Making Bombs For Hitler

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  I was safe.

  I would find Larissa.

  I said a prayer of thanks that I still lived, and then another of hope, for Luka … Zenia … Kataryna … Mary … Natalia …

  Larissa.

  I don’t know how long I stayed in contemplation, but it must have been quite a while. When I tried to stand up, I couldn’t. My legs and feet were stiff and numb.

  “Let me help you.”

  A voice from a distant dream. I looked up.

  The way the light shone through the broken slats in the barn roof made it difficult to see who was standing there, but the silhouette was beloved. The voice was dear. Could it possibly be?

  “Luka?”

  He stepped forward. His shock of wild hair had grown back but his eyes were circled with shadows of grief. “They told me I might find you here.” He knelt and placed my arms around his neck.

  Together we stood. “Dear Lida,” he said. “I promised I would find you.”

  “I dreamt of you the night you escaped.”

  He smiled. “I was thinking of you as well, praying that you would be safe. I felt guilty leaving you behind.”

  “How did you manage to get away?”

  We walked out of the makeshift church together — Luka still helping me, although my feet and legs were feeling less numb — and he told me about that night.

  “I couldn’t just walk out,” he said. “During the day there were too many people around, and at night the gates were locked and guards with guns were on patrol.”

  “So how did you escape?”

  “Did you ever see what they did with the dead bodies?” he asked.

  I shuddered at the memory. “They piled them into trucks.”

  Luka nodded. “There were many trucks. Many deaths at the hospital. I got out on one of those trucks.”

  I looked at Luka, not sure that I had heard correctly. “You hid among the corpses?”

  “Yes.”

  We walked in silence past children playing with makeshift toys, and mothers scrubbing rags in soapy basins of water. What a contrast to be with people smiling and relaxed when in my mind was the image of Luka in a truck of the dead.

  “It must have been awful,” I said.

  He squeezed my hand and sighed. “I managed to loosen the tarp from the back of the truck and jump out onto the road when we were a good distance from the camp. Thank goodness it was dark out. I hid in the woods and met up with others who had escaped from camps as well.”

  “You stayed in the woods all that time?”

  He looked at me but his eyes seemed distant. “We moved around a lot. The Nazis hunted us down. Not all our group survived.”

  We were each lost in our own thoughts and without realizing it, we reached the end of the refugee camp. I sat down on the tire of an abandoned Jeep and patted the spot beside me. Luka sat as well.

  “When did you get here?” I asked.

  “A day or so ago,” he said. “I found out that a group of survivors from our work camp had been taken to the American army hospital down the road. I thought that if you were among that group, you would end up here.”

  “Have you found any others?”

  Luka shook his head. “I haven’t seen anyone else I knew from there.”

  Luka and I spent as much time as we could together over the next days and weeks. There was much work to do — helping families patch together makeshift homes, assisting with food distribution, playing with the younger children. He was much healthier than most of the refugees, and now that my feet were healing and I was eating more than turnip soup, I had become stronger as well. Luka found a place to sleep with a group of boys his age. I found a cozy spot on my own in the corner of what used to be an office in one of the convent buildings.

  Every morning I would check with the people from the Red Cross to see if there was any word about Larissa, but each day the answer was the same.

  “I am sorry, dear,” said the kind-hearted Canadian woman whose hair was a mass of red curls. “I hope we’ll have better news for you soon.”

  “Is there any way of checking German records?”

  “What do you mean?” asked the woman.

  “I may have seen her with some Germans,” I said evasively. I didn’t want to admit that I thought I had seen her with a Nazi officer’s family.

  “The Germans destroyed records as they abandoned offices,” said the woman, “but we’re doing the best that we can.”

  Her words cut me to the heart. What chance did I really have of ever finding my sister? I didn’t even know if she would be using her real name, if she’d been living with that Nazi family I saw in the car.

  Later, when I sat beside Luka and we ate tasty buns made with white flour and a faint taste of sugar, he said, “Don’t ever give up hope. All you can do is keep on looking. She’s probably looking for you as well.”

  He was right, and I knew it. Every day I checked the fluttering messages, hoping that one day I would see a message from my sister.

  Luka checked as well. He had no way of finding his father, who was either still in Siberia or dead by now. But his mother had been a slave labourer. Perhaps one day a fluttering message from her would appear.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Lucky Ones

  Life in the displaced persons’ camp settled into a routine. Each morning we children would be gathered together in a makeshift classroom to be taught Ukrainian and English spelling and grammar, arithmetic, history, geography. For so long I had pretended to be older than I was, and it was difficult for me to be clustered together with the other eleven-year-olds. Many of these children had lived through conditions as difficult as my own, but a few had managed to stay with a parent or grandparent throughout the war. These few lucky ones seemed so separate and special. Did I dare admit how jealous I was of them?

  I knew it wasn’t fair of me to feel that way, but every time I looked at the lucky ones, I felt unbearably lonely. I was grateful to be with Luka, but I had to find Larissa, and it wasn’t just to ensure that she was safe. I needed to find her for my own sake. We were sisters, after all. We shared the same family, childhood — even thoughts. With her gone, half of me was gone as well.

  My teacher was a former high school instructor from Lviv named Pani Zemluk and she was demanding and precise in her expectations. Often after all the other children had gone off to play, I would stay at my spot on the bench made from a plank of wood and two empty paint tins, my workbook open on my knees. I was determined to master my school work, especially the English language. It was such a gift to finally be given the opportunity to learn. Pani Zemluk would come and sit beside me, correcting my errors and giving me extra exercises when I wanted them. And we would talk.

  I confided to her my hopes and dreams of finding Larissa. I confessed to her what I did in the war. I wept on her shoulder as I admitted to accepting the candy from that Nazi woman, and how my selfishness had destroyed my family.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said. “What starving child would say no to a sweet? It was meant to be.”

  Pani Zemluk advised me to change my identity. “You cannot let people know that you’re from Chernivets’ka. That’s in the Soviet part of Ukraine, and everyone from there is being sent back to the Soviet Union.”

  “But I want to go home.”

  “Your home no longer exists. Besides, you were a labourer for the Nazis. If you go back to the Soviet Union, you will be punished for that.”

  I rubbed the tears away with the back of my hand and stared at her. “That makes no sense,” I said. “I was a prisoner of the Nazis.”

  “No matter. You will be punished as a Nazi.”

  “They already know my true identity at the hospital,” I told her. “Besides, if I change who I am, how can I ever find my sister?”

  Pani Zemluk brushed away a stray hair from my brow and looked me in the eye. “Your first job is to save yourself, Lida. You have been very lucky so far, but if you don’t stay free, you and your si
ster can never hope to be reunited.”

  Her words shattered me.

  Luka was in the spiralling lineup of refugees at lunchtime. Once we each got a brimming bowl of hot pea soup and a handful of crackers, we walked down the pathway to the makeshift church. It was cool there, and quiet at midday. We sat side by side on the ground, leaning against the wall.

  I filled my spoon with thick soup and blew on it, waiting for it to cool down just a bit. I didn’t actually like the taste of pea soup — we’d been served it more than any other food — but it filled my stomach and staved off the gnawing hunger that seemed always to be present. I swallowed down the first spoonful, then as I waited for the next to cool, I watched Luka. He shovelled down the soup, piping hot. The look on his face was one of urgency, as if he was afraid that someone would take the food away from him if he didn’t consume every last speck instantly.

  “Have you heard anything about your mother?” I asked him.

  He shook his head and continued eating. I swallowed down another spoonful of soup, then as I stared at my bowl, I told Luka about what Pani Zemluk had said.

  Luka didn’t answer right away. He was too involved with licking every last bit of soup from the bottom of his bowl. When he was finished, he methodically ate his crackers, chewing each one with gusto. Once he swallowed down the last cracker he turned to me and said, “I think she is wrong.”

  His words confused me. “So you think we should go back to the Soviet Union?”

  “I haven’t heard anything about my mother,” said Luka. “But this morning some Red Army soldiers came into my classroom and asked to speak to me.”

  His words made my heart pound. “What did they want?”

  “They told me that my father is alive and that he is living in Kyiv. He’s got his own pharmacy.”

  “That is wonderful, Luka!”

  “They are coming back tomorrow morning. They will take me home.”

  His words were like a stone in my heart. I had no idea if I would ever find Larissa, but Luka was right here, with me. He was the brother of my heart. How could I bear to lose him yet again? Was I destined to be all alone? I didn’t say anything. I stared at the soup in my bowl, but suddenly I had no appetite.

  Luka’s finger gently brushed a tear away from my cheek. “You could come with me,” he said.

  Should I? Could I? But if I went back to the Soviet Union and Larissa was living somewhere here in Germany, how would I ever find her? It was all too overwhelming. There was too much to think about.

  “I am leaving tomorrow morning, no matter what,” said Luka. “Come and say goodbye to me, or come and join me. Your choice.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Luka Leaving

  All night I tossed and turned. How wonderful it would be to go home again and help rebuild all that had been lost. Maybe I could go to Kyiv with Luka. Maybe his father would adopt me and then I would truly be Luka’s sister.

  But what if Pani Zemluk was right?

  Even if she was wrong, there was one thing I knew to be true. If I went with Luka now, I would never find Larissa. No place could be home without my sister.

  I got up at dawn the next morning and found Luka. He had just a small cloth satchel with all his worldly goods — a prayer book that had been given to him by a priest, a notebook from his teacher and a second set of clothing. We walked together to the stone gate with its flutter prayers of paper, and waited for the Red Army truck.

  We weren’t the only ones waiting there. Three older men had congregated as well — two who had been slave labourers and one who had been a prisoner of war. It was a tired and sorry looking group. Pani Zemluk also came. Her eyes widened in astonishment when she saw me standing beside Luka.

  Just then the Red Army truck appeared at the end of the road. It approached slowly, spewing up billows of dust.

  “Will you come with me?” asked Luka.

  Pani Zemluk stepped forward and put her hand on my shoulder. “Lida, don’t.”

  I studied her face. It was filled with concern and fear. I turned to Luka. His eyes looked serious, but he was hopeful as well.

  I took a deep breath. It was now or never. “I cannot go with you.”

  He set his satchel down and wrapped his arms around me. “I wish you would come with me, but I understand why you can’t come right now. Stay safe, sister of my heart,” he said. “I will find a way to write to you when I meet my father in Kyiv. Maybe one day, you and your sister will join us.”

  “I would like that.”

  The canvas-covered truck pulled up just then and the sight of it made me panic. It looked so much like the truck that had transported me from the slave camp to my final prison. It could have been the same one, except where the swastika had been was a red star enclosing a hammer and sickle.

  The truck careened to a stop in a swirl of dust and a fresh-faced Red Army officer stepped out. He took in the three older men and ticked off names on a clipboard. He approached me and Luka.

  “You must be Luka Barukovich of Kyiv,” he said in perfect Ukrainian to Luka. “But who are you?” He crouched down so his hazel eyes were level with mine. He smiled. “Are you coming home with us today?”

  He seemed clean, friendly and relaxed. This soldier seemed nothing like those thugs who had taken my father. Maybe I had been wrong about all this. Maybe they had changed. How I longed to go with Luka. I dreaded being all alone, but I couldn’t go just yet.

  “I need to find my sister first.”

  “The Soviet Red Cross can help with that.” He poised his pencil over his clipboard. “What is your sister’s name and where were you two born?”

  I opened my mouth to answer but was startled by a hand gripping my shoulder so tightly that it hurt. I looked up. Pani Zemluk’s lips smiled but her eyes were serious. “Children should be seen and not heard.”

  I was about to protest, but noticed the anger that washed over the Red Army officer’s expression as he put his pencil away. With his friendly mask down for just that brief moment, I’d had a glimpse of the bully behind it.

  The teacher kept a tight grip on my shoulder, almost as if she had to keep me in that place.

  I looked at Luka. “Please stay here with me.”

  “I must go back, Lida,” he said, a touch of impatience in his voice. “My father is waiting for me.”

  With that, Luka tossed his rucksack into the back of the truck and climbed in under the canvas.

  The other three joined Luka, and the officer got into the driver’s seat and sped off. I walked out onto the street with Pani Zemluk at my side and watched them go, listening to the refrains of the Soviet national anthem from the back of the truck. When they were out of sight, Pani Zemluk loosened her grip on my shoulder.

  “Never tell the Soviets who you really are.”

  I pointed to the fluttering bits of paper on the convent pillar. “Each of those gives a name and where the person is from.”

  Pani Zemluk nodded. “And the Soviets check those regularly.”

  I had much to think about as I walked back through the gates of the refugee camp. Luka was gone and I was all alone. I prayed that he would be all right, and I hoped that I had made the right decision in staying.

  I passed a group of small children who were playing tag, screaming delightedly at each other as they darted through the legs of older refugees. No one seemed to mind. The sight of happy children had been all too rare these past years. Seeing those smiles made me think of Larissa. What would she be doing right now? If that really had been her in that car outside the bomb factory, she wouldn’t be in a refugee camp. She would never put her name on a fluttering piece of paper. Wherever she was, I hoped she was safe.

  I got my tin cup, spoon and bowl from my sleeping area and stood at the end of a snaking lineup of people who were waiting for breakfast. Each morning as I did this, it made me think of eating that horrible sawdust bread and coloured water for months on end. The food at this refugee camp was not tasty, but I never co
mplained. It filled my stomach better than sawdust and turnip ever did.

  In the weeks that I had been at the camp, hundreds more homeless people had poured in, yet the Americans had somehow provided food, and they scraped together bedding and soap as best they could. As I looked at the long column of people ahead of me, I noticed the ingenious variety of clothing that people had been able to patch together for themselves. A young girl up ahead wore the red of a Nazi flag as a kerchief for her hair and the man in front of me had patched his shirt with a paper memo about typhus. The woman behind me had woven a pair of sandals out of old newspapers. Many people wore remnants of Nazi uniforms — a jacket with the sleeves cut off, or trousers rolled up. But even with the insignia ripped off, the sight of that clothing sickened me.

  When it was finally my turn for breakfast, I held up my bowl to the tired looking American private with a sheen of sweat on his brow. He dipped his ladle into the giant vat and swirled it. I watched as he filled my bowl to the brim with yet another bowl of thick pea soup. People who had been at this camp for a while hated this pea soup and had nicknamed it the green horror, but I could eat it every day and not complain. Anything but turnip. I carefully balanced my bowl and looked for a quiet place to eat. I ended up going back to the barn, wishing that Luka was with me. I sat down on the ground, leaning against the barn wall. From this vantage point, I could watch the activity of the refugee camp, but I was by myself. I dipped my spoon into the hot green mush and brought the first spoonful to my lips. I savoured every drop, closing my eyes and letting the thickness of the soup cover my tongue and coat my teeth before slowly swallowing it down. It felt so good to be filling my stomach with real food.

  “Lida, can that possibly be you?”

  I was jolted out of my reveries and nearly dropped my bowl. My eyes flew open. There stood a girl just a bit older than me. Her hair was blond and silky clean and her cheeks were pink with a touch of sun. The voice was familiar, and the patch of dark blue flannel on her threadbare dress meant that she had been in Barracks 7 at the work camp. All at once I realized who it was.