Over the next week or so, snow alternated with winter rain and when we arrived at the foothills of the mountains, the terrain gradually became more dangerous. We no longer had a big river to follow, as it had split up into creeks and marshes and little lakes. The mountains loomed large before us.
We needed to make the dried fish and smoked pork fat last as long as possible, because who knew how we would find food once we were up in the mountains and winter had truly set in. We kept our eyes open for edible greens — a rare find. We would see late-fall mushrooms, but I knew from Tato that most of them had to be cooked to draw out the poison, and cooking was out of the question if we wanted to stay hidden.
One moonlit night, Martina stopped suddenly. “Look,” she said, crouching by a fallen tree. “Aren’t these oyster mushrooms?”
I knelt beside her and took one in my hand. This mushroom had a pale, smooth cap and curled-down edges like an oyster mushroom should. I flipped it over. The gills looked firm. “They are,” I said.
“Sometimes we ate these raw,” said Martina.
“Mama always cooked them,” I said. “But just slightly.”
We gathered up a dozen or so and wrapped them in a cloth, then Martina put them into her satchel and we continued on our way.
As dawn broke, we dug a hole and lined it with fir boughs as usual. Once we were nested in and thoroughly hidden, Martina brought out two mushrooms and our flask of water. I got out a piece of dried fish for each of us.
The mushroom was sweet and fresh and tasted so good along with the fish. I reached into Martina’s satchel and took out two more, then handed her one.
“Not right now,” she said, putting it back. She turned on her side and within minutes was fast asleep.
I ate my second mushroom, savouring the taste and the fact that it filled my stomach. I closed my eyes and was asleep before I knew it.
Some hours later, I woke up with my stomach roiling in pain. It must have been that second mushroom. I had to relieve myself or I would burst. I pushed up one fir branch and looked outside. Bright sunlight hit my eyes but there was no one around. It was probably midday — the worst time to be out — but I had no choice. If I stayed where I was, I would foul all our gear. If I was lucky, I could get out, relieve myself and get back into our hiding place without Martina waking up. She would be furious if she caught me out in the middle of the day.
I slipped out of our hideaway and crept to a wooded gully a few metres away. I had just finished my business and was zipping up my trousers when the ground shook. I scrambled behind a thick tree and held my breath. The ground trembled again.
Moments later a woman passed, barefoot and wild-eyed, carrying a coat and boots. What had made the earth shake? What had she run from? I had to find out if we were in immediate danger before I went back to our hideout.
I darted from one tree to the next, keeping hidden all the way. Finally I came to an opening in the woods where I could see down to a scattering of cottages along a country road. Along the near side of the road rolled a long line of dull grey Soviet tanks, their guns aimed towards the houses. It seemed odd that the Soviets would aim tanks at remote cottages.
I was trying to puzzle it out when, all at once, a row of green German tanks crested the hill behind the houses. As if on cue, they lowered their guns, aimed at the Soviet tanks and fired with a deafening roar. The Soviet tanks fired back and the ground shook again. The thatched roof of one cottage flew off, flaming. The door burst open and a man ran out, a toddler in his arms. He headed towards me.
I realized what I was witnessing: The War Zone. The Front. It was right here.
I ran back to our hiding place and threw back the boughs. Martina had bolted up to a sitting position, her eyes wild. Just then the ground shook again.
“We have to get out of here!” I shouted. “Tanks! Down that way!” I grabbed my knapsack, Martina slung on her satchel and we ran towards the mountains — and, we hoped, away from the Front.
* * *
I had lost track of the dates, but by the time we got to the mountains, it had to be mid-December. The days were more often snowy than wet. Sheer ice, rocky hills and deep crevasses made travelling so difficult. The entire mountainside was criss-crossed with paths, some surely made by escaped slave labourers who were lost, and others made by people from the area who knew where they were going. But how could we tell which was which? As we hid in the trees or dug our way into holes with branches to cover us, we prayed for luck.
Beyond the canopy of firs, we could hear airplanes. More than once, we ducked for cover as a fighter plane strafed the treetops, shooting blindly as it barrelled overhead.
We were increasingly hungry as our food ran out, as well as cold and frightened. I began to doubt the wisdom of trying to escape to the mountains. Maybe we should have stayed in that village with the woman and her son. But staying there would have felt like giving up. Even though the war seemed to be following in our footsteps, I had to get back to Kyiv to find my father.
We were so close to the battle areas that we’d see escaped Red Army soldiers, with disintegrating boots and frostbitten cheeks, limping past us as we hid. From time to time we would also see German soldiers who had given up, and escapees from the camps. Young people wearing homespun clothing would pass by too. It was as if the entire world had decided to escape to the mountains.
Once, in the blackest part of night, our way was completely blocked by a raging creek. We walked along it, hoping to find a spot without treacherous rocks jutting upward. We were both shivering by the time we found a spot that looked narrow enough to cross.
I grabbed a long branch from the ground and plunged it into the water to see how deep it was. Close to the bank, it was just a few centimetres, but it dropped off steeply after that.
“How can we cross?” I asked Martina. “We’ll be soaked, and once we’re soaked, we’ll freeze.”
“Keep those precious boots of yours dry,” said Martina. “We’ve got to go in barefoot.”
She was right. I took off my boots and socks and stuck them into my knapsack. I rolled my pants up while Martina took off her ragged postoly. Holding each other’s hands for balance and courage, we stepped into the creek together.
The shock of cold pierced through to my bones. At the halfway point, my foot plunged down a hole and I smacked hard into the icy water. My knapsack filled up and its weight pulled me down. I flailed in panic, until all at once both my feet touched ground. I tried to stand, but the current was too strong, and the knapsack pulled me down again.
Then the weight of it disappeared.
“I’ve got the knapsack,” said Martina.
I managed to get my balance. Martina struggled to hold the knapsack as the current fought her for it. I reached out and grabbed one strap. Together we heaved it onto a jagged stone on the other side of the creek and it stayed there.
We groped our way towards the other side, slipping dangerously with each step. I fell several times, as did Martina, but finally I pushed her onto the shore. I could barely claw my own way out of the water.
We pulled our sopping shoes back on and stumbled to our feet. Martina gripped me by the elbow and we trudged forward, exhausted, but happy to be across the river.
As we stumbled into the woods, a firm voice said, “Stop.”