Under Amber Skies Read online

  Under Amber Skies

  BY MARIA V. SNYDER

  I HAVEN'T SEEN my father in months. Not since I overheard the rumblings of war in town. According to my mother, he has retreated to his basement workshop. Not to be disturbed. Every night, I fall asleep listening to the comforting sounds of metal clanking, machinery humming, and a hammer banging.

  Every morning my mother makes me breakfast, using my father's Chef Helper device--a gleaming sleek cooker. Even with the kitchen gadgets, deep craters of exhaustion hang under her brown eyes, her pale face is lined with strain, and she moves as if an automaton. I offer to take a turn assisting father at night.

  "No, Zosia. Your father is working to keep Poland safe from the Nazis. You will only distract him, and it is too vital. We all must make sacrifices during these uncertain times."

  The Chef Helper beeps, then trundles over to my plate. It squats and deposits a steaming heap of scrambled eggs.

  "But you go. Why can't I?" I try.

  She ignores the question. No surprise as she's a firm believer in the children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard adage.

  I gnaw on my bottom lip, debating if I should ask her about Inek. He, too has disappeared, but for very different reasons. "Mother has Inek--"

  "Zosia Jadwiga Nowak, you are not to mention his name to me again! Do you understand?"

  "Yes, ma'am." My lip throbs. I taste blood from clamping down on what I really want to say to her.

  "Good." Handing me a list of supplies, she says, "I need you to go into Leba today."

  "But Father needs more amber--"

  "And it will still be on the beach for you to dig for tomorrow." She snaps. "I don't know why Casimir insisted on decorating his inventions with that useless amber. It's impractical. I'm so glad he's now concentrating on vital machines. Poland will become a force to be reckoned with. Then the Nazis and the rest of Europe will be terrified of us!" Glowing with national pride, my mother hustles me out the door.

  I could have told her why Father uses amber, but she never asks me for my opinion or wishes to have a conversation with me. Instead, she orders me about as if I'm a Polish soldier, sending me to fetch supplies. Mother has swallowed the war propaganda whole. I shouldn't be surprised. She's been a staunch patriot since forever. There had only been two queens of Poland throughout history, and my middle name, Jadwiga, was one of them. Anna was the other. If it wasn't for my father's protests, I would have been named Anna Jadwiga.

  Perhaps if my name was Anna Jadwiga, I'd stand up to her. I'd refuse to be ordered about. I'd demand to see my father. But I'm just Zosia, named for my father's sister who died in the Great War.

  Outside my home, I clutch the paper and a purse full of zlotys. Dark gray smoke pours from the chimney and stains the bright blue sky. Our wooden two-story house appears deceptively small as it huddles in the middle of our farm.

  Although calling it a farm is being kind. Weeds choke the fields, the pasture fence is broken and rotted with decay. Our single cow has long since wandered away.

  I fetch my wagon from the barn. The barn's roof droops at a dangerous angle, but it's quite safe. My father allowed the outer walls to fade into dilapidation while he strengthened the inner ones, keeping his workshop hidden inside. The windows even trick the eye, allowing light to enter, but, if you try and peer through them, all you'd see is black.

  When the barn was deemed too small, he moved his workshop underground. Then my nights were filled with the scrapes of shovels, the chugging of augers, and the smell of damp earth while the barn was filled with mounds of dirt and rocks. I always wondered why he hid the piles.

  A slight sound grates against the normal morning noises. I pause to listen and catch a flutter of squeaky wings. Scanning our farm, I search for the source. I've heard the Nazis have developed winged creatures to use for spying on their enemies. My pulse beats out a quick march, but all I see are real birds.

  Unease crawls along my skin as I settle in the seat at the front of my wagon. I press the ignition button. Its small engine puffs out two tiny black clouds before settling into the quiet purr I'm used to. Since the day is so bright, I toggle on my umbrella. Sized just for me, the wagon resembles a miniature truck and is one of my favorite gifts from my father.

  Steering the wagon, I listen to the buzz of its four tires over the dirt path. Every half mile or so, a bright flash of sunlight grabs my attention and I spot one of my father's machines working in the fields of our neighbors' farms. His Mole Plow digs deep grooves in the soil, a Beaver Saw's sharp whine cuts through the air as its blades cut through wood. Because of his equipment, our hamlet near Leba, Poland, is prosperous. I'm sure my father would have been content to create farm apparatuses for years.

  Except the threat of war creeps toward us. And a few of our neighbors claimed to have seen the gleam of the Nazis' spy owls in the trees, and have smelled the diesel fumes from them.

  We live on the very northern tip of Poland at the edge of the Baltic Sea. The supposedly Free City of Danzig is east of us--supposedly because the city's population is seventy percent German. And looming behind Danzig is East Prussia, also full of Germans. Across the narrow Polish Corridor to our west is Germany. We're almost boxed in by Nazis.

  Jula's strident voice calls, jolting me from my train of thought. She waves me down. I brake. Her long ponytails bounce as she jumps in the back of my wagon. She talks nonstop during the rest of the trip to town. Rattling on about boys, fashions, and the war. I let her words flow around me like the hot August air.

  Instead, I strain to listen to Father's Octopus Pluckers working in Teos' apple orchard. An odd clunk interrupts the cadence of the metallic pincers. If Teos fails to oil that joint soon, he'll be bringing one of the Pluckers back for repairs. Perhaps I should ...

  "... I'm glad you're not helping him with his metal beasts anymore. Girls shouldn't have oil under their fingernails or know so much about hydraulics. You're sixteen now, you should be trying to find a husband before all the boys go to war."

  "Jula, why do you think I'm not helping my father?" I ask.

  "Because of the war."

  "Why would the war matter?"

  "So you don't see his new machines."

  "What new machines?"

  "War machines, of course," she says. "It's all hushhush. The Polish government's involved, and they say once he's finished, the Nazis will be too scared to cross the border."

  If it's all hush-hush, then why does everyone else know about it? Instead of pointing out the obvious to Jula, I concentrate on navigating over a set of deep ruts.

  Eventually, the wagon clatters over cobblestones, announcing our arrival in the heart of Leba. Where the buildings are all huddled tight together as if they can't stay upright without the help of their neighbors. Townspeople fill the narrow streets with their loud voices, drowning out my wagon. Horses clop and carriage wheels thump and clunk. The rare automobile chugs by followed by an occasional lumbering truck. To me, the sounds are raw and unrefined. Just noise.

  Jula and I part company as she heads to the pharmacist to purchase a tonic for her mother. The hardware supply store is a refuge of calm. Inside, the scents of sawdust, metal, and grease mix into a familiar aroma. The shopkeeper hustles to take my order as the other customers drift closer to see what's carried out to my wagon. I must admit to my own curiosity as each item is placed inside, wondering why my father needed that particular device or gadget.

  "... could be for a big trench builder for our boys," one man says about a stack of metal scoops.

  "He's not going to dig trenches," his friend chides. "They're for a weapon. Maybe one that can run right through the Nazis."

  "Those springs could launch bombs," another says.

  "Or could help
with suspension for a huge walking machine," says the first man.

  Their guesses get wilder and a couple are physically impossible, but I don't bother to teach them the laws of physics. Not that they would listen to me--a mere girl. At least my father never cared about my gender.

  We would work together until late into the night, building fun gadgets like the Poodle Pooper Scooper. It resembled a poodle, with copper wires for hair, four metal legs, and it even barked. It ran around outside, but instead of leaving droppings, it cleaned them up with its wide tail. During those late-night sessions, he taught me so much until ...

  I shy away from thoughts of war. Instead, I notice one customer staring at me with a keen interest. I try to ignore him. But when I pass by to pay for my purchases, I smell the faint tang of machine oil. The hair on my arms stands up in warning.

  After I receive my change, I bolt from the shop. Thankfully, the strange customer doesn't follow me. I wait for Jula at the place we parted. An odd creepy feeling slides up between my shoulder blades like I'm being watched. I search the streets, but see nothing unusual.

  My father said my imagination would get me into trouble someday. I wonder if today is that day. Or is today the day I need to be smart? I run my finger over the clear crystal of my wristwatch. The numbers and hands are crafted from pieces of amber. Below the face, tiny gears spin, keeping time. It looks so delicate, yet the watch is thick and heavy on my wrist. My father gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday--May 22, 1939.

  I remembered when he hooked his finger under my chin to pull my gaze away from his marvelous gift and said, "Zosia, this will tell you when it's time."

  "Time for what?" I asked.

  "Time to be smart. Time to stand up for yourself." He refused to explain anymore, and the next day he disappeared. Well, not completely--my mother claims he comes in late at night to check on me. And I have a collection of the little presents he occasionally leaves on my bedside table. Smiling, I recall the miniature amber statue of a girl with springs on her head instead of hair. The last present he left for me. I still haven't figured out how to turn her on yet.

  Jula is slow returning today. The other shoppers don't pay me any attention. Although my attention is suddenly focused. Inek and his three younger brothers--all blonds--sit on the steps of the butcher's shop at the opposite end of the street. Probably waiting for their father to finish haggling over the price of beef.

  Inek's family's cattle farm is about a mile away from our house. Inek used to work at our farm, helping me with the chores. That was before my father caught us kissing behind the house a month before my birthday. Father chased him off, yelling at him to stay away from me. At six foot four inches tall, my father is already impressive, but when he's waving a wrench and wearing an oversized pair of crystal and amber spectacles, he's doubly so.

  Inek didn't come back, to my mother's delight. She never liked him and I suspect it's because he's half Swedish.

  Inek catches me staring and frowns. I jerk my gaze away, but the damage is done. Even though I'm hurt that he hasn't tried to contact me this summer, my insides still twist tight. My mouth goes dry in an instant. I can't help remembering the impish spark in his sky-blue eyes, his sense of humor, his wide smile, or the way his long fingers tangled in my hair.

  I tuck a few curls behind my ear, but know it's hopeless. Most of the long strands have sprung from my braid by now. My mother once claimed in exasperation that my curls were a force of nature. My father agreed, saying the color of my hair matched the color of the Baltic Sea's amber. He then proceeded to use a few strands of my hair to build a very accurate rain detector.

  I'm jolted from my memories by two men who block my view. One look at their black suits, fedoras, and dour faces and I know they're from the government. Problem is, which one? Germany's or Poland's?

  The thin-faced man on the left says in German, "Miss Nowak, we'd like a word with you." The language isn't a clue as most people around here speak both German and Polish.

  The suit on the right touches my elbow. He gestures to a side street, and I catch a glimpse of a Luger holstered on his belt. "In private," he says. His hand remains on my arm.

  Now my heart is thumping for a whole new reason. There's nothing I can do as the men guide me to a quieter place. I catch a whiff of machine oil and fear rolls inside me.

  Thin-face asks, "Where is your father, Miss Nowak?"

  Surprised by the question, I reply in German, "At home."

  They exchange a glance.

  The man holding my elbow says, "No one is at your house. Where are the Poles hiding him?"

  Cold sweat drips down my back. "My mother--"

  "Gone, too."

  Unable to comprehend, I stare at Thin-face. "But, they were there this morning."

  His expression softens a tiny bit. "Did you see your father today?"

  "No, but--"

  "When's the last time you saw your father, Miss Nowak?"

  He sees the answer in my face.

  "How long?"

  "Two, maybe three months ago," I say.

  Elbow-man swears. His fingers tighten around my arm, digging into my skin. "Now what?" he asks his partner.

  Thin-face studies me. His gaze lingers on my wristwatch. "We have his daughter. Perhaps we can use her to lure her father from his hiding place." He grabs my watch, ripping it from the leather strap.

  "Hey," I say in response to both his actions and words. It's all I can manage before Elbow-man cuffs me, ordering me to be quiet. Pain radiates through my ear.

  Holding my sixteenth-birthday present on his palm, Thin-face says, "This will provide the necessary proof."

  It's almost as if my watch knows it's the center of attention. A strident clicking emanates from it and then an extraordinary thing happens. Metal legs unfold from its sides. The gears inside spin faster and faster. In mere seconds it transforms into a metallic crab, complete with two sets of nasty-looking pincers.

  Thin-face is fascinated until the crab pinches his finger. Its claw cuts through his skin, exposing the metal beneath. A blue spark arcs through Thin-face's hand. He yelps and knocks the crab off. It immediately scrambles sideways toward Elbow-man and clamps onto his ankle. Again the electric hiss and blue bolt.

  Elbow-man releases my arm to swipe at the crab. Thin-face is yanking at his own now unresponsive arm.

  Inek appears in the midst of the chaos, urging me to run. I race after him. We weave through the streets and alleys until we're certain the men haven't followed us. Then we collapse to the ground, gasping for breath.

  Inek recovers faster than me. "Were they Nazi agents?"

  I connect the dots. "Yes," I puff.

  "Enhanced?"

  "Oh, yes."

  Inek curses. "Did they capture your father?"

  "No. They were looking for him."

  "Good." Inek relaxes. "Someone in the village must have warned him."

  Over two months ago. As my fear ebbs, my irritation increases. My mother has been lying to me. Then I remember what Thin-face said.

  "Mother!" I jump to my feet, and run in the direction of home.

  Inek catches up. "What about your mother?"

  "The Nazis said she's gone."

  "She's probably escaped with your father."

  "No. My father's been gone for months."

  Inek grabs my shoulders and stops me. "Wait a minute."

  I'm struck by how tall he has grown since I saw him last. Inek's suspenders strain over his muscular chest, his white shirt is untucked, and stuck to his sweaty skin. The early August heat has been hotter than normal. I'm sweating as well, but I resist the temptation to wipe my brow.

  "But I need to find her." I try to push his arms away, but they're solid muscle.

  "I understand, but think about it. The Nazis know where you live."

  His matter-of-fact statement sends icy daggers into my heart. They know where I live. Two separate pieces of information click together in my mind. The Nazis have been watching u
s, and my mother's been putting on quite the show for them. It explains all those nights of mechanical noises, the smoke puffing from our chimney, and her exhaustion.

  Pride that she has been fooling them into thinking my father was still at home wars with my anger over being kept in the dark.

  "If you return home now, the Nazis will find you again," Inek says. "You need to hide until we can locate your mother."

  He's right, but my desire to return to my house overrules logic. "What if she left me a message?"

  He bites his lip as he considers.

  "And I'll need a change of clothes and money." I would have to leave my wagon and supplies behind in Leba. "I'll go after dark."

  "We'll go," Inek says. "You can't go alone."

  "Why not?" I snap. "I'm quite capable of taking care of myself. It's not safe for your family. Or you. The Nazis are scarier than my father."

  I know I've said too much when Inek squeezes my shoulders and anger flashes across his face. But he drops his arms. "You're not going alone. We'll cut through the fields while it's light and then wait until dark."

  I open my mouth to protest, but a familiar clicking sounds behind me. Spinning around, I see the metallic crab, but not the Nazis--a minor relief until I realize the metal animal is heading straight toward me. Fast. I step back automatically as Inek hunts for a weapon.

  Afraid of its dangerous pincers and electric shock, I hug my arms tomy chest. My fingers brush the leather watch strap still onmy wrist and I finally remember the crab was a gift frommy father. Feeling a bit foolish about my panic, I crouch down.

  "Get back," Inek yells.

  "It's okay." I lay my hand flat on the ground.

  The crab climbs to the strap. Humming and clicking, it retracts its legs and pincers and reverts back into my watch. I tug on it, but it has secured itself to the leather.

  Inek stares at the watch. "And you wonder why your father scares me."

  * * *

  After we make sure the Nazis didn't follow my watch-crab, Inek and I hike through the fields. I hold up my skirt and I'm careful not to crush the plants with my work boots. We keep out of sight. There is no breeze, and the heat presses on my skin. My tunic is soon soaked with sweat. Insects buzz around my head, and our footsteps seem overly loud.