The Invisible Front

By Barry Flanagan

Its 1944 and Germany are losing the war. The Soviet advance is unparalleled, forcing the Wehrmacht to retreat with great rapidity. After three years of occupation in Lithuania the Germans regroup at the East Prussian town of Goldap leaving behind a legacy of exterminated Jews and a trail of destruction. The Soviets, on the other hand, reclaim the land they called their own in 1940, but the population of Lithuania is demoralised. Many flee as refugees, turning their backs on a second Soviet occupation, while others have no alternative but to stay - their livelihoods depending on it. Then there’s the third group: the freedom fighters, the ones who grit their teeth, curse the Soviets, then pick up their weapons again prepared to move undercover of the forests for the second time and show the Soviets they’re not welcome back in their country. The war in Western Europe may be drawing to a close, but the war in the East is just beginning.

This is a story of a small group of freedom fighters, based in one of the many resistance camps in Lithuania. They were hailed as heroes by their followers and dubbed The Invisible Front by Soviet Security Forces.

Although a work of fiction, the novel completes the trilogy to Flanagan’s previous novels: The Undeclared War, and, Across The Green Border. All available as e-books on Amazon and Smashwords. See BarryFlanaganBooks.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barry Flanagan
• Release date: Apr 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781921968600

Barry Flanagan

Barry Flanagan was born in the coalmining town of Cessnock, located in the Hunter Valley of New South Wales, Australia. Having completed his schooling he worked in the industrial city of Newcastle before forging a career in the Defence Forces with the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF). After six years maintaining and servicing the French built, Mirage III supersonic aircraft - including two of those years in Singapore and Malaya - he opted for a new career in the underground coal mining industry. He worked at a number of mines, each one forced to close because of depleted resources. From there he worked as a training consultant for the mining industry in electrical and Occupational Health & Safety followed by a period with a successful engineering company before retiring. With his partner, Barbara, he now lives in the Macarthur region of New South Wales, an hour’s drive south-west of Sydney.

Book preview

Prologue

The city of Kaunas was ablaze: buildings, public libraries, university campuses, electrical sub-stations, water plants, train station, telegraph exchange - anything the Germans couldn’t take with them and would be beneficial to the advancing Soviets, they destroyed. Thick black smoke hung over the city for days. The civilian population, with suitcases heavy with food and clothes, and bags slung over their shoulders, followed the Wehrmacht across the last of the bridges fording the Nemunas River. When it was demolished, the fleeing Germans left them behind to fend for themselves. Frightened, they hurried after them as fast as they could, knowing that if they were caught by the Bolsheviks they would be punished as Nazi sympathisers and their lives, from then on, would be worthless.

Before they rolled into Kaunas, the Red Army built a pontoon bridge across the Nemunas, twenty kilometres from the city. Infantry units and a number of tanks crossed the river but were confronted by a small contingent of German Shadow tanks and destroyed. The Soviets retaliated with multiple rocket fire and the Shadows retreated. Soon after, the Luftwaffe blew up the pontoon bridge. Days later, a second bridge was built. This time well below the waterline out of sight of enemy planes and the Red Army crossed in droves.

The fleeing Germans left nothing of value, including farms with their ready-to-harvest grains: they breached fences with their tanks, torched the farmhouses with flamethrowers and tore through the fields grinding their crops into the dirt. Farmers who intervened were cut down with automatic weapons and left to die; others, more fortunate, survived. For the next two weeks the Wehrmacht headed west for the East Prussian border.

Chapter 1

Rimas Stucas climbed from his bed, clothed himself, picked up his boots and socks and left his bedroom closing the door behind him. As he did every morning at this hour his movements were methodical and muted in an effort not to wake his wife, Andréna. He walked to the kitchen table, sat on a chair and began to pull on a sock.

‘You’re up early,’ he said to his younger brother seated across from him.

‘Lots of things going on around the district,’ Max said. ‘Don’t want to be caught unawares.’

Rimas tugged on a boot and laced it up then reached for his other sock. ‘Expecting a visit from the Soviets any day,’ he said. ‘They took Kaunas a week ago. Word has it they’ve reached Marijampolė.’

‘It won’t take them long to trek the twenty kilometres to here then; especially at the rate the Nazis are running.’

Rimas stood up and walked to the back door of his farm a short distance from the town of Vilkaviškis in south-western Lithuania. He took a cap hanging from a peg on the wall and pulled it tight around his head. ‘If you’re looking for me I’ll be in the shed checking on the horse.’ He opened the door, stopped and cocked his head to one side to listen. He turned and looked at Max. ‘Can you hear that? It sounds like a vehicle.’ He walked outside and around to the front of the house.

Max hurried after him and both men watched as a car turned off the driveway into the yard. Clean, the black Buick would have taken centre stage on a showroom floor, but covered in dust and brown caked mud, splashed up by the vehicles wheels during a storm, it resembled no more than a farmyard runabout.

‘Can you see who it is?’ Rimas asked.

‘No. It doesn’t have any markings so it’s not the Soviets. It looks like a civilian car.’

The Buick nosed in towards them and stopped.

‘Shit,’ said Rimas.

The sedan’s doors opened and two German officers got out brandishing pistols. The driver, a soldier, hurried after them a rifle held across his chest. The officers stepped up to the farmer and his brother.

‘Nahrung, Wasser und Benzin,’ the higher ranking officer said.

‘What did he say?’ asked Rimas. His understanding of German was basic.

‘They want food, water and petrol.’

‘In Eile,’ said the officer. He flicked the point of his pistol a number of times in the air. ‘Es zu springen.’

‘He said they’re in a hurry. Don’t waste time.’

‘That figures.’

‘You don’t speak Lithuanian, Lieutenant?’ Max asked him in German.

The officer scowled at him and took a step forward. He waved his pistol towards the house. ‘Bewegen!’ he shouted.

‘No need to translate,’ Rimas said. ‘I’ll get them some food.’ He turned and walked towards the front door.

Rimas thought of Andréna and Kowalski – a former Polish soldier who fled from the Nazis, now his brother’s confidant and fellow partisan. Both were inside and should have heard the car drive in and, hopefully, would have looked and identified their visitors. If she’s up and dressed Andréna should be okay, but as for Kowalski, he was unsure. He was glad Max wasn’t wearing his pistol. Along with Kowalski’s, it was with their rifles in the bedroom where both of them slept. The Nazis are bound to search the house and he shuddered to think what they might do if they didn’t like what they found.

The Lieutenant waved his pistol again and Max followed his brother into the house. ‘Search,’ the officer told the soldier.

The soldier stomped down the hallway and stopped at the nearest door. He reached for the knob but it opened and Andréna stepped out. She was fully dressed in a three-quarter length, floral cotton skirt with a lavender blouse buttoned at the wrists. Her dark shoulder-length hair was brushed neatly behind her ears. She faced the startled Wehrmacht soldier with a beaming smile.

‘Good morning what can I do for you?’ she said. She spoke fluent German, something her husband refused to learn as he couldn’t find the time. Besides, it wouldn’t make his crops grow any faster, he’d told her.

The soldier stepped back, regained his composure then gestured down the hall with his rifle. ‘Auf diese Weise gnädige, Frau,’ he said.

She led him to the kitchen where the Lieutenant gave her the eye then pointed to a chair. The soldier resumed his search while she sat and watched as Rimas, satisfied his wife was safe and in a position where he could keep an eye on her, walked to the larder room, grabbed a small hessian bag and loaded it with potatoes.

‘Nein! Nein!’ said the second officer, poking him with his pistol. He gestured with his hands and mouth. ‘Können wir jetzt Essen.’

‘They want fresh food,’ Max said. ‘I’ll get some from the cupboard. If they don’t like yesterday’s milk, I’ll throw it in their faces.’

Max went to a cooling cupboard in the corner of the kitchen. It was a tall, wooden structure with slats on the sides and vents on the top and bottom to allow the air to circulate and rise to take away the warmth of the food. Each shelf was lined with a damp cotton cloth. He pulled out a jug, sat three glasses on the table and filled them with full creamed milk. The Germans didn’t wait to be offered they reached for a glass and gulped the contents down.

The Lieutenant finished, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and waved Max away from the cooler. He holstered his pistol then took out a piece of cooked ham, a tray of butter, four chicken’s eggs, a screw-cap jar of pickles and one of red beet and placed them onto the table.

From out of the larder Rimas brought the hessian bag filled with a bunch of carrots, a lettuce, some silver beet and a cabbage. He crammed the food from the cooler into the bag and tied it with a piece of hemp rope then placed it in the middle of the table. From a bread box near the window he took out a loaf, broke off half and thumped it down beside the bag. He placed the other half back into the bread box and closed the lid. It was his way of announcing they weren’t getting it all. The soldier returned and informed his superiors the house had no other occupants. Rimas breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Benzin,’ the Lieutenant said, looking at him.

Rimas moved towards the back door. ‘Tell him to drive the car around to the shed,’ he said to Max. Max did so and the Lieutenant gave instructions to the soldier. The soldier picked up the bag and bread and headed out to the car.

The Lieutenant gestured with the pistol and Max followed his brother out to the shed; the officers were close behind. Rimas opened a door revealing a small congested workshop with parts of a tractor in one corner, a work bench in the middle and shelving on either side storing paints, lubricants and fuel. The Buick drove up and the soldier got out. He unscrewed the cap off the fuel tank, stood beside it with his rifle and waited.

Rimas lifted a ten litre can from a shelf, grabbed a funnel and headed for the Buick. ‘Tell him this is all I have,’ he said to Max. ‘It’s only half-full.’

Max interpreted. The German ignored him, waving Rimas to hurry. With fuel in the tank, they hopped in the car and drove out the yard.

Rimas watched them go. ‘Uneventful, but I’m glad they’ve gone,’ he said to Max. ‘Wherever they’ve come from it seems they left in a hurry; they didn’t have time to eat.’

‘And they’ve commandeered that car from somewhere; probably from a politician in Kaunas.’

‘American, isn’t it?’ Rimas asked.

‘Yes.’ Max looked at his brother holding the empty can and staring after them. ‘Was that the last of your fuel?’

‘No. I’ve got a full can in the shed with the tractor. But it’s hard to come by; when it runs out, its back to the horse and plough.’ He strode into the workshop and placed the empty can back onto the shelf.

Max started towards the house. ‘I’ll check on Kowalski. He must have hid somewhere.’

‘Lucky for him; those Germans can smell a Jew two blocks away.’

The two men entered the house. Already Andréna had changed into something more comfortable and was checking the contents of the cooling cupboard. When first she heard the Germans outside, she thought her colourful outfit would be an attention getter and soothe their minds. Lucky for her, she thought, that was all it did.

‘At least they’ve left us a little milk and butter,’ she said to Rimas, ‘as well as the uncooked pork and chicken.’

‘They’re on the run,’ Max said. ‘Haven’t got time to stop and cook.’ He looked around the empty kitchen. ‘Have you seen Kowalski?’

Andréna shrugged. ‘I thought he must have been hiding out the back.’

They heard a loud thump from the other side of the house followed by the clatter of metal falling onto the wooden floorboards. Max rushed through the kitchen and into the hallway. Kowalski was on the floor, barefoot, still in his pyjamas, and struggling to get to his feet. Beside him, were two rifles, some ammunition, and a pillow case laden with pistols. Max looked up. A short distance out of the Pole’s reach was the access to the roof cavity, its trapdoor pushed aside.

‘Are you okay?’ Max asked him in Polish.

Kowalski stood up and brushed off the dust. His right sleeve was torn.

‘Yes, I’m okay.’ He looked up through the access hole. ‘Not much room up there; its small and cramped.’

Max thought back to Kaunas where they hid in a roof cavity behind a chimney above an apartment away from the Gestapo. ‘And you didn’t fall through the ceiling, either, like I did.’

They both laughed and picked up their weapons. ‘Fix the trapdoor later,’ Max said. ‘Get dressed and let’s have some breakfast.’

Chapter Two

By mid-August, the Soviet army had advanced through Lithuania and reached the East Prussian border. The German army, forced to retreat after three years of occupation in the Baltic States, regrouped at the Prussian town of Goldap. Further west, along the former Polish Corridor, refugees fled in their thousands, most heading for places unknown. Among them were Lithuanians looking for another place to call home, turning their backs on a second Soviet occupation. A number were farmers prepared to leave behind the only life they knew – they simply hitched up their horses, packed up their carts and abandoned everything they owned.

Following the Soviet army were the Lithuanian Communist Party and members of the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic – the same people who were in power in 1940, the Soviet’s first occupation. On August 30, a land reform was passed – more radical than in 1940. Word spread throughout the country, hastened by the latest edition of an underground newspaper, The Freedom Scout.

‘The Liquidation of German what?’ Rimas asked.

He, Max and Kowalski were sitting at the kitchen table sipping a hot cup of tea after an evening meal of roast chicken, potatoes, carrots and green vegetables. Vodka was in short supply at the Stucas farm.

Max glanced at the front page of the partisan newspaper. ‘For the Liquidation of German Occupational Achievements in Agriculture’, he read aloud.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means, whatever the Germans owned, they don’t own anymore. The Soviets plan to restore the same laws that were in force in 1940.’

‘I might have known,’ said Rimas, ‘harassed again. Those Kommissars, they didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. All they wanted was their quota so they could tick you off their list and make themselves look good to their superiors. There were farms around here that had to give twice as much as I did and received very little in return. My next door neighbour was young with a wife and two kids. Their farm was small. I helped them out on a number of occasions as did other farmers. Things relaxed a little when the Nazis arrived, but the week before you and your friends came, he packed up and left. The farm’s deserted now; overgrown with weeds.’

Max’s friends, Rimas referred to, were Jonas Petraitis, his wife Marguerite and son Karlis. It had been four weeks since Rimas drove them to the border at Kybartai and after he returned and told him about the border being closed because of the flood of German military retreating west, he wondered if they were able to get across at all. And if they did, where they might have ended up? Hopefully they’re somewhere safe among the mass of refugees heading west. He read further down the page of the newspaper.

‘That deserted farm you mentioned. It now belongs to the Soviets along with lots of others throughout the country. We came across a number of them during the first occupation. The owners and their families were deported to work camps in Siberia or elsewhere in Russia.’

‘They no choice,’ said Kowalski. He still had a way to go to master the Lithuanian language.

Max read on. ‘And those farmers who aided the Germans, they’re in trouble. They’re going to restrict their farms to five hectares.’

‘But they would have been under Nazi pressure,’ Rimas said. ‘How could they have avoided that?’

‘Tell that to the Bolsheviks. They make up their rules as they go along.’

Max kept on reading.

‘Maybe Bolsheviks annexe Lithuania again,’ Kowalski said. ‘Just like before.’

‘That’s on the cards,’ Max said looking up at him. They’re already attempting to conscript Lithuanians into their army.’ He glanced down at the paper again. ‘The resistance movement is warning Lithuanians to avoid conscription at all costs. They say they could end up fighting the Nazis all the way to Berlin.’

‘They’re not wasting any time are they,’ said Rimas.

Max folded the eight-page underground newspaper and pushed it aside. ‘They could end up fighting their own brothers in the forests as well,’ he said.

Chapter Three

October had come and gone and word filtered through that the Baltic States: Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, were free of Germans. Word also carried the threat of Bolshevik terror. Civilians suspected of aiding the Germans, were shot; the lucky ones, the ones who had tried to prove their loyalty to the Bolsheviks but couldn’t, or were ignored, were arrested and deported. There was no court of law, no judge, no jury; justice was served at the point of a gun.

In the weeks prior, the push by the Soviets had created uncertainty across the whole of Western Lithuania. Civilians wondered if a battle would take place on their doorsteps as the front passed through. Or if their farms would be obliterated by the Germans like so many they’d heard about further east. To some, it happened. To those that endured and survived, the fleeing Germans destroyed most of their equipment. Now it was way past harvest time and getting cold.

Traditionally, every year in the Vilkaviškis district, farmers pooled their equipment: their trucks, tractors, harvesters, trailers, horses; anything that would make life easier for everyone. They would start their harvesting on an outside farm then work their way across the district. But this year it had to be done by hand and on the Stucas farm there were two fields of rye to bring in.

‘Thank God, you two are here to help,’ Andréna said to Max. ‘After the harvest, there’s the last of the potatoes to be dug up and the corn to be picked. Then there are the fields to plough and winter rye to be sowed. Your brother couldn’t do it all by himself.’

‘We help,’ Kowalski said, sitting at the table rubbing his satisfied stomach after another well-cooked evening meal of potato dumplings with fresh salad. ‘Me fit as a fuddle.’

Max looked at him. ‘Fit? You’re putting on weight.’

‘Good living,’ Kowalski said.

Rimas leaned across the table and smiled in his face. ‘We’ll soon fix that,’ he said, ‘at daybreak in the morning.’

Kowalski rolled his eyes; caught in his own trap, he thought.

As Rimas promised, breakfast was on the table a half-hour before daybreak. As the sun began to rise he handed each a scythe and pointed in the direction of the east field. ‘It might be chilly now,’ he said, ‘but you’ll soon warm up. There’s a can of water and some mugs on the grass when you get thirsty. I’ll be over with the cart and rake it up behind you; now, on your way.’

‘Yes, bossy,’ said Kowalski.

Rimas watched as the Pole practised a swing with his scythe. ‘I think you’d better stay well away from Max,’ he told him. ‘I don’t want to end up with a one-legged brother at the end of the day.’

Kowalski smiled and walked towards the field.

For the next five days they toiled: blisters, aching backs and arms were the order of Max and Kowalski’s day. First the rye was harvested and Rimas’s only worry was how he would be paid for his crop. In 1940 it was rubles; the deutschmark from 1941; and now? It should be rubles again unless they take it all and pay nothing in return as they’d done to some farmers before, he thought.

With the rye safely stored in the barn ready for delivery to Vilkaviškis, a vehicle, strange to Rimas, motored down the driveway and entered the yard. It had a windscreen but no doors. There was a back seat, but no top and was open to the elements all the way round.

‘What in the hell is that?’ he asked Max.

‘It’s a Jeep, an American Jeep.’

Rimas shook his head. ‘My God, another American contraption; when will it end?’

Like the German’s Buick had done four months before, the Jeep nosed up to them standing in front of the house; again Kowalski stayed inside out of sight. The car stopped and a man in a Soviet uniform with red stars on his sleeves and wearing an officer’s cap stepped out. Again the driver was a soldier, but unlike the German’s approach, this time their visitors were more relaxed and informal. The officer’s side-arm was holstered on his belt and he had a clipboard tucked under his arm. The soldier’s rifle was slung over his shoulder and, swinging his legs through the door-less opening, he casually followed the officer up to the farmer and his brother. To their surprise, the officer smiled.

‘Greetings Comrades,’ he said. ‘I’m Colonel Igor Kamiński, your district Kommissar. Would either of you be the owner of this delightful farm?’

He spoke fluent Lithuanian.

‘I am,’ said Rimas.

The Russian took the clipboard in his hands and studied it. ‘Your name would be Stucas, Rimantas Stucas?’

‘Yes.’

‘My job is to inspect your farm and after my observations driving in, I’m sure it won’t take long. It seems in immaculate order.’

‘No thanks to the Nazis,’ Rimas said. He thought a little anti-Nazism might go a long way.

The Kommissar laughed. ‘Of course, good riddance we say.’ He glanced around looking at the house. ‘I’ve noticed other farms have suffered during the enemy’s occupation. Yours seems to be in fine shape.’

‘We turned the street signs around before they came running down the road,’ Rimas said.

The Kommissar burst out laughing again. The soldier stared at him, mystified. Obviously he doesn’t speak Lithuanian, thought Max.

The door opened and Andréna called out: ‘Tea and scones anyone?’

The Kommissar’s face lit up. ‘Most certainly, madam, how could I refuse?’

Max was suspicious of the man: so respectful, so courteous. Not that he’d been in the presence of many Kommissars before, but this one was too good to be true.

They moved into the kitchen and sat at the table: Rimas and Max on one side, the Soviet official and the soldier on the other. Rimas introduced Max and Andréna.

‘Your brother, you say,’ said the Kommissar. He looked at Max. ‘And where do you live?’

‘Here. It’s a family affair. My brother, being the eldest, inherited the farm. Our parents died some years ago.’

The Kommissar looked back at Rimas. ‘Do you have any other workers on the farm?’

Rimas thought of Kowalski, probably locked in his bedroom, if not already up in the roof cavity. ‘I hire a hand from time to time. He helps with the harvest.’

The Kommissar seemed satisfied and tea and scones were served. The Soviet official was free with his conversation and complimented Andréna a number of times on her cooking, while the soldier kept looking around constantly glancing towards the hallway as if he’d heard something. The Kommissar finished the last of his scone, sipped his tea then consulted his clipboard.

‘Your farm, Comrade Stucas, its capacity is -’

‘The name is Stucas, Mr. Stucas,’ corrected Rimas, keeping a level tone of voice.

The Kommissar eyed him across the table with a wry smile. ‘Of course, as you wish…Mr. Stucas. Your land,’ he continued, ‘is twenty-five hectares, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmmm.’ He consulted his clipboard again. ‘Unfortunately, Mr. Stucas, this is too large.’

Rimas shifted in his chair. ‘Too large for what? What are you talking about?’

The Kommissar’s wry smile became a little broader. ‘Any property larger than twenty hectares belongs to the State.’

Rimas’s eyes widened. ‘Since when? It used to be higher than that.’

‘A decree has been passed -’

‘What decree? I’ve heard nothing about a decree.’

‘It was passed recently by the government.’

‘What government?’

Rimas was getting uptight.

‘The government of the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic.’

‘You’re joking. The Nazis have been running this country for three years. How can you just step in and change everything overnight.’

The Soviet Official stared at him. ‘Change everything? We don’t have to change a thing. This was Soviet territory before the enemy invaded. We just pick up where we left off – with a few minor changes of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Your land now, Mr. Stucas, is quite valuable. We could build a military camp here, complete with army barracks. Or even an airfield. It’s so close to the border; very convenient.’

Rimas was incensed; he stood up knocking his chair over. ‘Army barracks? Airfield? Over my dead body.’

The soldier, seated at the end of the table, jumped to his feet and reached for his rifle. Max did nothing. He was in no position to do anything without a weapon.

The Kommissar shrugged. ‘No need to get upset, Mr. Stucas. All this takes time. Meanwhile, you have your harvest. You said your first delivery is loaded in your barn. Let’s go and take a look.’ He stood up and reached for his cap.

Outside, the air was crisp, but the sun was shining with hardly a cloud in the sky. Rimas opened the barn door exposing his wagon loaded high with rye and tied down with rope.

‘We’ll be making three or four trips,’ he said to the Kommissar. ‘One of my neighbours had a truck, but not anymore. It was run over by a tank.’

The Soviet official was unconcerned. He drew out his pencil and made a tick on his clipboard chart. He glanced behind the cart, noticed a stack of rye in a corner and pencilled another tick. He looked at Rimas.

‘Under the circumstances, well organised,’ he said and put away his pencil and tucked the clipboard under his arm. He looked at the soldier and spoke in Russian. ‘I believe another scone and a cup of tea wouldn’t go astray, what do you think?’ The soldier smiled and they headed towards the house.

Rimas stared after them, scowling, then turned and closed the barn door.

‘I’ll keep watch,’ said Max and set off after them.

Inside, they sat at the table in the same chairs as before.

‘Your tea, Colonel,’ said Andréna. ‘What would you like on your scone?’

‘Butter will be fine, thank you Mrs. Stucas.’

Andréna sliced a scone in half and spread some butter on each piece. She placed them on a plate in front of the Kommissar.

‘Your service is impeccable,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Colonel.’

She moved away and left the soldier to do his own. He glared after her.

‘There’s still some resistance activity in the area,’ the Kommissar said. ‘Have you seen any rebels around?’

‘Rebels?’ said Rimas.

The Kommissar was patient. ‘Partisans, resistance,’ he said.

‘Not today,’ said Rimas.

He looked at Max. ‘What about you?’

Max shook his head. ‘Me either.’

The Russian stared at him. ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’

‘Do you come to this farm often?’

‘No.’

‘Then you haven’t seen me before.’

Max continued to stare eye to eye with the Soviet official, challenging him; he was determined not to back down.

‘Have you lived in Kaunas?’

‘My father took me and my brother there when we were little boys. No doubt things have changed since then.’

The Kommissar looked away. ‘No doubt, but I’m sure I’ve seen you -’

The soldier jumped to his feet spilling the remains of his tea. He grabbed his rifle and darted for the hallway. Rimas looked at Max. Both had anxious looks on their faces. Had the soldier heard something? Was it Kowalski? They rushed for the hall, but the Kommissar was quick and barred their way. He stood, pistol in hand pointing it at them.

‘Stay where you are,’ he said.

Then, two rifle shots came from a bedroom. Andréna gasped. Max and Rimas froze, expecting the worst. For a moment there was silence. Then a figure stepped into the hallway behind the Kommissars back. Rimas’s eyes widened. He glanced at Max and both started to laugh. The Kommissar looked from one to the other, whirled around to see the soldier, arm outstretched, holding a large rat by the tail, its head hanging by a thread of flesh to its body. The Kommissar holstered his pistol and laughed along with them.

‘I’ll get a bin to put it in,’ Rimas said. ‘I’ve been looking for that bastard for a week.’

Although his heart was beating faster, he strolled into the kitchen with a big smile on his face.

* * * * *

Rimas flicked the reins and the big bay broke into a trot. Max sat on the far side of the cart and Kowalski sat in the middle; their load of rye towering above them at the back.

‘It’s a wonder that rat didn’t eat you,’ Max said to Kowalski.

‘Me in cupboard, locked from inside, did not know rat was in room. When I heard soldier walk in and fire shots, I thought it end for me.’

‘So did we, and the end for us, as well,’ Rimas said.

‘That Kommissar recognised me,’ said Max. ‘He must have been in my Kaunas shop before the war; he’s definitely a Lithuanian Communist. I was glad to see the end of him.’

They left the farm and turned the bay along the back roads, through the open fields, in the direction of Vilkaviškis. Thirty minutes later, they entered a heavily forested area. Rimas slowed and pulled to the side handing the reins to Kowalski. ‘I’ve got to take a piss,’ he said, and jumped down from the cart.

‘Have one for me while you’re there,’ said Max. ‘Save me getting down.’

Ignoring his brother, Rimas checked for any traffic then made his way off the road to a cluster of small bushes surrounded by tufts of grass between two Baltic pines. He unbuttoned his fly and started to piss.

‘Jesus Christ,’ yelled a voice from the bushes in front of him.

Rimas jumped back in fright, his stream interrupted, but not before spilling down the front of his pants. A man stood up with his back to Rimas and his pants down around his knees. Urine dripped from his cap and ran down the back of his shirt. He pulled up his pants and turned to face Rimas. ‘What in the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Laughter came from the left; then from the right. Two men stepped out from their cover behind some trees, carbines in their hands.

On the cart, Kowalski looked at Max. ‘Partisans?’

‘Yes. Some of our Forest Brothers from a different part of the world, I would say.’

‘We stay here?’

‘For the moment, they’re not going to shoot anyone.’

One of the partisans walked towards the cart. He was young, no more than twenty-five or six. He was tall, good looking with stubble on his face. He reminded Max of Karlis. He stopped a few metres away his rifle cradled in his arms.

‘We saw you coming,’ he said. He pointed to the man still arguing with Rimas and smiled. ‘We didn’t bother telling him; you looked harmless. Well…until now.’ He glanced at the load of rye. ‘Heading into town?’

‘Yes,’ said Max. ‘This is our first delivery. We’ve got two more to go.’

‘Had any visits from the Soviets?’

‘Yesterday. They’re putting the pressure on us already.’

The partisan nodded towards the back of the cart. ‘At least you’re still in business. There’s a lot that aren’t.’

Max decided to come out into the open. ‘You’re from the Iron Wolf Unit, aren’t you?’

The man stepped back and raised his rifle. ‘Who are you?’

‘My code name is Leather Man.’ He jerked his head towards Kowalski. ‘And this is my number one.’

The young man continued to stare at them, rifle pointed.

‘We’re from Kaunas. Came down ahead of the Bolsheviks; helped some friends cross the border.’ He pointed to Rimas who was apologising to the man he pissed on, using a rag to wipe him down. ‘He’s my brother; owns a farm a few kilometres back. We’ve been helping him with the harvest.’

‘How do you know about Iron Wolf?’

‘Word gets around when you’re in the business. We carried out a number of jobs for the LAF in ’40-41, especially along the Kaunas-Vilnius line. Stopped a few trains from getting through.’

‘Name one.’

‘Kaišiadorys.’

The man raised his eyebrows.

‘I led the group on the Panemunė Bridge across the Nemunas; we held up the Soviet Garrison for a day during the uprising. Then my boys help capture the radio station.’

‘Jesus,’ said the man, his young face breaking into a smile. He cradled his rifle again.

‘So,’ said Max. ‘The Iron Wolf Unit?’

‘Yeah,’ said the partisan. ‘We’re only a few dozen at the moment. There are larger units in other areas. We’re roaming around checking on the farms; the Bolsheviks have been doing a lot of looting. A number of men have joined our movement since the Soviets started recruiting. Some had been forced into the German army, now they’ve fled into the forest and brought along their weapons.’ He looked from Max to Kowalski and back again. ‘What are your plans now?’

Max glanced at the two men walking towards them with Rimas. ‘Maybe in two or three weeks we should have my brother’s farm in better shape. We might look you up after that.’

Kowalski smiled as the young man reached up to shake his hand. ‘We’ll be glad to have you,’ the man said. ‘My name is Hawk.’

Chapter Four

They’d marched through the better part of the day resting from time to time. The morning had been fine but the afternoon presented them with a drizzle - more of a nuisance than a threat. At the first sign of a vehicle, or any noise that sounded unfamiliar, they darted from the road and hid amongst the grass. Although there was very little traffic on the back road, they welcomed a line of trees to hide behind if the need arose. Similarly dressed in faded dungarees with a dark long-sleeved shirt, jacket and cap, Max and Kowalski carried rucksacks on their backs and their carbines slung over their shoulders; pistols were holstered to their belts. They had instructions to follow, given to them by the three partisans they’d met the day they were carting Rimas’s first load of rye to Vilkaviškis.

‘What are the chances of me having a piss and that partisan having a crap right in the same place at the same time,’ Rimas had said. He was flabbergasted and gave the resistance fighters some vegetables he’d tucked under the driver’s seat of the cart to pay someone off if necessary when in Vilkaviškis – it was the norm, usually a Bolshevik. The partisans were delighted, thanking Rimas time and again. Max knew that without the support of the civilian population supplying them with food, and sometimes handing over weapons and ammunition and wanting nothing in return, the resistance movement would not exist in Lithuania.

Max was satisfied that the work they’d done at the farm had pleased his brother and had set him up for the winter. Now he only had to wait for spring, sow a few more potatoes, corn and other vegetables and wait for the summer harvest. In the meantime, Max told him, he and Kowalski would return for a friendly visit now and again - hopefully with a litre bottle of vodka.

They reached the Šešupė River, found a pontoon bridge that was left behind by the retreating Nazis and crossed to the eastern bank. The bridge was well used, but known only to the locals. They followed the river south-east, as it twisted and turned through a maze of open fields: so sharp at times, the river looped back on itself and they could see where they were twenty minutes before. They cursed their stupidity, but kept an open mind ready for when the river snaked their way again. When it did, they crossed the narrow gap saving time and energy. Then the river changed direction and dipped to the south, a sign they were getting closer to their destination: the Šešupė No.2 Camp. They were later to learn there was no No.1 Camp, or even a No.3. It was all to do with the commander’s sense of humour that the camp acquired its name.

The river edged close to a forest. It was here they would encounter a trail that would lead them to within a kilometre of the partisan’s unit and come in contact with a sentry for further information. They left the river and walked an unsealed road: the wheel marks of farmers’ horse-drawn carts encrusted in the mud. To reach the track, unseen from the road, they had three obscure signs to guide them. The first, on the right: a broken cart wheel, half-buried in the soft earth on the side of the road. The second, fifty paces further on: a sun-dried fence post with three notches hacked into its side at different angles. The third, twenty paces on the left: a rabbit’s skin nailed to a Baltic pine, three metres from the ground. This you had to search for. If it was dark, you needed a torch. They eventually found the rabbit skin then walked fifty metres into the forest where they found a fallen tree with similar notches as the fence post cut into its stump. The tip of the tree - once part of a tall robust pine rising proudly above all else in the forest, but now left splintered and scorched after a lightning strike generations ago - pointed to the trail. A search discovered footprints amongst the scattered pine needles leading further into the forest.

‘I’m glad you remembered all of those instructions,’ Kowalski said to Max. ‘I’d have ended up swimming the river and drowning before I got to the other side.’

When they were alone it was much easier for Kowalski to communicate with Max in his native tongue.

Max stopped and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. He opened it and handed it to Kowalski behind him. The Pole looked at it, turned it upside down, then to the side, frowned and shook his head.

‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘That’s the idea. I wrote the instructions in code.’

It was mid-afternoon and the forest canopy prevented the majority of sunlight from coming through to the forest floor. ‘It’ll be hard to find when the winter comes,’ Kowalski said.

‘It’s bad enough now. This inclement weather isn’t making it any easier.’

They walked for another fifteen minutes, having to double-back on three occasions after wandering too far from the track. Then Max heard a noise. He stopped, eyes darting left and right, but he couldn’t see anything. Then, from out of the forest, a voice bellowed:

‘Stay where you are! State your business!’

Max looked in the direction of the sound but he couldn’t see the owner of the voice. Whoever it was, he was completely hidden. He guessed the voice belonged to the sentry from the camp; otherwise they would have been easy prey by now, shot and left in the forest to feed the wolves. He raised his hands to shoulder height. Kowalski did the same.

‘We’ve come to see your commander,’ Max said.

‘Password?’

‘Vytautas.’

‘Code name?’

‘Leather Man.’

‘Keep your hands in the air,’ the voice said. ‘Start walking along the track. Don’t stop until you’re