In the Light Of the Stars

The sound of running water woke Minerva from her fitful sleep. She grimaced and pulled her knees into her chest and burrowed into the pillow. Summer's heat still lingered during the day, but the nights were cool, and she was grateful for the combined warmth of Jack's slumbering body and the feather duvet. Jack rolled over, throwing an arm over her waist, muttering something unintelligible. He stretched, nuzzling her shoulder. 'Wha' time is it?' he asked sleepily.

She squinted at the clock on the windowsill just over her head. 'Half past six.'

Jack lifted his head and peered at her, noting her puffy and bloodshot eyes. 'Rough night?'

'Ye could say that,' Minerva sighed. She flipped the duvet back and slid from the bed, reaching for her dressing gown draped over a chair. 'I think I'll just go and make myself a cup of tea.'

'I'll come make breakfast if you want,' Jack yawned.

Minerva closed her burning eyes and pictured a quiet half hour with a solitary pot of tea and a cold compress for her head. She shook her head and bent over the bed, brushing a kiss over Jack's mouth. 'No, but I thank ye.'

Jack opened one eye to a bare slit. 'You really do look like hell,' he commented. 'I can run a bath for you.'

Minerva shook her head. 'It is a lovely idea, mo cridhe, but no' just now.' She straightened and pulled the dressing gown over her arms and shoulders. 'Go back to sleep wi' ye. We've a long day ahead of us, aye?' She stooped to gather her slippers, smiling a little as the sound of Jack's breathing lengthened and deepened in a matter of seconds. 'Dinna take much for ye tae sleep, does it?' she murmured, slipping quietly from the room.

Unlike their late, and much lamented, previous flat, this one encompassed only one floor. A tiny thing in comparison, with a scrap of a sitting room, combined with a minuscule kitchen, and two small bedrooms. The bathroom itself was barely large enough to accommodate a basin, toilet and the bath. Minerva felt crammed into the flat and felt as if she could hardly draw breath in such confinement. She was immediately suffused with shame at the thought, considering so many others in London had lost their homes. Minerva ducked her head guiltily, and dropped the slippers on the worn carpet runner in the corridor. She stepped into them and padded to the kitchen. 'Ye should be grateful ye hae a roof over your head, lass,' she muttered, pushing open the swinging door that provided a modicum of separation from the rest of the flat.

A strange man sat at their table, fingers wrapped tightly around a glass of water, staring dully into the clear liquid. It was a look Minerva had seen on men in hospital -- the ones who curled up in their beds, staring at a point in space only they could see. Minerva pulled her wand from the pocket of the dressing gown, and aimed it between his eyes. 'Who are you?' she demanded.

'Vere is John?' the man asked in a raspy voice.

'I beg your pardon?' Minerva.

'I require Captain Hashimoto,' the man elaborated

'Who shall I say is callin' on him?' Minerva retorted tartly.

The man heaved a sigh. 'I did not know John had...' He paused significantly, eyeing Minerva's dishabille. 'Company.'

Minerva drew herself up with an indignant snort. 'I wouldna call myself company,' she sniffed disdainfully, immediately catching the man's intent. 'Who are ye and why are ye here?' she repeated, extending her wand a fraction.

The man sighed once more and his shoulders drooped slightly signaling resignation. 'I am Jan Zielinksi. From Warsaw. I must speak vith John.' Minerva nodded and backed from the room, keeping her wand suspiciously trained on Jan. She spun on her heel once the door had closed behind her and swiftly traversed the few yards down the corridor to the bedroom she shared with Jack.

Without bothering to attempt stealth of any sort, Minerva barged into the room and briskly shook Jack awake. 'There's a man waiting for you,' she said peremptorily.

'Hah?' Jack gazed up at Minerva in bemusement.

'Jan...' Minerva's mouth twisted as she considered attempting to pronounce Jan's full name. 'Jan from Warsaw,' she said.

Jack sat bolt upright. 'I'll be right out,' he told her. 'Could you go make him some tea or something?' He scrambled for his clothing, muttering, 'Jesus H. Christ. What in the hell happened?'

Minerva stood in the doorway with one hand holding the door open. 'I dinna suppose ye'll find it in ye to explain?'

Jack looked up from fastening his trousers. 'I will,' he promised. 'Go back out for me, please? Tell Jan I'll be out in a moment.'

Minerva exhaled through her nose, and returned to the kitchen area. 'Tea?' she asked. 'Or do ye prefer coffee?'

Jan's eyes dimly lit with a distant remembrance. 'You can still acquire real tea?'

Minerva took the brown teapot down from a shelf. 'We can. It's rationed of course, so it isna much, but it's still tea. And the milk's powdered,' she added apologetically.

'Tea,' breathed Jan, his face falling into sad, bittersweet lines. 'Forgive me,' he said shakily. 'It has been such a very long time since I have had actual tea.'

Jack bounded into the kitchen, still buttoning his olive drab shirt. Water dripped from his hair and the point of his chin to create dark spots on the shoulders and front of it. 'What the hell?' he hissed. 'You're supposed to be in Warsaw!'

Minerva set the teapot on the table near Jan's elbow. 'Ye think he doesna ken that?' she huffed under her breath, Summoning two mugs for the tea. She held up the milk jug inquiringly and Jan nodded. She poured milk into Jan's mug, added tea, a few cubes of precious sugar, and after a moment's consideration, a healthy dollop of her father's prized Bilshen's Firewhisky. Minerva didn't think Angus would mind, as Jan obviously needed it. She set the mug in front of him, and poured a mug of tea for herself, adding neither milk, nor sugar. She'd set aside the remainder of her week's ration for Jan without a second thought.

Jan lifted the mug and took a long, fortifying sip of his tea. 'Ve need your help,' he said. 'The uprising is going to fail if ve do not obtain supplies. You know as vell as I that there is only so much a vizard can do in his situation. I cannot create food or ammunition out of thin air! Ven are the Americans coming to help?' Jan's voice took on a note of hysterical desperation. He turned to Minerva. 'Or the British?'

'Jan.' Jack spoke calmly, but his stomach roiled at what he was about to say. 'They're not.'

'Vhy not?' Jan asked sharply.

Jack knuckled an eye, contemplating the best way to break the news to Jan. 'They say it's not worth the risk to the alliance. Stalin won't let Britain or America use a Soviet airfield. The airfields we can use are in Britain or Italy. The distance limits how much we can put on an aircraft. If Roosevelt or Churchill try to force the issue, it could upset the alliance with Stalin. After Normandy the pendulum started to swing our way, and they don't want to lose that,' he explained, feeling as if he was personally letting Jan and the Polish Resistance down. 'And they're so fucking dogmatic about doing things their way, they refused to even consider using a couple of wizards on the planes during the airlift last week. We might have been able to supply the resistance from Italy if they'd let us at least charm the cargo so it's lighter. We could have at least directed most of the supplies to you. Instead, I'm told they mostly fell into German hands.' Jack gave a short bark of humorless laughter. 'All that effort, and we end up supplying the bastards we're supposed to be fighting.'

Jan had gone paper white the longer Jack spoke until the only color on his face blazed from his black eyes. 'You are telling me that no help is coming,' he stated flatly. 'Ve are on our own.' Jack nodded in assent. 'Can you at least explain to me vhy the Russians just stopped outside of Warsaw? The Germans could have been defeated.'

Jack's mouth worked for a few seconds, as if the words tasted foul on his tongue. 'I wish I knew,' he managed. 'Unfortunately, I don't.'

'Vhat do you know?' Jan asked bitterly.

'Nothing of use to you.' Jack's eyes were moist. Minerva knew if any tears were to be shed that day, they would be of mortification and mourning.

'Vill they do anything for those unfortunates in the camps?' Jan persisted.

Minerva's brows drew together and she glanced at Jack in inquiry. Camps? she mouthed. Jack shook his head almost imperceptibly. Turning to Jan he replied, 'They know the camps exist from a few people who've escaped and broken radio codes,' he admitted. 'But they can't see a feasible way to actually do anything about it right now. 'If we bomb the railroad tracks, will it actually stop or slow down the killings?' he said with obvious anguish. 'If we bomb the camp itself, we'll unnecessarily kill civilians, and God only knows what the propaganda machine on their side will come up with to explain that.' He spread his hands in mute impotence. 'If what we've heard is true, it's hundreds of thousands of people, if not millions. There's only so many of us who could Apparate in and out.' Jack rested his hands, on the table, fingers spread apart, pressing against the worn surface. 'If there are wizards and witches, we don't know who they are, and again, if the stories are true, any belongings they brought with them were confiscated. So no wands. And they appear to have Anti-Apparition jinxes on the camps that we know exist for sure.

I've spent hours and hours trying to come up with some sort of solution. I have a few theories, but put into practice, the risks start to outweigh any potential benefits, and the benefits are vanishingly small to begin with.'

Jan scrutinized Jack for several minutes while he slowly sipped the remainder of the tea in his mug. When it was empty, he carefully set it down on the table and rose to his feet. 'I vould like to extend my thanks to you, madam, for your hospitality,' he said to Minerva, with a slight bow.

'The pleasure was mine,' she replied, inclining her head.

Jan held out a hand to Jack. 'I vish ve could part under better circumstances.' Jack took the proffered hand and gripped it tightly. 'I do not blame you. The decisions that have been made are not of your making. You did vhat you could. Do not dwell on it.'

'Where are you going?' Jack asked hoarsely.

Jan smiled sadly. 'You know the answer to that, I think.'

Jack's eyes bulged from their sockets. 'Have you lost your goddamned mind?' he blurted. 'That's suicide! Stay here. Please.'

Jan shook his head slowly. 'I could not live vith myself if I did not return to do vhat I could for my country.' He shrugged expansively. 'Either vay, I am a dead man.' With that, Jan turned on the spot and Disappeared.

Jack stormed from the kitchen, and retreated to the bedroom. He savagely knotted his tie and jerked on his jacket, socks, and shoes, before snatching up his garrison cap and left the flat without so much as another word.

As he all but marched down the street, Jack felt a sense of helplessness he had felt since the beginning of his involvement in the war. Not when his family was forced to leave their home and go to that infernal internment camp in Utah. Not when he sat in round after round of strategy meetings with the British and American armed forces to plan the Normandy invasion. Not even when he watched the planes rumble into the darkened sky in June to cross the English Channel, knowing that Frankie or Tony might very well die that day and in the ones to follow.

Later in Jack's life, he could look back and pinpoint this day -- this moment, actually -- was when he realized the all too human limitations of magic.

XxXxXxX

Minerva slid under the duvet and pulled over her shoulders. She shifted onto her side; hand tucked under her pillow and gazed at Jack appraisingly. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, hands laced together under his head. He'd come home from the Office of Strategic Services headquarters in Grosvenor Street that evening, and barely said more than five words before retiring to bed. 'Can ye tell me about those camps Jan mentioned, or is it somethin' that's supposed to be a secret?'

Jack turned his head on the pillow to face her. 'How much did you pay attention to what happened on the continent?'

'Not much,' she admitted apologetically. 'I was just a wee girl when that man came to power in Germany. And then I started school, and we were a bit isolated, ye ken, and I dinna follow Muggle news verra often.'

Jack sighed deeply and returned his gaze to the ceiling. 'It started in nineteen thirty-three. Rules, regulations, laws. You name it. Dictating where people - Jews mostly, but later other groups like Gypsies - where they could work; banned them from parks, beaches, and other public places; who they could hire; banned them from hospitals; even going so far as to outlaw sex between someone identified as a Jew and a non-Jew. Six years ago, all Jews were required to wear a yellow badge on their clothing in the shape of Star of David. Jews were forced into ghettos, starved, beaten, killed, or deported to these camps, where they were starved, beaten, or killed. We've known about how the Nazis were treating Jews and others they didn't care for six years. Since early November of nineteen thirty-eight. About seven months before you arrived here, someone smuggled out evidence of what was going on in Poland.' He lifted a hand to his mouth, and began to gnaw the ragged edge of a thumbnail. 'We've known about it for years, but as of right now, it's not a priority.' Jack dragged both hands down his face. 'I wish there was something more we could do,' he said dispiritedly. 'Those are the things that stay with you,' he added to nobody in particular. 'Haunted by the people you might have been able to save.'

XxXxXxX

Jack stood just outside the entrance of a church-cum-field hospital in Bastogne. He'd volunteered to make the highly risky journey - albeit by Portkey - to check in with Tony or Frankie. It was bitterly cold and the air was thick with fog and sleet. Snow thickly covered what ground that had not been churned up into a dangerous mélange of muck and rubble, coated with ice. A faint, underlying fug of filth, illness, and blood seeped into his nose and coated his tongue. Bile rose in his throat, but Jack choked it back, even though he knew there would be no shame if he vomited in the street. He would neither be the first, nor the last to do so.

Steeling himself, Jack entered the church, filled with wounded soldiers. Nurses and doctors flitted purposefully between cots tending to wounds, changing stained dressings, or just offering what comfort they could to a dying man. Warm candlelight flickered in alcoves, an incongruous companion to the misery it illuminated. A young woman glanced up from the soldier she tended and saw Jack standing near the door, clearly out of his element. She gave the young man - little more than a boy, really - a final gentle pat on the shoulder and a murmured word or two, and made her way to Jack. 'Bonsoir,' she said.

'Bonsoir,' Jack replied awkwardly. He spoke only a smattering of French, and badly at that. Reggie would have been a better choice in this situation. He spoke excellent French, from his mother's insistence that he learn it. 'Parlez-vous anglais?' he asked haltingly.

The girl smiled a little. 'Oui. 'Ow may I 'elp oo?'

Jack sighed in relief. Her thickly accented English was much more fluid than his rudimentary French. 'I'm looking for a Lieutenant Antonio Lopez with the 101^st Airborne. He's a medic.'

The girl nodded in recognition. 'Wait 'ere.' She darted off through the maze of cots until she came to another young woman, tiny with dark hair covered by a kerchief. The second woman rose from the patient's bedside and hastily washed her hands in a nearby basin. Her hands were ruddy from the cold and harsh conditions, with dried blood caked into the creases. She wiped her hands on a scrap of a towel and approached Jack.

'Ow do you do?' she said holding out a hand. Jack shook it firmly. 'Jeanne Delacour.'

'Captain John Hashimoto.'

'I understand you are looking for cher Antoine.'

'Yeah.'

Jeanne's fine, dark brows drew together in a slight frown. ''Ee ees at ze front, but we might be able to organize transport for you wiz an ambulance eef eet ess urgent.'

'It's not that urgent,' Jack assured her. 'I can wait for him.'

The sound of an engine at high speed broke through the night, and Jack peered through the door to see a Jeep careening toward the hospital, Tony straddling a stretcher strapped to the back of, clinging to the stretcher frame for dear life while vainly attempting to apply pressure to a bloody wound. Jeanne pushed Jack to the side and rushed to the stretcher as the Jeep skidded to a halt. Tony scrambled down and the driver helped him carry the wounded soldier into the hospital, while Tony hurriedly told Jeanne the man's status and she took over the job of attempting to staunch the bleeding.

To Jack's unversed ears, the situation sounded grim.

They set the stretcher down on a vacant cot, and gently rolled the man off it. Jeanne lifted the soaked pad of gauze from the wound and pressed a clean one over it. It was telling how little the man struggled or how few sounds he made, other than the rattle of his breathing. Jeanne's lips pressed together as her gaze darted fearfully around the room. She removed a small vial from her pocket and furtively sprinkled a few drops of a liquid over the worst of the injuries that Jack could see. After several agonizing moments, the blood slowed to a trickle, then stopped. Tony pressed his fingers against the man's neck and stared at his wristwatch. 'Come on,' he pleaded. 'Come on, come on...' He shook his head and removed his hand. 'He's gone,' Tony said woodenly, looking up. He started a little to see Jack standing to the side.

Jeanne gently unfurled a rough blanket over the soldier and drew it over his face. She squeezed Tony's hand in sympathy. 'Would you like some tea?' Tony nodded morosely.

Jeanne glanced at Jack inquiringly and he murmured, 'Please. Thank you.'

Jeanne scurried away and returned in moments with two large tin mugs, steam billowing over the rims. 'I am afraid zere ees no honey to sweeten eet.' She handed them the mugs and Jack lifted his to his nose, inhaling an herbal aroma. 'Eet ees only chamomile,' Jeanne remarked. 'Good for sleep, no?' Tony coughed on a sip of the tea and glared at her. 'Zere ees nozing een eet, Antoine. Only ze tea.' She flounced away with a toss of her head.

'Wouldn't put it past her to put a Sleeping draft in it,' Tony said, with a jerk of his head to the door. Jack followed him outside, and they perched on a pile of crumbled brick, heedless of the cold that seeped through their clothes. Tony sipped the hot tea, cradling the mug between his hands. 'You're a sight for sore eyes.'

'How are you?'

Tony looked up at the night sky, squinting at the rolling fog swirling over their heads. 'I don't remember what it's like to be completely warm. Or what a hot shower feels like. I think my drawers can stand up on their own by now.' He gazed at a distant point and his voice lowered to a murmur. 'Frankie's going to need some help when we get home. If we get home, that is,' he added. 'Have you ever seen those guys who get sent to a hospital in England, and they just lie on their cot and stare into space? Like they shut themselves away because they can't deal with all of this?'

'A few.'

'I think he might be headed there,' Tony confessed. 'He's a few clicks down the line from me. One of the guys in his company found me and told me Frankie will just sit in his foxhole between his rounds checking on them. Says he almost sleepwalks through it and only comes to life when there's been an attack and someone's wounded.'

'Damn it,' Jack swore. 'I knew I ought to have sent Reggie...'

'You couldn't have sent Reg, and you know it. They wouldn't've allowed it.' Tony shrugged with one shoulder. 'Besides, it can happen to any of us. I'm more concerned about what might happen if we can't hold the line here. You know what could happen to Frankie if the Germans capture him.'

Jack's jaw clenched and he replied, 'I do,' with the vision of Jan sitting at the table, begging for help hovering in his mind. 'If we'd succeeded in Holland, we'd be having this conversation in Berlin.'

Tony shrugged. 'If's a mighty big word, Jack.'

'How are you doing?'

Tony lifted the mug to his lips and sipped his rapidly cooling tea. 'I keep thinking of all the ways we have to heal people and how I can't use them, or risk exposing myself. I've got dittany and essence of murtlap hidden in my kit, but I can only use it sparingly or watered down so it does the job slowly, like you saw Jeanne do back there. Most charms are out. I do enough of a Drying or Warming charm to keep the trench foot or frostbite at bay. They sent us here without adequate food or supplies. They can't airlift what we need because of the weather.

'Can't produce something out of nothing. I can't just snap my fingers and have dry socks or ammunition appear somewhere. I do what I can with the medical kit, but I can't keep a never-ending supply of morphine or sulfa. It looks suspicious. I keep a bit aside so I can conjure a few more so it's like, oh, look what I found. Using just enough magic to supplement doing things the Muggle way so my casualties aren't catastrophic. We can't afford to lose more men than we have to. If I can do something about a relatively minor injury so it keeps the soldier here, then I'll do it.' Tony broke into a sudden, unexpected grin. 'Most of the time, unless they've had an arm or leg blown off, they don't want to leave the front anyway. Just patch it up, Doc, they say.' He fished in his overcoat pocked and came up with a grimy scrap of cloth that he used to blow his nose. Jack tactfully took the time to examine the contents of his mug until Tony put the cloth away. They sat next to each other in silence for several minutes, the faint sound of heavy artillery in the background. 'It's amazing what Muggles can do without magic,' Tony remarked idly. 'How they've come up with ways to do things we only think about for half a second. Like transportation or communication. Airplanes, submarines. The telephone. Even stuff like surgery and stitches. Stitches... Mami would lose her mind if she knew I was stitching flesh back together. But it does the job. Blood transfusions. Simply amazing.' His face darkened as it turned toward the sound of the artillery. 'Then you look at the chaos they've created. How much destruction they can cause with just one piece of that remarkable machinery. And you don't wonder why wizardkind wants nothing to do with them.'

'Tony,' Jack said, alarmed at the tone his friend had taken.

Tony shook himself, and grinned lopsidedly. 'Don't worry. I'm not going over into Dark magic or Muggle-baiting. We're not exactly perfect ourselves. We've got plenty of our own issues.' He collected the mugs and took them inside the hospital, then returned. 'Are you going back to England tonight?'

'Yeah.' Jack clambered off the pile of brick and stood next to Tony. 'Help is on its way, I promise.'

'Thanks.' Tony pulled Jack into a firm embrace. 'Take care of yourself,' he muttered, pounding Jack on the back.

'You, too. Contact me if Frankie gets in too far, okay?'

'Roger, wilco,' Tony replied, with a salute.

'See you in Berlin.'

Tony laughed shortly. 'You know, I don't think I'm cut out to be an Auror any more.'

Jack's breath hitched slightly. Tony was his partner in crime, so to speak. 'What do you mean? You're leaving the Aurors?'

'I think I'll see about training as a Healer, maybe.' Tony punched Jack lightly in the arm. 'Someone's got to patch your sorry ass up when you get into trouble!' he said as he jogged to the waiting Jeep, and hopped into the front. It sped off into the forest surrounding Bastogne and Jack slipped into a bombed-out building and removed a small tin can from his pocket. He held it clenched in his hand until the familiar jerking sensation behind his navel carried him to Normandy where a broom waited to return him to England's shores.

XxXxXxX

A/N: A little light on Minerva for this one, but I've been wanting to explore the war from the guys' side for a while.

When Jack refers to the action in Holland, he's referring to Operation Market Garden, or the Battle of Arnhem, an effort to secure a series of bridges over the major waterways in the Netherlands. At the time, the German army was retreating toward the German border, and the Allied forces thought they could parachute in and liberate the rest of the Netherlands. Had Market Garden succeeded, the war would have probably ended by the end of 1944 or very early 1945. What the Allies didn't know was a German officer rallied the remains of the troops into a formidable fighting force with heavy artillery that repelled the paratroopers advance. The weather in England delayed sending reinforcements, and subsequent supply drops ended up in German hands. Over 15,000 Allied troops were killed or injured. The numbers for the German losses are incomplete, but estimates fall between 3,000 to 13,000.

The Battle of Bastogne was a siege of sorts. Bastogne was an important town to fall into Allied hands - 7 paved roads led in and out of the village. The 82^nd and 101^st Airborne troops were sent into Bastogne from Camp Mourmelon in France after fighting for two months in the Netherlands. They were supposed to have re-supplied in France, but the order came though to go to Belgium, and with insufficient ammunition, food, supplies, and especially clothing, they were convoyed into the Ardennes and Bastogne. American paratroopers formed a ring around Bastogne. The Americans were surrounded by two German Panzer divisions. The bulk of the German forces left to continue another mission, leaving behind a small force to attempt to break into Bastogne. The Americans were able to hold off the Germans by shifting their forces where they were needed most during the siege. By the time help arrived for the Germans, it was too little too late. Two days later, parts of General Patton's Third Army broke through the German siege and supplied the paratroopers there with support, supplies, and the ability to evacuate the wounded to the rear. If you were to ask a member of the 101^st Airborne, though, they would heatedly deny they needed to be saved.

The HBO series Band of Brothers has 2 episodes that deal with Market Garden and Bastogne. Episode 4, "Replacements" deals with the Netherlands campaign and Market Garden. Episode 6, "Bastogne" is about the siege of Bastogne. I highly recommend watching the entire series. If you prefer to read about it, the series was based on the book, Band of Brothers: E Company, 506^th Regiment, 101^st Airborne From Normandy to Hitler's Eagle's Nest by Stephen Ambrose. It's not a difficult, dry read at all. I found it quite interesting.

The Warsaw Uprising is different from the Warsaw Ghetto uprising. The Ghetto Uprising began in response to the attempted liquidation of the Warsaw Ghetto, after over 300,000 Jews had been sent to concentration camps. Beginning on April 19, 1943, several thousand Jews in the Ghetto fought against their Nazi captors. They lasted a month. In the end 7,000 Jews were killed in the fighting, another 7,000 were deported to Treblinka, where they were gassed upon arrival. The remaining Jews (sources say there were 42,000) were deported to the Lublin/Majdanek concentration camp, and to the forced-labor camps of Poniatowa, Trawniki, Budzyn, and Krasnik. All, save for a few thousand inmates at Budzyn and Krasnik, were later murdered. The Warsaw Uprising happened a bit more than a year later, beginning on August 1, 1944, lasting until October 2, 1944. It was supposed to liberate the city from German hands, and timed to coincide with the arrival of the Soviet Army on the outskirts of Warsaw. Inexplicably, the Soviets stopped and refused to support the efforts of the Polish Home Army in Warsaw. Furthermore, they refused to help the British and American efforts to aid the fighters in Warsaw. In the end, 16,000 Polish Resistance fighters were killed, with another 6,000 wounded. 150,000-200,000 Polish civilians were killed in the fighting, mostly through mass executions. Between the German invasion of Poland in September 1939, the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, and the Warsaw Uprising, over 85% of the city had been destroyed by the time the Germans fled in January 1945, with an estimated $30 billion in damages.