Free Underground Soldier by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch Page A

to take us?”
    I think of Dido and all of the others in the graves, the explosions and fires, the clouds of black smoke hanging above. Deep down, I want David to stay, but I know that is selfish. If he and his mother can get to safety, they have to take the chance.
    “Do you think anyplace could possibly be worse than here?” I ask him.
    “They will probably send us to a work camp,” says David.
    Mama helps Mrs. Kagan sort through her meagre possessions. Each traveller is only allowed a single suitcase.
    “Photographs,” says Mrs. Kagan, slowly turning the pages in a worn family album and stopping somewhere around the middle. “These are more precious than food.” She takes one out and turns it for us to see — a formal wedding shot of a hopeful-looking woman with serious eyes. Behind her stands Mr. Kagan — not looking much different than the last time I saw him, just younger.
    She takes out a picture of David that makes me smile. He must have been about two, with curly hair like a girl.
    “Of all the photographs you’ve got of me, you’re keeping that one?” David asks, his face pink.
    “You were a beautiful child,” says his mother. “So innocent. Quit complaining.”
    Mama sorts through our shared pantry and divides out what little we have left — cracker bread, some apples, a few onions. “Take these,” she says. “Who knows when you’ll be fed.”
    The next morning Mama and I walk with David and Mrs. Kagan to the train station. “I don’t understand why the Soviets set off all those explosions,” Mama says. “Surely they knew that the Nazis would blame the Jews.”
    “No matter what happens, we are always blamed,” replies Mrs. Kagan bitterly.
    It makes me angry to hear her say that, but it’s true. The Soviets did this, and now the Nazis. Some things never change.
    David wears his winter coat over his best suit, as well as three pairs of socks and two shirts. His mother also wears her heaviest coat, plus a sweater, three skirts, two scarves and fur-lined boots that belonged to Mr. Kagan .
    The street fills with people — some pushing wheelbarrows, others carrying awkward boxes on their backs. Two men carry a stretcher that holds an elderly rabbi. It isn’t just Jews who come out. Friends and non-Jewish family walk alongside.
    “I don’t know why the Jews are the only ones to get evacuated,” says a squat woman with a cane as she hobbles beside us. “Why are they so special? I’m going to see if they’ll let me on the train as well — I don’t know how much more I can take, breathing in this smoke.”
    We walk down Melnikov Street with crowds of other people, watching the soldiers lining the road. Some hold clubs; others rifles. A few hold back fierce-looking dogs. “We’re doing as they asked,” says David. “I don’t see why they have to be out in such force.”
    I do a double take when I see, close to the end of the row of soldiers, a face that is etched in my mind. Sasha, the Soviet NKVD who took Tato away — now in a Nazi uniform. Beside him stands Misha, yet another former NKVD thug. I tug on Mama’s sleeve and motion with my eyes.
    She nods. “Bullies are all the same, no matter what uniform they wear,” she says. “I recognize a few former Soviets who relished tormenting us then, and now they just do it in another uniform.”
    Suddenly a block of German soldiers stands in our way. “Papers,” says one, reaching out his free hand. The other restrains a German shepherd. Behind the soldiers, a line of trucks idles, stacked high with suitcases, boxes and bags.
    All four of us hold out our identification papers. “You two,” he says to David and Mrs. Kagan. “Put your luggage on one of the trucks, then go through.”
    He turns to me and Mama. “No farther. Go home now.”
    I hold my hand out to David and give it a firm shake. “Good luck,” I say.
    David’s eyes look sad but he pastes a brave smile onto his face. “Don’t forget me, Luka,” he