Underground Soldier

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  It had been a warm day for late November, but dusk brought a chill. I was wet with river mud and sweat, so the cool air made me shiver. My feet were sore and my leg hurt. Fir needles and leaves stuck to my mud-caked clothing, making me itchy.

  I had walked beyond the young forest and was back in the midst of tall fir trees. Finally, a place that gave camouflage. I shrugged off the knapsack. It landed on the earth with a thunk. Next off was the filthy blouse and muddy skirt. I shook out the worst of the dried mud, and the remaining half bun tumbled out. I stowed the dirty clothing and bun in an outside pocket of the knapsack. As I stood with nothing on but underwear, filthy socks and boots, I heard a loud snap. My heart nearly stopped.

  I picked up the knapsack and quietly stepped behind a fir tree. My skin prickled in the cold as I held my breath and waited for whatever had made that noise to pass by.

  Nothing.

  This was probably the worst possible time to remove my boots, but I was determined to get my trousers on. If I were captured, I preferred to die of something other than humiliation. Balancing on one foot, I removed the first boot and peeled off the wet sock, grimacing as a big hunk of skin from my heel came off with it. When I removed the second boot and sock, there was another broken blister, but this one wasn’t as bad.

  I pulled on my trousers and shirt, a warm jacket and a dry pair of socks, my heart pounding until I got my boots back on and laced up. I leaned up against the tree and listened. The thing that had snapped the twig must have gone. The forest was eerily still.

  I needed to find a secure place to rest for the night, but where? There weren’t just soldiers to worry about. Wouldn’t there be wild animals in the forest as well? But if I didn’t rest, I’d be too worn out to get to the mountains. I shrugged the knapsack onto my back and walked through the thickest part of the woods — as far away from what seemed to be the walking path as I dared. I found a thicket of low bushes and worked my way in, the sharp branches scratching my face and snagging my hair. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but for the first time since entering the forest, I felt truly hidden.

  Now that I was settled and secure, it would have made sense to find one of those boxed meals that Helmut and Margarete had given me, but I didn’t want to use them up too quickly. I took out the last muddied half of a bun. That would do. I took one bite, then shoved the rest inside my shirt for later. As I chewed, my mind filled with memories of David again.

  The Nazis are so smug when they take over Kyiv in September of 1941. When they hear of the huge grave in the forest, they send a journalist. Soon after, the top layer of the grave is emptied and the bodies lined up. Kyivans are ordered to view the display. Each one of us goes, hoping that our own missing loved ones haven’t made their grave in Bykivnia.

  I already know that Dido is in that pit, and the thought of seeing his corpse lined up like a Nazi display makes me ill. But Mama and I need to go. What if Tato is there? Or David’s father?

  The four of us — me, Mama, David and Mrs. Kagan — go together and wait in the sad lineup of keening women and children. The corpses are lined up in front of the forest, feet pointing towards Pecherska Lavra. One of the officers whispers to another that this top layer of bodies had been very fresh — executed over the summer — but that the pit seems limitless. He estimates there are one hundred thousand dead at least, and that the pit has been used for years. My mind can hardly grasp that figure. Is it even possible? Why would Stalin kill so many of his own people?

  Bykivnia Forest is surely filled with ghosts. That’s all I can think as we walk slowly from one body to the next, thankful each time that the victim isn’t Tato. The air is heavy with sorrow and the only sounds are the gasps of recognition when a body is claimed. That, and the wind sighing through the birch trees.

  The next day, an article appears in the Nazi newspaper about Bykivnia, but instead of blaming Stalin and the Soviet NKVD, the reporter says it was the Jews who have done the killings.

  Mama crumples the newspaper up and throws it onto the floor. “They must think we’re stupid,” she mutters. “They blame everything on the Jews.”

  Mrs. Kagan looks at Mama and says, “It’s Stalin’s last cruel joke on us.”

  An owl hooted and Mrs. Kagan’s image faded, but I couldn’t get that scene from long ago out of my mind. I tried to turn, but the wiry bushes poked and prickled. I felt so imprisoned with the blackness of night and the cover of shrubs that I nearly panicked. Was this what it felt like to be buried within a mass grave? I tried to push that thought out of my mind. I was hidden — and almost safe. I was alive. I concentrated on that reality. I closed my eyes, but sleep would not come.

  I took a deep breath and held it in my lungs for a moment, then let it out slowly. I did that a second time and a third. By the fourth breath, my heart had slowed down and I began to feel calmer. I opened my eyes. All around me was blackness deeper than coal. The sky was mostly obscured by branches, but if I concentrated, I could see the distant stars. That calmed me too, but still I could not sleep.

  I wondered if Mama was looking up at the sky right now and seeing the same stars. Mama, Tato, Lida — the people I loved most — were scattered apart but still living, united under the same sky. “Please be safe,” I prayed. I fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  Friends

  I dreamed I was wrapped tightly in sharp lengths of barbed wire. I opened my eyes: not barbed wire, but prickling thorns and twigs enveloped me. I struggled, but they just dug even more into my arms and legs.

  If I kept on struggling, the thorns would tear my skin apart. I took a deep breath. As I slowly exhaled, I thought of Lida. Even in the worst situations, she knew how to make things bearable, by singing a lullaby or giving a reassuring smile. I took another breath. I could get through this.

  Lida … Again I regretted leaving her behind. But she knew that the hospital was an evil place. Had I not escaped, they would have killed me. If I could have taken her with me, I would have. Once the war was over, I would find her. I would not have the death of another dear friend on my conscience.

  As I lay there fighting my memories, I listened to the occasional hooting of an owl or the snap of a twig. Behind the forest sounds was the ever-present rumble of bombs and planes and guns. Was I safe in my hiding place? Certainly safer than David had ever been, and more secure than Lida. But the forest chill crept into my bones and I felt utterly alone.

  I dug into my shirt and broke off another piece of the bun. I held it to my face and breathed in the faint scent of cherry. I was thankful for all that Helmut and Margarete had given me. Their kindness was proof that everyone was capable of goodness.

  I put it into my mouth, but it sat on my tongue like sawdust. I chewed and swallowed, determined not to waste a crumb. I thought of David and my heart ached with sorrow. I thought of Lida, a prisoner still, trying to survive on watery soup. How she would have savoured just one small bite of a cherry bun.

  My eyes slid shut …

  Snow flutters down, blanketing my body with a damp chill. Snow on my feet — they are like giant balls of ice.

  Lida sits before me, her badge that says OST glowing in the darkness. She holds a thread and needle in one hand and a badge for me in another. I watch as she places it onto the front of my flannel shirt and begins to sew. But her needle plunges into my skin, drawing blood.

  I was jolted from my half-dream by the odd sensation of pinpricks on my stomach. I reached inside my shirt … and got a handful of fur. Just then a squirrel, its teeth firmly sunk into the stale remains of the bun, darted out of my shirt. I grabbed the bun and the squirrel tugged, ripping away a big chunk. With a twitch of its tail, the squirrel raced off with its prize.

  It was daylight. Had I really slept through the entire night in a prickly bush, unaware of everything, even a squirrel gnawing inside my shirt? I had been lucky. If I were to survive out in the open, I had to be more careful. It wouldn’t do to depend only on luck.
/>
  * * *

  Now that I had survived my first night, the forest seemed a friendlier place. I was hungry and thirsty, but didn’t want to take the time to stop and root around in my knapsack, so I ate the last of the bun and kept on walking. The leaves were covered with dew and didn’t crunch as I stepped on them. I found no more streams. I wanted to get down to the river and drink my fill of water, but the bank was high and steep and the water too fast. Instead I chewed on dewy blades of grass and tried not to think about how dry my throat was.

  I spied a few puffball mushrooms. Some varieties could be poisonous, but these weren’t, and since dried puffballs were good at stanching blood, I gathered them up and put them in my knapsack.

  I made good progress that day and oddly ran into no one. That night I dug down deep into a thicket and fell into an uneasy sleep.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, I was jolted awake when the ground shook from a distant bomb. Memories of that time after Bykivnia rushed back to my mind.

  A few days after the Nazis display the corpses in the woods, I wake up to the ground shaking. A piece of plaster falls from the ceiling and crashes down inches from my head. “What is happening?” I yelp, jumping out of bed.

  “Come on,” says David, slipping his feet into a pair of shoes.

  When we get out to the street, a billow of smoke drifts beyond Pecherska Lavra. Many people mill about, startled awake like us.

  “The Soviets planted a bomb in the arsenal before they left,” says a man, breathlessly running down the street in his pyjamas.

  “It wasn’t the Soviets,” says an old woman with swollen ankles sitting on the steps of a crumbling building. “It’s probably the Jews again.”

  “How can you say such a thing?” I ask her.

  “It talks about a similar incident right here,” she says, pointing to an article in the Nazi paper. “And they’ve arrested some of the culprits.”

  The only Jews who are left in the city are the sick and elderly, women and children — not any different than the people left behind who aren’t Jewish. Everyone who was important has been evacuated to safety. And we all know now that the young leaders of the city who were opposed to Stalin have been murdered at Bykivnia.

  On September 24 we are ordered to register at the makeshift German government office in the old hotel on Svertlov Street. Thousands wait patiently in line as the new city clerks try their best to fill out the German forms.

  When it is finally my turn, I notice that the clerks have three columns of names.

  “Why do you have three lists?” I ask.

  “Our Nazi leaders have more respect for your beliefs than the Soviets ever did,” he says. “We’re listing how many Jews, Russians, Ukrainians live here. That way the Nazis can reopen the right number of churches and synagogues.”

  I turn and leave, wondering about his comment. Does that mean that they will turn Pecherska Lavra back into a monastery? An interesting idea.

  I am a hundred metres away from the registration building when there is a loud, rumbling roar. Suddenly I fly through the air, pieces of concrete raining on my back. I land on my hands in the cobblestone road, scraping my face, the wind knocked out of me. The upper floor of the toy store beside the registration building flies off in the explosion and lands on top of dozens of people waiting in line.

  My face is wet with blood and the back of my shirt in shreds. A frail man comes out from one of the houses and mops my face with his handkerchief. Just then, a second explosion rocks the street. The registration building is engulfed in smoke and rubble.

  “Another gift from Stalin,” the man grumbles, folding up his bloodied handkerchief. “I guess we can expect another announcement that the Jews did it.”

  For the next two days, buildings explode every few minutes from bombs planted by the NKVD before they escaped. Soviet undercover agents throw Molotov cocktails, igniting buildings. Because the fire department has abandoned the city, a massive fire burns for a week and a huge cloud of ash hangs yet again over Kyiv.

  We do all that we can to get the fires out, but the flames rage on. In retaliation, the Nazis shoot anyone who lives in a building beside one that burned — for not trying hard enough to put the fire out, they claim, though David says that they are just looking for excuses to kill us.

  At dusk on the last Sunday in September, I stand on the roof of our communal flat, David beside me. All around, Kyiv burns.

  “What is to become of us?” I ask.

  David shrugs, then points to a soldier who is nailing a notice to a post down the street. “Let’s go see what it says.”

  A small crowd gathers on the street in front of the sign, blocking our view. Someone at the front says, “They’re ordering all the Jews to assemble near the cemetery on Monday at eight o’clock in the morning. They’re to pack for travel.”

  As we walk back home, David says, “Where do you think they’re going to take us?”

  I think of Dido and all of the others in the graves, the explosions and fires, the clouds of black smoke hanging above. Deep down, I want David to stay, but I know that is selfish. If he and his mother can get to safety, they have to take the chance.

  “Do you think anyplace could possibly be worse than here?” I ask him.

  “They will probably send us to a work camp,” says David.

  Mama helps Mrs. Kagan sort through her meagre possessions. Each traveller is only allowed a single suitcase.

  “Photographs,” says Mrs. Kagan, slowly turning the pages in a worn family album and stopping somewhere around the middle. “These are more precious than food.” She takes one out and turns it for us to see — a formal wedding shot of a hopeful-looking woman with serious eyes. Behind her stands Mr. Kagan — not looking much different than the last time I saw him, just younger.

  She takes out a picture of David that makes me smile. He must have been about two, with curly hair like a girl.

  “Of all the photographs you’ve got of me, you’re keeping that one?” David asks, his face pink.

  “You were a beautiful child,” says his mother. “So innocent. Quit complaining.”

  Mama sorts through our shared pantry and divides out what little we have left — cracker bread, some apples, a few onions. “Take these,” she says. “Who knows when you’ll be fed.”

  The next morning Mama and I walk with David and Mrs. Kagan to the train station. “I don’t understand why the Soviets set off all those explosions,” Mama says. “Surely they knew that the Nazis would blame the Jews.”

  “No matter what happens, we are always blamed,” replies Mrs. Kagan bitterly.

  It makes me angry to hear her say that, but it’s true. The Soviets did this, and now the Nazis. Some things never change.

  David wears his winter coat over his best suit, as well as three pairs of socks and two shirts. His mother also wears her heaviest coat, plus a sweater, three skirts, two scarves and fur-lined boots that belonged to Mr. Kagan.

  The street fills with people — some pushing wheelbarrows, others carrying awkward boxes on their backs. Two men carry a stretcher that holds an elderly rabbi. It isn’t just Jews who come out. Friends and non-Jewish family walk alongside.

  “I don’t know why the Jews are the only ones to get evacuated,” says a squat woman with a cane as she hobbles beside us. “Why are they so special? I’m going to see if they’ll let me on the train as well — I don’t know how much more I can take, breathing in this smoke.”

  We walk down Melnikov Street with crowds of other people, watching the soldiers lining the road. Some hold clubs; others rifles. A few hold back fierce-looking dogs. “We’re doing as they asked,” says David. “I don’t see why they have to be out in such force.”

  I do a double take when I see, close to the end of the row of soldiers, a face that is etched in my mind. Sasha, the Soviet NKVD who took Tato away — now in a Nazi uniform. Beside him stands Misha, yet another former NKVD thug. I tug on Mama’s sleeve and motion with my eyes.
/>
  She nods. “Bullies are all the same, no matter what uniform they wear,” she says. “I recognize a few former Soviets who relished tormenting us then, and now they just do it in another uniform.”

  Suddenly a block of German soldiers stands in our way. “Papers,” says one, reaching out his free hand. The other restrains a German shepherd. Behind the soldiers, a line of trucks idles, stacked high with suitcases, boxes and bags.

  All four of us hold out our identification papers. “You two,” he says to David and Mrs. Kagan. “Put your luggage on one of the trucks, then go through.”

  He turns to me and Mama. “No farther. Go home now.”

  I hold my hand out to David and give it a firm shake. “Good luck,” I say.

  David’s eyes look sad but he pastes a brave smile onto his face. “Don’t forget me, Luka,” he replies. Then he and his mother walk through the cordon of soldiers.

  I never saw him again.

  Two days later, we found out that there had been no train. The Nazis had murdered the Jews of Kyiv. Their bullet-riddled bodies now filled the ravine of Babyn Yar.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fighting Back

  I could still almost hear David’s voice, saying, “Don’t forget me, Luka.”

  An overwhelming weariness washed over me.

  I vowed to survive this horrible war, so I could tell others about what the Nazis had done and how David had been killed. David would have loved Lida. Had he lived, they could have been the greatest of friends.

  I untangled myself from the branches and started back on my journey.

  The woods seemed oddly empty. Surely I wasn’t the only one in them. I walked until the midday sun broke through the branches overhead and didn’t see a single soul. Once, a deer darted by in the distance, and another time I nearly stepped on a snake, but the birds were oddly silent and I saw no trace of other humans.

  I walked as close to the edge of the river as I dared, waiting for a spot where I would be able to climb down and get a drink, but long stretches of the bank were too soft and crumbly for climbing. In places the bank plunged right down to deep churning water. Finally I came upon a stretch that overlooked a pebbled beach and a patch of river that rippled but didn’t churn. Perhaps it was shallower.