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 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.
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