Underground Soldier by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

in front of it, holding over the flames a sausage on a stick.
    Here I was, trying hard to hide, and these two soldiers were so oblivious to the dangers of the forest that they were out in the open, roasting meat. What could it possibly mean? Did they feel immune to danger because they had guns? Or maybe they were part of a bigger group combing the woods for escapees like me?
    The water that I had gulped down now felt like it was coming up. I had to get away. I slid down so they wouldn’t be able to see the top of my head. I’d have to wait here until they finished their meal and left, but what if there were others? I would surely be caught.
    Just then a twig snapped. Suddenly a girl about my age appeared out of the brush near the embankment. Her face was smudged with soot and on her feet were old-fashioned postoly — soft handmade leather slippers — over thick wool leggings. Her ragged clothing blended in with the muddy bank. She held two halves of a broken twig up for me to see — she’d snapped it on purpose to get my attention. She put one finger to her lips for silence, but there was a smile in her eyes.
    Keeping her gaze locked onto mine, she slowly flipped open a satchel that she wore across one shoulder and drew out my missing ration box. She grinned at my look of outrage, then stepped closer.
    She leaned against me as if we were friends, then quietly opened the ration box and took out two biscuits. She pressed one into my palm and nibbled on the corner of a second one.
    Wasn’t she afraid that the soldiers above us could hear her eating the biscuits? But if she was going to eat one, I would too. I could be as brave as her.
    I took a small bite and swallowed, trying to sort out just what was happening. Did the girl have something to do with the soldiers? Why would she steal from me, only to then share with me?
    The voices of the soldiers drifted down to us.
    “I don’t know how we got so far off track from the rest of them,” said one voice.
    “Never mind,” said the other. “They’ve likely headed back to the base.”
    “Shouldn’t we keep looking for runaways?”
    “There’s no one here,” the second man muttered. “We’ve been up and down this entire section.”
    I could hear stomping and twigs snapping — probably them putting out the fire — then footsteps all too close. “It’s so quiet here,” said the one soldier who had to be standing right above me. I plastered myself against the bank and held my breath.
    “Come, Willy, let’s go.”
    The voices and footsteps drifted away, but I stayed frozen in place, leaning against the embankment. The girl stayed still as well. After a few minutes she quietly reached into the box and drew out a second biscuit for each of us.
    As I chewed, she said in a voice that was low like the wind, “They’re gone.” The language she used sounded like heavily accented Ukrainian. Then she turned to me. “Now, who are you?”
    I glared at her. “None of your business.”
    “Where did you come from?” she asked.
    I didn’t like her questions, and her familiarity confused me. For all I knew, she was working with the Nazis. She could turn me in at any moment if she knew I had escaped from a slave-labour camp.
    When I didn’t answer right away, she said, “From your accent, I’d guess Kyiv, but you didn’t arrive in these woods directly from there, did you? What’s your story?”
    “What’s yours ?” I shot back. “Are you working with those soldiers?”
    “ With them? I just saved your life.”
    “All you’ve done is steal my food.”
    “Not so loud,” she whispered. “Let’s find a better place to talk.” She clambered up the roots and hoisted herself onto the forest floor, then waited while I did the same. “This way.”
    She climbed up into the very same fir tree that just moments before the soldier had leaned against. The campfire still smouldered in front of it. I stood there for a moment, watching as she scrambled up the tree,