________________________________________________________________________________
- Warsaw, Poland -
- September 17, 1939 | Morning -
The air over Warsaw shook with a sound that had become horribly familiar. Sirens wailed, windows rattled, and people once again rushed to the nearest cellars and shelters. Above them, the black crosses on German bombers glinted faintly against the grey sky. The city braced itself.
The bombs came screaming down. Streets that had stood for centuries cracked open in seconds. A row of houses along Marszałkowska Street collapsed into clouds of dust, children crying beneath the rubble. A tram car lay twisted, its steel frame glowing as fire consumed it. Women clutched their children and prayed, men tried with bare hands to dig survivors out, but the bombs kept falling.
It wasn't only soldiers being targeted. It never was. The Germans wanted Warsaw to break, not just the army but the spirit of the people. Every school, every hospital that burned was meant to tell the defenders: your families suffer for your resistance.
Yet, somehow, Warsaw still stood. The city fought back with whatever it had — anti-aircraft guns that jammed, rifles that seemed too small against the endless roar of tanks, and men and women who refused to bow. Barricades rose from overturned carts, sandbags, and furniture dragged out of homes. Scouts carried messages across the ruined streets. Priests gave blessings in cellars lit by single candles.
But the truth was clear to all: Poland was alone.
News had come days ago that Britain and France had declared war on Germany after the invasion of Poland on the first of September. For a moment, hope had flickered in every Polish heart. Perhaps, they thought, their allies would send troops, planes, weapons. Perhaps the bombs would be answered. But the western front remained quiet. The promised aid never came.
And then, that morning, word spread like wildfire: the Red Army had crossed the border from the east. Soviet tanks now rolled over Polish soil.
For the defenders in Warsaw, already surrounded by the German army, it felt like the ground had been ripped from beneath their feet. Germany in the west, Slovakia aiding them from the south, and now the Soviets pressing from the east — Poland was being crushed from all sides.
Inside a government building near the Old Town, the atmosphere was heavy with smoke and despair. Generals studied maps covered with pins and arrows, but the lines shifted faster than they could plan. Ministers argued in hoarse voices, their faces pale with exhaustion. They all knew what the news meant: the fight here was no longer about victory, but survival.
General Walerian, his uniform covered in dust from the bombings, slammed his hand on the table.
"Warsaw can hold for days, maybe weeks, but the country… the country is gone. Two empires are tearing it apart."
Another minister whispered what none wanted to say aloud: "We must leave. Set up government in France. If we fall here, there will be no Poland at all."
Silence fell. No one wanted to abandon their people, but neither could they deny the truth. Outside, more bombs thundered, shaking the windows, as if to punctuate their despair.
Meanwhile, in the streets, ordinary people clung to each other. A young nurse held the hand of an old man trapped beneath beams, refusing to leave him even as fire drew closer. A mother pressed her child's face into her shoulder so he would not see the bodies lying in the square. Soldiers, barely older than boys, fired rifles until the barrels smoked, each shot a defiance, though they knew it would change little.
In the midst of this ruin, whispers spread: the leaders were leaving. Some cursed them, others prayed they were right, that Poland's voice would live on somewhere, even in exile.
As night fell over Warsaw, flames painted the sky red. The capital still breathed, still resisted, but the people knew they were fighting not to win, but to preserve dignity in defeat.
Somewhere in a hidden basement, a teacher scribbled in a notebook by candlelight:
'They bomb our homes, our schools, our churches. They think they can erase us. But Poland is more than these streets. Even if we fall tonight, we will rise again tomorrow — in Paris, in London, in every place a Pole still draws breath.'
Above, the bombers returned once more, their engines droning like a death knell. Warsaw's defenders looked up, weary but unbroken, knowing that their stand would soon become legend — and that Poland's struggle was far from over.
—
- Europe -
- October 1939 -
The war in Poland ended as quickly as it began. After just five weeks of desperate resistance, the country was split apart like a loaf of bread carved between two wolves. The western half fell to Germany, its new rulers stamping their boots into the streets of Warsaw and Kraków. The eastern side was swallowed by the Soviet Union, as agreed in the secret pact that Hitler and Stalin had signed weeks before.
For the Polish people, it was not peace that followed, but silence — the kind that hangs heavy after a storm, broken only by the clatter of soldiers' boots and the cries of those taken away.
On the German side, "order" came in the form of fear. Nazi officers drew up lists. Professors, priests, poets, lawyers, teachers — anyone who might lead or inspire — were arrested in the night. Many never returned. Jews were forced into ghettos, stripped of their shops, their homes, their dignity. For them, the world had turned colder than winter, and the shadow of something even darker loomed. Soldiers whispered of new camps being built, not for war prisoners, but for whole communities to disappear into.
On the Soviet side, it was no gentler. Families were herded into trains bound for the far east. Farmers who had tilled the same soil for generations were called "enemies of the people" and vanished into the vastness of Siberia. The Red Army paraded through towns with their flags, but their promises of "liberation" felt like chains of another kind.
Yet even in this darkness, Poland refused to vanish. Across the channel in France, the Polish government-in-exile began its work. Ministers who had escaped the siege of Warsaw now met in cramped offices in Paris, drafting declarations, sending envoys, gathering whatever funds they could. They knew their country's soil was gone for now, but they clung to the idea that Poland itself still lived — in its soldiers scattered across Europe, in its exiled leaders, in the whispered prayers of its people back home.
Underground, within occupied Poland, a secret movement was already taking root. Hidden presses printed leaflets in candlelit cellars. Messages were smuggled under loaves of bread. Children carried notes in the lining of their coats. It was dangerous, almost hopeless, yet it was life — a promise that Poland would not stay silent forever.
The rest of Europe watched with unease. Newspapers carried grim headlines of Poland's fall, and ordinary people whispered in cafes and market stalls: if Poland could be crushed so easily, who was safe?
In the Netherlands, the mood was tense. The government declared neutrality, hoping that if they stayed quiet, the storm would pass them by. In Sweden, officials repeated the same words: neutrality, neutrality — but in every home, fathers wondered if neutrality would shield their children when German tanks rolled.
France was shaken. They had declared war on Germany, yet their troops still sat behind their border fortifications, waiting, hesitating. Now, seeing Poland gone, French ministers argued late into the night about whether their walls and their promises would hold when Germany turned west.
Britain, too, reeled. For centuries, the empire had seemed untouchable, but now its strength felt thinner than it should. The loss of Bharat had drained both its coffers and its confidence. Without the endless stream of soldiers and wealth from the subcontinent, Britain's power was like a grand house with hollow walls. They still spoke proudly of their navy and their spirit, but in quiet conversations, fear crept in. Could they stand alone if France faltered?
Across the Atlantic, in the United States, the picture was more complicated. Officially, America still declared neutrality. Many Americans wanted nothing to do with another European war. But London and Paris were already sending desperate cables, pleading for aid, for weapons, for ships. To them, it was clear: Europe could not withstand Hitler's war machine without American help. The pressure on Washington grew heavier with each passing day.
And in every corner of Europe, ordinary people lived with a new weight in their chests. In Amsterdam, a young Dutch girl wrote in her diary that the air itself felt nervous. In Stockholm, merchants stocked extra flour, unsure of what the winter might bring. In Paris, lovers walked along the Seine as though each evening could be the last before the skies turned black with bombers.
The war was no longer just Poland's tragedy. It had become Europe's dread.
And though October's cold winds swept across the continent, everyone felt that the true winter had yet to arrive.
________________________________________________________________________________
Thanks for reading 🙏 🙏.
If you are liking this story so far please support this novel through the power stones and let me know your thoughts in the comments and please review the book with ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ if you deem it worthwhile.