Where were we? A place for Germans to recuperate, obviously. What would they do to us when they realized we were runaway slave labourers?
Just then a tired-looking woman stepped through the doorway. Her outfit was a combination of Soviet and German military uniforms, but the postoly on her feet were peasant wear.
She knelt by the German’s cot and lifted the gauze at his neck, mumbling something under her breath in Ukrainian.
I felt entirely confused. If I knew for certain which side this woman was working for, I could play along — get myself and Martina out somehow — but nothing added up.
She left the room, but moments later came back with a tray of medical instruments. I watched as she removed the old dressing from the soldier’s neck. A long wound had been stitched, but the middle part was still bleeding. She washed off the blood with antiseptic and dressed it again with a fresh bandage.
She cleaned the tray and set it on my cot, then looked at my forehead and said in Ukrainian, “It seems that your wound needs dressing as well.”
My hand shot up to my forehead. On my left temple — just where it throbbed the worst — was a thick wad of gauze.
“I am sorry to say that we had to shave off some of your wonderfully wild hair in order to close the gash.”
I managed to ask, “Who are you?”
“You can call me Vera,” she said. “Field doctor for the Red Cross.”
“Where are we?”
“An underground hospital,” she said.
I looked up at the slits in the ceiling and suddenly realized why they gave so little light. It wasn’t just the branches covering them — the slits themselves were as narrow as my little finger. All at once I felt like I was smothering.
Vera put her hand on my forearm. “Relax,” she said. “It’s normal to feel closed in at first.”
I lay back down on the cot and stared at the slits of light, trying to breathe slowly, trying not to think about the fact that I was so deep under the ground.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” said Vera as she gently pulled off the old bandage on my brow. “Stefan and Danylo found you just a hundred metres from the battle zone. Even if you and your friend had managed to survive your plunge in the creek, you would surely have been shot.”
Just then a rhythmic tapping sounded from beyond the room. Vera’s eyes went wide. She grabbed a gun and strode out. I sat up. That’s when I realized I was dressed in loose cotton trousers and a shirt — neither of which was mine. My head was still pounding, but I had to see what was going on. I crept over to the doorway and poked my head through. The next area was a long, dark corridor with a series of doorways. An underground stream trickled down a groove in the far wall and escaped through a hole in the corner. How smart that was, to choose an underground spot because of its built-in water system. Maybe this hospital was close to the creek that Martina and I had nearly drowned in.
At one end of the long corridor was a set of steep log and dirt stairs leading up into a tunnel. A patch of light and a whoosh of winter air streamed from above.
As I watched, the heels of Vera’s postoly appeared from the tunnel. She was walking slowly down, backward, her ankles trembling to keep balanced. A moment later, I understood why. Her hands clutched one end of a makeshift stretcher. When she was nearly all the way down the steps, the other end of the stretcher became visible. Gripping that end was the kind-eyed soldier who had rescued Martina. On the stretcher was the blond soldier who had saved me. His face was still.
I scrambled back to my cot and lay down, expecting them to bring the injured soldier into this room and lay him on the fourth cot, but when they didn’t, I listened, trying to figure out what was going on.
Five minutes. Nothing.
I crept back out. No one was in the corridor. No light or air came through the door at the top of the stairs. I tiptoed over and looked up the tall steps — the door was closed and bolted.
I was about to go back to my room when I noticed light coming from one of the doorways along the corridor. I stepped quietly past my own door and poked my head through the lit one. An operating room! Kerosene lanterns that were strung from above cast the room in a bright yellow light. A man whose eyes looked bruised with fatigue worked frantically to cut through the fabric of the soldier’s pant leg with a large pair of scissors.
“I’ll assist as soon as I let Danylo back out,” said Vera, hurrying out the door.
The medic looked up and saw me. “You,” he said in Ukrainian. “If you’re conscious enough to stand there and gawk, you can help.” He jerked his head towards a tray of instruments. “Get some scissors. Help me cut these pants off before this man bleeds to death.”
I grabbed a pair of sewing shears and stared at them for a moment, my mind filling with the memory of my mother, sitting in a comfortable chair before the war, snipping off the frayed bits from the cuff of Tato’s dress shirt with scissors just like these.
“Don’t just stand there,” said the medic. “Help me.” He mumbled something under his breath in Yiddish.
Now I was truly confused. Who were these people and which side were they working for?
I stepped quickly over to the injured soldier to see how I could help. The medic had cut away the pant leg from the bottom to the knee, but was having difficulty ripping it open the rest of the way. I held the scissors in my armpit and reached over to loosen the man’s belt buckle. Once it was open, I was able to snip through the heavy waistband and the triple layer of material around the pocket until the entire leg was exposed. At first it was difficult to see where the injury was, there was so much blood, but Vera came back with water. She poured it over the area, washing away blood and exposing a deep black hole in the man’s thigh muscle.
“I’m glad to see you haven’t fainted yet,” the medic told me. “Vera, give the boy the water. He can irrigate while you assist me.”
If I’d had something in my stomach, I might have thrown up as Vera held the wound open with metal instruments and the man dug around with surgical forceps, looking for the bullet. Thank goodness the soldier was unconscious. I poured bits of water, making sure those two could see what they were doing. My head throbbed and I felt like I would faint, but I breathed slowly and concentrated on what needed to be done.
“Got it!” said the medic, triumphantly holding up a bullet glistening with blood. “No surprise, a German bullet.”
Vera smiled, then reached for a needle and thread. “I’ll take over,” she said, giving the wounded area a swab of antiseptic.
“Now we keep it dry,” said the medic, handing me a wad of gauze.
The two of us kept on blotting away blood as Vera stitched, first the deepest layer of muscle, then the next. I watched her deft movements and steady hands.
An image of Lida flashed into my mind, needle and thread poised, eyebrows crinkled in concentration. Her skilful fingers had earned her one of the safer jobs at the work camp. Was she still safe? I could only hope … I shook my head and her image disappeared.
When the wound was fully closed up, the medic wrapped it with tape and gauze.
“Stefan was very fortunate that the bullet didn’t shatter the bone,” he said, wiping sweat off his own brow with a clean rag. He turned to me and held out his hand. “You can call me Abraham,” he said. “Surgeon with the Ukrainian Red Cross.”
The Ukrainian Red Cross! It was separate from the Soviet one and separate from the German one. I knew that for certain because there was an active chapter in Kyiv during both occupations — Soviet and Nazi. These people were not working for the Germans. They wouldn’t care if Martina and I were escaped slaves.
“And what should we call you?” asked Abraham, almost as if he had read my mind.
I shook his hand firmly. Should I use a made-up name or my own? I told him he could call me Luka.
“So you survived the trek — through the borderlands, I take it? — all the way to the mountains,” said Abraham. “Luck was on your side.”
“Perhaps a little bit of skill as well,” said Vera. “When I was unpacking his knapsack, I found things that showed me he knew how to survive in the forest — dried puffball mushrooms, wild foods.”
At first I felt a twinge of anger that Vera had searched through my knapsack without my permission, but I couldn’t very well stay annoyed. Martina and I were strangers to her, yet Vera had saved our lives at the risk of her own. She was within her rights to minimize any risk to this location — even if that meant searching through my private things.
“Is your friend Czech?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”
“She was talking in her sleep a few hours ago, and I was fairly certain the language was Czech.”
“The Nazis burnt her village down,” I told Vera. “Most of the people were killed, but she was able to escape.”
Vera sat down and didn’t say anything for a minute or more, then she brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
“She’s a lucky one, then,” said Vera. “The Nazis have burned the Ukrainian and Polish villages around here as well. They usually take the young children as forced workers. It is a miracle your friend survived.”
“And we are fortunate to have you here,” Abraham added. “Thank you for your help.”
“My father was a pharmacist in Kyiv.”
“He’s taught you well,” said Abraham. Then he and Vera lifted Stefan off the operating table and carried him into the room where Martina and the German soldier still rested. I stayed in the surgery and put things in order.
“Come,” said Vera, poking her head back into the room. “I’ve got some soup heating.”
I followed her and Abraham down the dark corridor and through yet another doorway. Vera ladled meaty soup into three bowls and passed one of them to me.
“Wild sorrel and rabbit,” said Abraham, blowing on his spoon. “Much better than our usual bean, potato and sorrel soup.”
“What are your plans, once you leave here?” asked Vera, stirring her soup.
“I need to get to Kyiv,” I said. “That’s where I’m from.”
“You can’t get to Kyiv, Luka,” said Abraham.
I swallowed down a spoonful of soup in angry silence, wanting to shout at him that he was wrong. “My plan was to hide out in the mountains until the war was over,” I said. “I had no idea that the war would finds its way here.”
Vera chewed on a bit of meat, then said, “So you’re hoping the Soviets will win?”
The image of my grandfather in the mass grave at Bykivnia filled my mind. I thought of my father in a work camp in Siberia. Both were victims of the Soviets. But David and his mother were Nazi victims, killed at Babyn Yar. Me and Lida and Mama were all forced labourers — Ostarbeiters — thanks to the Nazis. No matter who won, we all lost. I set the spoon down with a clatter. How could I respond to that question?
There was a shuffling of footsteps in the corridor. Abraham hurried out the door. A few moments later he came back, the German soldier in tow. “Guess who’s woken up?”
The soldier seemed in awe of his surroundings. “What is this place?” he asked.
“You can tell your superiors that your life was saved by the Ukrainian Insurgent Army,” said Vera, replying to him in German so he could understand. “We shall be keeping your weapons, but you go free.”
She rooted around in her pocket, pulled out a pamphlet with German printing on it and shoved it into his hand. “You can share that with your fellow soldiers,” she said. “It explains who we are.” Then she took out a bandanna and a rope. “Sorry, but we’re going to have to restrain you and cover your eyes before we release you.”
The soldier’s eyebrows lifted. I was surprised as well.
She stood up and dangled the rope. The soldier shoved the pamphlet into a pocket and held out his hands. He did not protest as she tied his wrists together, then wrapped the cloth around his eyes and knotted it. She placed her hands on his shoulders and directed him towards the steps. While she was doing this, Abraham shrugged on a heavy coat and slipped his feet into winter boots.
I watched as the two of them got the soldier outside, then Vera came down alone. I stood with her at the foot of the stairs as she waited for Abraham to come back.
I wanted to ask her about this — their taking in a Nazi soldier, treating him, then releasing him — but her expression was so focused, I kept silent.
After long minutes of waiting, there was a faint rhythmic tapping from above. Vera took out her pistol and walked up the stairs. Moments later she came back down, Abraham two steps behind her, his cheeks red from cold. He kicked his boots off and hung up his coat. “Let’s finish our soup,” he said. “Who knows when the next patient will arrive.”
The soup had cooled, but it filled my stomach. “You can’t have taken him very far away,” I said to Abraham. “Aren’t you afraid that others will follow you here?”
“We work on a relay system,” said Abraham. “I only had to get him to the first perimeter of scouts. Even most of our own soldiers don’t know exactly where this hideout is.”
Vera looked over at me. “Just before we were interrupted, Luka, you said that you wanted to get back to Kyiv. Do you still have family there?”
“My mother and I were both taken to Germany as Ostarbeiters,” I said. “Before that, the Soviets shot my grandfather. But they took my father to Siberia and he could still be alive. If he is, he’ll go back to Kyiv, looking for me and Mama. If I don’t get back there, we’ll never be a family again.”
“The Germans were driven out of Kyiv a few days ago,” said Vera. “But our sources say that the fighting is still very heavy all around there. If you try to go to Kyiv, you will be killed.”
“I am not a coward who runs away from danger,” I said, setting my spoon down with a clatter. “I got all the way here without being caught. I’ll sneak into Kyiv.”
Vera didn’t answer. Instead she put a large spoonful of soup into her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. I saw her exchange a glance with Abraham. After a long moment of silence, she looked at me and said, “I cannot stop you from killing yourself, but if you truly want to see your father some day, you cannot get to Kyiv right now.”
“And your father isn’t in Kyiv, Luka,” said Abraham in a gentle voice. “Do you really think Stalin would let prisoners out of Siberia in the middle of the war and send them back home? Think with your brain, boy, not with your heart.”
My fists clenched at his words. Was he calling me stupid? I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to make myself calm. I had been thinking clearly, hadn’t I? In my heart I knew that Tato was still alive. My brain knew it too. I had to get to him. We had to be a family again. We’d been separated too long as it was.
Family …
All at once, an overwhelming sadness washed over me. Much as I hated to admit it, what Vera and Abraham said had a ring of truth to it. All this time, I had placed my hopes on getting away from the war, getting to Kyiv. Finding my father. But how could I deny the facts that were in front of me? Now I had to admit that it was impossible to walk away from a war that was so huge. Getting to Tato would have to wait — again!
I felt utterly lost. Reaching my father looked impossible right now. I held my head in my hands. This was too much to take in all at once.
“What am I supposed to do then?” I said it out loud, as much to myself as to Abraham and Vera. “I’m not going to give up.”
“No one is suggesting that you give up, Luka,” said Vera. “You just have to wait until the time is right.”
I felt like a complete failure, powerless to help the people that I loved. I hadn’t stopped David from being killed, and I had left Lida at the camp … even if she had wanted me to escape. I should have stayed so I could protect her. I hadn’t rescued my mother. Now I couldn’t get back to my father.
I raised my head from my hands and looked at Vera. Her eyes were shadowed with fatigue and there was a line
of worry on each side of her mouth. She wasn’t searching for her own family right now. She was helping a bigger family — fighting for the freedom of her country.
I glanced at Abraham. He too looked like he was about to collapse from the weight of the world. Yet the two of them kept on fighting — for freedom, for all the people who were being killed by the Soviets and the Nazis.
I couldn’t get to my father right now, and I couldn’t help Lida or my mother. But I could fight for freedom. That’s what Tato would do.
“I want to join your underground army.”
Abraham and Vera were silent, but as I watched them, it was like they were having a conversation with their eyes. Abraham nodded slightly, then Vera said, “It’s time for you to rest.”
Chapter Seventeen
Blindfold
When I got back to the recovery room, Martina’s eyes were open, but she didn’t look completely awake. I sat on the edge of her bed.
“Luka,” she said, her eyes focusing on my bandage. “Thank goodness you’re okay.”
“I’m doing better than you,” I said. “All I’ve got is a cut on my head, but you’ve got frostbitten toes and all those stitches on your cheek.”
Her hand flew up to her face and she gingerly felt the train track of stitches. “I don’t remember how I did that.” She looked at her bandaged feet, then wiggled her toes. “One big toe is achy, and the other toes feel tingly and hot, but I can feel all of them.”
What a relief. We had done everything we could to keep our feet from freezing these last weeks, but Martina’s postoly had made it almost impossible.
She propped herself up and looked at the cot that now held a sleeping Stefan. “He looks familiar,” she said.
“He’s the one who brought you here, wrapped up in his coat. A second soldier rescued me.”
“Are we under the ground?” Martina asked, looking around at the tall wooden walls and bits of sunlight filtering through the narrow slits high above.
“We are. This whole hospital is hidden underground.”
Vera stepped into the room just then and went over to Martina’s cot. In one hand was a bowl of soup, and in the other a pamphlet similar to the one that the German soldier had been given, but I could see that this one was in Ukrainian.
Underground Soldier Page 9
