Underground Soldier

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  I didn’t stop to consider exactly what must have happened. All I wanted to do was concentrate on saving as many people as we could. But as we pulled more people out, I realized that many were already dead — not from the fire but from breathing in the smoke. Viktor let out a long, howling cry when he recognized the familiar form of his own mother amidst a crush of corpses.

  Martina ran up to us, out of breath. “Water!” she ordered, rushing out again. “You and you” — she pointed to the girl and woman. “Get buckets. Start pumping.”

  But the church was old and wooden, and buckets of water were no match for the roaring flames. We doused the cottages closest to the church to contain the fire and hoped for the best.

  It wasn’t until the following day, when we did a count of the living and dead, that we realized Oleh and Pavlo were both missing.

  “How did it start?” I asked a girl named Sonya as I put ointment on her burned palms.

  “Then there was a crash through the high window and a ball of fire burst in,” she said. “Oleh and Pavlo bolted out to catch the person who did it. But then we heard shouts in German … shots … banging at the door.

  “Martina tried to push the doors open. They wouldn’t budge. A second ball of fire crashed through a window. Flames — so many flames. People coughing. The smoke. Some were heaving at the door and screaming. It was horrible.” Sonya’s voice trembled.

  “Pavlo and Oleh — I wonder where they are.”

  Sonya sighed. “Probably taken to the death camp hidden in the woods. We’ve heard about it, but no one knows where it is.”

  I felt like it was my fault for the fire and my fault that Pavlo and Oleh had been captured. How could we have let ourselves be knocked unconscious? What kind of self-defence unit were we?

  “We need to search the area,” I said to Viktor a few moments later. “Maybe we can figure out where the death camp is.”

  The initial footprints were easy to track — signs of a scuffle, and dragging footsteps in the snow. We followed the tracks out of the village and down the road until they became impossible to separate from all the other footprints and markings made by the German and Soviet troops.

  “There was a truck here very recently,” said Viktor, nudging fresh tire tracks in the snowy mud.

  Keeping ourselves hidden behind trees and snow, we traced the path of a truck a couple of kilometres down the road. It led to an encampment of German soldiers, but there were no prisoners that we could see.

  We spent the rest of the day and into the night combing the area, looking for clues about where the camp might be. It was an exhausting and cold job, but I was determined to find Pavlo and Oleh. The fact that Viktor was from the area helped a little bit, but it was hard work searching for clues while staying hidden ourselves.

  “Do you really think we’ll ever find the camp?” I asked Viktor, sitting down on the stump of a dead tree and holding my head in my hands. We had searched all through the night, and the morning light was just appearing. “This seems to be an impossible task.”

  He slumped down beside me. For a long time he didn’t say anything. Then he sat straight. He pointed to a rutted mud track through the trees that was partly hidden by clumps of snow and leaves. In the darkness, we had missed it. “That’s new,” he said.

  The track led a few hundred metres into the woods. We didn’t walk on the road itself, but through the trees, with the track in view. Finally we spotted an outpost manned by two German soldiers with submachine guns blocking the track.

  We stayed hidden behind a tree, hoping that they wouldn’t see us. After several tense minutes, I poked my head out to see what they were doing. They were looking in the other direction. I motioned to Viktor and we silently moved a metre or so farther in, then hid behind some brush. We waited a few more minutes, then repeated the action. Slowly, carefully, we timed our movements through the woods to when they were looking the other way.

  Half a kilometre past the outpost, a subtle whiff of decay tinged the air, but we kept going forward.

  “Stop,” whispered Viktor, putting his arm out in front of me. “Look through those trees.”

  In the midst of this vast wilderness was a well-hidden barbed-wire enclosure with watchtowers camouflaged within the trees, manned by armed guards. It was an open-air prison, filled with emaciated civilians — mostly men, but some women as well. There was nothing to shelter them from snow and wind, so they huddled together in clusters for warmth. Among them I spotted a man with a sling whose clothes were not as ragged. It was Oleh. But for many of the others, it was too late. Just outside of the enclosure was a mound of frozen corpses.

  I forced myself to breathe slowly, think clearly and stay hidden. The regular German army wouldn’t have a prison like this, would they? It would have to be the Gestapo — trained murderers. And they’d have to have administrative buildings close by. I climbed onto higher ground. From this vantage point I could see beyond the prison to a cluster of newly built barracks a hundred or so metres away. Were these the offices and sleeping quarters for the staff? I memorized the locations of the buildings.

  “We’ve got to tell Petro that we found this place,” I whispered to Viktor.

  Just then, one of the sentries in the watchtower turned our way. If he’d looked hard he would have seen me for sure. I stood still and waited for him to turn away.

  It was tricky for us to steal away, and it didn’t help that I still had a raging headache from yesterday’s blow to my head. Viktor had to feel even worse. He had lost his mother and so many friends and neighbours. And now seeing a mound of corpses being regarded as so much garbage. How could anyone treat another human this way? I couldn’t get that stack of dead people out of my mind.

  We made it back up the mountain and reported what we’d found to Petro.

  “Show me on this,” he said, rolling out a detailed map of the area on his desk.

  I indicated the area where the camp was. “These buildings back there,” I said, pointing to a spot on the map. “They look like the ones in my labour camp. I’m fairly certain they’re Gestapo administration buildings.”

  “Most likely,” said Petro.

  “Why do they bother to capture civilians now?” I asked Petro. “The Germans are supposedly retreating. Doesn’t this just slow them down?”

  “Military strategy,” said Petro. “As the Soviets have been pushing closer, the retreating Nazis have been destroying everything that they can’t take with them and that could be of use to the Soviets — food, any sort of supplies — and people.”

  I thought back to what had happened in Kyiv as the Soviets fled the oncoming Nazis. They too had destroyed everything. Why was it always the civilians who suffered most in these wars?

  * * *

  An attack was planned for that very night, with me and Viktor as the advance scouts. It made me proud to fight as a soldier this time instead of just passively protecting a village.

  First we ambushed the outpost. That was easy. Petro placed one squad along the icy mud track and another at the main road to stop German reinforcements from coming through. Then the rest of us silently encircled the barracks.

  UPA soldiers aimed their rifles at the watchtowers. On Petro’s signal, they shot the guards, then dashed to the building.

  Viktor and I were on their heels. The front door was bolted from the inside, but Petro gave it one strong kick and it caved in. We stepped through the splinters of wood, not bothering with silence, only going for speed. We were in a hallway with doors along either side. Petro motioned for us to swarm the rooms. I entered the first one on the right, Viktor at my side.

  I flicked on the light. A man in nightclothes, with shaggy blond hair, had jumped out of bed and was hastily pulling on civilian clothes. “Get out of my way,” he shouted in German.

  I took in the entire room — the grey Gestapo uniform hanging from a wall hook; half of the room looking simple and clean like a soldier might have it; the other half more like a storage area,
with goods stockpiled nearly to the ceiling. A large burlap sack lay on the floor, sausage links spilling out from the top. Leaning up against the side of the sack was a large framed picture of The Last Supper. It looked old and precious and must have been stolen from a church — likely the church that had been burned. On the top of a wooden packing crate was a tarnished chalice filled with thin gold wedding bands. The goods had probably been taken from poor villagers.

  I felt like vomiting.

  I looked at the soldier. In one quick movement he reached beneath his pillow and drew out a pistol. As he aimed it at my head I realized that it was him or me.

  I raised my rifle and shot. His chest exploded and he slumped over. I looked at him, then down at my own trembling hand. For all my bravado, I was shocked that I had actually been able to kill a man. I reasoned that his death meant that many innocent people would live, but my conscience didn’t buy it. I bent over double and threw up on the floor.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Viktor.

  I stood up, wiping vomit from my lips. “Don’t tell anyone I did that, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  * * *

  When it was all over, Viktor and I ran down to the wire enclosure. Petro had already opened the gate and was directing our soldiers to assist the prisoners. Oleh was there, and so was Pavlo. They came out on their own, and hugged us in thanks, then went back in and helped us with those who couldn’t walk. Viktor and I rigged a makeshift stretcher from fir boughs and carried out one young prisoner between us who told us that his name was Andrij.

  “I can walk,” he told us. “Help someone else.” But then his knees buckled and he fell to the ground. We got him onto our stretcher. I took off my jacket and covered him with it.

  Some prisoners had been taken on our soldiers’ backs, others carried like babies. Those who needed treatment but couldn’t make it to our mountain camp were blindfolded and carried to various field hospitals in the area.

  Once all of the prisoners were looked after, Petro ordered two squads to comb through all of the Gestapo buildings to save anything valuable: food, medicine, clothing, but also intelligence reports. This too was carried back to our camp.

  On one of the narrow paths up, I was surprised to see the UPA priest, Father Ruslan, coming down. “Why are you going the other way, Father?” I asked.

  “To perform the Panakhyda, my son,” he said.

  Andrij sat up on the stretcher. “Please, Father, take me with you. They were my friends, my neighbours. I need to say goodbye.”

  The priest nodded. “It would be good for you to be able to do that.”

  We turned the stretcher around and followed the priest back down to the prison camp.

  As we approached the abandoned bodies, my stomach boiled in anger. I thought of that Gestapo soldier in his warm bed, surrounded by things that he’d stolen. Such a life of luxury while people just outside his doorstep were dying of hunger and exposure. Did he deserve to die? Certainly. But my stomach was still queasy at the fact that I had been the one to kill him.

  Andrij struggled into a standing position, then leaned against Viktor for support.

  Father Ruslan took off his knapsack and asked me to hold it. He removed a small stole and put it over his shoulders, then took out his prayer book, the holy water and a small packet.

  “I would have liked to bury all of the dead,” said Father Ruslan, “but the ground is frozen.” He held up the packet. “This bit of earth will have to do.”

  I was overcome with sadness by the sight of the pile of mangled bodies. It had been bad enough to kill these people, but to treat their bodies with such disrespect revolted me. And to leave them just outside the barbed wire, to torment their loved ones — it shook me to the core.

  I could hear Andrij gulping back a sob. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “They’re not suffering anymore.”

  We stood behind Father Ruslan as he sang the Panakhyda in such a strong and clear voice that I imagined the treetops shaking. He shook his vial over the mound, making sure that the droplets of holy water reached as many of the bodies as were accessible. Together we sang the Vichnaya Pamyat — Eternal Memory. My mind filled with the images of all of the people that I had lost — my grandfather in that mass grave, David and his mother as they marched towards their death with thousands of Kyiv’s Jews. So many others. Too many others. I looked over at Viktor and knew that he was thinking of his mother. Andrij was wracked with sobs.

  When the hymn finished, we all stood together in silence under the stars. It was customary to kiss the departed as a final gesture. Father Ruslan did not hesitate. He walked up to the obscene mound of frozen flesh and knelt down, kissing the skull of a person at the bottom — an early victim. One by one, we all did the same, saying goodbye to those we had not known in life. The sensation of my lips on a frozen brow is something I will never forget.

  Father Ruslan sprinkled the packet of earth over the dead. This was as close to burial as they would get. And then we left.

  * * *

  On the way back, the only sound was our own breathing. The silence was so profound that it felt like an eternity, as if even the wildlife had disappeared. I was filled with a sense of unease.

  Andrij still wore my coat, so Viktor and I took turns wearing his jacket. We were both chilled, but the exertion of carrying Andrij provided a bit of warmth.

  By the time we got to our camp, I was nearly dead on my feet with exhaustion, but we carried Andrij right into the hospital. I was going to get myself clean and then come back to help, but a doctor who was in the midst of treating an arm injury said, “You there, I need help.”

  I hurried over.

  “You can call me Samuel,” said the doctor, who looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “I need you to organize blankets for those people from the prison camp, and give them small sips of water. Not too much all at once.”

  This hospital was large compared to the underground bunker, but every cot was now full. I found the supply closets and pulled out all of the blankets, but there weren’t enough. I wrapped the patients one by one as quickly as I could.

  Viktor helped me give them sips of tepid water. Getting these people warm and hydrated was just a small part of what they needed, but it was a first step and could mean the difference between life and death. I was determined to do all that I could to help them. By the time each was bundled in a blanket and had been given water, it was almost dawn. I had been on my feet for forty-eight hours.

  As I dragged myself out of the hospital, Samuel called out to me. “Your help tonight has been a godsend.”

  Chapter Twenty

  One Front Leaves

  The spring of 1944 blended into a series of skirmishes, some with the German Gestapo, others with the Soviets.

  We saw more Soviet planes fly overhead for apparently no reason, but we finally understood: they were dropping NKVD agents by parachute behind the German lines.

  As for the regular German army, entire units stopped fighting and fled. For them, the war was over.

  But for those of us in Ukraine, another chapter of the war was just unfolding. Now that they couldn’t get the Germans to do their killing, the Soviets sent in special NKVD groups of hardened soldiers to assist the parachutists. They would encircle a village at dawn and order every man, no matter his age or health, to come to the centre square. These soldiers knew about the hiding spots and tunnels beneath the villages. They weren’t as easily fooled as the Nazis had been. Any men who didn’t come out were found and shot as traitors. Those who did come out were forced into the Red Army without weapons or uniforms, and most ended up being killed in their first battle. It was a terrifying time.

  The UPA still held the mountains and forests. I did what I could to help what was left of Zhuraki.

  The village self-defence units set up a central hospital in Zhuraki and fortified the protection in the villages on either side of it. A large home was emptied, then outfitted with cots, a surgery area
and a supply room, plus a sleeping area for staff in the cellar.

  Vera came in as the doctor. Martina and the other young people I trained with were assigned to defence. Because of my experience as a medic, Danylo decided that I would be Vera’s assistant. I was frustrated by that at first, stung by the thought that Danylo didn’t have faith in my abilities as a soldier, but secretly I was relieved to be healing instead of shooting.

  As the weather grew warmer, herbs and wildflowers sprouted in the warming soil. I collected a good supply of herbs and roots. By the end of the summer I was able to collect poppy pods, which I mashed in honey to make a sleeping potion for patients in extreme pain. With a variety of oils and alcohol, I made up an array of natural medicines. And of course we had a good cache of supplies that the Germans had abandoned during their retreat, including sulfa, morphine, bandages, iodine, tourniquets and antiseptics. These supplies were more precious than gold.

  Lalya, a village girl who was just about my age, would drop by almost every afternoon. She would lean patiently against the doorway of my supply room, watching intently as I sorted out my medicines and supplies.

  “Can I help you do that?” she asked.

  “I’m sure you have better things to do than to help me with this,” I said, straightening out the folds in a piece of gauze and carefully winding it back up.

  “I don’t,” she said. “Baba takes a nap each afternoon. She scoots me out of the house because she says I’m too noisy.”

  That made me smile. “In that case, I would appreciate help.” I handed her my clipboard with a listing and quantity of each item. “Can you read?”

  “Of course.”

  “Put a check mark beside each item as I call it out.”

  * * *

  Days would go by with nothing more than a case of scraped shins, but when the NKVD units attacked, we could barely keep up with the injuries. A bullet to the arm or leg was treatable, but a bomb or rocket blast all too frequently meant people coming in needing a limb amputated. Even when we could save the soldiers’ lives, without two feet and both hands, their chances of surviving the next attack were slim. Vera and I did what we could, treating their injuries, dulling their pain.