I Survived the Nazi Invasion 1944 Page 3

  “But they’ll never find us,” Martin said defiantly.

  Their camp was tucked away on an island that rose up in the middle of a great swamp, Lev told them. Their sleeping huts were dug into the ground, the rooftops covered with dirt and grass. They’d built a bridge of fallen trees that led across the swamp to the island. But they’d sunk the bridge down under a few inches of water so that nobody could see it.

  “It sounds like a movie,” Max said, turning to smile at Zena.

  But Zena stared at the ground, and suddenly Max realized something was very wrong with her.

  Her face was twisted in pain, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “What is it?” Max said, barely hiding his panic. Aunt Hannah stopped, too.

  Was Zena sick?

  Diseases were everywhere in the ghetto — coughs that turned people to skeletons, burning fevers that wiped out whole families in days.

  “It’s my toe,” Zena admitted finally.

  It had to be bad to make Zena cry.

  They found a fallen tree and sat Zena down. Everyone huddled around as Aunt Hannah knelt down and gently removed Zena’s boot.

  Zena gritted her teeth as Aunt Hannah peeled away her blood-soaked sock. Max’s stomach lurched at the sight of her big toe — the skin was torn away, the nail almost completely ripped off.

  Aunt Hannah didn’t flinch.

  “It’s just that your boot is too small,” she said. “It’s not bad at all.”

  Lev nodded in agreement. “I’ve seen way worse.”

  Aunt Hannah stood up. “Look at this,” she said, lifting her pant leg. “Barbed wire,” she said, pointing at a purple, jagged scar. “We set fire to a bullet factory, and I got caught on our way out.”

  Max cringed.

  “Mine’s uglier,” Martin said, pushing up his sleeve. His forearm looked as if it had been torn open and sewn back together by a three-year-old.

  “Grenade,” he said proudly. “Went off a little too soon.”

  “Show them your scar, Lev,” Aunt Hannah said daringly.

  Martin leaned forward and whispered loudly to Zena.

  “Lev got shot in the rear end,” he said with a laugh.

  “Hey,” Lev said with a frown that looked only half serious. “That’s supposed to be my secret.”

  They all laughed, including Lev — and Zena.

  Aunt Hannah opened her canteen and poured some water over Zena’s toe. Lev took his knife and cut open the toe of Zena’s boot, turning it into a sandal.

  Zena slipped it on, and stood up.

  “Better,” she said with relief.

  And on they marched.

  The swamp was just coming into view when Martin suddenly stopped short.

  “What?” Lev asked.

  Martin looked around, his rifle raised.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked.

  And then Max heard it, too, a faint buzzing sound.

  But it wasn’t coming from inside the forest.

  It was coming from above.

  Max looked up, his heart hammering.

  The buzzing got louder and louder, until it turned into a roar.

  “Bombers!” Martin shouted.

  There was a whining sound, and then a massive explosion behind them.

  Kaboom!

  “It’s an attack!” Lev screamed. “The Nazis are bombing the forest!”

  Max dove into the dirt, pulling Zena down with him just as the forest seemed to erupt into flames.

  Kaboom!

  Kaboom!

  Kaboom!

  Branches flew through the air like fiery torches.

  Sparks rained down on them, burning through their clothes and sizzling against their skin.

  Max lay there, frozen with fear, holding Zena as tightly as he could.

  “Max!” she gasped. “You’re crushing me! I can’t breathe!”

  He loosened his grip, but not by much.

  The smoke stung his eyes and burned his lungs.

  The worst was the noise, the roaring of the planes, the whistling of the falling bombs, and then the thundering, bone-rattling explosions.

  Max could just barely see the planes through the cover of the trees.

  But from the sound he could tell they were Junkers, the Nazis’ most feared bombers. Max had seen them in the weeks after the invasion, streaking over Esties, low enough that he could see their pilots’ piercing eyes. Papa told him they were the fastest bombers in the Nazi fleet, with six machine guns. Each plane could carry thousands of pounds of bombs.

  “We can’t stay here!” Martin said. “We need to leave the forest!”

  “No!” Lev said. “That’s what they want us to do. I’m sure the Nazis have the forest surrounded now. They’re trying to flush us out so they can capture us as we try to escape.”

  “You’re right,” Aunt Hannah said. “First they will drop bombs. And then they will send in troops.”

  So this was just the beginning.

  “We need to get to the swamp,” Lev said. “We can hide in the grass. And then to the camp.”

  “What if they bomb the island, too?” Martin asked.

  The question hung in the air, and Lev had no answer.

  But Aunt Hannah spoke up, her eyes flashing.

  “The Nazis have no idea that island even exists,” she insisted. “The camp will be safe. And we will get there.”

  As usual, there was not a hint of doubt in her words.

  “Of course,” Lev said. “Let’s go!”

  They started running toward the swamp, but Zena’s cut-open boot made it hard for her to keep up. So Martin grabbed her arms and hoisted her up onto his back. She held on tight as he sprinted in the lead. Max followed at his heels, keeping his head low.

  The bombs kept falling, shaking the ground, sending needles of wood flying through the sky. They sliced right through their clothes. One hit Max on the face, barely an inch from his eye.

  But then Max could see the swamp. It was enormous, an endless sea of brown, soupy water. It was choked with grass and twisting trees. Max tried not to think of the slimy, poisonous creatures that lived there.

  But anything was better than bombs.

  Martin put Zena down, and she grabbed Max’s hand. Martin started to wade into the swamp.

  But seconds later, a plane swooped low over the trees.

  Kaboom!

  An invisible hand seemed to grab Max and hurl him into the air. Suddenly he was flying backward, his body twisting and turning.

  Until smack, he landed in a ditch.

  He sat there, stunned and dazed.

  Was he alive?

  He moved his arms and legs, blinked his eyes, and cleared his mind.

  Amazingly, he was not hurt.

  But then he heard a cracking sound.

  He looked up just in time to see a flaming tree crashing down on top of him.

  Max quickly flipped onto his stomach. He flattened himself against the ground, bracing for the crushing blow.

  The tree landed with a thunderous crash. The earth trembled. Dirt flew into Max’s eyes and nose.

  But the ditch was just deep enough so that Max was not smashed. The tree completely covered the ditch, but it had not hit him. It seemed that the fire was snuffed out when the tree fell.

  Now he was just trapped.

  He lay there, his drumming heart ready to burst from his chest.

  Above him, Max heard footsteps and voices frantically calling his name.

  He screamed for help, but his voice was a muffled whisper.

  He realized nobody could see him.

  And soon the voices faded, and he was alone.

  He tried pushing against the tree with his back.

  It didn’t budge.

  He remembered a few years ago, when there was a fierce thunderstorm in Esties. The lashing winds had knocked down dozens of trees. A branch from a giant oak had fallen in front of their house. It was only a branch, but Papa had needed the help of three other men to haul it
away.

  There was no way Max would be able to move the enormous tree.

  It was hopeless.

  Max lay in the ditch, facedown in the dirt.

  It seemed as though the earth was swallowing him up, that he would soon disappear forever.

  And for a split second, Max thought of just closing his eyes and letting the darkness take him.

  But a voice — his own — shouted at him.

  Get up!

  Of course he couldn’t just lie here and give in! He refused to let the Nazis beat him — at least not without a fight.

  He clenched his teeth and managed to inch himself onto his side.

  Somehow he had to find another way out of the ditch.

  He groped around with his fingers, until he found a rock. He gripped it in his hand. It was small, but sharp — perfect for digging.

  Max jammed the rock into the side of the ditch, scraping and digging, The work was agonizingly slow at first, and it was broiling hot. Sweat soaked his clothes and dripped into his eyes.

  But soon he had carved out a small space. He dug and dug, until he finally broke through to the surface. Fresh air poured in, cooling Max’s face and giving him a second wind.

  The dirt became looser, and Max dug more easily. He slipped the rock into his shirt pocket; he might need it later. Then he started grabbing the earth with his hands.

  And finally he had made a hole that looked just big enough to squirm through.

  He pushed with all of his might, worming himself under the tree. He ignored the splinters of wood that ripped into his skin.

  He crawled out, feeling as though he had escaped from his own grave.

  Max stood on wobbly legs, wiping the clumps of dirt from his ears and nose. His entire body ached; his fingertips were raw and bleeding.

  He had no idea how long he’d been in the ditch — he guessed an hour at least.

  He looked around, praying he’d see Zena and Aunt Hannah and Martin and Lev waiting for him.

  But he was alone.

  He looked out at the swamp. Had they gone there without him?

  No, Max decided. They wouldn’t leave him.

  At least the bombs had stopped falling, and the skies were quiet.

  But now Max heard a noise in the distance:

  Rat, tat, tat.

  Rat, tat, tat, tat.

  There was no mistaking it: machine-gun fire.

  The bombing was over.

  The Nazi troops were now marching through the forest.

  Max swallowed hard, gathering up his courage.

  It was all he could do to stop himself from diving back into his ditch. But if he had any hope of finding Zena and the others, he had to do it now. Already there must be soldiers in the forest. Soon they would be everywhere.

  He had no idea where to begin. He figured they wouldn’t have gone far from where they’d last been together. So he turned and started to walk.

  He focused his senses, scanning all around him the way Aunt Hannah and Lev and Martin did, checking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

  And then, up ahead, he made out the shapes of two men — Nazi soldiers.

  He turned to flee, but something made him pause.

  He ducked behind a tree and watched them. One of the men was walking with his pistol raised and aimed, as though he was a hunter stalking a deer.

  Max followed the man’s gaze….

  And there, crouched by a fallen tree, were Martin and Zena. They had their backs to the soldiers, with no idea they were in danger.

  Max looked around frantically.

  What could he do?

  And then he remembered the rock.

  He grabbed it from his pocket.

  “Hey!” he screamed.

  The soldiers turned and looked at Max.

  The man who had been aiming the gun was enormous. He looked Max up and down and sneered at him, the way Goliath must have first looked at David.

  That boiling rage Max had felt earlier came back to him, powering his muscles.

  He gripped the rock, and with all of his might, he hurled it at the sneering soldier’s head.

  It flew through the air, a straight shot.

  Thwack.

  It hit the soldier squarely on the forehead.

  The man stood in shock, then stumbled backward.

  And now Martin was on his feet, his rifle aimed.

  Crack!

  He shot that soldier dead.

  But there was the other soldier, and Martin aimed his rifle again.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  The rifle was jammed!

  Martin fumbled with it, tugging at the lever and cursing under his breath.

  Meanwhile, the other soldier stood there, staring at Max.

  He was small and skinny, and he looked very young, maybe just a few years older than Max. His uniform hung on him like it was three sizes too big. He reminded Max of some of his older friends from school, boys he had played cards with, traded comics with, raced on the playground.

  Max and the young soldier stared at each other, their eyes locked together.

  There was no hatred in the other boy’s eyes. He looked just as terrified and confused as Max was.

  Were they really enemies?

  Or were they just two boys caught in this net of evil?

  Martin had readied his rifle. He pulled back the bolt and took aim at the young soldier.

  “No!” Max screamed.

  Crack!

  Max was too late — the bullet hit the young soldier in the chest. And as he fell dead to the ground, his arm jerked.

  His pistol fired.

  A split second later, the bullet tore into Max’s side with a searing, blinding pain.

  Max stared down in shock as blood gushed from the gaping wound.

  He dropped to his knees.

  Zena screamed out his name. Her voice echoed through his mind as the world spun all around him and then went dark.

  Max lay in the dirt. Martin and Zena looked down at him.

  They spoke to him, but he couldn’t hear. His whole body felt numb. The gunfire and the shouts around him grew faint. Max closed his eyes, and soon he had drifted away from the burning forest, from the war, from the fear and the pain. He thought of that young soldier, and felt himself moving closer to him.

  But from somewhere else, he heard Zena calling him. He felt her gripping his hand, as though she was trying with all of her might to pull him back to her.

  But it wasn’t until the next day when Max finally opened his eyes that he realized he had made it back — that unlike the scared young soldier, Max was still alive.

  Max sat up in bed, his heart pounding with fear.

  It was the same every morning — he kept thinking he was still in that ditch.

  It always took him a moment to realize where he was, and that he and Zena were safe.

  They were in their underground sleeping hut. Six men snored around them, their rifles by their sides. Zena snuffled softly on the tiny bed of logs she shared with Max. He reached and rested his hand lightly on her arm.

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes, smiling at him.

  “Today’s the day,” she whispered.

  Aunt Hannah, Lev, and Martin were due back from a mission, their first since the attack in the forest. They had gone back toward Esties, to get some supplies from Mr. Jablonski.

  Max followed Zena up a short ladder that led to the overhead door of the hut. He winced in pain as he hoisted himself out the door.

  His wound was almost healed. The purple, puckered scar was even grislier than the ones Aunt Hannah and Martin had shown them. Dr. Zelman, the partisan doctor, kept telling Max how lucky he’d been. The bullet had lodged between two of his ribs. An inch in either direction and he wouldn’t have survived.

  Zena had told him the details of those hours after he’d been shot — how Martin had packed the wound with strips of fabric torn away from his own shirt, how he and
Zena had stayed there, hiding in the bushes, praying that Max would survive.

  Max remembered none of it.

  But he’d heard the story of that day and night over and over, and he could picture it all in his mind.

  After Martin had bandaged Max’s wound, he’d hoisted him onto his back and led Zena to a large crater created by one of the bombs. He covered it with pine branches and they hid there as the soldiers swarmed around them. They stayed there for hours, until it was dark. Max was groaning in pain, and he seemed to be fading. Martin knew they needed to find a doctor as soon as possible, that he had to try to get them back to the camp.

  And so once again, Martin put Max onto his back. He took Zena’s hand. They crept through the burning darkness, dodging behind trees when they heard footsteps. There was no way to get to the underwater bridge — it was more than a mile away. They would have to cross the swamp in the water.

  This was the part of the story that was hardest for Zena to tell; her blue eyes always grew shadowy with fear.

  The water had been freezing cold, and the knifelike swamp grasses had sliced through their clothes. Snakes slithered between their legs, and sharp-toothed creatures nipped at them. But the worst was the mud, which at times came up past Zena’s waist. Once, she became stuck, and it took all of Martin’s strength to pull her out.

  Finally it was too dangerous to keep going in the dark. They stopped in a cluster of dead trees that rose from the water like twisted skeletons. The forest glowed eerily around them, machine-gun fire pounded in the distance. And then came the most terrifying moment, when an enormous creature came floating through the water toward them.

  But it turned out to be Hannah and Lev, gripping a giant branch.

  The small group waited together until the sun came up, and then finally made it to the island. As Aunt Hannah had predicted, the camp had escaped the bombing. And within minutes, Max was in the hands of Dr. Zelman, an older partisan who had been a famous surgeon before he became a fighter. He removed the bullet, stitched the wound, and pumped Max full of medicines.

  Through it all, Zena refused to leave her brother’s side. Over the next few days, whenever Max woke up, he saw different people staring down at him — men with tangled beards, women with short-cropped hair, all looking at him with caring, worried eyes. And always the face closest to his was Zena’s