“It’s not the farmer I’m worried about,” Maurice muttered, but the wife was standing with an armload of blankets. The farmer had opened the door and was gesturing them out.
Mykhailo was first out the door, and Maurice had to carry out his rifle for him. The farmer led them across the darkening field and into the neatest, cleanest barn Maurice had ever seen. Inside, he lit a small gas lantern and led them up a slanting ladder, carefully balancing the blankets.
Mykhailo followed him into the loft. Maurice let the farmer’s wife carry a basket of food up to the loft, and then checked outside the barn before climbing after them.
He found Mykhailo was pushing straw together to make a bed. He spread a blanket over it. The farmer gave him a bottle of wine. Myko pulled out the cork and guzzled. The farmer’s wife put the basket of food down on the loft floor and disappeared down the ladder-stairs.
“Stay, my friend,” said the farmer, and Maurice could see he was tipsy, too. “You’ll be safe.” Then he followed his wife.
There was a square door about chest-high in the front of the loft, for loading hay. Maurice pushed it open and watched the farmer and his wife cross the yard to their house. They both turned on the doorstep and looked up at the barn. The farmer waved to him as his wife went into the house. Feeling foolish and uneasy, Maurice waved back as the farmer went into his house.
At least, the loft is warm and dry. It was early for going to bed, but he felt weary from months of marching and fighting. Lice crawled through his clothes and his hair and he knew he stank. It would be a shame to lay my dirty body down in such a clean house as that.
He looked in the basket: half a loaf of rye bread and another half-full bottle of wine. Mykhailo was busy downing his half-bottle. Maurice took one of the blankets and spread it over some straw near the door. He settled down to keep watch, although the east-facing door did not give him a broad field of vision.
“I’ll take first watch,” he said. Mykhailo muttered something and within minutes filled the loft with snoring.
It was a clear night. Maurice watched the stars come to life over the farm and wondered what time it was. The Red Army issued watches only to officers. How long should I wait till I wake Mykhailo? Too soon and he’ll still be drunk. But I have to wake him before I fall asleep.
Loud banging startled him, and he sat up with a shock when he saw the sunlight streaming into the open loft door. The banging came again, accompanied by voices shouting—in Russian. He peeked out the door, careful to stay hidden, and saw four uniformed men at the door of the farmhouse. A truck with Red Army stars on it was parked in front of the house, two Red Army riflemen at the ready beside it.
One of the men at the house bashed on the door with the butt of his rifle again, and shock froze Maurice’s body when he saw the red stripe around the officer’s cap.
NKVD. The security police.
He heard the door splinter and then saw it swing inward. The three soldiers pushed their way in. The officer reached in and pulled the farmer out. “Who’s inside?” he barked in Russian, the repeated himself in crude, Russian-accented German.
“Just my wife and daughters,” the farmer whined, his voice shaking. The Russian officer pushed him, and he fell off the steps. The NKVD officer drew his sidearm. “Honestly, Herr Commandant,” the farmer whined from his hands and knees. “There is no one here but my family.”
“Have you seen any Soviet soldiers lingering around here?”
Maurice could feel his heart pounding in his throat. Please.
“Nein, Herr Commandant,” the farmer said. “No Russian soldiers stopped here until you came. Yesterday, troops marched past, tanks and trucks, too. But no one stopped here.”
Maurice could hear the soldiers searching: crashing, breaking glass and crockery. When the soldiers came out, each carried something: food, a coat, a pair of high leather boots.
“Search the barn,” the officer ordered. Maurice shook Mykhailo and covered his mouth. Then he buried them both in straw and held his breath as the soldiers tramped through the building. He listened as they pushed the cattle out below. He imagined some of the sounds were bayonets stabbing into piles of straw in the stalls.
After what felt like hours, he heard one say “There’s no one here, comrade commissar. Just a few cows and some chickens, sir.”
“Take the chickens,” the commissar said. Maurice heard more tramping and crashing, followed by the roar of the truck. Still, he waited.
“Maurice?” The straw muffled Mykhailo’s voice. “Think it’s safe to come out?”
“Shut up,” he whispered, and waited longer.
He heard the barn door open and close, then steps on the ladder. “Soldiers?” came the farmer’s voice. Maurice pushed straw away from his face to see the farmer’s head poking above the opening in the loft floor. “They’re gone. It’s safe, now. You had better go.”
Maurice stood, straw falling off him. He kicked Mykhailo, gently, under the straw. He got up, too, looking bemused. “Please, go as fast as you can. I don’t want this kind of trouble. In fact, avoiding it is exactly why I let you stay here.”
“You let us stay here because you are afraid of us,” Maurice said. He picked up his rifle from under the straw, slung it over his shoulder, picked up the basket with the bread and wine and climbed down out of the loft. He heard Mykhailo follow him.
On the ground floor of the barn, the farmer sadly surveyed the mess left by the soldiers. All the stalls were open and empty. Straw was strewn across the once neat floor, and the tools, once hung so precisely, lay everywhere. Several were broken on the floor. “I’m sorry,” Maurice said.
The farmer shrugged. “They would have done this whether you were here or not,” he said. “Now please, go.”
The two Red Army soldiers made sure their uniforms were as straight as they could be. Maurice drained the last of the wine as they walked westward from the farm. He broke the remaining bread and gave half to Mykhailo, who pointed to another marching unit of Red Army men. They hustled to catch up and blended in. No one asked where they had come from. They just continued toward Berlin.
The Red Army never minds anyone joining, but they’re murderously jealous when anyone tries to leave.
Berlin
April 1945
The Canadians, British, Americans and French had liberated France and driven the Germans against the Rhine, crossing the river in March 1945. The Canadians, with British and free Polish and The Canadians, British, Americans and French had liberated France and driven the Germans against the Rhine, crossing the river in March 1945. The Canadians, with British and free Polish and Czechoslovakian units, spent April fighting to liberate the Netherlands.
Königsberg fell in April and the Soviet armies in Germany pushed farther west. They paused on the eastern side of the Oder River for over a month, waiting for their supply lines to catch up. In a desperate attempt to hold the Soviets back, the Germans released the water from an upstream reservoir, turning the Oder’s flood plain into a swamp.
To the south, other Soviet army fronts smashed through Hungary, Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia. They conquered Vienna by mid-April and drove toward Bavaria.
To the west, the Americans encircled Field Marshal Model’s Army Group B, taking 300,000 prisoners, and reached the Elbe River by mid-April. They decided not to push farther east, since according to the agreements among the Allies, Eastern Germany would be occupied by the Soviets. Instead, the French and American forces pushed into Bavaria, taking Munich and even reaching Czechoslovakia. The Americans and Soviets met at the banks of the Elbe by the end of April.