To the brave citizens of Finland who defended
their homeland during the Winter War
And to my grandson, Linden Reid Durbin, in the
hope that wars will one day be no more
FOREWORD
Imagine the leader of a powerful nation deciding to invade a smaller country and liberate its people. He orders his army to attack, assuming that this country, whose people have recently experienced a civil war and great hardships, will welcome his soldiers with open arms and strew flowers at their feet. The leader plans on a weeklong war.
Though this situation might suggest more recent events, the war, which became known as the Winter War, began in the fall of 1939. Earlier that year Joseph Stalin, the dictator of Russia, had threatened to take land from eastern Finland for “security reasons.” President Kyösti Kallio of Finland tried to negotiate a compromise, but Stalin refused.
The Finns turned to Field Marshal Gustaf Mannerheim for help in building up their defenses. They mobilized their army and set up observation posts along the border to study Russian troop movements, hoping the whole time that war could be avoided….
November 30, 1939
Virtalinna, Finland
CHAPTER 1
THE WATCHTOWER
Marko scanned the dark eastern sky with his field glasses.
“What time is it?”Johan asked.
“Five minutes later than the last time you asked.”
The cold scent of pine needles drifted through the open window of the Virtalinna church tower.
“School will be starting soon.”Johan pulled out his pocket watch and struck a match on his boot to see in the winter darkness.
“Can't you ever follow rules?” Marko blew out the flame.”You know the army put a blackout in place.”
Johan snapped his watch shut. “Twenty minutes to nine.”
“I thought I heard something.” Marko brushed his white-blond hair out of his eyes and focused the glasses on the horizon, searching for a glint of silver that might be a Russian plane. Marko and his best friend, Johan, were junior members of the Civil Guard, and they'd been taking their turn as sky watchers in the eight-sided bell tower of the old church since August.
“If you stare hard enough, you can imagine anything,” Johan said. “Did I tell you the one about the banker and the priest?”
“Forget your jokes!” Marko kept his glasses fixed on the sky. A faint pink light glowed above the distant hills. The forest below the church tower was quiet, but the town behind Marko was coming to life. A whistle blew over at the ironworks, and a train chugged into the station across the river as a horse pulling a coal wagon clopped down the frozen street in front of the church. Marko could hear the people making their way toward their stalls in the marketplace.
“We'll be late for school,” Johan said.
“The next sky watcher should be here any minute.” Marko set down his field glasses and grinned when he saw the snowflakes on the windowsill.”Any more snow, and you'll have to leave your bike at home.”
“I'm riding my bike until Christmas.” Johan stood up and slipped on his black leather gloves. As the son of the superintendent of the ironworks, Johan was the only boy in Class VI who could afford a bike. Marko's father owned a small blacksmith and knife-forging shop, so Marko's only hope of getting a bike was to build one out of used parts.
“You'll give up that bike when you face the first snowdrifts.”
“I don't care if it snows every single day.” Johan grinned. “It didn't stop me on Independence Day.”
Marko laughed, his blue eyes brightening. Last year on December 6, Finnish Independence Day, Johan had tied a Finnish flag on the handlebars of his bike and lit a railroad flare on his rear fender. Then he pedaled through the snow as people waved and laughed.
“My bike ride was more exciting than the mayor's speech.”
“Your father didn't think so,” Marko said.
Johan grinned. “His scolding was nothing compared to the sparks from that flare burning the seat of my pants.”
“I don't know how your father can be serious all the time when your mother is so jolly,” Marko said.”I'll bet she already has her Christmas party planned.”
“She's ordered twelve dozen—”
“Wait! What was that?” Marko said.
Pretending to listen, Johan turned his head and made a little birdcall by whistling through his teeth.
“Stop it!” Marko raised his hand. “I really do hear something.”
A deep humming vibrated in the cold air like the lowest note on a giant pipe organ. The boys had been trained to listen for the engines of a Russian DB-3 bomber. Now that they'd finally heard a plane, they could only stare at each other.
Marko grabbed the field telephone, cranked the handle, and picked up the receiver. The line to the Civil Guard headquarters was dead. He cranked it again. Still no sound.
“We've got to warn headquarters!” Marko shouted, but Johan beat him to the stairs. Marko cursed his left leg—weakened by polio three years ago—as he scrambled down the narrow stairway.
By the time Marko rushed outside, Johan had pedaled halfway down the block. The sound of the bombers was loud and close.
Marko ran; his weak ankle swung outward, and the metal brace on his leg clacked each time his heavy boot hit the street. “Watch the corner,” Marko yelled.
Marko hit an ice patch and fell. When he jumped to his feet, a mother and her little girl stepped out their door with a market basket in hand.
Marko yelled, “Take cover,” as he scrambled to catch up with Johan, but the mother only waved and smiled. “Bombers!” he yelled as he ran.”Go back.”
The cobblestoned streets of Virtalinna were so narrow and crooked that when Marko reached the first corner, Johan was already out of sight. At that same moment Marko saw a blur of silver in the sky to his left. Three bombers approached, blunt noses angled down. One plane banked left and one right, while the middle bomber bore straight toward Marko.
People had stepped outside their small wooden houses to check out the noise. “Bombers!” Marko shouted. “It's a raid.”
Those close enough to hear ducked back inside, but others peered into the sky. Marko felt as though he was caught in a bad dream as he watched the far plane dive lower. When the first bomb was released, it glided forward, racing the plane. Then it arced downward, followed by a trail of more bombs. Where was the alarm? Why hadn't Johan reached headquarters yet?
The growl of the middle plane turned to a roar. The ground trembled as Marko tilted back his head and saw a red star on the underside of the wings.
Then Marko heard a whistling sound. “Cover!” he yelled, diving into the nearest yard.
Before Marko hit the snow he saw a bright flash. The sound of the bomb blast slammed into his body. The ground trembled, and it felt as if a great wave was lifting the street.
He covered his head as rubble rained down. The ground shook as more bombs hit in the distance.
His ears rang as he stood up, dizzy and sick. Blood ran down the fingers of his right hand. The snow was black with soot, and thick dust hung in the air. Just ahead, a smoke cloud hung over a twenty-foot-wide crater. The explosion had sucked the glass out of every window in sight, and a large linden tree was split down the middle. The house beside the crater was gone except for the stone chimney; splintered furniture, broken crockery, and shredded curtains and bedding were strewn across the sidewalk. A headless porcelain doll lay in the snow.
Marko's heart raced as he ran past the smoking wreckage of the house, his feet crunching on broken glass and bits of wood and mortar. Though the roof and walls had been blown away, the breakfast fire still smoldered behind the stone hearth, and snowflakes fell with tiny hisses into
the coals.
A man yelled,”Someone get the doctor!”
Marko watched the whole world crumble around him. Houses tilted in odd directions. Telephone wires drooped to the ground. A brick wall was riddled with pieces of shrapnel, and wooden shingles littered the street. Flames rippled from the roof of a house beside a second crater.
Long after the last bomb had exploded, the air raid siren finally blared. Marko jogged into the city center and turned onto the main avenue. Smoke floated above the bare birches in the park.
When Marko reached the market, vendors were climbing out from behind their stands and staring at the ruined street. Vegetables, straw, baskets of eggs, milk cans, bolts of cloth, and weaving materials were scattered everywhere. A horse thrashed in its traces beside an overturned wagon, whinnying like a hurt child. Coal had spilled onto the street, and the driver was struggling to unbuckle the horse's harness.
Then he saw the bomb crater beyond the wagon. A bicycle lay beside the jagged hole, but Johan was nowhere to be seen. Marko rushed forward praying, Let Johan be safe.
When Marko saw the black gloves he skidded to a stop and put his hands on his knees to steady himself. His heart pounded as he gulped in the cold air and tasted spent powder in the back of his throat. The gloves, locked to the handlebars, held the bloody stumps of Johan's hands.
CHAPTER 2
AMID THE RUINS
Marko stared at the gloves and the crater.
“Have you heard anything about the school?”
“What about the children?”
Marko turned. A woman faced a guardsman.
“They hit this side of town,” he said. “The children should be safe.”
Children! His little sister, Nina, had walked to school alone that morning!
Marko took off running. Nina must be terrified.
By the time Marko reached the school, a dozen parents were ahead of him. He pushed through to Nina's classroom, where she dashed forward and hugged him. “Marko? Are the Russians coming to kill us?”
“Don't talk like that, Nina,”her teacher said. Turning to Marko, the teacher added, “Your sister has been very brave. So have all the children.”
“I'm proud of you.” Marko took Nina's hand. “We'll get you right home. The planes are gone now.”
Marko and Nina rushed up the winding street that led to their farmhouse. Marko peered ahead as they rounded the last corner. Ah! Their front gate stood straight and true. A fresh dusting of snow lay on the roof, and the “Koski's Forge” sign that Marko had helped Father paint hung over the double doors of their barn.
Mother ran outside with Marko's little brother, Jari, in her arms. “Marko! Nina!” She set Jari down and dropped to one knee to hug Nina. “I was about to run to the school—” Mother stood up when she saw the tears in Marko's eyes.”Are you hurt?” She touched his shoulders and looked him up and down.
“No.” Marko wiped his eyes with his coat sleeve.
“Thank heavens.”
“It's Johan,” Marko said.
“Oh no! What happened?”
“He was on his bike.” Marko closed his eyes and took a breath. “A bomb—”
“Oh, Marko. Not Johan. No, no, no …” Everyone was crying, and Mother tried to hold all of her children in her arms.
As he wept, Marko felt cold and alone. This can't be happening. It can't. Yet there was no denying the picture locked in his head of a black crater and blood-spattered stones.
* * *
Marko spent the rest of the day helping the Civil Guard pick through the rubble and search for survivors. But he avoided going near the street by the Guard headquarters.
Despite the dozens of bomb craters and collapsed buildings in town, only four people had been killed.
Every time Marko lifted a splintered timber or a broken stone, he kept thinking how Johan had always been lucky, so lucky. It was impossible that he could be gone.
Marko was exhausted that night, but he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the bicycle and the black gloves.
As he tried to doze off, he recalled the day he'd come home from the hospital after four months of polio treatments. A cast covered his leg from the knee down.
As soon as Mother helped Marko into bed, she told Father to bring a saw in from his shop. When he returned, she said, “Either you cut it off or I will.”
“But the doctor—”Father began.
“Doctors don't know everything,” Mother said.
Marko said, “I promised to keep the cast on for six more weeks.”
“I've nursed enough people to know what happens when a person doesn't use his muscles.” Mother worked as a midwife, helping the local doctor with his childbirth cases. She was also a member of the Lotta Svärd, a volunteer corps of women who helped the soldiers. “This cast is coming off, and if your father isn't willing to help, I'll do it myself.”
Mother reached for the saw, but Father pulled it back. “I don't like the idea one bit,” he said, “but I'll not have you butchering his leg.”
“Cut along here.” Mother drew an imaginary line down the cast. “But don't go all the way through.” She picked up a scissors from the dresser. “I'll snip the wrapping with these.”
Marko stared at the sharp teeth of the saw.”The doctor said I'd be crippled if I tried to walk too soon.”
“Didn't the same doctor say you caught your polio from touching rotted maple leaves?” Mother said.
“My teachers warned us about those leaves, too.”
“And they were wrong.” Mother waved her scissors. “You didn't get sick from playing with leaves. And you won't get well by lying flat on your back.” She turned to Father. “Would you move that saw!”
Father started sawing, and the dry, dusty smell of plaster filled the bedroom. Marko closed his eyes. Mother believed hard work could fix everything. What if her stubbornness undid the healing of his long hospital stay?
Marko squealed when the saw teeth nicked his ankle.
Then a siren wailed.
CHAPTER 3
SHELTER FROM THE STORM
As Marko's memory faded, he saw black sky outside his bedroom window. Sirens! He sat bolt upright. An airraid! Get to the shelter.
“Are you awake?” Mother stood in the doorway.
“I'll bring Jari.” Marko climbed out of bed.
“Nina's already up,” Mother said.
Squinting in the dim light, Marko sat on the cold wooden floor and slipped on his leg brace. He laced up the half shoe that was connected by two metal slats to a leather collar below his knee. Then he pulled on his pants and boots. He picked up four-year-old Jari, asleep beside him. Jari never woke as Marko cradled him in his arms and hurried to the kitchen.
Nina cried, “Don't make me go into that smelly hole.”
“No time for tears.” Mother pulled Nina's hand. Mother's favorite expression was “Speak your mind or be silent.” At five-one, she was two inches shorter than Marko, but her perfect posture—she urged all her children to “stand tall”—allowed her to look him straight in the eye.
Outside, the Bofors antiaircraft guns started firing from near the ironworks. Jari clamped his arms around Marko's neck.
The sky was cold and clear, and the snow on the woodshed roof sparkled in the starlight. The siren kept wailing as Marko led the way past the barn.
The Koskis' log farmhouse was the last building on the south side of Virtalinna. It stood beside an open field overlooking the deep blue waters of Lake Keskijarvi. The moonlight in the birches reminded Marko of the many times he and Johan had hiked and skied through the forest that surrounded the lake. Just last month they'd won second place in an orienteering contest. Though Marko couldn't run fast, he had the endurance to ski all day long, and he was good at reading a map and compass.
Marko opened the outer door of the root cellar and climbed down the steps ahead of Mother. The low room had been dug into the hillside for storing vegetables. At harvest time Marko helped Mother fi
ll the wooden bins of the root cellar with potatoes, onions, turnips, and rutabagas. Carrots were buried in clean sand. The dirt floor gave the room a musty smell.
“The scent of earth reminds me of planting time,” Mother said. “I get so lonesome for my garden in the winter.”
“It's cold down here. And stinky,” Nina said.
Marko set Jari on a bench and closed the doors. His plump-cheeked brother yawned and rubbed his eyes. Then Marko knelt and lit the homemade lantern he'd fashioned out of a coffee can and a candle. “Isn't that better?”
Nina hung on Mother's arm. “I'm freezing.” She shivered like a little bird. Marko wrapped a blanket around Nina's shoulders, and Mother held her close.
The antiaircraft fire was now mixed with the drone of bomber engines.
“The lantern makes it nice and cheery,” Mother said. She ran her free hand through her shoulder-length blond hair. Then she straightened Nina's golden braids.
“I wish Papa was home,” Nina sniffled.
“Marko's here to look out for us.” Mother patted Marko's arm. “And he's getting to be almost as strong as your father.”
Marko laughed.”I'll believe that when I can swing a four-pound hammer like he does.” Marko recalled how Father's arms rippled with muscles when he pounded on his anvil.
“I want Papa,” Nina said.
“We all miss Father,” Mother said. “But we must be brave.”
Father, a veteran of the 1918 civil war, had been called up for duty last month. Two soldiers had knocked on the bedroom window at midnight, waking up the whole house. They handed Father a stamped document, ordering him to report to the train station. While Father dressed in his Civil Guard uniform, Mother packed some rye bread and cheese in his rucksack, and Marko helped brush his boots and clean his rifle. Then Father hugged Mother and the smaller children, shook Marko's hand, and strode off into the darkness.
Now Marko looked at the jars of water and the blankets that he'd set on the shelf last month, just in case they needed the shelter. “I didn't think Russia would ever attack us.”
The Winter War Page 1