Summertime 1939. Nothing stands between Germany and Poland, nothing but the heat. It is a flashpoint in history, the last summer of peace. War brings all things to a standstill. For a moment the darkness seems to overtake the light. The world stops in place. There is no movement, no life. It is written that at the end of days only the few will be chosen and there will be a mystical harvest. This is that story.
A telling change was in the air, a welcome lull at the end of a day made strenuous by extensive heat. The longed-for break in unseasonably dry weather was greeted by smiling faces. And a thrill was had at the sight of dark clouds ushered in by a late summer swelter. To cheers a sheet of rainfall swept through the thirsty streets and wilted boulevards of Warsaw. The flash point of August was for the moment lessened beneath a cloudburst.