He remembered how she’d stood up to the gestapo in the cave. How fiercely she had stood. How proudly. She had bought time for the rest of the group, a collection of ragged strangers she adopted as her family. He remembered the look in the major’s eyes. The force of her will had taken him aback. It was inconceivable to him that an old woman was not afraid of him or his soldiers or his guns.
It was the major who had been afraid. Later, when Bubbe told him that Germany was losing the war, Anton had seen his fear again.
Is Bubbe right? he thought. Is that why the major was so scared? Could this long and deadly war truly be coming to an end? And does that mean I might finally learn what has become of Papa?
His thoughts were interrupted by the return of his uncle and Herman. They carried two saplings with a cloth blanket wrapped around them—a makeshift stretcher.
“Hop aboard,” Dmitri told his mother.
“I will not,” Bubbe said.
“Mother, there is no time,” Dmitri said.
“I am fully capable of walking,” she insisted.
“Bubbe,” Anton said. “Please. Uncle Dmitri is right. We have a great distance to travel. We cannot delay. It will be daylight soon. For so long you have carried us, Bubbe. Let us carry you.”
Bubbe put her hands on Anton’s cheeks. She brushed back the hair from his forehead and smiled.
“Your father was always able to talk me into things I did not wish to do. But I will not put all of you in danger. Help your bubbe into this contraption. And tell your uncle if he drops me, he will regret it. He is not too big to spank.”
“The uncle is standing right here,” Dmitri said, chuckling.
“Yes, you are, but you never listen. Anton is a good boy. He pays attention.”
Herman and Dmitri held the stretcher at each end and Anton helped Bubbe settle into it. The men carried her through the trees, and though it was harder to navigate with the long stretcher, they were making much better time. After a while, Anton glanced down at Bubbe to find that she had gone to sleep.
The sky was beginning to lighten in the east.
“How much further, Uncle Dmitri?” Anton asked.
“Another kilometer, but we will have to cross the river again,” he said.
Dmitri had already found a shallow spot. He and Herman carried Bubbe across the river without her waking. Anton followed along and soon they were on the other side.
Before long, the trees thinned out. They came to a grassy meadow. There was a large circular depression in the middle of it that reminded Anton of the cave they had hidden in. Herman and Dmitri carried Bubbe to an area in the center where three large boulders thrust up out of the ground.
“Muter,” Dmitri whispered. “We are here.”
She awoke slowly, and Anton helped her off the stretcher. “Already?” she asked.
“Yes, Muter. This is it. The Priest’s Grotto. Come, the entrance is well hidden.” Herman tossed the saplings aside and gathered up the blanket. Dmitri led them to a spot between the three boulders. He pulled back a small hatch that had been covered with twigs and branches for camouflage. He lifted the hatch and flipped on his flashlight. They made their way down a gently sloping passageway until the slope steepened and they had to take hold of a rope that had been strung along the tunnel to keep their footing. A few meters later, the ground leveled out again and opened into a large chamber. The Priest’s Grotto was far bigger than the previous cave they had lived in. Inside they were reunited with old friends and met the new families. They had created a kitchen space, and some areas had been made into sleeping quarters.
“One of the tunnels leads to an underground lake,” Dmitri said, pointing to a passageway. “There is plenty of fresh water. No need to risk going out at night to gather it. If we can build up our food stores, we will scarcely need to venture outside at all.”
Anton looked around and took it all in. They had survived. His family felt almost whole again. And for now, this would be their home.
Captain Karl Von Duesen sat at his desk at gestapo headquarters in Borta as a clerk dropped another stack of intelligence reports in front of him. He sighed. He took the top folder off the pile, opened it, and started reading. It was a boring, poorly written after-action report of a skirmish between an SS armored column and a partisan militia. There was nothing useful in it. He stamped it as “read,” signed his initials, and closed the folder, placing it on the to-be-filed stack.
His grand plan had backfired. When he killed the prisoners he was supposed to be transporting and commandeered the truck, he’d thought he’d found a way to fix all his problems. If he could just recover the Juden he’d lost, General Steuben would see his ambition and tenacity and be impressed. But he’d scoured the countryside for weeks looking for the fugitives, and had not found them. When he returned he was demoted to captain, given three months in the brig, and after his release, assigned a desk job. He hated it.
General Steuben had informed him that he was lucky to have avoided a court-martial. Von Duesen could not fathom the logic of it. He had simply executed Jews, something the Nazis did all the time with impunity. These were not important people. They were not military prisoners who could reveal strategic information. They were barely more than animals. He had saved the Reich the time and money it would have taken to provide care for them.
But gestapo leadership did not view it that way. General Steuben had berated him for the damage he had done to the Nazi cause. When word of such incidents got out, the German cause suffered. Collaborators became less trusting of the gestapo, and sometimes stopped cooperating. And it became more difficult to reach the führer’s goal of making Ukraine Judenfrei. Once the Russians and Americans were defeated, Ukraine would become an important agricultural center for the new Reich. It would be the breadbasket of the Aryan nation. When German families and farmers were moved into the formerly Ukrainian territory, the cooperation of the people would be essential for a peaceful transition. Von Duesen’s actions had made such cooperation much more difficult.
But Karl cared for none of that. For the last year and half he had used his newly assigned duties to search for the old woman who had caused his professional demise. He had spent countless off-duty hours combing the countryside, looking for any sign of the two of them or any group they might have traveled with. In truth, he did not have much to go on. The description he gave to the villagers and farmers he met was vague. An old woman dressed like a peasant, using a walking stick. A young boy about twelve years old, his face covered in mud and grime, also dressed like a peasant. It fit the description of hundreds of people in the surrounding area.
He had even gone to the old cave where the Juden had first been captured. He had combed every nook and cranny of it himself. It had taken hours and hours. He hoped they might have left behind some clue to where they would go next. Perhaps a note or a hand-drawn map. But his search had proved fruitless. There was nothing left in the cave but a few cooking utensils, articles of clothing, and children’s playthings.
Now he was stuck. And the worst part of it was, as much as he hated—refused—to believe it, the war was not going well for the Reich. Italy was lost. The cowardly Italian army and government had folded like a cheap tent the moment the Americans showed up on their soil. They had surrendered and left the heavy fighting to the German troops. Yet the führer had no choice but to try to force them back—he could not allow an attack on Germany from the south.
And somehow, despite the fierce resistance of the Reich’s finest soldiers, the Americans had invaded Western Europe. Landing on the beaches of France, they were now pushing the Reich back to the homeland. They had already retaken Paris, forcing the mighty German army to turn tail and retreat.
In the east, the news was perhaps worst of all. The Russian dogs refused to die. After the vicious battles of the previous two years, they had licked their wounds and regrouped. Now they were on the march, pushing ever westward. It was as if the Americans and Russians were in a race to rea
ch Berlin. If something did not change soon, the Reich would perish. How had things gone so wrong so quickly?
Karl could not bring himself to care. Just a short while ago, he was a major in the gestapo. He wore his uniform with a fervor that flowed from his very pores. He had done everything he was supposed to: joining the Hitler Youth, graduating from college, and rising through the ranks of the gestapo. All because he believed in the invincibility of the German army and the führer’s plan. But ever since that Jewish child and tired, old woman had escaped his grasp, his fervor had turned to bitterness. Peasants had humiliated him. Things had gone inexplicably wrong. If only he could find the brat and the old bat. He would take their throats in his hands and choke the life out of them if it would somehow set everything right again.
He pulled another file off the stack and opened it, glancing down but hardly paying attention. The reports were so boring they made his eyes water, and oftentimes he had to fight the urge to fall asleep. Especially on a day after he had been on one of his off-duty excursions.
Just as he was about to skip to the bottom and give the report its official stamp, a sentence caught his eye. He sat up straight at his desk. “Informant reports a merchant near the village of Holsta who trades supplies with two men who are believed to be sympathizers. After questioning, the merchant admits the men will bring him scrap metal at night in exchange for milk, flour, and other staples. He has tried to learn their whereabouts with no success. The men trade for far more than they need. Informant suspects large group of Juden hiding somewhere nearby.”
A pair of Jews coming out of the shadows to gather large quantities of supplies. It was a lead. The first that Captain Von Duesen had found in months. It might be nothing. But the report came from the same area where his group of Juden had first been captured. Perhaps these Jews would know where the boy and the old woman were. He hoped they had not died. He wanted to be the one to kill them.
Von Duesen took the report and stuffed it inside his coat. He had a map of the area in his desk drawer, so he grabbed that, too. And because none of the other officers were paying attention to what he was doing, he stuffed a few extra clips of ammunition for his Luger in his pockets.
He left headquarters and hurried down the street to the motor pool, where he signed out a truck. The sergeant in charge made no notice of his request. Von Duesen fueled it up and headed north.
He would find these Jews, and he would kill them. Or he would die trying.
Before this had happened, he would never have disobeyed orders, would never have taken such rash action. He always did what he was told in support of the führer.
But now, the fate of the führer no longer mattered. All Karl cared about was revenge.
The Priest’s Grotto felt much safer to Anton than the other cave they had hidden in. At least at first. For one thing, it was enormous. The cave’s passages went on for many kilometers. The most important feature, though, was the underground lake that kept them fully supplied with water.
His uncle Dmitri explained to him that this cave was composed primarily of gypsum instead of limestone. Both of them were soft minerals, which meant that for thousands of years water had worked its way through the ground to carve out the nooks and crannies they now lived in. The gypsum was soft enough to work with. They carved benches, stools, and even tables from the rock. All in all, it was a good place to be trapped.
But the elders reminded them every day that they were still in grave danger. The women and children did not leave the cave under any circumstances. Dmitri and the other men would go foraging only when supplies ran low.
The whole community did their best to make life in the cave as normal as possible. Bubbe and the other women did everything they could to keep their traditions alive. They observed the Sabbath, and feasted on whatever they had available. It was tough to keep kosher, but Bubbe promised that God would forgive them.
The days passed slowly. Weeks turned into months, and still they remained hidden. Eventually, Anton went out with Dmitri on supply runs. Bubbe argued against it, of course, but Dmitri convinced her that he and the other men could use an extra pair of hands.
Anton became adept at locating vegetable gardens. They would take just enough to keep the farmers from noticing that any of their crops were missing. He helped gather winter wheat, which the women in the cave ground into flour. But potatoes were his specialty. Anton developed a sixth sense for looting potato fields. Hanukkah came that winter, and everyone in the cave agreed that his bubbe made the best latkes. It was a good thing, too—often there was nothing else to eat.
Though there were no candles to light or presents to exchange, Anton helped the littlest children make dreidels out of wood. He wished his friend Daniel were there to charm them with his gentle, teasing smiles. Anton did not know where Daniel could be—Dmitri had not seen him since the ambush. Anton hoped that his friend had found another safe place to hide from the Nazis. He refused to believe Daniel had been captured. Every day Anton waited for his friend to appear. Occasionally, newcomers would arrive at the cave and the community would take them in. But none of them ever turned out to be Daniel.
In the spring, they observed Passover. Bubbe had the small ones sweep away the dirt on the cavern floor, while the women washed the dishes and cooked a fine meal. They ate heartily that first evening. On a supply run, Dmitri had even managed to trade for two bottles of wine. They poured a glass for the prophet Elijah, and thanked God for all of the many blessings they were grateful for.
We are still alive, thought Anton. Whatever else may happen, at least I can be thankful for that.
It was difficult to find out news of the war. Once, Dmitri managed to bring home a three-month-old French newspaper. No one could read it, but there were pictures of American soldiers in the streets of Paris. This brought cheers and a celebratory dinner for the group that night. The Americans were pushing the Germans back, but the Germans counterattacked. The Russians were moving west, but the Luftwaffe, the German air force, kept them from making any real progress. No one knew what to believe.
One night, while Anton and Dmitri were returning from a foraging trip, a niggling thought itched at the back of Anton’s mind. He knew they needed to hurry—they had gone farther from the cave than usual and it would be daylight soon—but he could not seem to ignore it.
“Uncle Dmitri, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, nephew,” Dmitri answered.
“Do you suppose something happened to Daniel?” He paused. “Something bad?”
“No, I do not.”
“Why?”
“Because I have faith.”
“Why?” Anton repeated.
“You must always trust in God, Anton,” his uncle said softly. Dmitri could sense that something was troubling Anton.
“What about Rina and her child? Didn’t they have faith?”
“Rina was a devout woman. I am sure she believed that God would watch over her.”
“And yet she and her son are dead.”
“This is a conversation for a rabbi, which I am not. Faith is belief in things we cannot know or see. Things we are not meant to understand. It is a belief that God has a plan. What happened to Rina and her son was tragic. I cannot explain to you why it happened. But you must pray for them. And for God to guide you—to guide us. I’m sorry, Anton. Sorry for all of this. That we live in a cave like animals. That we must scrounge for food like rats. You should be enjoying your childhood. Of all of us, sometimes I feel it is you who has lost the most. You were so young when your mother died.” Dmitri sighed. “As I said, God’s plan is God’s plan. We do as he commands us. The rest … I’m sorry … I have no words.”
They walked on in silence, but a cacophony of questions pinged around Anton’s head. All day long and into the night, he had felt uneasy, as if something was about to happen. He could not rid himself of the feelings.
“Do you think my father is alive?”
He heard his uncle breathe in
sharply.
They walked on for a while before Dmitri answered. “I do not know. I am being truthful with you. I truly do not know. But I fear he may not be.”
“Why?” Anton felt his chest tighten.
“You were too young to remember. Or perhaps Bubbe kept it from you. Your father enlisted in the Polish cavalry in July 1939. But the Poles did not have tanks like we think of when we hear the word cavalry today. Their cavalry was made up of men on horseback. The Germans attacked Poland that September. And the Germans did have tanks. And artillery and an infantry. The Germans’ assault was swift and vicious. They called the style blitzkrieg. It means ‘lightning war.’ The Polish army was nearly destroyed. Those who were not captured were killed. So I do not know what has become of your father. If he survived, he could still be alive. Perhaps he is a prisoner of war. But if I know my brother, he would not cower or run away from a fight no matter the odds. If ever there were a man who would take on a Panzer tank with nothing more than a horse and a sword, it would be my brother Nikolai. I wish I could give you an answer. All we can hope for is to learn his fate once this terrible war has ended. I’m sorry. I know it is not what you wished to hear. Now we must hurry. Light is coming and we must be in the cave before the sun comes up. There are German troops still about.”
On they walked through the woods, the light growing brighter in the east. As they crept closer to the cave’s entrance, the uneasy feeling Anton had not been able to shake grew stronger.
Suddenly, Anton heard shouting in the distance. The screams of his friends—no, his family—filled his ears. Sergei Serniov. Eva Birnbaum. Little Lena Weiss. Anton and Dmitri dropped their sacks of food and ran.
Something was very wrong. Their people always whispered. They would only be shouting if they had been ambushed. Then came the sound Anton prayed he wouldn’t hear. His bubbe’s voice.
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