When I got back to the recovery room, Martina’s eyes were open, but she didn’t look completely awake. I sat on the edge of her bed.
“Luka,” she said, her eyes focusing on my bandage. “Thank goodness you’re okay.”
“I’m doing better than you,” I said. “All I’ve got is a cut on my head, but you’ve got frostbitten toes and all those stitches on your cheek.”
Her hand flew up to her face and she gingerly felt the train track of stitches. “I don’t remember how I did that.” She looked at her bandaged feet, then wiggled her toes. “One big toe is achy, and the other toes feel tingly and hot, but I can feel all of them.”
What a relief. We had done everything we could to keep our feet from freezing these last weeks, but Martina’s postoly had made it almost impossible.
She propped herself up and looked at the cot that now held a sleeping Stefan. “He looks familiar,” she said.
“He’s the one who brought you here, wrapped up in his coat. A second soldier rescued me.”
“Are we under the ground?” Martina asked, looking around at the tall wooden walls and bits of sunlight filtering through the narrow slits high above.
“We are. This whole hospital is hidden underground.”
Vera stepped into the room just then and went over to Martina’s cot. In one hand was a bowl of soup, and in the other a pamphlet similar to the one that the German soldier had been given, but I could see that this one was in Ukrainian.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” she said. “Call me Vera. I’m a doctor with the Ukrainian Red Cross. And what should we call you?”
“My name is Martina.”
“It is good to meet you,” said Vera. “I’m sure you’re hungry.” She set the bowl and a spoon into Martina’s hands, then turned and gave me the paper. “Here’s something for you both to read. It’s about our army.”
As Martina ate the soup, I told her about the German soldier who had been treated and released, and what I had found out so far about the people who called themselves Vera and Abraham, and the army they were assisting. I opened the pamphlet and read silently.
“What does it say?” asked Martina.
“Give me a minute to read it through and then I’ll summarize.”
Martina nodded and ate more soup.
The sheet was entitled What Is the Ukrainian Insurgent Army Fighting For? It was dated August 1943.
I scanned the first page, then said, “The Ukrainian Insurgent Army — also called the UPA — is fighting against the Nazis and the Soviets.”
“But what are they fighting for?” asked Martina.
I flipped the page. “It says they want equality of all citizens, regardless of age, sex, religion or nationality.”
“And this hospital serves the UPA?” Martina asked.
I looked over at Vera. She nodded.
“Then I want to join,” Martina said. “My father was in the Czech underground when he was killed. They had ideas like this.”
“My father ended up in Siberia because of ideas like this,” I said.
Vera leaned forward on the edge of one of the empty cots. “Our groups protect children in villages from both Nazi and Soviet attacks, but many children help us,” she said. “Not in the army, but in the villages. You and Luka could be trained to help.”‘
“It would be better than running and hiding,” said Martina.
“As long as you’re willing to stand up to Stalin and Hitler, you can work with us,” Vera said. “Besides, if you survived in the forests for so long, you must have a number of skills.”
* * *
We stayed in the underground bunker just long enough to ensure that Martina’s feet would heal. She was not used to being idle, so she limped around doing small chores — making soups and herbal teas, keeping the kitchen spotless — while I assisted with medical help.
Once, after helping set a broken arm, I walked into the kitchen and saw Martina, lost in concentration as she stirred a pot of rabbit stew. A sudden image of Lida appeared in my mind, shoulders bent with fatigue and a bowl of watery turnip soup in front of her. Was she safe in the labour camp, or should I have tried against all odds to take her with me? Lida was strong and resourceful. I could only hope that she also had luck on her side.
Martina looked up at me and smiled. The image of Lida faded. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.
I hope not, I said to myself.
* * *
Over the weeks, a steady stream of injured soldiers was brought in to the hospital. They were always blindfolded, whether they were Red Army or Wehrmacht. Even most of the UPA soldiers were blindfolded.
“Why do you blindfold your own soldiers?” I asked Abraham one day as I helped him clean the surgical room after he’d put back together a Red Army soldier’s shredded hand. “You’re on the same side.”
Abraham wiped off the last splatter of blood from the operating table, then cleaned the whole thing down with disinfectant. “What if a UPA soldier were captured?” he asked. “He could be tortured into giving up this location. What they don’t know cannot be revealed.”
“Has that happened before?”
Abraham pointed up to the ceiling. “See those openings? Nazis and Soviets have destroyed underground hospitals by sending poison gas through those. Or by lobbing grenades through the hatch — you name it. It’s essential that our locations stay secret.”
Just then Vera’s head poked through the doorway. “I have a surprise for Martina,” she said, holding out a bundle.
Martina limped over and looked at it. “What do you have there?”
“Open it.”
Martina worked open the rope and pulled out the contents — a pair of sturdy leather boots that looked brand new, heavy wool socks, gloves, a hat. The leather bundle they had been wrapped in was a sheepskin-lined winter coat. As she held each item, I thought of Lida, who had no shoes, no socks, no warm coat. I was happy for Martina’s good fortune, but how I wished I could snatch those boots and somehow get them to Lida.
“Thank you,” said Martina, grinning.
“You’ll be needing them,” said Vera. “Once it’s dark, you and Luka will be leaving.”