Jakub was right—armor first.
A single tank, Panzer III, rolling down the street with infantry behind it.
The turret swivels, searching for targets.
"POSITIONS!" Marek shouts.
Everyone scrambles.
Rifles aimed through firing slits.
The few anti-tank weapons they have—one Panzerfaust, two grenades—held ready.
Thompson takes position next to me.
"You ever fight from static defense before?"
"No."
"Don't leave cover. Don't waste ammunition. Don't be a hero."
"Got it."
The tank fires.
The shell hits the building above us, raining debris.
The whole structure shudders.
"FIRE!"
Twenty rifles open up simultaneously.
The infantry behind the tank scatters, seeking cover.
A few drop—hard to tell if they're hit or just smart.
The tank keeps coming.
Jakub, despite his shoulder, climbs to a position with better angle.
He's got the Panzerfaust—the only anti-tank weapon with range.
He sights carefully, accounting for his injured shoulder.
"Jakub, wait for it to get closer!" Marek shouts.
"I know what I'm doing!"
The tank is maybe thirty meters out.
Too far for a good shot with a Panzerfaust, especially one-handed.
But Jakub fires anyway.
The rocket streaks out, straight and true.
It hits the tank's treads.
The explosion isn't catastrophic—doesn't destroy the tank—but it immobilizes it.
The Panzer III lurches to a stop, treads broken, turret swiveling frantically trying to find who hit it.
"NOW! GRENADES!"
Two fighters sprint from cover, throwing grenades at the immobilized tank.
One lands short.
The other lands on the engine deck.
The explosion is smaller than I expected.
But effective.
Fire erupts from the tank's rear.
Hatches pop open.
Crew bails out, stumbling away from their burning vehicle, coughing smoke.
They get maybe ten meters before our rifles cut them down.
The infantry behind the tank pulls back, dragging wounded, leaving dead.
Victory, for whatever that's worth.
---
Jakub climbs down from his position, face pale from pain and exertion.
"See? I know what I do."
"You're an idiot," Marek says, but he's grinning. "Beautiful idiot, but idiot."
"We hold?"
"For now."
Thompson checks his ammunition.
"How long before they come again?"
"Maybe one hour. Maybe less."
Marek lights another cigarette.
"They'll bring more armor next time. More infantry. Eventually they'll bring enough that we can't stop them."
"So we hold as long as we can," I say.
"Exactly."
Jakub settles next to me, breathing hard.
"Hold until we can't. Make them pay for every meter. Die knowing we didn't make it easy."
He says it matter-of-factly, like discussing weather.
Die knowing we fought hard.
Not if we die.
When.
And looking around the basement at these people—Polish fighters with civilian clothes and military rifles, teenagers trying to look brave, old men who should be drinking tea instead of firing weapons—I realize Jakub's probably right.
Poland is dying.
Warsaw is falling.
And we're all just buying time with our lives.
---
The artillery starts at 2100 hours.
Not aimed at our position specifically—just general bombardment, softening the entire sector.
Shells land randomly, each one a lottery of death.
Close enough to shake the basement.
Far enough that we don't die immediately.
The civilians huddle together.
Some pray.
Some just stare.
A woman rocks back and forth, clutching a photograph, murmuring names I don't understand.
Jakub sits next to me, sharing a canteen of water that tastes like rust and dust.
"You remind me of someone," he says.
"Yeah?"
"My brother. He was soldier in last war. Came home different. Moved like you move. Like he'd seen things he couldn't unsee."
Jakub takes a drink.
"He lasted three years after the war. Then he put a rifle in his mouth."
"Jesus."
"War doesn't end when the fighting stops, młody. It follows you."
He looks at me.
"You have that look already. Like you've seen things you shouldn't have. Old soul, like I said."
The fragments pulse.
Faces I can't quite see.
Voices I can't quite hear.
Deaths I've died but can't remember.
"Maybe I have," I admit.
"Then be careful. Old souls carry old ghosts."
He hands me the canteen.
"And ghosts make it hard to live in present when past keeps calling."
An explosion rocks the basement.
Closer that time.
Dust rains from the ceiling.
Someone screams.
Not pain—just terror finally breaking through.
Jakub doesn't react.
Just sits there, calm as someone waiting for a bus.
"You're not afraid?" I ask.
"Oh, I'm terrified."
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"But showing fear doesn't stop the shells. So I sit here, terrified quietly, and wait for what comes next."
"What comes next?"
"Either we die, or we don't. Either way, we'll know soon."
---
We don't die that night.
The artillery shifts to another sector.
The Germans don't attack again.
We get a reprieve measured in hours, maybe a day if we're lucky.
People sleep in shifts.
I take second watch, sitting near a firing slit with my rifle, watching the street through the narrow opening.
Jakub joins me, his shoulder clearly bothering him but his face showing nothing.
"Can't sleep?" I ask.
"Sleep is for people who trust tomorrow. I don't trust tomorrow."
He settles against the wall.
"Besides, someone needs to keep young souls from dying stupidly."
"I'm not going to die stupidly."
"Everyone says that. Then they die stupidly."
But he's smiling slightly.
"You did good today, młody. The way you cleared that building, found me. The way you moved during the tank fight. Natural. Like you've done it before."
"Maybe I have."
"In another life?"
"Something like that."
He's quiet for a moment.
Then: "My babcia used to say souls get recycled. Good ones come back to try again. Bad ones too, sometimes. Maybe you're one of the good ones, trying to get it right this time."
"And if I don't get it right?"
"Then you come back and try again."
He shrugs.
"Babcia said the trying is what matters. Not the succeeding."
I think about that.
About living and dying and living again, over and over, trying to get something right without knowing what "right" even means.
"Your babcia sounds wise."
"She was. Germans killed her first week of invasion. She was ninety-three, deaf, couldn't hurt anyone. They killed her anyway."
His voice stays flat, but his hands clench.
"So much for wisdom mattering."
Another shell lands somewhere.
The basement shudders.
We sit in silence, watching the dark street, waiting for dawn or death—whichever comes first.
And in that silence, something shifts between us.
Not friendship yet, but recognition.
Two people who've seen too much, trying to survive just one more day.
"Rio," I say.
"What?"
"My name. It's Rio. Not młody. Not Amerykanin. Rio."
Jakub nods slowly.
"Rio. I remember."
He offers his good hand.
"Jakub."
We shake.
"Now we both have names," he says. "Harder to forget each other when we have names."
"Is that good?"
"Probably not. But it's human."
He releases my hand.
"And maybe being human matters more than being smart."
Dawn comes grey and smoke-filled.
We're still alive.
For now.