One Amber Bead Chapter 1

Hello,

Here's Chapter One of One Amber Bead, if you haven't already read it and are interested in knowing something about the book:

Chapter One

Jadzia, Niedzieliska, Poland

April, 1941

 “Ouch, too tight!”

“Well, you want to look beautiful, don’t you?” taunted Apolonya. She secured the thick chestnut-colored braid she held in her hand with a tiny scrap of satin ribbon, much faded from its original crimson. Then she lifted the heavy braids with one hand, pointing with the other toward Jadzia’s distorted reflection in the old dresser mirror in Jadzia’s grandmother’s bedroom. “Are you sure you don’t want these in a crown? They would look much more attractive.”

“Not today,” responded Jadzia, eager for release from Apolonya’s hands. Normally Apolonya, her best friend in all of Niedzieliska, was a gentle hairdresser, despite the challenges presented by the thickness and obstinate curl of Jadzia’s tresses. And most days Jadzia loved nothing more than to give herself over to Apolonya’s ministrations of brushing and combing and styling. Other holidays Jadzia would request a crown—that most elegant hairstyle, with thick braids woven into an intricate circle around the head and decorated with colorful ribbons. But this Easter, it was as if the whole country’s mood could be felt through the roughness of her friend’s hands.

“Does your family have enough for dinner?” Jadzia ventured. Few families in Niedzieliska, Jadzia knew, would experience the traditional Polish Easter of years past, with trays heaped with hams and sausages, baskets of carefully etched eggs, several types of pastries, and the traditional lamb molded of butter gracing the table. Yesterday, when the women of the village had brought their baskets of holiday food to the church for Father Jozef’s blessing, only the most meager and coarse foodstuffs were on display: a loaf of rye bread, an egg or two, a cabbage, potatoes, perhaps a small slab of bacon. But still, no one in the village was starving—at least not yet.

“Yes, we will eat.” The firm set of Apolonya’s jaw discouraged further discussion of this topic. As Apolonya turned to finish her own preparations for the day, slipping an old white muslin dress over her head, Jadzia noticed how the dress, though several inches shorter than local fashion dictated and much yellowed from many washings, still slipped easily over Apolonya’s slim shoulders and hips. Like a yearling deer’s, Apolonya’s growth had been concentrated in her extremities: her long, slim legs and arms had become willowy. With white/gold tresses now bound in a crown of braids, she looked to Jadzia like an angel, albeit one wearing a somewhat tattered and faded robe. But what was bothering her so much today?

“Have you heard anything from your brothers?” Jadzia asked.

Apolonya frowned, raising one eyebrow suspiciously. “You saw Alfons and Gienek yesterday. I haven’t heard a word about Jan or Tadeusz since I was a little girl, and I imagine that Jozef and Pawel are either in England or fighting somewhere in France.” She added through her teeth, “You do remember that I have no other brother.”

Jadzia tried to look as though she were paying serious attention to the buttons she was fastening on the bodice of her dress. “Yes, I remember. I guess I was thinking about Jozef.” Jadzia’s whole family had supported the decision of Apolonya’s mother to disown Antek, her next oldest brother, who had been recruited by the German army, and to dictate that his name never be mentioned again. As always, any thought of Antek—of his blonde hair, his tall slim body—made Jadzia’s heart skip a beat.

Still, Jadzia thought, looking at Apolonya’s downcast eyes and the set of her jaw, it must be difficult for her friend; even if she never spoke of Antek, did she no longer think of him and wonder where he was, if he was well? She could imagine no offence grevious enough to cause her parents to disown her own brothers, Marek and Stasiu, or to forbid her to speak their names ever again.

Jadzia sat on one of the family’s two remaining chairs to fasten the laces of her boots. When she had brought the chair into her grandmother’s room, she had looked with longing at the changes in the sitting room. The room had been stripped of most of what had given it distinction. Tata had had to sell Mama’s china service early in the war. The china cabinet had looked barren without its display of plates lavishly decorated in delicate pink roses, but then the china cabinet itself had been sold just two months later, along with the long cherry table and most of the chairs. Mama’s shrine to the Blessed Mother of Czestochowa still remained, but now just one candle placed on a tin plate glowed dimly before it.

Still, her family was far luckier than most. They were together, still in their home. They had enough to eat and were able to gather sufficient firewood to keep warm. They would be farming this year as always, and although the sight of German soldiers patrolling the streets in town was alarming, very little in their area had truly changed in the two months since Herr Mittenberg had commanded the residents of Niedzieliska to gather in the town square. She and Apolonya had whispered their fears about the reason for this summons during the two hours the villagers were forced to wait for Mittenberg’s arrival. They had huddled together in a sharp breeze from the north, their desire to stamp their feet against the cold thwarted by inches of mud created by an uncharacteristic February thaw. Jadzia had feared deportations or perhaps an execution: rumors about such occurrences happening more frequently in other villages had circulated for weeks before.

Her greatest fear that day had been for her babcia, who seemed to think that advanced age or her status in the village would exempt her from recriminations for speaking against the Germans. True, Babcia had only spoken to a few people, but Jadzia knew that in any foreign occupation, no one outside immediate family or dearest friends should be trusted.

And she had had other reasons for concern. Her grandmother’s comings and goings were always erratic: Babcia was the town’s midwife, and babies seldom came exactly when they were expected. But often in the past months, Babcia had been gone for hours, even overnight, at times when no baby had been born in the village or surrounding countryside. And what of the six loaves of bread that Mama had made two weeks ago? Later that evening, when Jadzia had searched for a crust for Cesar, their ancient hound, all six loaves had vanished.

Finally Herr Mittenberg, flanked by several soldiers, had strode into their midst, a vision of German military couture. His polished boots and long leather coat, fashionably cut to show just three inches of his breeches, were impeccable, despite the cold mud that spattered everyone else’s attire. His ever-present iron cross shone over the closed collar of his tunic, and a peaked visor covered what the villagers who had seen him hatless knew was a rapidly balding pate. Despite his short stature and tendency toward portliness, he carried himself with the arrogance of a man who considered himself among inferiors.

Father Jozef, the only man in the village learned enough to speak German fluently, had translated. Mittenberg harangued the crowd interminably about their shortcomings: food that had been hidden, hesitation that signaled reluctance in following orders, a general lack of respect sensed by his soldiers. He then proceeded to nail on the church door his one-page directive to the people of Neidzieliska, expounding further on its commands and warning of grave consequences to anyone who dared ignore them:

26 February 1941

To:                  Polish people of Niedzieliska

From:              Hans Mittenberg, Representative

                        General-Gouvernement of Galicia Province

These directives are to serve as a reminder to the Polish people of Niedzieliska of their duties and responsibilities to the General-Gouvernement and its representatives.

1. All citizens of Niedzieliska are in all matters under the sovereign authority of the provisional government. All orders given by Director Hans Mittenberg or any of his representatives are to be followed immediately. Failure to do so will result in immediate death.
2. All citizens over the age of 12 are to carry with them at all times proper identification, which will be produced at any time it is requested by any authority of the provisional government or the military. Failure to do so will result in immediate arrest.
3. No citizen shall have on his person or in his abode any of the following banned items: any firearm or any other item deemed to be useful as a weapon; any radio or radio equipment; any anti-German written material, or any material which was issued by or supports any supposed claims of legitimacy by any government body other than the General-Gouvernement, or any material written in any language but Polish or German. Discovery of such items will lead to immediate arrest.
4. No citizen shall assist any Jew by delivering foodstuffs or other materials to the local Jewish community or by attempting to hide Jews or assist in their illegal exportation to other countries. This behavior is considered a seriously anti-social act against the Fatherland and will result in immediate death.

While many villagers initially feared this directive signaled more difficult times ahead, that day was the last most of them saw Mittenberg, who melted back into the town hall where he had taken residence to wait out the end of the Polish winter. Within days even the most fearful villagers had returned to their old ways, paying little attention to their occupiers. For most of the adults, this was just one more among a series of occupations, just one more foreign government with which to contend.

“Do you need some help with that necklace?” asked Apolonya, seeing Jadzia lift a string of amber beads the color of filtered sunlight out of her grandmother’s oak jewelry box.

“Yes. Babcia said I could wear her amber beads to church today.” Jadzia held the beads up toward a sunbeam streaming through the room’s east window. The beads glowed, now lightening to the color of butter where the sunlight caught their translucence. Babcia had offered to sell them at market, but since they were her last remaining keepsake from her own mother, Jadzia’s father had refused to allow her to part with them.

As Apolonya bent to fasten the necklace, Jadzia caught the reflection of their faces in the mirror, Apolonya’s gracefully tilted above her own shoulder. At eighteen, the girls’ appearances contrasted even more than they had as children. Jadzia had the dusky coloring of Tartar invaders of centuries earlier: heavy chestnut braids framing a round face with dimples punctuating each cheek. Skin the color of weak tea with milk. Her eyes were her most outstanding feature: sable brown, and generally flashing with mischief or delight. At their corners, the skin crinkled from her almost constant smile.

Apolonya displayed the coloring of Nordic invaders of centuries earlier: braids of fine, pale yellow, the color of corn silk in late summer, crowning a narrow face with a delicately pointed chin. Skin the color of cream with pale splashes of damask rose on high cheekbones. Blue eyes that rivaled the clarity and sparkle of the water that danced in the nearby stream. Apolonya’s beauty was angelic, but Jadzia’s was no less charming in its earthy appeal.

But today dark circles shadowed Apolonya’s eyes.

“Apolonya, did you not sleep again last night?” she asked, turning to her friend and taking both slender white hands in her own. “Did you have another dream?”

“No, it was nothing,” answered Apolonya, averting her eyes from Jadzia’s.

“Tell me,” begged Jadzia, pulling at her friend’s hands. “Perhaps together we can interpret it.”

Apolonya had developed a reputation in the village for second sight. She was far from singular in that respect, as many of the women of Niedzieliska believed they could predict the future from their dreams.  But Jadzia’s mother had scoffed at these beliefs, calling them foolish old country superstitions.

“Pani Levandowska dreams of three dead crows,” Jadzia’s mother had said scornfully to her daughter, “and within a month Pan Kapusta, Pani Gontarska, and Pan Boblak are all dead. ‘Ah,’ says the village, ‘Pani Levandowska has second sight.’ No one stops to think that they are all in their 80s and that Pani Gontarska and Pan Boblak have been sick in their beds for months. No, they wish to see it as second sight—as if anyone could really tell what will happen in the future.”

But hadn’t Apolonya dreamed of water flooding a coastal shore—despite the fact that she had never seen the ocean—just days before the German invasion of Poland? Hadn’t she dreamed of the Przybyla family floating in the sky the very night before they had all tragically burned to death in a house fire? Jadzia looked more closely into her friend’s eyes, now understanding that a sleepless night was the cause of Apolonya’s peevishness.

“It’s nothing. Really nothing.” Apolonya turned away.

But Jadzia persisted, and finally her friend relented. “I saw a dove fly from a cave in a deep green mountain,” Apolonya revealed.

“Anything else?”

“It flew into a bright red sky.”

“Like a sky at sunset?”

“No. Darker. Thicker. A sky almost the color of blood.”

Jadzia shivered, but continued. “But the dove? How was it flying? Did it look like it had been startled?”

Looking up, Apolonya tilted her head as if to see the dream reappearing high on the bedroom walls. Finally, she answered, “No. It flew normally, even gently, then circled twice and flew off.”

Jadzia considered the dream for a few moments before offering her interpretation. “That sounds like a dream of good omens,” she finally responded. “The dove is always the symbol of peace. Perhaps your dream means that the war will be over soon. Now that the Americans are in the war. . .”

“Yes, yes, your wonderful Americans. Honestly, Jadzia, do you really think they can help us?” Apolonya turned to the mirror to fuss with an already perfect braid.

“But in the last letter I got from Eva. . .”

“Of course—from your cousin,” Apolonya scoffed, turning to face Jadzia. “She must have given you good counsel. I’m sure Roosevelt speaks to her at least weekly.”

Jadzia began rummaging through a dresser drawer, more to hide the tears forming in the corners of her eyes than to actually search for anything. Why, she wondered, was Apolonya always so critical whenever she mentioned Eva, her cousin in Chicago, with whom she had shared a lively correspondence since they were children.

But soon a warm, comforting arm enveloped her shoulders, drawing her close. “Jadzia, forgive me. That was mean of me. I’m probably just tired. I blame that dream I had last night. It disturbed me so much. The red in the sky—it was frightening. I could not go back to sleep.”

Jadzia quickly brushed nascent tears from her cheeks. There was nothing to forgive. Everyone in the village was on edge these days. Tilting her head in thought, she responded, “Perhaps the red stands for the Russians. That could be disturbing or promising. It all depends on who you talk to.”

If the Germans were defeated, some villagers argued that Poland’s best course would be to ally closely with the Russians, with whom they at least shared a common Slavic ancestry.  Others cherished the dream of an independent Poland, although their short adventure in independence during the time between the Great War and the invasion from Germany, fewer than twenty years, had been disastrous.

“If your dream is political, Apolonya, it probably won’t affect us at all,” Jadzia continued. “Nothing ever happens in Niedzieliska—we’re too remote. We’re in the middle of a war and we hardly even feel it—at least those of us who stay here. We’ll go on, farming our land, bringing children into the world, getting old, finally dying here.”

“You sound as if that were a bad thing.” Apolonya’s raised eyebrows showed her disagreement.

“I wouldn’t mind leaving this village—seeing what’s out in the world.”

“Two of my brothers left for America when I was just a little girl, and they never

came back.”

“Well, maybe that tells you something,” Jadzia asserted with great conviction. “Maybe your brothers found something much better out there.”

“What could be better than to be with your family and the people you grew up with?” Apolonya asked, passion creasing her forehead. “What could be better than to stay on the land your family has worked for generations? Going anywhere else, even to America, where the streets are paved with gold, is not for me. This is where I will stay. I will never leave Niedzieliska.”

“Apolonya, are you forgetting? There is a war. I don’t believe that all the talk about deportations to labor camps and conscriptions is only rumors. Sometimes people do not have a choice.”

“Jadzia, people always have a choice.”

The sound of Jadzia’s mother calling the girls to church forestalled any further interpretation of dreams. “Ah, you will be the most beautiful girls at Resurrection Mass,” Bronislawa exclaimed as they stepped out of Babcia’s bedroom into the warmth of the sitting room, where new fire, blessed by Father Josef, blazed in the fireplace. Yesterday they had all attended the Holy Saturday ceremony, praying at the site of the churchyard bonfire soaring to the heavens. Then Marek and Stasiu had hurriedly brought new fire back to the house on a flaming piece of wood, replacing the old fires in the fireplace and cook stove which had been extinguished to mark the end of another church year.

Now clad in the finest apparel they owned, Jadzia’s family and Apolonya stepped out into a beautiful spring day. Winter had been unusually harsh and long-lasting, dragging well into the first weeks of March, almost too cold and blustery for anyone to bear. But the celebration of the feast of St. Jozef on March 19^th had brought a sudden spike of temperature into the 40s, warm enough to coax the daffodils and crocuses out of the hard ground and to bring fresh, pale green buds to the lindens and willows. The oaks would bud last, but even their branches looked supple and alive, ready to meet the spring. On this 5^th day of April, nature burst with new life.

They met Apolonya’s mother and brothers by the well the two families shared and began the pleasant walk to the church. Alfons, at seventeen, and Gienek, at fifteen, had grown into handsome young men, but neither was too mature to tease Apolonya about the care their sister had obviously taken in her appearance, speculating about which young man, of the few still remaining in the village, was the most likely object of her attention.

“Ach,” answered Apolonya, tossing her head jauntily. “What young man in this village even deserves my attention? Clumsy Janek Jablonski? Foolish Marek Bednarz? Tadeusz Bidas, who cares more about his cows than about girls?” Jadzia laughed her agreement.

“I wouldn’t be so proud if I were you, Apolonya,” warned Stasiu. “Tomorrow’s  smigus dyngus, and proud girls wind up the wettest.”

“That’s a stupid custom,” complained Jadzia, who had always found silly the Easter Monday tradition of village boys waking the girls at dawn with cold spring water dashed into their faces. “It must have been invented by foolish boys.”

“But don’t forget,” reminded Apolonya. “We get to pay them back the same way Tuesday morning.”

Soon the banter stopped as the men separated themselves into one group that walked ahead, speaking of their animals and their crops, discussing when to plow, when to plant, and the women, walking more slowly behind, caught up on village events, discussing the progress of babies newly born over the winter and reminiscing about recently departed elders. Before Jadzia could believe it possible, she saw the spire of St. Adalbert’s rising above the pines and spruces that shaded the cemetery behind the church.

They entered the church respectfully, all crossing themselves with holy water from the freshly filled font in the vestibule of the church. Reaching their customary pew near the front of the church, each genuflected deeply before entering: first the girls, Jadzia and Apolonya, followed by the adults, and then finally the four boys, who took their position closest to the aisle. The heady scent of early lilacs, soon to be replaced by the more pungent scent of incense from Father Jozef’s censor, filled the church.

As the priest and his attendants solemnly marched up the aisle, the congregation’s song of praise and joy reverberated throughout the humble building, glorifying its stucco walls, its rough pine pews, its stone floor, its four simple glass windows, its pine altar covered in pure white cloths delicately embroidered by the women of the parish. 

Father Jozef’s sermon, as expected, focused on the new life promised by the Resurrection. And as also expected on a day when every parishioner who was not bedridden would attend Mass, the old priest spoke at great length, recounting familiar stories of miraculous cures and salvation from heaven. Jadzia, disappointed, had hoped he would speak of the German occupation, of what they could do to resurrect their own sense of hope for the future. She expressed her boredom by engaging Apolonya in one of the quiet finger games of their childhood, until a stern glance from her mother quickly ended that diversion.

Before long, the Mass was ended, the last “Et cum spiritu tuo” was sung, and Father Jozef, swinging his censor, began to lead the recessional out of church. Jadzia and Apolonya chatted amiably while awaiting their turn to leave.

But what was delaying the recessional at the door of the church? Why the raised voices, the prickling sense of alarm rolling from the church door back to the altar? Whose were those louder voices? And then why, suddenly, was the church deathly quiet?

Jadzia grasped Apolonya’s hand, craning to see over the heads and backs of her family and neighbors, hoping for a glimpse of what they saw beyond the sunlight streaming into the church from the open door. Slowly the recessional resumed, but more tentatively now. Parishioners looked to each other for support, parents held their children near, as the group, acting as one unit, stepped slowly forward.

It was not until Jadzia reached the door of the church that she saw the reason for the alarm. Taking up a large area of the village square were two immense, dark green trucks, their open backs facing the church door. To the left of the trucks stood Herr Mittenberg and perhaps ten of his troops. While Mittenberg postured, gesturing wildly to direct family groups toward the ends of a long line formed perpendicular to the church, Jadzia could see immediately that another man was in charge.

This man’s tightly fitted uniform was black, his iron cross and other military insignia gleaming white on his lapels and the collar of his tunic. He seemed to be speaking in confidence to Father Jozef, who looked as though he had aged twenty years in his short recessional march. The two men were surrounded by a dozen soldiers similarly attired in black, none of whom Jadzia recognized, all holding rifles or machine guns pointed at a forty-five degree angle toward the ground.

Jadzia grasped Apolonya’s hand even more tightly as they stepped into the bright sunlight of the courtyard. She turned to look at her grandmother—were all these men here to take Babcia away? Had she been caught doing something forbidden. . . those missing loaves? Then, suddenly fearful of attracting attention to the older woman, Jadzia looked away, trying to focus her gaze on an empty space in the courtyard, trying to ignore the roiling of her stomach and the quivering of her knees. 

Father Jozef coughed several times before speaking, first in a tight, raspy voice, then more steadily. “Everyone,” he said, “you must get into your family groups immediately and form a straight line along the road. Yes, yes, like this. . .” he gestured, as villagers shuffled to arrange themselves as ordered. Apolonya gave Jadzia’s hand one hard squeeze before dropping it to join her mother and brothers in a section of the line several family units away.

Once the villagers were arranged as ordered, the priest, looking carefully at the long line that spanned the whole west side of the courtyard, returned to the black-clad stranger. They began conversing quietly once more in German as almost the entire population of Niedzieliska stared silently at them.

Finally, Father Jozef spoke again. “Please, everyone, do exactly as these men say. Commander Mueller and one of his officers will step up to each of you. If he touches your shoulder, you must take two steps forward. If not, you are to remain standing where you are.” Villagers looked at each other, and some low, quiet mumbling could be heard.

“No, no,” pleaded Father Jozef. “Everyone must be quiet!” The villagers stood mute as Commander Mueller began inspecting the line from its north end, tapping the shoulders of most of the young who quietly stepped forward, but passing most of  their parents and grandparents.

All commenced efficiently until Mueller tapped the shoulder of a young boy standing two family units north of Jadzia’s family. Jadzia turned at the sudden cry, piercing in the dead quiet of the square, of Pani Oslowska, who reached out, grabbing the shoulder of her youngest son, Jan, who was obediently stepping forward.

“No, no,” she cried, “he’s young. Only ten. He’s tall. He looks older.”

Almost too quickly for anyone to see, the officer standing with Commander Mueller raised his rifle into the air, smashing Pani Oslowska’s forearm with the heavy wooden butt of the weapon. Her scream of pain was drowned by the Commander’s loud command for silence, and Jadzia looked in horror as Pan Oslowski, taking his wife’s limp, bloody arm in one hand and placing his other hand as gently as he could over her mouth, begging her to be silent, nodded acquiescence at the Commander, who continued on.

The Commander passed Jadzia’s parents, grandmother, and brother Stasiu, but tapped Marek and Jadzia, who stepped forward immediately. Jadzia could feel rather than hear the low moan leaving her mother’s body, could sense her mother’s heart reaching out to her own. She glanced only slightly to the right when Mueller reached Apolonya’s family, who stood near the end of the long line, and hated herself almost immediately for the sense of relief she felt when she saw Apolonya and Alfons step forward. At least wherever she was going, she would not be leaving her dearest friend behind.

For one quick moment she thought of what else she would be leaving behind—her family, of course, and friends. The cottage that had been her home her whole life. The barn animals, and old Cesar who, she realized with a start, she would probably never see again. The little pine box that held Eva’s letters. The box! That might yet be saved for her return to the village. She turned to tell Stasiu to hide the box, to bury it under the barn, but a stern look from the soldier standing nearest to her stopped her motion immediately. Better to do nothing that would call attention to herself and her family. 

The selection completed, Father Jozef and Commander Mueller conferred for just a minute before the priest confirmed what the villagers all suspected—that those selected were to proceed in an orderly fashion into the open trucks. Starting from the north end of the line, many of the young men and women of Niedzieliska, looking back longingly but for just one second, parted from their families and friends and from the only lives they had ever known. They were separated again into two lines and jostled up the step stools behind each of the waiting trucks into the darkness within.

“Oh, please,” prayed Jadzia silently, “please let Apolonya be in this truck with me. Please let her be going wherever I’m going,” as one of the soldiers stationed by the nearer truck grabbed her arm to escort her into the darkness within.

Her silent prayer was cut short by a sudden shout that froze movement in the whole square. “Halt, halt, Fraulein!” Mueller screamed, and all eyes turned as one to see what he glared at so intently. Jadzia too looked, and to her horror, saw the slim frame of Apolonya as she walked deliberately across the square, directly toward her home. The bright sun in a cloudless blue sky threw a shimmering frame around her white/gold hair, her long graceful neck and the white muslin dress as she walked.

“No, Apolonya!” cried Jadzia, but her voice was drowned by the Commander’s

 final order, “Fraulein, halt!”  Apolonya continued to walk, appearing to not even hear the command.

Commander Mueller nodded to the soldier standing nearest to him, who lifted his

rifle and pointed it straight at the white figure, now walking steadily just past the center of the town square. The sound of the gun’s discharge, a single shot, erased any other sound, indeed any other thought, within the square.