The last thing I saw was Abraham tying a bandanna across Martina’s eyes. A piece of cloth fell over my own eyes and a knot was tied snugly at the back of my head.
“Will you be tying our hands as well?” I asked.
“No need,” said Vera. She went up the narrow steps first, and Martina followed, her hands on Vera’s hips for guidance. I followed behind, my hands clutching Martina’s belt. I had a vision of one person taking a wrong step and all of us tumbling down in a tangled clump.
We paused at the top and I heard the sound of metal scraping metal — likely Vera unlocking the hatch. We took a few more steps up.
“Stop!” Vera said. “I need to show you exactly where to place your feet. First, Martina.”
I let go of Martina’s belt and listened to the footsteps.
“Now you,” said Vera. She grabbed one pant leg and guided me to skip the top step, then to angle my foot in a certain way. “Good,” she said, once I was completely out. “The top step is booby-trapped with explosives, as is the ground around the entrance, to protect us from intruders.”
“I’ll take them from here,” said a gruff voice that seemed somehow familiar. Was it Danylo?
“Can we take the bandannas off now?” Martina asked.
“Not yet,” said the voice. “But you’ll be able to do that soon, maybe fifteen minutes. We’ll go in single file so that we don’t make a triple set of footsteps in the snow. Martina, hold the back of my belt. Luka, hold on to Martina.”
In this awkward caterpillar fashion, we stumbled over what must have been rocks and logs. We slipped on ice and slush and even leaves, and my arms and neck ached. It seemed much longer than fifteen minutes.
All at once a gust of wind cooled my face. I blinked. The bandanna had been whisked off. But I still couldn’t see much in the pitch darkness.
“This way,” whispered Danylo. “We’ve got to make ten kilometres before dawn.”
As we walked, my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and my feet got into the rhythm. When Martina and I had made our long trek, we often covered long distances — even twenty kilometres on a very good night — but this journey was through treacherous and steep ground. We were walking up a mountain, after all. Added to that, Danylo had us criss-cross and circle in a most confusing fashion, so each kilometre felt like ten.
“We can’t avoid the footprints in this snow,” said Danylo under his breath. “All we can do is camouflage the direction.”
Martina’s stamina surprised me. She managed to keep her pace even in her brand new boots. I felt light-headed but didn’t want to hold us up, so I just put one foot in front of the other and kept on going.
Just as sunlight appeared overheard, the trees began to thin and we neared a thatched cottage. An older woman wearing an embroidered shirt and a long skirt under her sheepskin vest stepped out the door. In her hands was a rifle, but her face broke out into a smile when she recognized Danylo.
“Ulana,” he said. “Good to see you. Has there been any trouble?”
She shook her head. “Come inside. We’ll talk.”
The cottage was warm and smelled of baking bread. A table with a stack of plates, some cups and a pitcher of water dominated the room. It also held a map, some pencils and paper. The place seemed like a meeting area, not just a regular cottage. A girl wearing a gun belt set a steaming loaf of bread on the table.
“Danylo, you and your friends are welcome. Sit,” said Ulana, propping her rifle close to the door. “You’re just in time for some of Orysia’s fresh bread.”
We slipped off our boots and coats and sat at the table. Orysia pulled off hunks of bread for each of us and set out a container of soft goat cheese. As we ate, Danylo asked Ulana. “What’s been happening?”
“The Germans still don’t know where our camp is,” said Ulana. “But they’re all over the area.”
Danylo turned to me and Martina. “Finish your bread. We’ve got to get moving.”
We walked a few kilometres farther down a fairly broad mountain road. Along the way, we encountered a series of armed sentries, some wearing the familiar assortment of Soviet and German uniforms with the insignia removed, and others in regular peasant clothing. Even though I was on the alert, these soldiers were so good at hiding that I didn’t spot them until they stepped in front of us, weapons poised. But they would lower their weapons at the sight of Danylo and let us pass.
We kept on walking, meeting more sentries along the way. A few kilometres farther, we reached an open area cleverly concealed within tall fir trees. Half hidden here and there was a series of plain wooden buildings, their roofs and sides camouflaged with mud and fir boughs. As we got closer, I was astounded by the sheer number of hidden buildings.
Our way was blocked by armed guards, and this time, even though their faces showed that they recognized Danylo, that alone was not enough to get us through.
“Password,” one demanded. He looked no older than me, his rifle at the ready.
“Colibri,” said Danylo.
The young guard lowered his rifle. “You can go through.”
An officer stepped out of one of the buildings and grinned when he saw Danylo. When he looked at me and Martina, the smile disappeared. “Are these two here to help, or are they homeless locals?”
“They want to help, Bohdan, and they’re good ones,” said Danylo. “Martina is swift and quiet.” Then he pointed to me. “Luka here apprenticed under his father — a pharmacist.”
“You’ve got to do weapons training first,” Bohdan said. “So let’s get started.”
We walked up a hill, and beyond was a clearing with two teenaged boys and a girl, all in regular clothing, standing at attention and facing an instructor. On a table in front of the instructor was an array of weapons — two different kinds of machine guns, automatic pistols and a variety of rifles.
“Sofia, Roman and Viktor, choose a weapon,” the instructor said. “They’re not loaded. Your first job is to disassemble your weapon. Pay close attention, because your next job will be to put it back together.”
Once the trainees were busy with their tasks, the instructor greeted Danylo. “Are these two new ones for me?”
“Yes,” said Danylo.
“Pick a weapon, each of you,” said Petro. “And get to work.”
* * *
“Stand up a bit straighter,” said Martina. “And rest the buttstock closer to the middle of your chest.”
It felt like such an unnatural way to position the rifle. Why was it so easy for Martina? She was the top shooter in our group — unlike me. I lined up the little notch at the end of the barrel so it was exactly in the middle of the notched rear sight, and slowly began to squeeze the trigger.
“Focus on the centre circle of the paper target, not the front sight on the rifle,” said Martina.
I loosened my finger from the trigger and glared at her.
She stuck her tongue out at me. “You’re going to miss that haystack completely if you don’t calm down,” she said.
Calm down? How was I supposed to do that with her hovering over me and second-guessing everything I did? I didn’t say that to her though. Instead, I ignored her. I tightened my index finger over the trigger, then bang. I practically fell over from the impact of the recoil.
“Congratulations,” said Martina. “You managed to hit the haystack this time.”
“Where?”
“The top corner,” she said, pointing. “See where the paper’s fluttering a little bit?”
“I did everything right,” I muttered, pointing the barrel of the semi-automatic to the ground for safety. “I should have hit the bull’s eye.”
“You can’t be good at everything,” said Martina, reaching for the rifle butt.
“I can’t shoot like you. I can’t track quietly like you. I feel useless.”
“Stand over there,” Martina said, indicating a spot beside a scrawny fir tree. “You’re making me nervous.”
“People aren’t going to stand away from me in a combat situation,” I said. “I’ve got to get used to firing a rifle under all sorts of circumstances.”
Martina rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said. “Stand wherever you want.”
In one smooth, quick motion she took her stance, aimed and shot. And hit the centre of the target. Then she angled the rifle to the ground. “I can shoot and track, Luka, but you can heal people. I wish I could do that.”
We walked back to the main part of the camp together, savouring the rare bit of free time. We had finished our training the day before and were ready to work.
Petro was not happy with my rifle skills. “You’ll be a village medic,” he told me. “But if Martina can get your shooting up to par, I’ll let you carry a gun.”
“I want to fight for my country, just like you,” I told him.
He shook his head at that. “Be careful what you wish for,” he said. “And go get some sleep.”
Lida brushes my cheek with a prickly frond of a fir branch. “Can you hear them?”
“Hear what?” I ask, wrapping my fingers around her narrow wrist so she can’t tickle me anymore.
“The bullets that I made for the Nazis …”
Hot bile forms in my stomach. Surely Officer Schmidt wouldn’t send someone as young as her to the munitions factory? Lida had to be working at the laundry, not at the —
“Now, Luka! Get up!” The dream was achingly real. But not as real as the shouting.
I opened my eyes. Not Lida, but Martina, with Roman by her side.
She shoved away the fir branches that covered our sleeping pit and pulled me by the hand with such force I thought she’d tear my arm off. Sofia darted out. Viktor too. And then I heard the growling of an airplane up above.
I scrambled to my feet, grabbing my rifle and making sure my medic bag was securely strapped to my waist.
The growl got louder. I looked into the sky. A Soviet plane was terrifyingly close …
“Take your positions,” shouted Martina.
The plane circled away, then came back in a wide arc. We lined up and aimed. It flew away without firing.
“Guns down,” said Martina.
“It’s strange,” said Petro when the group assembled in the main camp after the plane had disappeared. “Why would a single Soviet plane fly overhead?”
I wondered the same thing too. It seemed almost spooky.