“How am I supposed to get anywhere if the roads are all kaputt?” the Jewish fighting leader muttered. Burnt-out trucks made the asphalt impassable. These particular vehicles were of human manufacture, but he had to look closely to see which side had used them. The Lizards had pressed plenty of human-made models into service in Poland, and most of them had been imported from Germany. He got off the bicycle and walked it around the jam. He’d been doing that every kilometer or two on the journey down to Widawa. He’d got his family out of Lodz before the fighting started, and sent them southwest to this little town. That had kept them safe—or safer, anyhow—when the Germans hit the city with an explosive-metal bomb. But the Wehrmacht had overrun Widawa—and Bertha and Miriam and David and Heinrich were every bit as Jewish as he was, of course. Even after he passed the wrecks, he couldn’t get back on the road right away. Someone’s airplanes had cratered it with bomblets. Anielewicz’s legs ached as he brought the bicycle forward.
