A River Runs Red

By Jonathan Szott

Stanisław Cobaltski's youth was upended by Nazi Germany's invasion of Poland to start World War II. His family and fellow compatriots fought underground to form a resistance against foreign invaders.

His life trajectory changed when he was captured and sent to a concentration camp as a political prisoner. Crimes against humanity by Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union led many civilians to their untimely death, as one-fifth of Poland's population was killed. Stanisław escaped only to become a refugee with his homeland in ruins. Could America give him an opportunity to escape war-torn Europe?

During the next twenty years, he started a new life by working in a local paper mill in New England. Unbeknownst to him, prejudice still existed and old wounds could not heal. He befriended a family whose ancestors came from Malaga Island. To his surprise, the native population kept them as
outcasts of society.

Would Stanisław's life come full circle?

The first half of A River Runs Red is based upon actual events experienced during the Second World War.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098359768

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Morning Lake Mist

August 15, 2009

Throughout the humid August night, a torrential rain pinged and panned off the metal roof. The constant loud sounds woke him through his bedtime. Flashes of lightning outside his window led to booms of thunder. The family’s Samoyed dog, Moose, hopped onto his bed for extra comfort during the storm, and they cuddled each other as they fell back asleep. Jumping on the bed was strange behavior for a Samoyed, as they are often overheated due to their heavy white fur coats.

When Jerry woke for morning breakfast, he went downstairs to find his father was not inside their modest home. He assumed his dad must be near—perhaps on the family’s dock or in the woods working on his moonshine? He and his Samoyed exited the house and walked towards the hidden hooch operation located deep in the Maine woods next to a small creek. As he searched for his father, he noticed the previous night’s precipitation left a morning dew on shrubbery that clung to his strong calf muscles and soaked his black ankle socks. The dog’s substantial coat of fur absorbed water, causing him to shake it off in an attempt to stay dry.

Jerry laughed at Moose. You are one-third the size now and look more like an albino rat than a dog! We really do need to cut this grass. I’ll have ticks latched on to my skin before I even find my father. He must be down by our beach. Let’s turn toward the lake. Jerry looked the dog dead in the eyes as he said, I hope Dad isn’t worried about our Great Aunt. He always acts funny this time of year.

Moose titled his head in a perplexed fashion.

I know, Jerry said. She’s ancient and no longer sharp as a knife. Duller than a butter knife.

The chinook following the night’s storm caused mist to rise over the lake, fogging the shoreline. As they neared, a silhouette overlooking Pequawket Lake appeared. His father was sitting at the edge of the dock with his feet dangling into the water. A mist rose over the calm lake. A family of loons could be heard in the distance making their famous howl. A bottle of Eastern European liquor sat to the right of his father, which instantly intrigued his son. It was only 7:30 AM, and his father wasn’t an alcoholic. What was this odd bottle with a piece of grass inside? The boy remembered he had seen this vodka from Poland a few times in his life—always in the summer. It further clicked in his brain that every August, his father drank this liquor, labeled Zubrowka.

Jerry was standing on the shore’s sandy soil when he decided to inquire about the yearly nostalgia his father had always undertaken. He blurted, Zoo-brewf-ka! His father’s head turned toward him. He and his smiling Sammie canine hopped onto the dock, and he asked, Dad, why do you always drink that bottle from Poland in mid-August? We aren’t even Polish! Is it your Aunt? I hope her dementia hasn’t acted up. You know that it’s awfully early to start drinking!

His father calmly stared back at him and his eyes twitched as his brain determined how to tell this tale. Your Great Aunt is fine—well, as far as I know. She wouldn’t tell me much even if something were wrong with her. Her mental capacity is limited from Alzheimer’s and she prefers to keep to herself.

A long silent pause was followed by a sigh. Jerry, you are old enough now to learn a valuable lesson that is taught from the past. We must remember history to ensure a positive future. His father paused as they stared out across the lake. Jerry picked up a rock and skipped it across the water. Then his father continued. Look, Stan always drank Zubrowka on the anniversary commemorating the Polish–Soviet War of the 1920s. Poland beat Russia in that war.

Jerry closed one eye and tightened his lips. A few moments passed. So, what does that mean? That was a hundred years ago, and we beat Russia in the Cold War. Why does a foreigner have such an impact on you? We have no Polish in our DNA!

His father took a deep breath before continuing. Son, we are descendants of Malaga Island. Society never embraced us. American culture never assimilated or accepted Stan. That foreigner and your grandfather had much compassion and understanding as they both came from disenfranchised portions of society. Two displaced persons from thousands of miles apart.

The father realized his son still looked puzzled. Was Jerry more confused as to why a foreign bottle of liquor was being drunk in the wee morning hours, or because his dad kept talking about someplace called Poland?

How old are you? Thirteen? That is the age when you transition to a man. Let me tell you a story that starts with a boy soldier at the ripe age of fourteen. Come and sit down on the edge of this dock, and I will share with you his trials and tribulations. You’ll also learn some of our own history.

With that fatherly command, the father, son and Samoyed sat down next to each other, each looking out at the lake’s fading morning mist. His father took a large swig of Zubrowka and passed the bottle to Jerry. The herbaceous aroma flooded his mouth as he struggled to stomach the vodka. Moose barked as a smallmouth bass jumped above the water near pickerel weeds.

Chapter 2 – A River Runs Red

August 15, 1942

The Cobaltski brothers and a dozen men were participants in a mission for the Polish Underground against the Nazis who invaded Poland during World War II. Poland’s military had been defeated years earlier, in 1939, but the illegal occupation of Poland didn’t mean the country would bow down to Adolf Hitler. Instead, it developed and bred an underground army loyal to an independent and free Poland. The nation had already endured a high casualty toll in this unwanted war. Pain and suffering had become a daily unpleasant fact of life. In three short years, one in five Poles had perished — the highest death rate for any nation during this grand war.

On this August night, rain clouds obscured the full moon. Daylight was creeping toward dawn. The darkness was ending as the sounds of a train intensified and reverberated through the valley. Stanisław yelled, It’s here! It’s fucking here.

His brother Andrzej’s smile stretched as wide as a Cheshire cat. A large plume of tobacco smoke exited Andrzej’s mouth as his hands fanned to gain the attention of his comrades. He was ready to give them their next command. The locomotive was approaching the bridge just as planned, and the headlight’s beam shone onto the tracks.

Andrzej gazes at his younger brother. It’s time, Stanisław! Today you join us in taking back our nation. Pull the cord! Hit the damn cord! Stanisław stared at the device. Then he peered up at the bridge’s truss. Milliseconds passed as slowly as minutes as he reached for the cord. With all his might, he pulled the rope, which ignited a flame that traveled down to the detonator. The crude device hummed and hissed. Stanisław and Andrzej looked upward from the rocky shoreline at the railroad tracks above.

 Boom! His eyes pulsated and fear of his own death overtook his chilled body. A loud thunderous crackling of twisted metal came slamming and splashing into the muddy riverbank. The bridge was being reduced to rubble. A chaotic commotion rang through the valley. Remnants of a locomotive engine and its dozen boxcars were now twisted wood and steel thrown in haphazard fashion. It only took seconds to cause the needed carnage to slow the Nazis’ advancement. His first foray into battle was a quick success for the Polish Underground!

Stanisław stood there stoic in the dark, cold as a stone. What had he done? How many lives were destroyed? He was no longer just complicit. His proximity to the enemy had never been deadlier. His emotions were mixed, but he had no empathy for the Nazis. His mind was racing back and forth between reality and fantasy as his brain processed the darkness of war. It was his first foray into combat against an enemy that he did not want. The Nazis had invaded his country and he had no choice but to fight back.

Stanisław! Stanisław! Snap out of it! his older brother yelled. There cannot be any survivors. His sibling did not have the same physical reaction to the destruction they caused. Andrzej put his hand on his shoulder. Look, there’s no time to waste. We must act quick to avoid capture. Follow me. We must silence the bloodbath.

The sun was rising over the horizon, beginning civil dawn. Stanisław, Andrzej, and fellow members of the Polish Underground could make out the silhouette of the Nazis who they could hear moaning and screaming. The Polish Underground had momentarily stopped the Nazis from advancing their invasion into his motherland. They walked down to the river where the bridge’s foundation had been, and inspected the carnage they had created. The trestle’s rigid frame had been reduced to rubble and was thrown across the muddy riverbank. The shallow Bzura River had run red. Bright red. Twisted pieces of metal impaled, crushed, and pulverized the invaders. Stanisław passed a dead Nazi whose lower body was squashed under the weight of metal and a railroad track had speared his breast. As it was his first foray into war, Stanisław asked himself—had Transylvania’s Vlad the Impaler been here?