That scene from two years ago was all too sharp in my mind. The blackened shards of this German forest brought my grief to the surface. How could I go on? I bowed my head in despair.
A wet splat on the back of my neck.
I reached back to feel for blood. It was warm, but too gritty for blood. I held my hand in front of me — it was covered with a grey smear of bird poo.
For a moment I felt like shaking my fist at the bird, but I took a deep breath and gave thanks instead. I was not in Kyiv, and it was not 1941. It was two years later and I still had a chance to survive.
As I stood up and wiped the mess off my neck, fear replaced sadness. This forest was ever changing, and this clearing I stood in was too much in the open. I ran towards the trees, my lungs aching as they filled with sooty air.
Sweat streamed down me by the time I got out of the burnt area. Now I was in a section with young fir trees no taller than my hips. Even a nearsighted Nazi would have no trouble finding me here!
I trekked down a hill through mud and brush to get close to the river and as far away from open view as I dared. The river changed as much as the forest, but here it was so wide that the other shore was not visible. The bank made for treacherous walking, and more than once I slipped, making my thigh throb. Once I stepped onto what looked like solid ground, only to have my boot sink down into mud. Just then a military barge stacked with wooden boxes passed by. I stood still, slowly sinking into the mud, and prayed that no one on the barge would notice me. When it had finally passed, I pulled myself out and crawled onto a big rock behind a bush, trembling with relief.
It had been a warm day for late November, but dusk brought a chill. I was wet with river mud and sweat, so the cool air made me shiver. My feet were sore and my leg hurt. Fir needles and leaves stuck to my mud-caked clothing, making me itchy.
I had walked beyond the young forest and was back in the midst of tall fir trees. Finally, a place that gave camouflage. I shrugged off the knapsack. It landed on the earth with a thunk. Next off was the filthy blouse and muddy skirt. I shook out the worst of the dried mud, and the remaining half bun tumbled out. I stowed the dirty clothing and bun in an outside pocket of the knapsack. As I stood with nothing on but underwear, filthy socks and boots, I heard a loud snap. My heart nearly stopped.
I picked up the knapsack and quietly stepped behind a fir tree. My skin prickled in the cold as I held my breath and waited for whatever had made that noise to pass by.
Nothing.
This was probably the worst possible time to remove my boots, but I was determined to get my trousers on. If I were captured, I preferred to die of something other than humiliation. Balancing on one foot, I removed the first boot and peeled off the wet sock, grimacing as a big hunk of skin from my heel came off with it. When I removed the second boot and sock, there was another broken blister, but this one wasn’t as bad.
I pulled on my trousers and shirt, a warm jacket and a dry pair of socks, my heart pounding until I got my boots back on and laced up. I leaned up against the tree and listened. The thing that had snapped the twig must have gone. The forest was eerily still.
I needed to find a secure place to rest for the night, but where? There weren’t just soldiers to worry about. Wouldn’t there be wild animals in the forest as well? But if I didn’t rest, I’d be too worn out to get to the mountains. I shrugged the knapsack onto my back and walked through the thickest part of the woods — as far away from what seemed to be the walking path as I dared. I found a thicket of low bushes and worked my way in, the sharp branches scratching my face and snagging my hair. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but for the first time since entering the forest, I felt truly hidden.
Now that I was settled and secure, it would have made sense to find one of those boxed meals that Helmut and Margarete had given me, but I didn’t want to use them up too quickly. I took out the last muddied half of a bun. That would do. I took one bite, then shoved the rest inside my shirt for later. As I chewed, my mind filled with memories of David again.
The Nazis are so smug when they take over Kyiv in September of 1941. When they hear of the huge grave in the forest, they send a journalist. Soon after, the top layer of the grave is emptied and the bodies lined up. Kyivans are ordered to view the display. Each one of us goes, hoping that our own missing loved ones haven’t made their grave in Bykivnia.
I already know that Dido is in that pit, and the thought of seeing his corpse lined up like a Nazi display makes me ill. But Mama and I need to go. What if Tato is there? Or David’s father?
The four of us — me, Mama, David and Mrs. Kagan — go together and wait in the sad lineup of keening women and children. The corpses are lined up in front of the forest, feet pointing towards Pecherska Lavra. One of the officers whispers to another that this top layer of bodies had been very fresh — executed over the summer — but that the pit seems limitless. He estimates there are one hundred thousand dead at least, and that the pit has been used for years. My mind can hardly grasp that figure. Is it even possible? Why would Stalin kill so many of his own people?
Bykivnia Forest is surely filled with ghosts. That’s all I can think as we walk slowly from one body to the next, thankful each time that the victim isn’t Tato. The air is heavy with sorrow and the only sounds are the gasps of recognition when a body is claimed. That, and the wind sighing through the birch trees.
The next day, an article appears in the Nazi newspaper about Bykivnia, but instead of blaming Stalin and the Soviet NKVD, the reporter says it was the Jews who have done the killings.
Mama crumples the newspaper up and throws it onto the floor. “They must think we’re stupid,” she mutters. “They blame everything on the Jews.”
Mrs. Kagan looks at Mama and says, “It’s Stalin’s last cruel joke on us.”
An owl hooted and Mrs. Kagan’s image faded, but I couldn’t get that scene from long ago out of my mind. I tried to turn, but the wiry bushes poked and prickled. I felt so imprisoned with the blackness of night and the cover of shrubs that I nearly panicked. Was this what it felt like to be buried within a mass grave? I tried to push that thought out of my mind. I was hidden — and almost safe. I was alive. I concentrated on that reality. I closed my eyes, but sleep would not come.
I took a deep breath and held it in my lungs for a moment, then let it out slowly. I did that a second time and a third. By the fourth breath, my heart had slowed down and I began to feel calmer. I opened my eyes. All around me was blackness deeper than coal. The sky was mostly obscured by branches, but if I concentrated, I could see the distant stars. That calmed me too, but still I could not sleep.
I wondered if Mama was looking up at the sky right now and seeing the same stars. Mama, Tato, Lida — the people I loved most — were scattered apart but still living, united under the same sky. “Please be safe,” I prayed. I fell into a dreamless sleep.