Underground Soldier Read online

  Using the roots of trees as a ladder, I climbed down to water level. I stayed hidden behind some bushes and watched for a few minutes to make sure no one else was around. I stepped over mucky stones until I reached a dry, flat rock, then shrugged the knapsack off my shoulders and sat down. It was so silent and still, and watching the river ripple over smooth rocks had a soothing effect. I could almost forget that I was a fugitive in the midst of a war.

  I set my knapsack on the rock and picked my way from one rock to another until the river looked knee deep. I knew I was taking a risk, but there wasn’t a single boat in sight and the opposite bank was deserted.

  I knelt down and took huge gulps of water, then splashed my face and hair. It felt so good to finally not be thirsty. I used the stepping stones to get back to the flat rock and stretched out. It was chilly, but I was relieved to be out of the woods. My stomach grumbled. This was as good a time as any to open up one of those American army rations and see what they contained. I reached for my knapsack.

  It was open.

  Had I left it that way? I couldn’t remember. I took everything out of it, placing the extra clothing Margarete had packed over to one side. There was also a first-aid kit. Thank you, Margarete and Helmut! A stiff piece of fabric was folded tightly and tucked along the back of the knapsack. I pulled it out and unfolded it — a huge lightweight rain poncho with a camouflage pattern — very useful. But then I counted and stacked the ration boxes and there were only nine. I was sure there were supposed to be ten.

  Perhaps one had dropped out of the knapsack? Or maybe there were only nine to begin with. In any case, I’d had my fill of water and that would have to do for now. I packed everything back up and slipped on the knapsack. I was halfway up the riverbank when the scent of roasting meat drifted towards me. My stomach growled with hunger.

  There were other people around. Had one of them stolen a ration box from my knapsack? But why would they steal just one and leave everything else? It didn’t add up. Whatever the truth was, I was suddenly aware of how exposed my location was.

  I quietly climbed back up part of the bank until I could just peek over the edge. At first I saw nothing, but the aroma of smoke and meat directed me to a clearing a stone’s throw away. Leaning against a thick fir tree was a German soldier, cleaning a rifle. At his feet was a second rifle. A smoky fire billowed a few metres away and another soldier squatted on the ground in front of it, holding over the flames a sausage on a stick.

  Here I was, trying hard to hide, and these two soldiers were so oblivious to the dangers of the forest that they were out in the open, roasting meat. What could it possibly mean? Did they feel immune to danger because they had guns? Or maybe they were part of a bigger group combing the woods for escapees like me?

  The water that I had gulped down now felt like it was coming up. I had to get away. I slid down so they wouldn’t be able to see the top of my head. I’d have to wait here until they finished their meal and left, but what if there were others? I would surely be caught.

  Just then a twig snapped. Suddenly a girl about my age appeared out of the brush near the embankment. Her face was smudged with soot and on her feet were old-fashioned postoly — soft handmade leather slippers — over thick wool leggings. Her ragged clothing blended in with the muddy bank. She held two halves of a broken twig up for me to see — she’d snapped it on purpose to get my attention. She put one finger to her lips for silence, but there was a smile in her eyes.

  Keeping her gaze locked onto mine, she slowly flipped open a satchel that she wore across one shoulder and drew out my missing ration box. She grinned at my look of outrage, then stepped closer.

  She leaned against me as if we were friends, then quietly opened the ration box and took out two biscuits. She pressed one into my palm and nibbled on the corner of a second one.

  Wasn’t she afraid that the soldiers above us could hear her eating the biscuits? But if she was going to eat one, I would too. I could be as brave as her.

  I took a small bite and swallowed, trying to sort out just what was happening. Did the girl have something to do with the soldiers? Why would she steal from me, only to then share with me?

  The voices of the soldiers drifted down to us.

  “I don’t know how we got so far off track from the rest of them,” said one voice.

  “Never mind,” said the other. “They’ve likely headed back to the base.”

  “Shouldn’t we keep looking for runaways?”

  “There’s no one here,” the second man muttered. “We’ve been up and down this entire section.”

  I could hear stomping and twigs snapping — probably them putting out the fire — then footsteps all too close. “It’s so quiet here,” said the one soldier who had to be standing right above me. I plastered myself against the bank and held my breath.

  “Come, Willy, let’s go.”

  The voices and footsteps drifted away, but I stayed frozen in place, leaning against the embankment. The girl stayed still as well. After a few minutes she quietly reached into the box and drew out a second biscuit for each of us.

  As I chewed, she said in a voice that was low like the wind, “They’re gone.” The language she used sounded like heavily accented Ukrainian. Then she turned to me. “Now, who are you?”

  I glared at her. “None of your business.”

  “Where did you come from?” she asked.

  I didn’t like her questions, and her familiarity confused me. For all I knew, she was working with the Nazis. She could turn me in at any moment if she knew I had escaped from a slave-labour camp.

  When I didn’t answer right away, she said, “From your accent, I’d guess Kyiv, but you didn’t arrive in these woods directly from there, did you? What’s your story?”

  “What’s yours?” I shot back. “Are you working with those soldiers?”

  “With them? I just saved your life.”

  “All you’ve done is steal my food.”

  “Not so loud,” she whispered. “Let’s find a better place to talk.” She clambered up the roots and hoisted herself onto the forest floor, then waited while I did the same. “This way.”

  She climbed up into the very same fir tree that just moments before the soldier had leaned against. The campfire still smouldered in front of it. I stood there for a moment, watching as she scrambled up the tree, then disappeared through the boughs. Finally her head poked out. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked.

  I followed.

  She moved with such ease that I knew it was second nature for her, and I tried to keep up, but she was incredibly swift. Finally she sat down in the crook of a branch and patted the spot beside her. I sat too, taking deep, slow breaths. I didn’t want her to realize how winded I was.

  She pointed down through a break in the branches. “See that?”

  I looked where she pointed but didn’t see anything remarkable.

  “The bends in the leaves show the soldiers’ bootprints.”

  Once she pointed them out, I could see them clearly.

  “You left your giant clumping bootprints all over the forest,” she said. “I’ve been following you all morning.”

  “But why?”

  She rolled her eyes. “So you’d live. I walked behind you and covered your tracks. Those soldiers would have found you otherwise.”

  No wonder there had been no birds chirping. They had noticed all the activity, but I hadn’t. And here I thought I’d been honing my survival skills. How humiliating to owe my life to a girl — and one who was likely younger than me, about ten or so. “Why would you want to save my life?” I asked her.

  “I’m guessing you’re an escaped slave labourer, like me. You don’t seem to have the survival skills of a spy. But maybe you’re only pretending.” She held out her hand. “My name is Martina Chalupa, and I’m Czech.”

  I shook her hand. Her fingers gripped mine with surprising strength. “Were you in a labour camp?” I asked.

  She shook her head.
“A farm.”

  “Are there others like you out here?”

  She looked at me with troubled eyes. “Many escape, but few survive. This whole area is swarming with Nazi bandit hunters. They’ll kill you on sight.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  “Do you want to travel with me?” asked Martina.

  “It depends,” I said. “Where are you going?”

  Martina sighed. “I don’t really know. I’ve just been trying to stay alive and safe.”

  “I want to get to the mountains,” I told her. “And as far away from the war as I can.”

  “I’d like to get away from the war too,” she said.

  “Let’s travel together, then,” I said. “We can look out for each other.”

  Martina smiled.

  “So what do we do now?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “We can’t just stay here.”

  “Rule one of surviving in the woods: move by night, hide by day.” She pointed to my boots. “Do you have to wear those?”

  Her question surprised me. “These are valuable.”

  “You can’t feel what you’re stepping on.”

  “I was barefoot when I escaped,” I said. “I stepped on some glass when I was running, and cut my heel. It’s barely healed even now. I need these boots.”

  She looked at me skeptically. “I’ll try to teach you how to walk quietly then — even with boots.” She reached into her pouch and brought out a dented metal flask.

  “Hold these,” she said, unscrewing the top and thrusting the cap and flask towards me. Next she opened up the ration box she’d stolen from me and drew out a small foil packet. “You don’t even know what this is, do you?”

  She ripped the packet open with her teeth and sprinkled the contents into her flask, screwed the cap back on and shook it. She poured some into the cap and passed it to me. I took a sip — sweet and fruity. “Tastes good.”

  Martina sipped the rest of the cupful and smiled. “I know. There are several kinds of ration boxes and they all contain something good. One has something like a beef broth. Another has coffee. Another has pure sugar.” She screwed the top back on and placed the flask back into her pouch.

  I thought of the nine other boxes in my knapsack and realized just how generous Helmut and Margarete had been. I was about to speak, but Martina’s attention was drawn to something down below. She held a finger to her lips.

  I followed her gaze. Three German troopers shuffled along, their heavy boots snapping twigs and rustling leaves. The tallest stopped directly underneath us, planting his feet at the edge of the fire.

  “Look at that,” he said to the other two, pointing at the wisps of smoke. “Willy and Johann must have been here. Sloppy idiots.” He nudged the smoking ground with the tip of his boot, and the smouldering sticks loosened. “They could start a forest fire.”

  “I’ll fix that,” said the smallest of the three. He unzipped his pants and aimed a steady stream of urine on the sticks until there was no more smoke; then the three walked on.

  It took my heart a while to stop pounding from another close call. If Martina hadn’t decided to help me, I might have been long dead by now.

  The boughs were narrow and itchy, and my hands were sticky with sap from climbing up, but we didn’t want to risk finding someplace more comfortable, so we napped in fits and starts until night, then climbed down the tree and continued our journey.

  It took some practice to move in the dark, and I couldn’t walk as quietly as Martina, but she showed me how to place my entire boot down on the ground with slow, even pressure, to avoid making twigs snap. And I stepped onto the spots where she had already been, to minimize any signs of disturbance. She also showed me how to cover my tracks in open areas by sweeping over my footsteps with a branch. With Martina leading the way, we travelled quite far that first night.

  At dawn she showed me how to go through into the deepest part of a tangle of bushes and make a sleeping hole. We lined the bottom with fir branches, put the poncho on top of us like a blanket, then camouflaged it with more branches. We were snug and warm and completely hidden. I couldn’t remember feeling this safe since before the war.

  Martina opened up her leather satchel, pulled out the ration box again and took out a small round tin. “These usually contain either meat or cheese,” she said. She turned the tin upside down and pulled off a small metal key from the bottom. “You open it with this.”

  I watched as she inserted a little metal tab from the side of the tin into the key slot, then twisted. There was a faint popping sound and a farty smell. Martina wrinkled her nose. “Cheese,” she said. “There’ll be a spoon in here somewhere.” She dug through to the bottom of the box, held up a tiny wooden paddle and took out a package of crackers and spread on some cheese, then gave it to me.

  The fact that it looked and smelled disgusting didn’t stop me from putting the entire thing in my mouth and chewing. “Not bad,” I mumbled.

  “Anything is good when you’re starving,” said Martina, shoving a cheese-covered cracker into her own mouth.

  “What else is in that box?” I reached in and pulled out another small package: cigarettes and matches. Too bad it wasn’t something more to eat.

  “There will be sweet biscuits, crackers, powdered drinks, candy and either canned meat or cheese in each one,” said Martina. “Some have cigarettes, others have a candy bar.”

  After we finished our supper, we settled down to sleep, but I was wide awake. Martina and I had travelled a whole night together and it was nearly dawn, yet we still barely knew each other.’’

  “Once we get to the mountains, what are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Stay as far away from the fighting as I can,” I told her. “As soon as the war is over, I want to get back to Kyiv and find my father.” I told her about how he had been taken to Siberia.

  “Maybe it’s safer in Siberia than in the war zone,” she said.

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” I told her. “He’ll go back to Kyiv, I’m sure of that. I also have a friend at the slave camp I escaped from — Lida. Her parents were killed and her sister is lost and I’m like her big brother. After the war, I need to go back and find her. My mother was taken to Germany as an Eastern worker too, so if she can’t make her way back to Kyiv, I’ll have to find her as well.”

  Martina shared bits of what she had lived through. Her father had been in the Czech Underground — one of the people responsible for the assassination of General Heydrich, the officer in charge of Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia. This had been a huge success for the Underground, and people had cheered when they heard of it. For the people involved, it must have felt so good to be able to fight back for a change. But the Nazis had been furious, and applied what they called “collective responsibility” for the assassination. They had burned down Lidice, Martina’s village. They executed the men, women and most of the children. Those who weren’t killed outright were sent to death camps.

  “I have always been good at hiding,” Martina went on. “I managed to get to my grandmother’s village and I was safe for a few weeks, but then the Nazis came, looking for escaped labourers. Grandmother begged for them to take her instead of me, but they just laughed. They took us both.”

  “Where is your grandmother now?” I asked.

  Martina looked down at her hands. “She died in the boxcar on our way to Germany.”

  “I am so sorry,” I said. “How long have you been living in the woods?”

  “Since the early summer,” she said. “I’ve staked out a territory of a few kilometres and know it like my own hand. A lot of fugitives come through this way, so I help as many as I can.” She grinned. “I disrupt as many German soldiers as possible.”

  Now that I had met Martina, I wanted to stay with her. From the conversation I had overheard between Officer Schmidt and his parents, I knew that the Soviets were closing in on the Reich. And from the map in that old atlas, I figured that this Po
lish-Czech borderland would be in the middle of battles between the Soviets and the Nazis. “Why don’t you come away with me?” I asked. “We can get to the mountains together — far away from the fighting.”

  Martina was silent for a bit, then replied. “I’d like that.”

  “If we split one ration box between us each day,” I said, “we could make them last nine days.”

  “We can stretch them out further by eating roots and grasses,” she said.

  * * *

  We had three days of good luck — no rain, travelling twenty or more kilometres each night and bedding down during the day unnoticed in shallow holes, covered in layers of fir boughs. More than once, Martina spotted bandit hunters soon enough for us to hide. “We should make it to the mountains in about a week at this rate,” I said.

  But as we got farther away from the Reich, the woods began to fill with people who seemed to be like us — runaways — or locals poorly outfitted for travel and with fear in their eyes.

  One day as we hid on the high limb of a tree, a girl who reminded me of Lida limped below us on bare, bloodied feet. I jabbed my elbow into Martina’s ribs to get her attention, then pointed. “We’ve got to help her,” I whispered.

  Martina put a finger to her lips. She nodded towards a spot a few metres away. A German bandit hunter, rifle poised, was aiming at the girl’s back.

  He fired. The girl fell hard onto the leaves. A patch of red formed on her back.

  My first instinct was to get down from the tree, to save her, but I knew it was already too late. And the bandit hunter was still standing there. He walked up to the girl’s body and nudged it with the tip of his boot. Once he was sure she was dead, he walked away, leaving her where she was — perhaps as a warning to others.

  At nightfall we climbed down from the tree. The girl still lay there, the ground around her now sticky with blood. She reminded me so much of Lida.