Words on Fire

We wouldn’t look for just any camp, but rather one with bunkers where the soldiers might be sleeping overnight. We’d passed one on our last smuggling route and I remembered seeing a pair of boots left outside, likely so no one would track dirt into the bunkers. It took us awhile to find the same bunker as before, but it seemed perfect. Tonight, there were four pairs of boots outside.

Which meant there were at least four soldiers inside. I would not forget that.

Lukas shook his head. “If they see a missing pair of boots, they’ll be able to warn the others what we’ve done. They’ll know the tracks we’ve made are fakes!”

“They’ll know some of the tracks are fakes, but not necessarily which are ours and which are theirs. This is a good plan, Lukas!”

He grunted. “You say it’s a good plan because you’ll be in hiding while I go up to steal them.”

“And if you don’t get caught, then it’s an excellent plan! Better hurry—we don’t know when they’ll be coming out.”

He cast me a skeptical look, then slowly rose to his feet and crept toward the bunker. This plan really could work, but it wasn’t as simple as I’d made it sound and we both knew it. Lukas’s boots were left back here with me, so if he ended up having to run at the last minute, he’d be doing it in only socks. He needed to slip on one pair of boots and then carry back a second pair for me, returning in the exact same prints he’d made on the way there.

Lukas was nearly to the bunker now, and he had begun to crouch down to pick up the first pair of boots when the door opened. He darted behind the bunker with wild eyes on me, certain he was already caught.

I was anxious too. His footprints were clearly visible, including those leading to where he was now, and there was nothing I could do to help him from here. My mind raced through the few items still left in my father’s shoulder bag, but nothing would be of any use, not for something like this.

Two soldiers walked outside, obviously on orders to check on the horses, for they were grumbling loudly about it.

In Russian, one said, “Why are we always picked for the worst jobs? I have half a mind to refuse the order next time and see what happens.”

His companion said, “What happens is the commander will leave you with half a mind, by the time your punishment is finished. You check on the horses, I’ll check the area for any activity.”

While the first man walked away from the bunker, the second one stepped in front of it. If he turned around, he’d see Lukas.

I signaled to Lukas to begin moving, which he did, and fortunately, the soldier was too busy searching in the distance to look directly beneath his feet for Lukas’s footprints.

The soldier continued to walk around the back of the bunker, which would force Lukas to the same side of the bunker as the soldier who was checking on the horses. That man had finished now and was on his way back up the hill, saying, “The horses are fine. Where are you?”

By then, I had scooped enough snow into my palm to form a loosely packed snowball. I threw it as high as I could into the air and at a slight angle, hoping it would land directly on the soldier’s head.

My aim was off and instead it landed in the branches of a tree near the soldier, creating enough of an impact to shake a much larger dusting of snow down on him. If Lukas were not still in danger, I would have giggled to see it. But he still was.

The soldier cursed and brushed at his face, giving Lukas the chance to cross to the front of the bunker, shove his feet into a large pair of boots and pick up another, then dart crossways into the woods to hide.

The second soldier had come around the bunker by then and began laughing at his companion, who wasn’t at all amused.

“I’ve got snow down my uniform,” he said. “Even the Lithuanian birds are against us.”

“Come, let’s go inside and let you change. We’ll be on patrol soon and you’ll be better off if you’re dry.”

He led his companion inside, brushing off snow from his shoulders as he did. Neither of them looked at where the pile of boots had been and noticed the two missing pairs.

Once it was safe, Lukas made his way to me. I put on one of the pairs, then we trekked away from the bunker, covering our former tracks until the new fallen snow had covered the oldest tracks.

“That was the worst plan ever,” Lukas said.

“We can discuss that after we’re across the border.” I grinned and began leading the way, relatively unconcerned about the tracks we were leaving behind, and trying not to think about the many hazards that still awaited us.

As before, it wasn’t difficult to leave the country, and with Lukas and me walking about in boots that left Cossack prints, I wasn’t worried about being followed. We removed the oversized boots for our own shoes to cross the rope over the Neman River—otherwise I don’t know how I’d have kept my feet wrapped on the rope line.

“These are … heavy boots,” Lukas said as he crossed. He’d tied the boots together and slung them over his neck, and it seemed they were cutting off his air. Not his wisest move.

I wasn’t doing much better. My boots were slung over one shoulder, making it hard to lift that arm ev

ery time I needed to slide along the rope. Not my wisest move either.

Or, I supposed, when one was crossing on an icy rope over a cold river to avoid soldiers who were prepared to shoot us on sight, wisdom and foolishness lost all usual meanings. Fortunately, we did cross it, resting for a while on the opposite bank while I massaged my shoulder and Lukas simply breathed. As soon as we saw the shadows of soldiers beginning to patrol across the river, it was time to walk on.