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.”
Chapter Sixteen
Vera and Abraham
The soldier’s military overcoat was an unfamiliar design. I watched, shocked, as he unbuttoned it and wrapped it around Martina, completely enveloping her. A second soldier looked like the perfect Nazi, with his ice-blue eyes and short blond hair, but he took his coat off and wrapped me in it.
What kind of Nazi would do that for a person like me? The heat from his coat felt uncommonly hot.
“Sorry about this,” he said, taking a piece of cloth from his pocket and blindfolding me with it. Then I felt one strong arm gripping underneath my knees and the other under my back. He clutched me close to his chest and walked through the woods on sure feet.
I blacked out.
* * *
In my half-awake state, I tried to get my bearings. I was tucked into a narrow bed. Water trickled somewhere close by. The air smelled stale and moist, and my head throbbed. I opened one eye. I was in a dim room with walls of whitewashed wooden planks, cramped with three cots in addition to mine. The only light came from narrow slits in the ceiling high above. The rest of the ceiling was branches.
Across from me lay Martina. A train track of fresh stitches, glistening with blood, ran across her cheek. Her feet, which poked out from under a rough blanket, were wrapped in gauze.
“Martina,” I whispered, sitting up woozily. “Wake up.” Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.
The third cot was empty, but in the fourth, below Martina’s feet, lay a sleeping Wehrmacht soldier who looked to be in his teens. One arm was in a cast and his face was much cleaner than his muddy uniform. A thick square of gauze covered much of his neck. Blood seeped through the gauze, slowly making a wet circle.
Where were we? A place for Germans to recuperate, obviously. What would they do to us when they realized we were runaway slave labourers?
Just then a tired-looking woman stepped through the doorway. Her outfit was a combination of Soviet and German military uniforms, but the postoly on her feet were peasant wear.
She knelt by the German’s cot and lifted the gauze at his neck, mumbling something under her breath in Ukrainian.
I felt entirely confused. If I knew for certain which side this woman was working for, I could play along — get myself and Martina out somehow — but nothing added up.
She left the room, but moments later came back with a tray of medical instruments. I watched as she removed the old dressing from the soldier’s neck. A long wound had been stitched, but the middle part was still bleeding. She washed off the blood with antiseptic and dressed it again with a fresh bandage.
She cleaned the tray and set it on my cot, then looked at my forehead and said in Ukrainian, “It seems that your wound needs dressing as well.”
My hand shot up to my forehead. On my left temple — just where it throbbed the worst — was a thick wad of gauze.
“I am sorry to say that we had to shave off some of your wonderfully wild hair in order to close the gash.”
I managed to ask, “Who are you?”
“You can call me Vera,” she said. “Field doctor for the Red Cross.”
“Where are we?”
“An underground hospital,” she said.
I looked up at the slits in the ceiling and suddenly realized why they gave so little light. It wasn’t just the branches covering them — the slits themselves were as narrow as my little finger. All at once I felt like I was smothering.
Vera put her hand on my forearm. “Relax,” she said. “It’s normal to feel closed in at first.”
I lay back down on the cot and stared at the slits of light, trying to breathe slowly,
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.”
Chapter Sixteen
Vera and Abraham
The soldier’s military overcoat was an unfamiliar design. I watched, shocked, as he unbuttoned it and wrapped it around Martina, completely enveloping her. A second soldier looked like the perfect Nazi, with his ice-blue eyes and short blond hair, but he took his coat off and wrapped me in it.
What kind of Nazi would do that for a person like me? The heat from his coat felt uncommonly hot.
“Sorry about this,” he said, taking a piece of cloth from his pocket and blindfolding me with it. Then I felt one strong arm gripping underneath my knees and the other under my back. He clutched me close to his chest and walked through the woods on sure feet.
I blacked out.
* * *
In my half-awake state, I tried to get my bearings. I was tucked into a narrow bed. Water trickled somewhere close by. The air smelled stale and moist, and my head throbbed. I opened one eye. I was in a dim room with walls of whitewashed wooden planks, cramped with three cots in addition to mine. The only light came from narrow slits in the ceiling high above. The rest of the ceiling was branches.
Across from me lay Martina. A train track of fresh stitches, glistening with blood, ran across her cheek. Her feet, which poked out from under a rough blanket, were wrapped in gauze.
“Martina,” I whispered, sitting up woozily. “Wake up.” Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.
The third cot was empty, but in the fourth, below Martina’s feet, lay a sleeping Wehrmacht soldier who looked to be in his teens. One arm was in a cast and his face was much cleaner than his muddy uniform. A thick square of gauze covered much of his neck. Blood seeped through the gauze, slowly making a wet circle.
Where were we? A place for Germans to recuperate, obviously. What would they do to us when they realized we were runaway slave labourers?
Just then a tired-looking woman stepped through the doorway. Her outfit was a combination of Soviet and German military uniforms, but the postoly on her feet were peasant wear.
She knelt by the German’s cot and lifted the gauze at his neck, mumbling something under her breath in Ukrainian.
I felt entirely confused. If I knew for certain which side this woman was working for, I could play along — get myself and Martina out somehow — but nothing added up.
She left the room, but moments later came back with a tray of medical instruments. I watched as she removed the old dressing from the soldier’s neck. A long wound had been stitched, but the middle part was still bleeding. She washed off the blood with antiseptic and dressed it again with a fresh bandage.
She cleaned the tray and set it on my cot, then looked at my forehead and said in Ukrainian, “It seems that your wound needs dressing as well.”
My hand shot up to my forehead. On my left temple — just where it throbbed the worst — was a thick wad of gauze.
“I am sorry to say that we had to shave off some of your wonderfully wild hair in order to close the gash.”
I managed to ask, “Who are you?”
“You can call me Vera,” she said. “Field doctor for the Red Cross.”
“Where are we?”
“An underground hospital,” she said.
I looked up at the slits in the ceiling and suddenly realized why they gave so little light. It wasn’t just the branches covering them — the slits themselves were as narrow as my little finger. All at once I felt like I was smothering.
Vera put her hand on my forearm. “Relax,” she said. “It’s normal to feel closed in at first.”
I lay back down on the cot and stared at the slits of light, trying to breathe slowly,
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