It didn’t matter, and I didn’t have the time to think it over. I pressed north in the darkness, heart pounding in my ears. Branches snapped and tore at my skin. Leaves crunched. German orders came faster, closer.
The foliage opened up, and I found myself at the edge of the Don. Sadly, I could only make out the first few meters of water from the shore. Darkness swallowed the rest. I had no idea whether or not it was a hundred meters across or five. I’d grown up in Tula and became a strong swimmer thanks to the Upa River, but my usual confidence at being in the water faltered as I worried my leg would betray me halfway across the Don and send me to a watery grave.
“Hier! Hier!”
It seemed as if they were shouting in my ear. I limped into the cool water and swam. The current pushed me and stung my hands, arms, and neck. My right foot became dead and useless to kick with. Water filled my leather jacket, dragging me down. I knew I couldn’t swim much longer with it on, so I took a deep breath, let myself go under, and pulled the jacket off.
The jacket slipped from my arms with little effort, but returning to the surface was harder than I anticipated. My water-logged boots, like the jacket, gave me trouble. My left boot came off after a brief struggle with the laces. The right was nearly impossible to remove due to the agony racing up my leg every time I moved it. It took three submerged attempts to pull it off. When I finally succeeded, I shot to the surface like a champagne cork free from its bottle.
“Thank God,” I said, feeling hopeful despite my injuries and predicament. “If you can get to the other side, Nadya, you’ll be safe.”
I found my spirit bolstered when I talked to myself. It was as if I weren’t alone and someone with me knew things would be okay if I mustered the tenacity to carry on. I managed to pull myself across the Don with nothing to guide me but the stars above. I didn’t know how far the current had pulled me once I reached the north bank, but I couldn’t have cared less. I was out of the water and exhausted.
With my last bit of strength, I limped up the bank and into a tree line before collapsing on the ground. At least now when morning came, I told myself, the Germans wouldn’t be able to see me from the other side. As vulnerable as I was, I cracked a smile as I thought about how frustrated the fascists must be to have been right on top of me only to lose my trail at the last second.
I lay for what must have been hours, too tired to move, too pained to sleep. I wondered what Klara was doing, thinking. She had to know by now her plane and her pilot were missing. She’d be worried—no, scared—for me I’m sure, and I wondered how much she’d hug me when I got back. I wondered how hard I’d hug her in return.
When I finally passed out to the distant thundering of artillery, I dreamed of scalpels filleting my hands and vices crushing my feet. At the edge of those nightmares, I was vaguely aware of voices closing in and looking for a downed pilot.
I woke and squinted at the mid-morning sun. I raised my hand to shield my eyes. That moment was the first time I could clearly see my injuries. The skin had peeled from my hands. Blisters raised across my swollen and red palms. Each hand had a small patch of skin that was charred and leathery as if they’d found the hot end of a blow torch and played a game of catch the flame. As ugly as they were, I hoped that in ten years the scars that would form would tell a story of courage and perseverance. But given the horrific agony racing through those wounds, I had half a mind to find a way to make a clean chop at the wrists. That had to be less painful that what I was currently enduring.
My dry tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and my heart pounded against my ribcage as I started to panic over the severity of my wounds. Infection could kill as easily as any bullet, and there was no telling what I’d picked up on the way. I toyed with the idea of risking a wash back at the river, but with the Germans still in the area, I guessed I’d be shot in short order. Thus, I had to find water elsewhere. Sadly, I had difficulty remembering the maps of the area.
It took me a good five minutes to slow my breath and calm my mind enough to think clearly. I had a feeling that there was a small village to the northeast, so I limped in that direction. With a bit of luck, I could get some alcohol to clean my wounds and then stuff my face with food. On top of everything else, my stomach was gnawing on itself. At least I was safe from German infantry. They were headed to Stalingrad and wouldn’t be on this side of the Don.
The uneven terrain made for slow progress throughout the morning. Rocks dug into the tender soles of my feet, and I stopped often to let the pain in my ankle subside. My hands still tormented me, but I found a way to hold them at my side I could suffer through. To keep my mind off my wounds, possible infection, and a painful death, I imagined a crystal-clear pond waiting for me at the end of my journey. The thought of letting my matted hair soak and watching the dirt wash away soothed my soul like a cool summer’s breeze. I even smiled, more so when I added all the grapes I could eat to the fantasy.
By noon, my thoughts muddled and my breath turned raspy. I needed something to drink. My burns must have caused dehydration to set in, and the sun wasn’t helping. I wanted to rest, but knew I couldn’t. So I willed myself forward, one step at a time.
I turned to song for added relief. Song had been with me for twenty years of my life. My parents had sung to me when I needed it the most as a child, and now I would sing to myself for that same reason.
The piece I chose was “Snow, the time has come.” Father used to say some people erroneously called it, “Snow, enough of you,” and thinking about that made me laugh. I settled on that piece because it was one every Cossack knew by heart, one sung before battle, and one that strengthened the bonds of family.
I started the song slow, working the bottom of my register as the words stirred my soul. By the second verse, I imagined a chorus of brothers and sisters in arms traveling with me, each with their own burdens to carry, each one lending their own voice. When I reached the end of the first stanza, pride and energy coursed through my veins.
I ignored the scratchiness in my throat and sang on. Two stanzas. Three. The words came faster, stronger, as did my steps. I sang of life as a Cossack, of carrying on without fear and worry. I sang of dark woods and foreign lands. I sang of parents, family, and wine. I sang with all of my heart, teary eyed and broken, but not defeated.
I stepped onto a dirt road and took several steps across it before realizing its significance. This would lead to somewhere with people, with help. Maybe even to a friendly baker who had a plate full of turnovers and a pint of fresh milk in miraculous anticipation of my arrival. He’d also double as an excellent physician that could patch me up in no time.
I dropped to my knees to give a thankful prayer and rest my weary body.
A vehicle skidded by, clipping my left side. I spun to the ground. The back of my head struck hard, and my vision exploded in an array of colorful lights.
Shadowy forms loomed over me against a blown-out sky. Their words were muffled in my ears. I tried to sit up, but their firm hands kept me on the ground.
“I need to get to Anisovka,” I said, my voice weaker than a chick’s first attempt at flight. “And I need a bath.”
The voices replied, but they were less intelligible than before. Pressure tightened under my shoulders, and my knees were lifted in the air. My surroundings became meaningless shapes of color and motion before I slipped into blissful unconsciousness.