’s maritime glory. A few miles away, the streets of Toxteth lay buried under a carpet of sodden brown and golden leaves. People hurried past pubs and bus stops, chins tucked into their collars and hands shoved deep into coat pockets. The city moved to its own beat: loud, rough, and perpetually mysterious.

In the thick of this weather, Mariusz, a tall, slim blond with a long fringe parted down the middle, was heading home for the weekend. A first-year history student at the University of Liverpool, he was eager for the sanctuary of his grandparents’ house. He was looking for quiet, a mug of ginger tea, and a reprieve after an intense first week of classes. The university corridors, buzzing with talk of lectures and looming essays, still echoed in his mind. This is really happening, he thought as he walked through the campus gates. I’m finally here.

History had always been his world.

While other kids chased footballs, Mariusz had preferred books about ancient battles and forgotten heroes. And while his peers partied in basement dorms, he’d rather be at his grandparents’ table, turning the pages of old family albums, tracing the invisible threads of the generations before him. His grandfather’s stories, haunted by war, by lost loved ones, and by rare flashes of human grace, had sparked a deep love for the past in him. Now that he was studying it formally, he felt a thrill of discovery, as if a door had finally opened to a mystery he had been destined to solve.

As he turned into a quiet street near Wavertree, the rain eased. Sitting in his grandparents’ driveway was their old navy blue BMW E30. It was slightly rusty around the wheel arches but possessed an undeniable soul. Only the family truly understood that this car was a central character in their household lore.

Mariusz smiled at the sight of it.

Just a week after passing his driving test, he had taken this very BMW on a trip to Chester. Chester was the pride of the county, historic, timber-framed, and as picture-perfect as a postcard, making it the ideal location for a night drive. That day, there had been loud music, youthful excitement, and a speed bump in a car park taken far too fast. Then, silence followed. A cracked oil pan had left a black stain on the historic cobblestones like a dark omen.

"Oil’s well that ends well: Teen Driver Leaves a Black Mark on Chester’s History," a local newsletter had quipped later. A photo of the leaking oil still hung in the garage next to his grandfather’s tools. Since then, the story had become a staple of every family gathering, a small, shameful legend.

He ran a hand over his wet bonnet as he approached the gate, a silent ritual of homecoming. Here, he felt steady. Here, he knew exactly where he stood.

He walked up the short pathway toward the house, and in accordance with an early habit formed in childhood, pressed the doorbell while turning the doorknob. When he opened the door, he felt as if he had just walked back in time. He was immediately enveloped by the warm, comfortable air coming from inside, greeted by the aroma of oven-roasted chicken seasoned with thyme. He could also hear his grandmother softly humming a familiar tune from his youth—a comforting memory.

The evening was beginning. And with it, a series of revelations that would forever alter his view of his family.

"Hi, Grandma!" he called out, stepping into the kitchen to plant a kiss on her cheek. He watched her face light up with a smile, then snatched a piece of sizzling meat from the pan and retreated to the living room.

His grandfather, Sylwek, was settled there, staring at an old Grundig television. It had been a point of pride when color sets were a novelty and remote controls were considered a miracle of modern engineering. On the coffee table, a glass in a metal holder steamed with coffee, while a cigarette smoldered in his hand, filling the room with the scent of tobacco and old oak furniture.

It was the picture of a quiet British retirement: books, television, a creaking chair, and memories.

"Hi, Granddad. What are you watching?" Mariusz asked.

"Do you know Karl May?" the old man muttered, his eyes fixed on the screen. "Winnetou. That was a world worth living in. Not like this modern rubbish."

Mariusz grinned. He had heard this exact exchange dozens of times. "Of course, I know it. I remember you forcing it on me instead of comic books."

From the kitchen, Grandma’s voice drifted in, reminding them to set the table.

After a filling dinner and an even heavier dessert, Mariusz reached into his backpack. With a flourish, he produced his University of Liverpool student ID and laid it on the table like a medal. Grandma moved closer, adjusting her glasses to examine the photo and the small print with her usual intense pride. That slip of plastic was his ticket to a dream that had, until recently, felt out of reach.

"University," Granddad whispered, picking up the ID as if it were made of glass. "You know, boy, an education is a treasure. In my day, we had nothing like this. Most boys your age could barely read. You’re lucky. Make the most of it. The future belongs to people like you."

He reached for another cigarette. Mariusz made his usual comment about the health risks, but the old man just brushed it off with a joke; he hadn't smoked or drunk in his youth, so he was making up for lost time now.

The rest of the evening drifted into talk of the past. Sylwek spoke of wartime adventures and the strange ways human kindness could bloom amid hell. Mariusz listened, more convinced than ever that history was his calling. It wasn't about dry dates and the dinner they were having; it was about the blood and memory in this very room.

That night, Mariusz slept in the small upstairs room that had once belonged to his mother. It was a museum of the 1970s: a cupboard with peeling paint, an old stereo with a turntable, and faded wallpaper patterned with tiny roses. A one-eyed plush toy sat on the shelf like a sentry. On the windowsill, a framed photo showed his mother in her college days, smiling and carefree, before life had sharpened its edges against her.

Rain lashed the glass throughout the night. From his bed, Mariusz watched a street lamp cast a flickering, anemic light across the wallpaper, barely strong enough to illuminate the shadows in the corner. The tall windows groaned under the wind’s weight, their heavy wooden frames creaking as if the house itself were unsettled. Lying there in the dark, Mariusz found himself replaying his grandfather’s words, but the more he turned them over, the more they felt like a puzzle with missing pieces. He was acutely aware of the gaps in the narrative—the silences where names should have been, the sudden ends to stories that felt unfinished. It was as if his grandfather had left a jagged wound in the family history, one that remained unhealed and hidden behind a wall of carefully chosen memories.

When the grey morning light finally filtered through the curtains, Mariusz felt as though he hadn't slept at all. His head was heavy, his hands slightly unsteady. Downstairs, the house was waking up to the smell of coffee and frying bacon. He descended the stairs slowly, as if afraid to break the morning's fragile harmony.

At the table, the routine was in full swing. Granddad was pouring coffee; Grandma was dishing out eggs. Mariusz sat down, nursing the echo of his late-night thoughts. After a few sips of coffee, he finally voiced the question that had been haunting him.

"Granddad, I was thinking all night," he began, pausing for effect. "Will you tell me more about when you were my age?"

His voice was quieter than he intended.

Sylwek froze. The spoon in his hand clinked sharply against the glass. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic tick of the red plastic clock above the fridge. Grandma looked at her husband, not with a warning but with a silent nod of consent. It’s time.

Granddad sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to pull at his very frame. He sat down opposite Mariusz with the gravity of a man who knows he is about to cross a point of no return.

"I think the time has come," he said softly. "For you to hear what I have carried alone."

"I knew it," Mariusz blurted out, then immediately lowered his voice. "I mean... I had a feeling there was more."

"There is. But you have to understand, for our family, it was the worst of the war. A literal hell." Sylwek hesitated, searching for a starting point. "You’d think it was so long ago I’d have forgotten. But the older I get, the clearer it becomes. Perhaps that is the curse of old age."

He gave a dry, joyless laugh, then took his coffee to the armchair by the window. He stared into the autumn fog as if watching scenes play out on the glass.

"1944 was the end of it, the most tragic year. But to understand, we have to go back to 1939. That was when my father and my eldest brother disappeared. We never saw them again. It broke us. We spent years hoping they’d walk through the door after the war, but they never did. Kazik and I were left to run the farm and protect little Aniela. She was born in May '39. Mother always told us that, as the last person in the house, Aniela was our responsibility. She was our princess."

Mariusz leaned in, hanging on every word.

"Mother looked after the baby while Kazik and I tried to be the heads of the household. The war pushed into every corner, even the quietest villages. I wanted to fight, but my mother and Kazik held me back. Kazik thought it wasn't our war; he wanted to protect the land, the yard, the family. And Mother... after losing Father and Janek, she couldn't bear to lose another son."

Sylwek paused, gathering his strength.

"We had a large farm, over fifty hectares. We used to hire neighbors to help, but the war took the men away. Those who came back were broken. The Germans took our cows, our horses, our grain. They treated us like slaves. Life shrank until it was nothing but a prayer to survive until tomorrow."

Mariusz frowned, picturing a young Sylwek in such a nightmare. Then, his grandfather dropped a bombshell.

"And to surprise you further, your great-grandmother, my mother Klara, was German. She was also Jewish. A paradox, isn't it?"

Mariusz stared in disbelief. "Grandma Klara was Jewish and German? Granddad, why did you never say anything?"

"I thought it only brought pain," Sylwek said thoughtfully. "It was a dangerous tangle. Klara was a Kleine, which gave her German citizenship, but under Nazi law, she was an 'enemy of the race.' It was both a salvation and a curse. Your great-grandfather, however, was from a wealthy Polish noble family. He was madly in love with her. He had one condition: she had to learn Polish and raise their children as Poles. Then the war came, and all those labels became a death sentence."

Mariusz felt a wave of questions rising, but before he could speak, his grandfather continued.

"Everyone in the area was bilingual," Sylwek sighed. "But listen now. This is where it falls apart."

He asked Mariusz to fetch a metal tin, one Mariusz remembered from his childhood, usually filled with buttons. Sylwek’s fingers trembled as he pried the lid off the old metal tin. It was a Danish butter cookie tin, the kind every grandmother in Liverpool used to store spare buttons and loose threads. But beneath the colorful plastic buttons lay a single, yellowed envelope.

"This," Sylwek whispered, "is the only thing Kazik left behind."

Mariusz watched as his grandfather unfolded the paper with the care of a man handling a holy relic. The creases were so deep they threatened to tear. It wasn't just a letter; it was the evidence of a fracture in their bloodline. As Mariusz looked at the jagged German script, the cozy warmth of the Liverpool kitchen seemed to leach away, replaced by the ghost of a cold Polish farm in 1944. From the content of the letter, it seemed his as grand uncle had decided to survive at any cost, betting that a German victory was the only way out.

"Kazik never loved Poland," Sylwek continued, the bitterness still fresh in his voice. "It broke our mother when she realized he had chosen the Germans. It changed everything in our house."

He fell silent. The weight of the memory was palpable. When he spoke again, his voice was a low, jagged whisper.

"July 1944. The Germans came to the village. Not for animals this time, for people. A round-up. They went door to door, looking for labor for the camps. I wasn't there; I was out poaching for food. When I came back, Mother was on the floor. Shot. Her body was still warm, but she was gone. I ran to the hiding place where we kept Aniela. It was empty."

Sylwek choked up, the words dying in his throat. Mariusz felt his own heart racing, a lump forming in his chest. The silence in the kitchen was absolute, save for the clock's rhythmic tick.

"I looked everywhere," Sylwek finished quietly. "Finally, a neighbor who had hidden in the woods told me they’d taken Aniela with the other women and children. I had no choice. I had to go to Gdańsk to find her."

Mariusz sat stunned. The scale of the tragedy was overwhelming. He finally understood the silence of the last fifty years.

"And that was it," Sylwek sighed. "Now you know why I didn't want to go back."

Mariusz nodded slowly. His mind was spinning. What happened to Kazik? To Aniela? How could anyone survive such a brutal sweep?

The Sunday morning ended there, but for Mariusz, everything had changed. It wasn't just a history degree anymore. This was his blood, his family, a story of unexplained disappearances, betrayals, and deaths that still demanded an answer. As he left for his judo training later, he couldn't shake the image of his grandfather clutching that old letter. The past was no longer behind them; it was right there in the room. That story undoubtedly changed the way he looked at the past and made him want to fight so that no one would ever have to go through a similar nightmare again.

Chapter Three

Gdańsk, Poland, 1944

I reached Gdańsk after several days of exhausting, almost nightmarish wandering. My village lay about thirty-nine kilometers from the city, but in a world where German patrols choked every road and intersection, covering that distance on foot was a monumental physical and mental gauntlet. In normal times, a man might walk it in a day. But there was nothing normal about the world in 1944.

At night, I was forced to dissolve into the landscape, hiding in dense forest thickets or the skeletal ruins of burned-out farmhouses. Armed German search parties combed the area with terrifying regularity. I had nothing to my name but a worn-out jacket and boots whose soles had long since separated from the leather, flapping with every step. I felt like a hunted animal, ears ringing with the sound of snapping twigs and distant engines.

Discouragement hit me in waves, heavy and cold. Sometimes after dark, I would collapse into a roadside ditch, paralyzed by the hope that a soldier on a passing motorbike wouldn't look down and see the shape of a boy in the mud. The night’s cold cut right through my clothes, and the wind made the branches rustle in a way that set my nerves on a jagged edge. My sleep was never more than a broken, terrified doze. My heart pounded against my ribs at the sound of every hobnailed boot on the pavement. More than once, I felt the end was seconds away, that a pistol would be pressed to my temple and the darkness would become permanent. In those moments, I summoned the image of my Aniela. She was the only spark that refused to go out. I had no one left but her. Kazik had vanished into his own shadow, and I no longer believed he would ever return to us.

When I finally reached the outskirts of Gdańsk, I felt a sickening mixture of relief and terror. Relief, because I was finally in a place where a trail might exist. Terror, because the city I remembered was gone. Bricks lay in mountain-sized heaps. The walls along the streets gaped with hollow, broken windows, and half-burned roof beams jutted into the sky like the ribs of a giant, dead beast. The vision of the city as it used to be, the vibrant port of my childhood trips with my father, brought tears of despair to my eyes over and over again. But beneath the despair was a hardening determination. I passed the skeletons of cars and abandoned army gear. Often, I wanted to drop to my knees and scream at the helplessness of it all, but I knew the Germans were still moving through the ruins. I couldn't afford a single moment of weakness.

As if on cue, I spotted a German truck about two hundred meters away. It was an Opel Blitz, the "lightning." I watched the driver struggle to navigate the minefield of bomb craters and debris. Thinking I was the only living soul in this cemetery of houses, I broke into a desperate run.

My sprint ended abruptly after a hundred meters when a burst of rifle fire shattered the silence. I threw myself to the road, my breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches like a cornered beast. I lay there for a long minute, waiting for the killing blow. Slowly, it dawned on me that the shots either hadn't been aimed at me or the marksman had missed in the shifting dust. I didn't care which. I was still breathing.

I lay with my head turned to the side, terrified to move a muscle. That was when I noticed a gap in a nearby wall. Two pairs of eyes were staring at me. A moment later, one figure vanished, appearing a second later at the jagged entrance of a ruined tenement.

“Pssst!” a voice hissed. “Crawl over here. To us.”

It was a clean Polish accent. It gave me a sudden, sharp surge of courage. Within seconds, I was scrambling through the rubble and into the shadows.

I reached a small, cramped cellar and found myself facing a handful of children. I was too shaken to count them properly, but they all looked exactly as I felt: terrified and hollowed out.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice cracked. “Who are you?”

“Shhh, wait. Don’t say a word,” the girl who had beckoned me whispered back.

Two boys slid a heavy metal plate over their only "window", a narrow slit created by a missing row of bricks. From the height of an adult on the street, it was invisible, making it a perfect, secret vantage point. We sat in silence until darkness finally swallowed the city, lit only by the tiny, guttering flame of a single candle.

“That truck comes here every few days,” the girl finally spoke. Her voice was flat, drained of emotion. “The soldiers have their drinking parties. They bring in captured women and take them away again after… after they’ve raped them. We cannot do anything. We are only children. Most of these ones are ten, maybe twelve. I am the oldest. I am seventeen.”

“That is horrible,” I whispered, the image of the truck now taking on a much darker shape. “How do you live in this?”

“We eat what we can find in the ruins. I don't know where else to go. Our parents were taken. They grabbed the boys and me from Somonino; the others are from all over. After they crammed us into the truck, partisans attacked the transport. We escaped in the chaos, but looking at this city, I am not sure we were saved.”

“Don't think like that,” I said, trying to find a strength I didn't feel. “The war will end one day,” I told them about Aniela. I told them why I was here.

“Maybe your sister was freed too,” the girl said, a small spark of hope in her eyes. “I heard two partisans talking; they said the Germans take everyone to the Kreishaus first. You should look for that building.”

“I will,” I nodded. “But I don't know the way.”

“You’d have to grab a Kraut,” she shrugged, “or find a partisan unit.”

I wrestled with my conscience as I looked at them. I couldn't leave them like this, but I couldn't stop. “I will come back for you,” I promised. “I will help you. But now I have to find Aniela. If we move as a large group, we won't make it a block. The risk is too high.”

I crawled out of the cellar and immediately froze. The German truck was idling just a few dozen meters away. From a nearby ground-floor flat, the air was sliced by the desperate, high-pitched screams of women. The soldiers were inside. Rage, hot and sickening, flooded me. Rage at them, at my own smallness, and at a world that allowed this. But I had only bare fists against their rifles. I slunk into an alley and watched, hoping for a gap in their guard.

I decided the only way to reach the building I needed was to hitch a ride. I approached the vehicle with agonizing slowness. Two soldiers were smoking; one leaned against the side, the other sat in an elegant armchair he’d dragged into the dirt. It was a surreal, grotesque image: a Wehrmacht soldier in a velvet chair amidst tons of jagged rubble. I strained to hear them until I caught the word ‘Kreishaus.’

Suddenly, the men went quiet. The one in the chair stood up and walked behind the truck. I thought I was dead, but he had only gone to relieve himself. Hidden under the chassis, I felt my heart beating in my very throat. When he returned to his post, I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I saw a small space between the fuel tank and the drive shaft, just enough room to wedge a body. I squeezed myself in and waited.

Thirty minutes later, the engine roared. Then began a brutal battle with exhaust fumes and the choking dust kicked up by the wheels. The grit hit my skin like needles. It was in my mouth, my nose, my ears. When the vehicle finally stopped in a large courtyard, I nearly fell out from exhaustion. I peered out and saw a massive gate guarded by sentries. The soldiers drove the women ahead of them like cattle. I saw other vehicles parked along the walls. This was it. The Kreishaus. Now, I just had to wait for the night.

As dusk settled, I slipped from my hiding place. I moved through the back streets, looking for a place to wait, when the sound of loud, drunken voices stopped me. I crept toward a window. Inside was a German canteen, packed with soldiers shouting filthy songs over glasses of vodka. My blood began to simmer. My mother was dead because of men like this, and they were having the time of their lives.

The door swung open. An SS man stepped out, his long black coat billowing. The silver skull on his cap seemed to mock me.

“Geh weg, Bengel!” he snapped at me, Get lost, brat.

I stepped aside, head down, mumbling a submissive apology in German. He staggered off toward a small bridge over the Motława River. I didn't think; I acted. I grabbed a wet, heavy brick and followed him into the shadows.

When he reached the bridge, I launched myself. I hit him in the back of the head with every ounce of strength I possessed. The brick shattered in my hand. The man buckled, hit his knees, and then collapsed. I moved like a man possessed. I couldn't let blood ruin the wool. I stripped the uniform from him in a frantic blur. He was surprisingly light, maybe 50 kilos, no more than a sack of potatoes. I heaved his body over the railing and into the dark water.

Putting on that uniform, the swastika, the silver runes, made me feel like I was wearing a layer of filth. But it was a cloak of invisibility. I sat by a wall to calm my racing heart, closing my eyes for a second of sheer fatigue.

“Hallo, Herr Leutnant, fühlen Sie sich wohl? Brauchen Sie vielleicht Hilfe?”

I bolted upright. A soldier was standing over me, asking if I was feeling well or if I needed help. He saw the rank, not the boy.

“Entschuldigen Sie, Herr Leutnant,” he added quickly, seeing my startled face. He apologized for bothering me, thinking something was wrong. “I won't disturb you further. Einen schönen Tag noch”,Have a nice day.

The plan was working. I drew myself up and barked back the only thing that felt right: “Danke für die Sorge... und jetzt wegtreten!” Thanks for the concern... dismissed!

The soldier saluted and marched off. I took a deep breath and headed for the main gate with a stiff, confident stride. The guard saluted and let me in without a word. I crossed a massive courtyard toward the building itself.

The Kreishaus was a monument to oppression. Dark red brick, arched windows, and wide stone steps leading to heavy, iron-bound doors. Above it all, the Reich’s eagle loomed like a predator. I walked past the guards, my heart hammering against the SS wool.

Inside, the corridors were stone-cold. The air smelled of musty paper and old wood, and the frantic clicking of typewriters echoed like gunfire. It was early, and the halls were mostly empty. I began peeking into rooms. In one, I found a half-eaten heel of bread. It was rock hard, but it tasted like the finest meal of my life.

I moved from room to room, sifting through receipts and official lists until I reached the final door. On the desk were stacks of files marked 'Kinder, Children'.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I flipped through them. Weitertransportiert,Sent on. I reached the section for my village. There, in cold, black ink next to Aniela’s name, was the word: Stutthof.

I knew what that meant: a concentration camp. Every story I’d heard about that place was a horror. But a strange surge of strength washed over me. I knew where she was. I wasn't wandering in the dark anymore.

I left the Kreishaus, playing the part of the indifferent officer until I was clear of the city. I looked back only once at the ruins. I was terrified, starving, and my body was screaming in pain, but I was alive. And I had a goal.

I wandered for hours, terrified someone would realize I was a fraud. Hunger was a physical ache now. I sat in dark doorways, praying for a face that wasn't German. I thought about my friend Jurek and how we used to hunt together. Here, you couldn't even find a rat to eat. A voice in my head told me to go back for help, but another screamed that Aniela was alone and suffering.

I found a vast hollow in a tree in the forest and stuffed the SS uniform inside, feeling an incredible weight lift from my soul as I shed the cursed cloth. Eventually, I found a house with a hole in the roof and a rotted metal bed. I crawled underneath it, curled into a ball, and fell into a deep, blessed sleep.

I woke at dawn, my stomach screaming. I chewed on a crumb of stale bread, crying with frustration. It was my last bit of food. Then, I saw a rat dart across the floor. Under normal conditions, I would have recoiled. Now, I saw protein. I began to fashion a primitive trap from wire and wood, my disgust completely drowned by the need to survive.

I was so focused on the trap that I didn't hear the footsteps. A rough clearing of a throat behind me made my heart stop—the Germans. I grabbed a stone, ready to go down fighting.

“Easy, boy. We don't want to hurt you.”