“I’m glad you’re awake,” she said. “Call me Vera. I’m a doctor with the Ukrainian Red Cross. And what should we call you?”
“My name is Martina.”
“It is good to meet you,” said Vera. “I’m sure you’re hungry.” She set the bowl and a spoon into Martina’s hands, then turned and gave me the paper. “Here’s something for you both to read. It’s about our army.”
As Martina ate the soup, I told her about the German soldier who had been treated and released, and what I had found out so far about the people who called themselves Vera and Abraham, and the army they were assisting. I opened the pamphlet and read silently.
“What does it say?” asked Martina.
“Give me a minute to read it through and then I’ll summarize.”
Martina nodded and ate more soup.
The sheet was entitled What Is the Ukrainian Insurgent Army Fighting For? It was dated August 1943.
I scanned the first page, then said, “The Ukrainian Insurgent Army — also called the UPA — is fighting against the Nazis and the Soviets.”
“But what are they fighting for?” asked Martina.
I flipped the page. “It says they want equality of all citizens, regardless of age, sex, religion or nationality.”
“And this hospital serves the UPA?” Martina asked.
I looked over at Vera. She nodded.
“Then I want to join,” Martina said. “My father was in the Czech underground when he was killed. They had ideas like this.”
“My father ended up in Siberia because of ideas like this,” I said.
Vera leaned forward on the edge of one of the empty cots. “Our groups protect children in villages from both Nazi and Soviet attacks, but many children help us,” she said. “Not in the army, but in the villages. You and Luka could be trained to help.”‘
“It would be better than running and hiding,” said Martina.
“As long as you’re willing to stand up to Stalin and Hitler, you can work with us,” Vera said. “Besides, if you survived in the forests for so long, you must have a number of skills.”
* * *
We stayed in the underground bunker just long enough to ensure that Martina’s feet would heal. She was not used to being idle, so she limped around doing small chores — making soups and herbal teas, keeping the kitchen spotless — while I assisted with medical help.
Once, after helping set a broken arm, I walked into the kitchen and saw Martina, lost in concentration as she stirred a pot of rabbit stew. A sudden image of Lida appeared in my mind, shoulders bent with fatigue and a bowl of watery turnip soup in front of her. Was she safe in the labour camp, or should I have tried against all odds to take her with me? Lida was strong and resourceful. I could only hope that she also had luck on her side.
Martina looked up at me and smiled. The image of Lida faded. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.
I hope not, I said to myself.
* * *
Over the weeks, a steady stream of injured soldiers was brought in to the hospital. They were always blindfolded, whether they were Red Army or Wehrmacht. Even most of the UPA soldiers were blindfolded.
“Why do you blindfold your own soldiers?” I asked Abraham one day as I helped him clean the surgical room after he’d put back together a Red Army soldier’s shredded hand. “You’re on the same side.”
Abraham wiped off the last splatter of blood from the operating table, then cleaned the whole thing down with disinfectant. “What if a UPA soldier were captured?” he asked. “He could be tortured into giving up this location. What they don’t know cannot be revealed.”
“Has that happened before?”
Abraham pointed up to the ceiling. “See those openings? Nazis and Soviets have destroyed underground hospitals by sending poison gas through those. Or by lobbing grenades through the hatch — you name it. It’s essential that our locations stay secret.”
Just then Vera’s head poked through the doorway. “I have a surprise for Martina,” she said, holding out a bundle.
Martina limped over and looked at it. “What do you have there?”
“Open it.”
Martina worked open the rope and pulled out the contents — a pair of sturdy leather boots that looked brand new, heavy wool socks, gloves, a hat. The leather bundle they had been wrapped in was a sheepskin-lined winter coat. As she held each item, I thought of Lida, who had no shoes, no socks, no warm coat. I was happy for Martina’s good fortune, but how I wished I could snatch those boots and somehow get them to Lida.
“Thank you,” said Martina, grinning.
“You’ll be needing them,” said Vera. “Once it’s dark, you and Luka will be leaving.”
Chapter Eighteen
Into the Mountains
The last thing I saw was Abraham tying a bandanna across Martina’s eyes. A piece of cloth fell over my own eyes and a knot was tied snugly at the back of my head.
“Will you be tying our hands as well?” I asked.
“No need,” said Vera. She went up the narrow steps first, and Martina followed, her hands on Vera’s hips for guidance. I followed behind, my hands clutching Martina’s belt. I had a vision of one person taking a wrong step and all of us tumbling down in a tangled clump.
We paused at the top and I heard the sound of metal scraping metal — likely Vera unlocking the hatch. We took a few more steps up.
“Stop!” Vera said. “I need to show you exactly where to place your feet. First, Martina.”
I let go of Martina’s belt and listened to the footsteps.
“Now you,” said Vera. She grabbed one pant leg and guided me to skip the top step, then to angle my foot in a certain way. “Good,” she said, once I was completely out. “The top step is booby-trapped with explosives, as is the ground around the entrance, to protect us from intruders.”
“I’ll take them from here,” said a gruff voice that seemed somehow familiar. Was it Danylo?
“Can we take the bandannas off now?” Martina asked.
“Not yet,” said the voice. “But you’ll be able to do that soon, maybe fifteen minutes. We’ll go in single file so that we don’t make a triple set of footsteps in the snow. Martina, hold the back of my belt. Luka, hold on to Martina.”
In this awkward caterpillar fashion, we stumbled over what must have been rocks and logs. We slipped on ice and slush and even leaves, and my arms and neck ached. It seemed much longer than fifteen minutes.
All at once a gust of wind cooled my face. I blinked. The bandanna had been whisked off. But I still couldn’t see much in the pitch darkness.
“This way,” whispered Danylo. “We’ve got to make ten kilometres before dawn.”
As we walked, my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and my feet got into the rhythm. When Martina and I had made our long trek, we often covered long distances — even twenty kilometres on a very good night — but this journey was through treacherous and steep ground. We were walking up a mountain, after all. Added to that, Danylo had us criss-cross and circle in a most confusing fashion, so each kilometre felt like ten.
“We can’t avoid the footprints in this snow,” said Danylo under his breath. “All we can do is camouflage the direction.”
Martina’s stamina surprised me. She managed to keep her pace even in her brand new boots. I felt light-headed but didn’t want to hold us up, so I just put one foot in front of the other and kept on going.
Just as sunlight appeared overheard, the trees began to thin and we neared a thatched cottage. An older woman wearing an embroidered shirt and a long skirt under her sheepskin vest stepped out the door. In her hands was a rifle, but her face broke out into a smile when she recognized Danylo.
“Ulana,” he said. “Good to see you. Has there been any trouble?”
She shook her head. “Come inside. We’ll talk.”
The cottage was warm and smelled of baking bread. A table with a stack of plates, some cups and a pitcher of water
dominated the room. It also held a map, some pencils and paper. The place seemed like a meeting area, not just a regular cottage. A girl wearing a gun belt set a steaming loaf of bread on the table.
“Danylo, you and your friends are welcome. Sit,” said Ulana, propping her rifle close to the door. “You’re just in time for some of Orysia’s fresh bread.”
We slipped off our boots and coats and sat at the table. Orysia pulled off hunks of bread for each of us and set out a container of soft goat cheese. As we ate, Danylo asked Ulana. “What’s been happening?”
“The Germans still don’t know where our camp is,” said Ulana. “But they’re all over the area.”
Danylo turned to me and Martina. “Finish your bread. We’ve got to get moving.”
We walked a few kilometres farther down a fairly broad mountain road. Along the way, we encountered a series of armed sentries, some wearing the familiar assortment of Soviet and German uniforms with the insignia removed, and others in regular peasant clothing. Even though I was on the alert, these soldiers were so good at hiding that I didn’t spot them until they stepped in front of us, weapons poised. But they would lower their weapons at the sight of Danylo and let us pass.
We kept on walking, meeting more sentries along the way. A few kilometres farther, we reached an open area cleverly concealed within tall fir trees. Half hidden here and there was a series of plain wooden buildings, their roofs and sides camouflaged with mud and fir boughs. As we got closer, I was astounded by the sheer number of hidden buildings.
Our way was blocked by armed guards, and this time, even though their faces showed that they recognized Danylo, that alone was not enough to get us through.
“Password,” one demanded. He looked no older than me, his rifle at the ready.
“Colibri,” said Danylo.
The young guard lowered his rifle. “You can go through.”
An officer stepped out of one of the buildings and grinned when he saw Danylo. When he looked at me and Martina, the smile disappeared. “Are these two here to help, or are they homeless locals?”
“They want to help, Bohdan, and they’re good ones,” said Danylo. “Martina is swift and quiet.” Then he pointed to me. “Luka here apprenticed under his father — a pharmacist.”
“You’ve got to do weapons training first,” Bohdan said. “So let’s get started.”
We walked up a hill, and beyond was a clearing with two teenaged boys and a girl, all in regular clothing, standing at attention and facing an instructor. On a table in front of the instructor was an array of weapons — two different kinds of machine guns, automatic pistols and a variety of rifles.
“Sofia, Roman and Viktor, choose a weapon,” the instructor said. “They’re not loaded. Your first job is to disassemble your weapon. Pay close attention, because your next job will be to put it back together.”
Once the trainees were busy with their tasks, the instructor greeted Danylo. “Are these two new ones for me?”
“Yes,” said Danylo.
“Pick a weapon, each of you,” said Petro. “And get to work.”
* * *
“Stand up a bit straighter,” said Martina. “And rest the buttstock closer to the middle of your chest.”
It felt like such an unnatural way to position the rifle. Why was it so easy for Martina? She was the top shooter in our group — unlike me. I lined up the little notch at the end of the barrel so it was exactly in the middle of the notched rear sight, and slowly began to squeeze the trigger.
“Focus on the centre circle of the paper target, not the front sight on the rifle,” said Martina.
I loosened my finger from the trigger and glared at her.
She stuck her tongue out at me. “You’re going to miss that haystack completely if you don’t calm down,” she said.
Calm down? How was I supposed to do that with her hovering over me and second-guessing everything I did? I didn’t say that to her though. Instead, I ignored her. I tightened my index finger over the trigger, then bang. I practically fell over from the impact of the recoil.
“Congratulations,” said Martina. “You managed to hit the haystack this time.”
“Where?”
“The top corner,” she said, pointing. “See where the paper’s fluttering a little bit?”
“I did everything right,” I muttered, pointing the barrel of the semi-automatic to the ground for safety. “I should have hit the bull’s eye.”
“You can’t be good at everything,” said Martina, reaching for the rifle butt.
“I can’t shoot like you. I can’t track quietly like you. I feel useless.”
“Stand over there,” Martina said, indicating a spot beside a scrawny fir tree. “You’re making me nervous.”
“People aren’t going to stand away from me in a combat situation,” I said. “I’ve got to get used to firing a rifle under all sorts of circumstances.”
Martina rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said. “Stand wherever you want.”
In one smooth, quick motion she took her stance, aimed and shot. And hit the centre of the target. Then she angled the rifle to the ground. “I can shoot and track, Luka, but you can heal people. I wish I could do that.”
We walked back to the main part of the camp together, savouring the rare bit of free time. We had finished our training the day before and were ready to work.
Petro was not happy with my rifle skills. “You’ll be a village medic,” he told me. “But if Martina can get your shooting up to par, I’ll let you carry a gun.”
“I want to fight for my country, just like you,” I told him.
He shook his head at that. “Be careful what you wish for,” he said. “And go get some sleep.”
Lida brushes my cheek with a prickly frond of a fir branch. “Can you hear them?”
“Hear what?” I ask, wrapping my fingers around her narrow wrist so she can’t tickle me anymore.
“The bullets that I made for the Nazis …”
Hot bile forms in my stomach. Surely Officer Schmidt wouldn’t send someone as young as her to the munitions factory? Lida had to be working at the laundry, not at the —
“Now, Luka! Get up!” The dream was achingly real. But not as real as the shouting.
I opened my eyes. Not Lida, but Martina, with Roman by her side.
She shoved away the fir branches that covered our sleeping pit and pulled me by the hand with such force I thought she’d tear my arm off. Sofia darted out. Viktor too. And then I heard the growling of an airplane up above.
I scrambled to my feet, grabbing my rifle and making sure my medic bag was securely strapped to my waist.
The growl got louder. I looked into the sky. A Soviet plane was terrifyingly close …
“Take your positions,” shouted Martina.
The plane circled away, then came back in a wide arc. We lined up and aimed. It flew away without firing.
“Guns down,” said Martina.
“It’s strange,” said Petro when the group assembled in the main camp after the plane had disappeared. “Why would a single Soviet plane fly overhead?”
I wondered the same thing too. It seemed almost spooky.
Chapter Nineteen
Zhuraki
Our group was assigned to the defence of Roman and Viktor’s village of Zhuraki, which was at the foot of our mountain just off the main roadway. For me, this was a letdown. I wanted to be in the middle of battle, to be a hero.
Instead, I was stuck in this sleepy little village of old people and children. I understood why they needed protection. Almost all of the fighting-age men had already been killed or taken away by one side or the other. The women were mostly gone too — probably forced labourers in Germany. And the war zone was close by. Right now Zhuraki was in German-held territory, but that could change any day.
The only men of fighting age left in the village besides Roman and Viktor was Oleh, who had a dislocated shoulder, and Pavlo. They took shifts with us to defend Zhu
raki.
On a bitterly cold Sunday morning, I stood on guard with my feet turning to blocks of ice as I listened to the bells of Zhuraki call the villagers to church. I would have loved to set down my rifle and stand among them, not just to listen to the service, but to get warm. Instead, I stomped my feet and shivered.
“Our shift will be over soon,” said Martina, her lips blue with cold.
Viktor’s teeth chattered as he paced back and forth in front of the village entrance.
Sudden running footsteps. The blur of a uniform. A sharp crack to the back of my head. I fell to the snow. Smoke. Pounding. Muffled screams.
I bolted up to a sitting position, but almost fell back down again from wooziness. I must have been knocked out. But for how long?
I took a deep breath and tried to get to my feet. Something was very wrong.
Martina lay on her back, her eyes closed and a trickle of blood coming from her ear. Viktor was curled into a ball, whimpering, a mottled bruise forming on his jaw. I felt the tender spot on the back of my head. It was soft and pulpy and my fingertips came away slick with blood. Who had attacked us?
The smoke!
Flames licked up the sides of the church, billows of black smoke above the spire. Muffled screaming and pounding.
“Viktor! Martina!” I shouted. “The church. We’ve got to help them!”
Martina’s eyes opened. Viktor sat up. I ran to the flaming church, Viktor stumbling a few steps behind me.
Someone had wedged a thick piece of wood through the brass handles, so no matter how hard the people pushed from inside, the doors wouldn’t open. I grabbed one end of the wood and pulled. It didn’t budge. Viktor gripped the other end and we rocked it back and forth until it split apart.
The door burst open with the weight of many bodies. People fell on top of each other, their backs alight with flames, screaming. I grabbed onto a girl who had collapsed on top of another, and helped her to her feet. She stumbled out of the church in a daze. The woman beneath her cradled a young boy. She ran out, weeping hysterically, the boy’s eyes wide with fear. An elderly man dashed out, his hair alight and his jacket in flames. He threw himself down into a snowbank and rolled, putting out the fire.
Underground Soldier Page 10
