Late one day, a fighter named Ostap was brought in unconscious on a stretcher, his left leg torn up and bloody. “Shrapnel,” said the medic. “Lucky it didn’t kill him.”
Vera injected the man with morphine and we shifted him to the operating table. It took some time to cut away his shredded pant leg and clear away enough of the blood, but finally a peppering of wounds emerged. A person who stepped on a mine died a horrible death, and people nearby could die of shrapnel wounds. Ostap’s leg was a mess, but he was fortunate. Vera methodically probed the dozens of punctures. Each time she pulled out a ragged chunk of metal and let it clunk into the bowl, I winced. Finally, she stopped.
“There’s probably more in there,” she said, setting the forceps down on the tray. “But they’re imbedded so deep that I’d cause even more damage digging them out.”
Ostap woke just as we were finishing up. He looked down at his leg and asked, “Will I be able to walk again?”
“Can you wiggle your toes?” Vera asked.
He grimaced with pain but managed to make one toe wiggle.
“You were extremely lucky,” she said, smiling in relief. “You’ll be fine, but you need to let those wounds heal.”
When I finally collapsed into bed in the root cellar that night, I dreamed again of Lida, hollow-cheeked and barefoot. How did she manage without shoes all winter? Could she wiggle her toes?
I tossed and turned and tried to think of something else, but Lida hovered in my dreams … Hands wrapped around an empty soup bowl, hungry eyes staring up at me. The bowl clatters to the ground … Now Lida’s hands are wrapped around a small shiny bomb. Her eyes close. The bomb slips from her fingers and explodes … Shards of metal blast in all directions …
I jolted awake, my head still filled with the image of that exploding bomb. Where would Lida be now? Would they still have need for her sewing skills, or was she making bombs now, like I had been? And then a terrible thought struck me. I had never wondered who made the Soviet bombs. Probably slave labourers like me and Lida. Perhaps even my own father.
There was no point in trying to sleep. I threw back my covers and got up, then walked up the stairs to the main floor of the cottage-hospital. I was splashing water on my face when Martina burst in.
“The villages of Mahala and Bilki, just west of us, have been captured by the Soviets,” she said breathlessly. “They’re probably coming here next. We need to evacuate to the UPA camp in the mountains.”
I looked outside and saw that our fighters were already positioned in defence, weapons poised. So it was all in place.
I got on my outdoor clothing, then filled a knapsack with supplies. Vera did the same. Between the two of us, we had the morphine, surgical instruments and antibiotics — the most precious items. The three trainee medics took bulkier but less critical supplies, like bandaging and bedding.
Danylo came in with people from the self-defence team, including Martina. “Where are your patients?” he asked.
Vera pointed to Ostap, his gauze-covered leg seeping blood. “We’ve just got one right now, but he needs to be taken on a stretcher.”
Danylo gestured to the door. “All of you out. Now.”
Two of the older soldiers helped Ostap into a coat, then onto a stretcher. They hurried out after Danylo. Martina shepherded our three medics while Vera did a final check to make sure that nothing important was left behind.
The only villagers left were eighteen women and six children, which included Lalya and her grandmother. The children all walked on their own except for Sonya’s little sister, Ana. We walked through the village and out by way of the cemetery, into an area of sparse trees that led to the forests. Our fighters lined our way to protect us.
It was a long trek up the mountain, especially with the civilians, as well as Ostap on his stretcher, but we knew the paths like our own backyard. My knapsack was heavy and kept slipping off one shoulder, but I concentrated on the feet of the person in front of me and kept on walking. Vera and I were spaced in between the civilians. Soldiers protected our front and rear.
Once we had passed the first big hill, the trees got thicker and provided a bit more cover for our group. Martina had been walking up at the front with Danylo, but she slowed her pace until she was walking beside me, her rifle resting on one shoulder.
“Why don’t you take the knapsack off your back?” Martina asked. “We could each hold onto a strap and carry it between us.”
That made me smile. I missed spending time with Martina. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m fine.”
We kept on walking and no one fell behind, but we couldn’t hide effectively — too many children and old people for that. We were met by a second battalion of insurgents when we were a kilometre away from the village. They fanned out around us, giving our group — and most importantly, our medical supplies — a second layer of protection.
Just then a loud grinding whine sounded from above. I looked up — the silhouette of a Soviet bomber. All around us, the ground exploded with fire.
Chapter Twenty-One
Black Smoke
Lalya got hit with a piece of flaming metal. She ran into the woods, screaming, the back of her coat licked by flames. I was about to run after her, but her grandmother caught up to her and pushed her to the ground, rolling her in the snow. The flames went out. Steam rose from the blackened hole in Lalya’s coat, but she appeared unharmed.
Bits of forest all around us burned. We were incredibly fortunate that no one else had been hit.
“Speed up,” said Danylo. “We’ve got to get out of here before the whole forest goes up in flame.”
The two men carrying Ostap were replaced with two fresher men. They trotted as they carried him, anxious to get away from the fire. Sonya, two steps in front of me, buckled and fell, but she still clutched onto Ana.
“What happened?” I asked as I helped her to her feet.
She winced. “My ankle. It’s twisted.”
Martina dashed into the woods and came back a moment later with a sturdy stick. She broke off the side branches, then handed it to Sonya. “Lean on this,” she said. “And let me carry Ana.”
Martina held the little girl on one hip and we walked on either side of Sonya in case she fell again. We had to step carefully through trees and over rocks, avoiding patches of ice, so I held Sonya’s elbow and steadied her when she needed it, but I also noticed that her ankle was ballooning up.
In less than an hour, Martina, Sonya and I were trailing behind everyone else. The only people behind us were the village fighters who were protecting the rear.
Below us, a huge swath of the forest billowed with black smoke. Another grinding whine came from up above and a Soviet plane swooped low, peppering us with bullets. Martina passed Ana to me, then aimed and fired. Our fighters up ahead shot at the plane too, and bullet holes appeared in its side. It flew past unsteadily, then plunged into the forest and disappeared. Moments later, the spot in the forest where the plane had disappeared burst into flame.
I turned to Martina and was about to congratulate her on the shot, but her face looked oddly pale. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. Her chest was wet with blood.
I knelt down beside her, feeling for a pulse. The rest of the group clustered around. “Viktor, Roman, make a stretcher!”
As they assembled two long branches and tied one of our blankets between them, I unbuttoned Martina’s jacket. The bullet had hit the right upper chest. I took off my coat and rolled it up like a pillow, then lifted Martina onto the stretcher, propping up her back with my coat. I covered the wound with some cloth and applied pressure, then put her arm in a sling.
Danylo pushed through the cluster around us and grabbed the front of Martina’s stretcher. I carried the back end. Vera picked up Ana and walked beside me. “That was quick thinking,” she said.
The rest of the trip was a blur. With every step I took, I was plagued with doubt. If Martina hadn’t slowed down to walk with me, would she have b
een shot? I should have been more careful. One thing only was clear to me: If Martina died, it would be my fault.
When we finally reached the first layer of the UPA mountain defence, the men stationed there radioed ahead. Two fresh soldiers took Martina’s stretcher from me and Danylo and we ran the last kilometre to the hospital.
Vera had Martina on an operating table soon after we got there. Her bloodied jacket was open and the sling loosened. Her breathing was laboured and her lips had turned blue.
“Scrub up and you can assist,” said Vera. “She’s got a collapsed lung.” I swallowed back my anxiety and did what needed to be done, handing Vera instruments one by one. She made a small incision on the side of Martina’s rib cage and plunged in a chest tube. Fluid and blood drained out. Martina gulped in air. Her lips slowly turned a faint pink.
Next Vera explored the wound to find the bullet, and I irrigated the area with sterile saline so she could see what she was doing.
“I think I’ve got it,” she said, withdrawing the long metal cartridge with forceps. “But she has a broken collarbone and maybe a rib.”
She bandaged Martina up and immobilized her arm to keep the collarbone straight. I sat by her bedside for the rest of the day and all through the night.
Sometime before dawn, Martina whispered, “Luka? Are you there?” In the semi-darkness I could see that her eyes were heavy-lidded but open. “Can you hold me? I’m cold.”
I turned on the light to get a better look at her. The wound on her chest had opened up again and her dressing was bright red. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of her lip. I gathered her into my arms and held her close, feeling the warmth of her blood soaking my shirt.
“It’s not your fault, Luka,” she said.
But it was my fault, and I knew it. I fought back my anger and rocked her gently, trying to keep her warm, keep her safe. If only I could have done that before she got hurt.
And now she wouldn’t stop bleeding. I knew she couldn’t survive it, and from the look in her eyes, Martina understood that as well.
“Get away from here, Luka,” whispered Martina. “You need … to live. To tell our story. Don’t let my death … silence the truth.”
“Please don’t leave me,” I murmured, rocking her gently.
But she was already gone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
One Walking
The death of Martina left me beyond desolate. It was like a part of me had died. The scent of pine resin reminded me of her. Each time I saw a fellow fighter, or the sky, or a Soviet bomber, I thought of her.
The NKVD seemed furious that our villagers had escaped. They set fire to the forest, then circled the area with troops, who shot anyone fleeing. They bombed our mountain, then executed everyone they found.
Even though our mountain encampment was spread over a large area and was mostly hidden by treetops and camouflage, we were all at grave risk. The Soviets seemed intent on killing every one of us.
For months I buried myself in work — not to forget Martina, but as a tribute to her. “You are a healer, not a fighter,” she’d told me more than once. And with the Soviets pummelling us, I was in constant demand to set broken limbs, stanch blood and stitch wounds. If only broken hearts could be mended so simply.
I cannot even guess at the number of people I treated over the rest of the year.
Then, as spring of 1945 approached, we got astounding news: the war had ended. Hitler had committed suicide.
I felt like cheering. One less madman, one less crazed empire builder. But there was still Stalin, still the NKVD.
“You are to leave,” Petro told me one day. “We will be starting a different kind of fight now.”
“But I want to help you,” I told him, outraged that he didn’t consider me essential.
“You’re young, and you’ll have a different job,” he said. “The UPA will stay and fight to the death, defending our country’s right to live in freedom. But if we all die, then who will tell our story? Stalin?” He spat on the ground. “You will bear witness for us, Luka. For all those who have been silenced by death.”
Petro’s words echoed Martina’s own.
“But how will I do that?”
“Get away from here alive. Go west. When the time is right to tell our story, you’ll know it.”
I thought about Petro’s words and I did agree with them, but I had a more immediate goal. If I could no longer fight for my country, the time had come for me to go east, to find my father. I packed up my meagre belongings, and before I left for Kyiv, I confronted Petro once more.
“I will tell our story, Petro,” I said. “But before I do that, I must go back to Kyiv and find my father.”
He gave me a strange look. “Isn’t your father in Siberia?”
“He was. But now that the war is over, surely he’ll be let out. Kyiv will need pharmacists, and he is one of the best.”
“Luka,” Petro said, “if only it were that easy.” He rested a hand on my shoulder. “It is unlikely that your father is alive. The Siberian camps are as bad as the Nazi concentration camps. Few people manage to survive. And we’ve had no intelligence reports of prisoners being released.”
I crossed my arms. “I cannot simply forget my own father.”
“I’m not telling you to forget him, Luka. I’m telling you to wait until the time is right.”
“I’ve served the Underground faithfully,” I said. “And I’ve delayed finding my father for two years. I cannot wait any longer.”
“Get a hold of yourself, Luka,” Petro said. “We don’t always get what we want.” He sighed deeply. “There may come a time in the future when you can search for your father. But now …” He looked me in the eye. “I have family too,” he said. “Do you think I don’t understand what you’re going through? But right now, it’s your duty to stay alive. I’ve ordered you to be a witness.”
More than anything, I felt like punching Petro. I knew what he said was right, but it didn’t make it any easier for me to accept. I clenched my hands. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll go west. For now.”
I turned and walked away from him. The first tree I came to I punched hard, bloodying my knuckles.
* * *
Who could have foreseen that I would be retracing my route and going back through the mountains and foothills and forests to get back to where I had escaped from?
Petro made sure that I was outfitted with sturdy clothing, and he gave me plenty of food, but he did not give me a gun.
“You’re a civilian now,” he said. “For you, the war is over. Your brains and heart are all you’ll need.”
As I trekked back through the now familiar mountains and forests, memories of Martina would catch me off guard. I found myself weeping at the sight of a squirrel or a rushing creek, the sound of rain or a snapping twig. So many memories, all filled with Martina.
When I was well beyond the foothills, I saw another traveller, a young man like me, dressed in homespun. His shoes were held together with rope and his only possession was a small cloth bag slung over his back. I followed behind him as Martina had done with me at first. At night, I’d creep up into a tree close to his encampment and I would breathe in the scent of roasted rabbit. Even though I didn’t talk to him, I wondered if he had a sense of me. I would see him stop suddenly sometimes and just listen.
I stayed hidden and watched as he met up with two more travellers — a man and a woman. These weren’t mountain people. The man’s feet were bloodied and bare and his shirt and trousers hung in shreds. The woman’s head was shaven and there was a rip in her shirt where a badge used to be. Had it been an OST badge from a labour camp or a yellow star from a death camp?
The three of them camped together, the first one showing the other two how to snare and cook a rabbit, how to gather berries. As I crouched in the tree above them, my stomach grumbled from the scent of sizzling meat. I had been living on dried food and water. I hadn’t wanted to light a fire and give my position awa
y. I swallowed back my hunger and bided my time.
They encountered six more refugees, but I still stayed hidden. These ones were different yet again. They were adequately dressed and better fed, and if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say they were ethnic Germans. Unlike the mountain boy with his single cloth bag, or the escapees with nothing, these six carried large sacks filled with food. At night, when the mountain boy started the fire, these Germans drew out cookies and sausage and passed them around. It nearly drove me mad, the scent of so much food.
When they bedded down for the night, I snuck down from my tree and stole three links of sausage. The dry chunks were hard to swallow. I thought of Martina and her taking my crackers when she was hiding from me.
One thing I learned from following these refugees was that what had been the Reich was now broken up into various zones, each administered by a different Allied nation. The area where Helmut and Margarete’s farm had stood was now part of the Soviet zone. I didn’t want to go there, and from the sounds of the refugees, none of them wanted to go there either.
There was a large American zone to the southwest of us — just beyond the Czechoslovakian border. That’s where they decided to go and I was happy to shadow them.
By May of 1945, the group had swelled to a dozen, but soon there were new clusters of people as well. When it grew to hundreds, there was no point in me still hiding. One day I simply stepped in behind and kept on walking.
We travelled on open roads through Czechoslovakia, through the rubble of bombed buildings and destroyed German tanks and trucks. More people joined us every day. People who had been captives — labourers, prisoners of war, death-camp survivors. Mixed in were escaped Soviet and German soldiers, and civilians. I stayed alone, though I walked with thousands. I listened in on conversations and was struck by the variety of languages. Most I didn’t understand, but for the few that I did, the conversations had a theme. Finding loved ones, getting to someplace safe.
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