Underground Soldier (2 page)

As dawn broke, I noticed an odd sparkling up ahead. Fragments of glass clinging to the skeleton of a long, low building. Huge jagged shards sticking up in the muddy ground. That one shard of glass that I’d stepped on had travelled a long way from the explosion, and I realized how lucky I had been. What if I had stepped in all these shards in the dark? My feet would have been sliced open and I would have bled to death on the spot.

I kept my distance from the building and continued walking. All at once I realized: this had been a greenhouse. There might still be some berries or vegetables mixed with the glass. My mouth watered at the thought. But it didn’t matter now — it was all destroyed. I didn’t blame the British and Americans for bombing German farms. Maybe if their soldiers couldn’t eat, they’d stop fighting. I just wished there were a way to bomb the Nazis without bombing their prisoners.

I kept on going — on the lookout for a barn or haystack — anyplace where I could collapse and hide.

Just when I was nearly beyond exhaustion, the field gave way to a rolling grassy area. I hobbled to the top of a small knoll. Before me stood a large farmhouse that had seen better days. Its windows were covered with tarpaper — that was a good thing, seeing as I would have been in full view from where I stood.

Near the farmhouse were a couple of buildings. The one closest to it had a bombed-in roof. Between me and the buildings was a trough with a water pump. I was tempted to pump myself some water — I would have loved a drink. But I couldn’t risk it.

I ducked behind the closest building. The sky lit up for a moment from a distant explosion, revealing a barn on the other side of the grassy area. It was weather-worn but sturdy. No bomb had damaged it yet.

I limped across the yard to the barn’s small side door. I lifted the latch and waited, holding the door open just a crack. If there was a dog in there, I wanted to know about it before I went in.

One second … Two … Three.

No dog.

I stepped inside.

Chapter Three
Warmth

The warm air was a relief, but my nose nearly closed up with the ripe smell of animal dung. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw a pair of eyes staring out at me from one of the stalls. The others seemed to be empty. The eyes were not frightened, but inquisitive. I hobbled over and reached out my hand so the horse would know I didn’t mean it harm. It sniffed my palm, then rubbed its face against my neck. It inhaled, shuddered, sneezed — getting horse snot all over me. It was so unexpected that I nearly laughed out loud. I leaned into the horse’s warmth and closed my eyes, feeling almost safe.

Memories flooded in of when I was young, of my grandfather’s farm beyond the woods outside of Kyiv. On Sundays, before Tato was arrested, we would go for a visit once we’d tended to our own small garden.

Old farmers like him who weren’t working communally on the
kolkhoz
lived simply, but he did have a sway-back mare named Kulia — for Bullet — even though she was anything but speedy. Once, Tato had lifted me onto the old mare’s back. It was so high up that I was terrified at first, but Kulia just stood there, tolerating me. Her grey mane stuck up in all directions like Baba Yaga’s hair in the old tales. I tried to comb it down with my fingers, but they just got stuck in the knots. So I leaned forward and hugged Kulia’s neck, feeling safe.

“Is your name Kulia?” I whispered to the German horse. She leaned in and licked some of the mud off my cheek. I offered her the rest of my turnip. She sniffed it, wrinkled her nose, then licked my cheek again. This horse had good taste. She knew that even mud was preferable to too much turnip.

I heard a low breathing from the shadows, so I ventured down the length of the barn until I came face to face with a mangy white cow.

“Hi, Beela,” I said, scratching the bony ridge between her ears. “We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?” I held my other hand up to her nose. She sniffed, then looked up at me with trusting eyes. I took that as a yes.

Once I was fairly certain that the animals were comfortable with my presence, I looked around the barn and heard my father’s voice in my mind, just as if he were right beside me:
You have the tools to heal yourself.

There was a bundle of hay in front of each animal, but no water. In the shadows across from Kulia’s stall, I found a bin of oats with a wooden scoop. I grabbed one handful and poured them into my mouth, but when I tried to chew, I nearly broke a tooth, so I spat them out.

I tried to look at this barn with my father’s eyes. What did it contain that I could use?

A cow. Cows give milk.

Footsteps sounded at the front of the barn. I stood still. The person outside whistled a tuneless melody.

Where could I hide? Wooden stairs led up — probably to the hayloft. Not the best hiding place, but it would have to do. I climbed the stairs, dragging my injured foot. I settled into a dark corner behind one of the bales and hugged my knees to my chest.

Before our pharmacy was destroyed, Tato had begun to teach me his craft. Not only how to compound medications with store-bought items, but also how to use the gifts of nature. To keep a wound clean, salt water worked wonders, and so did honey, but if you had nothing else, you had to improvise. A piece of mouldy bread was the best, or a cloth soaked in whey. Fresh cow’s milk was also good. But would I be able to get some from the cow down below without being caught?

The barn doors scraped open and the entry to the loft became visible in the early dawn light. There were spaces in the floorboards, and they let in light too, so I burrowed farther into the dark corner, making myself small. I looked down through gaps between my feet. I was directly above the old man’s balding scalp.

Could he smell me? I had a moment of panic, but then I realized that my own smell couldn’t possibly be stronger than this filthy barn.

The man walked over to the horse’s stall and cooed something in German to her. I held my breath. If he looked up, surely he’d see me.

I had an urge to sneeze as he untied her rope. Almost as if we were of one mind, the horse sneezed, spewing snot all over. The farmer chuckled. I looked down and saw that he had darted out of the way just in time. I guess he was used to it.

He led the horse outside and set her loose, walked back into the barn and put a scoop of oats in Beela’s trough, then grabbed a pail from a hook on the wall and sat on a stool in her stall. I heard the rhythmic sound of milk drumming the inside of the metal pail. I needed that milk. Not just to soothe my hunger and thirst, but to help heal my festering wound.

The farmer then led Beela outside. I watched through a slat as she ambled over to Kulia, and the two animals munched grass peacefully side by side. The farmer took the pail of milk back with him to the house and I was hoping that he’d be doing other chores somewhere else and wouldn’t notice me. The barn door was still wide open and sunlight shone through. That’s when I noticed the staff I’d used as a walking stick down by the cow’s trough. Had the farmer seen it?

I waited until he had gone inside the house, then crept back down. I snatched my stick and scrambled back up the stairs.

I had just settled back into my dark corner when the door of the house opened again. A thin woman stepped out. Was she his daughter? Wife?

She walked to the caved-in outbuilding, yanked open a door and stepped inside. Some time later she came back out, a few chickens following after her. I had been right beside that bombed building and hadn’t realized there were live chickens inside!

She now held her basket with both hands. It looked heavy with fresh eggs. My mouth was so dry that my tongue stuck to the roof of it. If I could get one of those eggs, I would crack it over my mouth and swallow it down whole.

I stayed in my hiding spot for the entire day, watching the activity on the farm. When the man used the water pump, it screeched. So much for sneaking out later and getting water. That sound could wake the dead.

The man hitched Kulia to a wagon and went into the muddy field, pulling up turnips and also beets, which I hadn’t noticed in the night. I wish I had, because raw beets are much better than turnip. Anything is better than turnip.

It seemed odd that this large farm was being run by just one old man and a frail-looking woman. Where were all the farmhands, or the children? It didn’t add up.

While the man harvested, the woman was in and out of the house and other buildings. She brought out a load of laundry and hung trousers and shirts and undergarments on the line. I looked down at my shredded hospital gown.

When the wagon was full, the man led Kulia back to a small building — probably a cold cellar — close to the house. He and the woman unloaded the beets and turnips onto a wheelbarrow and took them inside.

As I watched, my eyes grew heavy and I fell asleep.

Chapter Four
Snores

I woke up with a jolt when a bomb hit close by and lit up the night sky. How long had I slept? There was the sound of wheezing directly below me. It was too dark to see, but I knew that Kulia was down there, back in her stall. Why hadn’t they done anything about her breathing problem? They only had one horse, after all. The entire situation seemed puzzling.

I tried to stretch out, but my legs were so stiff they felt like they’d break. Gingerly, I felt the filthy stitches in my thigh. The wound was still tender to the touch and I knew it would only get worse if I couldn’t clean it. I felt the bottom of my foot where the gash was. The strip of cloth was still wound around it and it was crusty with mud and blood. It didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore and it didn’t hurt, but I knew it would take a long time to heal if I kept walking on it. Nothing I could do about that. I had to get away from here as quickly as I could. This farm wasn’t very far from the work camp. Someone might come looking for me.

I listed the things I needed to do: clean the stitched-up wound in my thigh, find something to eat, get some clothing and shoes and get away undetected.

I massaged my legs until I could straighten them. As I slowly climbed down the stairs, Kulia wheezed in greeting. I scratched her muzzle at arm’s length to avoid being sprayed with more snot.

Through the darkness I saw the metal milk pail on a wall hook. I grabbed it and limped over to Beela. I had never milked a cow before, but when Dido still lived on the
kolkhoz
, I’d seen him do it. I lowered myself down on the wooden stool the farmer had used and placed the pail beneath her.

I found the four teats and gently pulled on the two front ones.

Nothing happened.

Beela stomped a hoof on the floor.

I rubbed my hands together to make sure they were warm, then reached out and gently wrapped my warmed fingers around two of the teats. With gentle pressure, I started at the top and pulled down.

Still nothing.

Then I remembered. The farmer had given Beela some oats before he milked her. I got up and scooped out a cup or so and placed them in her trough. Once she’d begun chewing on her first mouthful, I tried a third time.

A thin trickle of milk hit the bottom of the pail. Slowly, carefully, I milked as Beela chomped on her nighttime snack. I managed to eke out a cup or so. I desperately wanted to grab the pail and tip the contents into my mouth, but I resisted. First I had to clean the wound on my thigh.

I slipped off my filthy hospital gown and found a relatively clean bit of cloth. I dampened it with some of the fresh milk, then gently patted the dirty stitches. Once I’d cleaned it as best I could, I put my gown back on and lifted the pail to my lips. The milk felt like a salve on my parched tongue and throat as I swallowed down every last drop.

“Thank you, Beela. You’ve saved my life.”

With my hunger pangs quiet for the moment and my wounded thigh as clean as it could be, I had to get clothing and footwear and get away from here.

I limped out of the barn and past the ruined chicken coop. Another bomb lit the sky for a flickering moment, giving me a clear flash of the entire house. To my annoyance, the laundry line was empty. I went up to one of the windows and tried to peer through the tarpaper, but couldn’t see anything at all. I had no idea whether the man and woman were awake or sleeping, but given the blackness of the night, it had to be close to midnight. No farmer stayed up that late.

Placing my ear on the front door, I held my breath and listened. At first I heard nothing, but as I filtered away the outdoor sounds, I heard a faint rhythmic noise through the door — the snoring of one person.

In our labour camp, the nights were filled with the sounds of many prisoners trying to sleep — snores, sniffles, weeping, muttering. But this solitary snore brought back memories of safety. Before Tato had been taken, our cozy apartment behind the pharmacy had been filled with a similar sound at night. Sometimes I had tossed and turned, kept awake by the sawing loudness of it.

“How can you sleep in the same bed with Tato?” I ask Mama. “Don’t you get a headache?”

But she just smiles. “I love the sound of your father’s snores, Luka. It makes me feel safe.”

That first night after he is taken, we sleep on the streets, where the sounds are more terrifying than snores. But David’s mother finds us huddled beside the steps of the Grand Hotel on Kreshchatyk Street and takes us home to live with them.

I expect her to take us to their small apartment at the back of the bakery, but I am shocked to see it boarded up. “Not safe there anymore,” she says, “what with all the looting.”

She takes us to where they are living now — a single room they share with the Widow Bilaniuk in a converted mansion.

I fall asleep to the sound of the widow muttering to herself in her dreams, but wake when I hear the muffled weeping of Mama crying into her pillow. That’s when I understand about the comforting sound of one person snoring.