Tatiana and Alexander_A Novel

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

In the Mountains of Holy Cross, October 1944 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

DEEP IN THE DENSEthick forest of the mountains, a hundred kilometers and six weeks past the bridge to Holy Cross, Alexander and his men were under fire for three hours one cold autumn afternoon.

They lived in the woods and slept in the woods, setting up their canvas tents when the fighting stopped, or wrapping themselves in their trench coats on the ground when it didn't. They built fires, but food in the forest was more scarce than they would have liked. The rabbits scurried at the sound of a battalion of men. Neither the streams nor the fish were plentiful. But when there were streams, they at least managed to wash. The season for blueberries had passed, and they were all sick of mushrooms. Undercooked, the mushrooms gave Alexander's men terrible stomach upsets and he finally had to forbid their use. The telephone wire frequently broke on the uneven terrain, and the army supplies did not last between reinforcements. Alexander had to make his own soap out of lard and ashes. But his soldiers cared nothing for staying clean, for keeping off lice. They were aware of, but indifferent to, the symbiotic relationship between lice and typhus. The men wanted to eat the lard, and soap be damned. The gunpowder, the mud, the blood remained on their faces and bodies for weeks. Everyone had trench foot: they just could never get dry.

They were a battalion by themselves in the woods, making their way up the mountains to get to the other side, but the Germans took positions atop the mountains, as they had in Sinyavino and Pulkovo and they only needed a few men to ward off Alexander's many.

But at least before they had been making arduous progress. Suddenly they were stopped by the Germans at the foothills and they had not been able to penetrate the Nazi defense despite twice receiving reinforcements of men and ammunition. There had been no further reinforcements in eight days. In between bursts of fire from morning until night, German voices echoed through the woods. Not just above them, but to the left and right of them. Alexander began to suspect that the Germans had less of a defenseline than an encirclement. Alexander's troops had not moved a meter in the forest, and once again night was an hour away.

Alexander had to break the impasse or this forest was going to be his death. It had already been Verenkov's death. The poor bastard couldn't see the enemy, he fired blindly, but couldn't move out of the way of anything. Fortune had carried him alive to these woods and stopped here. Alexander and Ouspensky buried him in the hole ripped by the grenade that had taken him and left his helmet hanging on a stick rising out of the ground.

"Who the f*ck is that?" Alexander suddenly asked when the gunfire ceased. "I swear to God, I can hear Russian. Am I hallucinating, Ouspensky? Listen."

"I hear the paper-ripping sound of the Maschinengewehr 43." That was the German sub-machine-gun.

"Yes, that, but listen. They're about to load another belt in, and you will hear someone barking commands in Russian. I swear to God it's Russian."

Ouspensky looked at Alexander with sympathy. "You miss Russia, Captain?"

"Oh, f*ck," Alexander said. "I'm telling you it's Russian!"

"You think we're shooting at Russian men?"

"I don't know. Is that ridiculous? How would they have gotten here?" Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"Hmm. Sir, have you heard of the Vlasovites?"

"The Vlasovites?"

"The Soviet POWs or partisans who have switched sides."

"Yes, I've heard of the Vlasovites," Alexander snapped. He did not want to be having this discussion with Ouspensky while he was trying to save his men. Ouspensky had absolutely no sense of urgency about anything. He was sitting behind a tree, reloading his Shpagin, setting up the shells in neat rows to load into Alexander's mortar, as peaceful as if he were at a Crimean resort.

Of course Alexander had heard about the Vlasovites. In the primordial morass that had become the partisan war on the Germans, the Vlasovites--led by the eponymous Russian general, Andrei Vlasov--were the Russian soldiers who, when taken prisoner by the Germans, switched to the German side and fought their Red Army brothers in arms--ostensibly fighting for a free Russia. Having organized his Anti-Stalinist Russian Liberation Movement and having found no support from Hitler, Vlasov had long been under German house arrest, but many Russians continued to fight under his name in German-led brigades.

"It can't be the Vlasovites," Ouspensky said.

"General Vlasov is not here, but his men continue to fight on the German side. He had over a hundred thousand of them. And some of them are in those woods."

The fire died down for a minute and, as clear as skylight, they heard in Russian,"Zarezhai! Zarezhai!"

Alexander exchanged a look with Ouspensky, raised his eyebrows and said, "I hate it when I'm f*cking right."

"Now what? We have no ammo."

"That's not true," Alexander said cheerfully. "I've got four magazines left and half of one drum. And reinforcements will be here soon." That was a lie. He suspected the telephone wire had been torn again, and now there was an added problem--the wire stringer was dead.

"There are at least thirty of them in the woods."

"I better not miss then, had I?"

"You're lying about the reinforcements. We already had our reinforcements. Konev brought you three hundred men with rifles and ammo two weeks ago. They're all dead."

"Stop your yapping, Lieutenant. Order your men to get ready to open fire."

Ten minutes later, Alexander had nothing left in his drum. The fire from his men subsided.

"How far is the German border?" Ouspensky asked. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"About a hundred thousand German troops away, Lieutenant."

Ouspensky sighed. "Now what?"

"Take out your knife. Soon it will be hand to hand in the woods."

"You're f*cking nuts." Ouspensky spoke quietly, so no one else could hear him.

"You have other suggestions?"

"If I had other suggestions, I wouldn't be a lieutenant. I'd be a captain and you'd be taking orders from me." Ouspensky paused. "Have you ever taken orders from anybody, sir?"

Alexander laughed lightly. "Lieutenant, in case you haven't noticed, I do have superior officers of my own."

"Well, where are they now? They need to order you to retreat."

"We cannot retreat. You know that. There are two dozen NKGB troops behind us to make sure of that. They'll shoot us."

Alexander was very quiet and very thoughtful.

The two men paused, sitting side by side on the mossy ground, their backs against a tree. Ouspensky said, "Did you say the NKGB will shoot us if we retreat?"

"Instantly." Alexander wasn't looking at Ouspensky.

"Did you sayshoot us ?"

Now Alexander looked at Ouspensky. "What are you suggesting, Lieutenant?" he said slowly.

"Nothing, sir. But you are implying, aren't you, that they have something to shoot at us with?"

Alexander was silent for a few minutes and then said, "Bring me Corporal Yermenko."

A few minutes later, Ouspensky returned with Yermenko, who was wiping blood off his arm.

"Corporal, how is your ammo holding up?"

"I've got three eight-round boxes, three grenades and a few mortar shells."

"Very good. Let me tell you the situation. We're low on ammo and there are at least a dozen Germans in the woods."

"I think, sir, more than a dozen. And they are armed."

"Corporal, how good a marksman are you? Will your two dozen rounds last you against a dozen men?"

"No, sir, they won't. I don't have a sniper rifle." Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"Have you any ideas?"

"Are you asking me, sir?"

"I'm asking you, Corporal."

Yermenko paused, moving his mouth in a thoughtful manner, while he adjusted his helmet. He was standing at attention and his arm continued to bleed. Alexander motioned for Ouspensky to get the first aid kit. Yermenko was still thinking. Alexander motioned for him to crouch and took a look at the corporal's wound. It was a superficial grazing of the triceps, but it was bleeding steadily. Alexander applied pressure with a dressing, and while sitting next to Yermenko, said, "Tell me what you think, Corporal."

Lowering his voice, Yermenko said, "I think maybe we should ask the...back troops for some of their ammo, sir." He motioned behind him into the woods.

"I think you're right. But what if they refuse?"

"I think we should ask them in such a way as to make that impossible."

Alexander patted Yermenko on the back.

Lowering his voice further, Yermenko said, "I know they have dozens of semi-automatic rifles, at least three or four sub-machine guns, and they have not expended their rounds. They have grenades, they have mortar shells, and they have water and food."

Alexander and Ouspensky exchanged glances. "You're right, of course," Alexander said, wrapping the bandage over Yermenko's arm and tying the ends in a knot. "But I don't know if they're going to part with their ammo. Are you up to this assignment?"

"Yes, sir. I will need one man to distract them."

Alexander got up. "That will be me."

"Sir!" Ouspensky exclaimed. "No. You will sendme ."

"You can come with us. But whatever you do, don't tell them you have only one lung, Lieutenant." Alexander handed Yermenko the wooden club he had made. Small pieces of sharp shell fragments were wedged deep into the carved-out wooden head. At the other end, the handle was attached to a rope Alexander had made out of tree bark so it would be easy to swing. Yermenko took it, gave Ouspensky rounds for his Tokarev pistol, they loaded their weapons, Alexander loaded a fresh 35-round magazine into his Shpagin, and the three of them walked silently through the woods to the NKGB encampment. Alexander could see a dozen men sitting in a social circle around a welcoming fire, chatting, laughing.

"Ouspensky," he said, "stay here. I'm going to talk to them first. I'm going to ask for their help. You two wait for me here. When I turn around to walk back to you, if I sling my machine gun over my shoulder, it means we have peace. If I take a step with it in my arms, that means we don't. Understood?"

"Perfectly," said Yermenko, but Ouspensky, grim in the face, did not reply. Ouspensky took his job of protecting Alexander too seriously. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"Lieutenant! Understood?"

Sigh. "Yes, sir."

Alexander walked forward, leaving Ouspensky and Yermenko ten paces behind in the bushes, and came up to the circle in a small clearing. The men barely turned or raised their heads to look at him.

"Comrades," he said, coming up close to their circle, "we need your help. We have no ammo left, the replacement platoons aren't here, nor have I been able to reach anyone by field phone. I have twenty men left out of two battalions and I've got no support. We need your cartridges and your shells. We also need your first aid kits and some water for our wounded. And the use of your phone to call the command post."

The men stared at him in silence and then laughed. "You're f*cking with us, right?"

"My orders were to break through the woods."

"You clearly haven't followed your orders, Captain," said Lieutenant Sennev, glaring at Alexander from a sitting position.

"Oh, I've followed my orders, Lieutenant," said Alexander. "And my men's blood is testament to my obedience. But now I need your weapons."

"F*ck off," said Sennev.

"I'm asking you to help your brothers in arms. We are still fighting for the same side, aren't we?"

"I said f*ck off."

Alexander sighed. Slowly he turned his back on the circle of men, holding his Shpagin. Before he was turned around completely, he saw the shrapnel club hurled by Yermenko sail through the air and with a siren wail embed itself in Sennev's head. Yermenko must have been quite close to have heard it all, to have been so ready to throw the club. Alexander spun around, pointed his Shpagin and fired a shot at a time. He did not use the automatic fire. He didn't waste a bullet on Sennev, who didn't need one. Alexander fired five rounds, Yermenko fired six, and they were done. The NKGB men never had a chance to lift their weapons.

Ouspensky and Yermenko took all their arms and provisions, while Alexander piled the bodies one on top of another. When they were a sufficient distance away--twenty paces--Alexander threw his grenade into the pile of bodies and shielded his eyes. The grenade exploded. For a few moments the three men stood and watched the flames rise up.

"Perhaps they need a soldier's farewell from us," said Ouspensky, saluting them. "Farewell, and f*ck you!"

Yermenko laughed.

As they walked back to their positions, Alexander slapped the corporal on the shoulder. "Well done," he said, offering Yermenko a cigarette.

"Thank you, sir," Yermenko said. He cleared his throat. "Request permission to go and find the enemy Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

commander. I think if we take out their commander, their defense will fall."

"You think so?"

"Yes. They're very disjointed. In front, on the side, random fire, no purpose. They're not fighting like a trained army. They're fighting like a partisan force."

"We are in the woods, Corporal," said Alexander. "You're not expecting trenches, are you?"

"I'm expecting reason. I'm not seeing it. They are heavily armed and they're shooting at us as if they don't give a shit how long they'll hold out. They're defending the woods as if they have an endless supply behind them."

"And how will this change if you bring me the commander?"

"Without the commander, they will retreat."

"They'll retreat, but we'll still be in the woods."

"We can move laterally, south. We're bound to run into the South Ukrainian front."

"The South Ukrainian front will be overjoyed to see us. Corporal, my orders were to break through these woods."

"And we will. But sideways. We've been here two weeks, lost nearly everything, cannot replace our men and cannot move the Germans. Sir, please let me bring you the commander's head. You'll see, they'll retreat. The Germans don't do well without a commander. We'll be able to move sideways."

Ouspensky nudged Alexander. "Why don't you tell him they're Russian, Captain?" he whispered.

"You think that will make a difference to Yermenko?" Alexander whispered back.

Alexander got on the newly acquired field phone to contact Captain Gronin of the 28th non-penal battalion, four kilometers south of Alexander's position. He said nothing to Gronin about the downed NKGB but he did ask for reinforcements to come as soon as possible. It turned out that indeed the Germans had a bulge between Alexander and Gronin and to get reinforcements to Alexander, Gronin would have to move through German troops. Exhaustion in his voice, Gronin nonetheless managed to raise it high enough to shout, "Are you f*cking joking with me, reinforcements? Who do you think you are? I'm sending you reinforcements when pigs fly! Fight with what you have until the rest of the army catches up with you." And he hung up with a slam.

Alexander replaced the receiver gently and looked up to see Ouspensky and Yermenko staring him in the face. "What did he say, Captain?" asked Ouspensky.

"He said reinforcements will be here in a few days. We have to hold out till then." Taking a sip of water from the flask, Alexander grunted--even the NKGB's water tasted better--and said, "All right, Yermenko. Go get me their commander. But take another man with you."

"Sir--"

"No. Youwill take another man with you. Someone silent and good. Someone loyal, someone you can Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

trust."

"I'd like to takehim , sir," Yermenko said, pointing at Ouspensky.

"What are you, a f*cking madman? I'm a lieutenant--"

"Lieutenant!" That was Alexander. He lit a smoke, glanced from Ouspensky to Yermenko, grinned and said, "Corporal, you can't have the lieutenant. He is mine. Take someone else along." He paused. "Take someone better. Take Smirnoff."

"Thank you for your confidence, sir," said Ouspensky.

"You're welcome, Lieutenant."

In an hour, only Smirnoff returned. "Where is Corporal Yermenko?"

"He didn't make it," said Smirnoff.

Alexander was silent a moment before he said, "I didn't ask you that, Corporal. I asked where he was."

"I told you, he is dead, sir."

"And I asked you where he was. I will keep asking you until you tell me. Where is he?"

With a puzzled, slightly mortified, war-exhausted look, Smirnoff stared at Alexander. "I don't understand--"

"Where is the dead corporal, Corporal?"

"Back where he fell, sir. Tripped a mine."

Alexander straightened up. "You left your battle buddy, the man who covered your back, dead in enemy territory?"

"Yes, sir," Smirnoff stammered. "I needed to get out of there, to get back here."

"Corporal, you are not worth the uniform they put on you. You are not worth the gun they gave you to defend your mother country. To leave a fallen soldier in enemy territory..."

"He was dead, sir," Smirnoff said nervously.

"And soon you will be, too!" Alexander shouted. "Who will carry your body to the Soviet side? Your buddy is dead. It won't be him." Waving his hand at Smirnoff, he said, "Get out of my sight." Then, "Before you go," he said to the corporal who had turned on his heels, "you will tell me if you've discovered anything we can use. Or did you just go into enemy territory to leave a soldier to die?"

"No, sir." Smirnoff didn't look at Alexander.

"No sir what?" Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"Sir, I found out the commander is not German but Russian. Though I think there are a few Germans in their ranks. I heard German spoken. The commander is definitely Russian. He yells to the troops in German but speaks to his lieutenant in Russian. He's got about fifty troops left."

"Fifty!"

"Hmm. They look to him for their every move." Smirnoff paused. "I know because we got very close to him. That's when we found out the area around his tent is mined. But now I know where to go. I'll just find Yermenko's body, the mine there has already been tripped, and I figure I can throw a grenade into the commander's tent. He'll be blown to pieces and his men will surrender."

Alexander paused. "You sure he's Russian?"

"Positive."

Smirnoff left. A half-hour went by and he wasn't back. An hour went by and he wasn't back. After an hour and a half, with the woods black and impossible to see through, Alexander gave up on Smirnoff. The stupid cocky bastard had obviously alerted them with another casualty. Now he is lying there dead, waiting for me to come and retrieve him.

"I'm going in, Lieutenant," said Alexander. "If anything should happen to me, you're in command of our unit."

"Sir, you cannot go in."

"I'm going, and I'm not coming back until either me or their commander is dead. F*cking Smirnoff! Left poor Yermenko in the woods." Alexander cursed again. "At least now there are two of them for me to find. I'll know where to step. Wish I had a f*cking tank. If I had a tank, I wouldn't be in this position."

"You had a tank. If you hadn't insisted on storming the river by yourself, you'd still have it."

"Shut up," said Alexander, taking his machine gun, tucking a pistol and five grenades into his shirt, and adjusting his helmet.

"I'm coming with you, sir," said Ouspensky, getting up.

"Yes, right," said Alexander. "They'll hear you wheezing in f*cking Krakow. While I'm gone, stay here and grow yourself a lung. I'll be back in an hour."

"Be back, Captain."

In the dark, quiet as a Siberian tiger, Alexander made his way in the woods around the small flickering lights of the German camp. He had a small penlight that he held in his teeth and shined on the underbrush as he looked for a body, disturbed ground, anything. Alexander's pistol was cocked and the knife was in his hand.

He found Smirnoff, who had found a mine. A meter away he saw Yermenko. He made the sign of the cross on the men with his pistol.

After putting the penlight away, his eyes made out the commander's tent not five meters away in the Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

clearing. He saw the mines lying flat on the ground. They hadn't even bothered to bury them in their haste. If only his men hadn't stepped on them in theirs.

He saw a flicker of a flashlight and a shadow in front of the tent. A man cleared his throat and said, "Captain? Are you awake, sir?"

Alexander heard a man's voice say something in German, then in Russian. In Russian, the captain asked the soldier to bring him something to drink and then not to step a meter away from the tent. "The mines have already killed two of them. But more will come, Borov. I'm well hidden, but we cannot take any chances."

That was helpful, Alexander thought, putting the knife between his teeth and getting out his grenade. He knew he had to be stealthy and very exact. He could not miss the tent.

The soldier came out of the tent and before he closed the flaps, he saluted the man. Alexander was about to pull the pin out of the grenade. The adjutant said, "I'll be right back, Captain Metanov--"

Alexander fell noiselessly to the ground. He dropped his grenade, and the adjutant went away.

Did he just sayMetanov ?

His tortured mind was playing tricks on him. With trembling hands, he picked up his grenade. But he couldn't throw it.

He was so close. He could have killed the commander and his assistant so easily. Now what?

If he had imagined the name, well, so much the worse for him, so much the f*cking worse for the ceaselessly restless him. A little more forgetting, a little less lament and he wouldn't be within three strides of the German commander's tent imagining he had heard the nameMetanov .

Alexander took one-two-three steps to the tent. He suspected the enemy captain wouldn't bury a mine within such proximity to his sleeping area and he was right. Reaching out, he touched the canvas with his fingers. Inside the tent a small flashlight shone. Alexander heard the rustling of paper. He couldn't even hear his own breath. It wasn't because he was quiet. It was because he wasn't breathing.

Silently he untied one of the ropes holding the tent to the stake. Crawling around, he untied another. Then another. Then the fourth. He took a deep breath, took out his sidearm--though couldn't cock it because it would make too much noise--gripped his knife, counted to three and jumped on top of the tent, pinning the commander inside the canvas. The man could not move. Alexander's body was on him and the barrel of his now-cocked Tokarev was pressed to the man's head. "Don't move," Alexander whispered in Russian. He felt for the man's hands, pinning them with his knees. With one hand, he reached under the loose straps of the tent and felt around the ground for the commander's gun. He found the gun and the knife, lying by what used to be the bed and the blanket. Feeling him stir slightly, Alexander said, "Can you understand me, or should I speak German?" He didn't trust the man to lie quietly. Alexander punched him hard, knocking him out. Then he pushed away the canvas and shined his penlight into the man's face. He was young, once dark-haired, completely shaven. He had a deep scar running down from his eye to his jaw; he had blood on his head; blood on his neck; he had only barely healed wounds; he was thin; he was pale in the white light of the flash; he was unconscious; he was either Russian or German. He was nothing, everything. Alexander gleaned no answers from this man's face.

Alexander pulled the commander out of the tent, flung him on his back and before the adjutant had a Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

chance to return with water, walked with him down the slope through the forest back to his own camp.

Ouspensky nearly fell down and lost breath in his only lung when he saw Alexander carrying the enemy commander. He jumped up but before he could say a word, Alexander cut him off with a hand motion. "Stop talking. Get me some rope."

Alexander and Ouspensky tied the man to a tree in the back of the tent.

For the rest of the night, Alexander sat in front of the captured officer. At last he saw the man's eyes open and watch him angrily and questioningly. Moving closer, Alexander untied the bandana from his mouth.

"You bastard," were the man's first Russian words. "All you had to do was shoot me. No, you had me leave my men in the middle of battle."

Alexander still said nothing.

"What the f*ck are you looking at?" the commander said loudly. "Are you figuring out how I'd like to die? Slowly, all right? And painfully. I don't give a shit."

Alexander opened his mouth. Before he spoke, he brought a flask of hot coffee to the man's mouth and let him have a few sips. "What is your name?" he said.

"Kolonchak," said the man.

"What is your real name?"

"That is my real name."

"What is your family name?"

"Andrei Kolonchak."

Alexander took his rifle into his hands. "Understand," he said, "if that's your real name, I'll have to kill you so your men make neither a hero nor a martyr out of you."

The man laughed. "What do you think? I'm afraid of death? Shoot away, comrade. I'm ready."

"Are the men you left behind ready for their death, too?"

"Certainly. We're all ready." The man sat straight up against the oak and stared unflinchingly at Alexander.

"Who are you? Tell me."

"Tellyou ? Who the f*ck areyou ? What are you, my brother in arms? I won't tell you shit. You better kill me now because in a minute I'll yell my rallying cry and my men will charge. They'll die charging but you'll lose what pathetic troops you got left. You won't get a word out of me."

"You're in the back of my camp. You're a kilometer and a half away from your own troops. Scream all you want. Scream like a woman. No one will hear you. What is your name?" Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"Andrei Kolonchak, I told you."

"Your last name is a combination of Alexander Kolchak, the leader of the White Army during the Russian Civil War and the woman partisan Kolontai?"

"That's correct."

"Why did your aide call you Captain Metanov then?"

The man blinked. For just one moment, he glanced away from Alexander, but that one moment was enough. Alexander caught that one glance away square in the chest. Recoiling back from the man, he couldn't look at him when he said, "Captain Pavel Metanov?"

There was silence from under the tree. There was silence from Alexander. Looking at his rifle, at his hands, at the moss, at his boots, at the stones, Alexander took one deep breath, one shallow breath, one aching breath and said, "...PashaMetanov?"

When he looked up, the man was staring at him with the perplexed, stunned, emotional face of someone who had heard an English voice in China, who had traveled a thousand miles and saw one white face, one black face, one recognizable, familiar face. As if an imprint of childhood were snapped with a black-and-white camera and it caught the smiling face of a young boy and of a soldier near death sitting roped to a tree, all at once and more.

"I don't understand," the man said faintly. "Whoare you?"

"I," said Alexander, and his voice broke; he couldn't continue. I...I...I scream to the deaf sky.

But it's not deaf. Look at what's in front of me.

Alexander stared at the man by the tree with a mixture of sadness, confusion, and disbelief. "I'm Alexander Belov," he finally managed to utter. "In 1942 I married a girl named Tatiana Metanova--" However much it hurt Alexander to say her name, it must have hurt the man at the tree even more to hear it. He flinched, coiled up, bent his shaking head. "No, stop. It can't be. Take your weapon. Shoot me."

Alexander put down his Shpagin and inched his way to the man. "Pasha, oh my God, what the f*ck have you been thinking? What are you doing?"

"Forget me," said the man named Pasha Metanov. "You're married to Tania? She's all right then?"

"She's gone," said Alexander.

"She died?" He gasped.

"I don't think so." Alexander lowered his voice. "Gone from the Soviet Union."

"I don't understand. Gone where?"

"Pasha..."

"We got time. We got nothing but time. Tell me." Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"She escaped through Finland." Alexander spoke in a whisper. "I don't know if she made it, if she's safe, if she's free. I know nothing. They arrested me, put me in charge of this penal battalion."

"What about...my"--Pasha's voice faltered--"family?"

Alexander shook his head.

"Did anyone make it?"

"No one," Alexander breathed out.

The warrior fought his words. "My mother?"

"Leningrad took them all."

Pasha was speechless for a few terrible moments, and then he cried.

Alexander's head was lowered so far, the chin was on his chest.

An unconsoled Pasha said, "Why? You could've killed me, and I would have never known. I would have been all right. I thought they had evacuated, were safe. I thought they were in Molotov. I had comfort thinking of them alive. Why did you spare me? Can't you see I have no interest in being spared? Would I have joined the other side if I thought for a moment my life was worth saving? Who asked you to come along and save me?"

"No one," said Alexander. "I didn't ask you to come along either. I was ready to throw the grenade into your tent. You would've been dead, your troops annihilated by morning. Instead, I heard someone calling you by your rightful name. Why did I have to hear that? Ask yourself." He paused. "Can I release you?"

"Yes," said Pasha. "And I will tear out your heart with my bare hands."

"If only I f*cking had one," said Alexander, getting up off the ground, and replacing the gag on Pasha's mouth with a heavy hand.

Morning broke and with it came anger. Alexander didn't understand as he watched Pasha sitting sullenly gagged and bound. He wished he had leisure to worry about it. At the moment it was raining, as if all other iniquities were not enough. They came to the mountains of Holy Cross to die, and now they were going to die wet.

Alexander offered Pasha some food. Pasha refused. A cigarette? Also a no.

"What about a bullet?"

Pasha wouldn't even look at Alexander.

The enemy was quiet this morning. Alexander wasn't surprised, and he knew Pasha wasn't either. The commander of their unit had gone. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"What the f*ck is wrong with you?" Alexander asked, taking the gag out of Pasha's mouth.

"Why did you have to tell me about my family." There was no inflection.

"You asked me."

"You could have lied. You could have said they were all right."

"You would have wanted that?"

"Yes. A thousand times yes. A small comfort to a dying man in the rain, I would have wanted that."

Alexander wiped the rain off Pasha's face.

Then he regrouped his men, and they all took their positions along the trees. After a morning smoke, they opened feeble fire that was not returned. In the woods the sound of war was too close. A meter away, a kilometer away, the canopy of the leaves, the denseness of the underbrush, the slight damp echo made the fire sound oppressively close. Fields were better, mines were better, tanks were better. This was the worst.

He had only nineteen men left. Nineteen men and a hostage that both sides wanted dead.

They stopped firing and sat under the trees. Alexander sat mutely next to Pasha. He had tried to get Gronin on the phone again, but the telephone was cutting out and he could hardly hear. His men were nearly out of ammunition.

Ouspensky came and whispered that they needed to kill the commander to make headway in the woods. Alexander said they would wait.

And through it all, it rained.

Hours went by before Pasha finally moved his head, gesturing for Alexander, who took off the gag.

"Maybe now a cigarette," Pasha said.

Alexander handed Pasha a cigarette.

After taking a long satisfying drag, Pasha said, "How did you meet her anyway?"

"Fate brought us together," Alexander replied. "On the first day of war, I was patrolling the streets and she was eating ice cream."

"Just like her," Pasha said. "She nods and then does what she wants. Her instructions were very clear: don't dawdle; go and get food." He glanced at Alexander. "That day was the last day I saw her. Saw my family."

"I know." With a hurting heart, Alexander said, "What am I going to do with you, Pasha Metanov, the brother of my wife?"

Pasha shrugged. "That's your problem. Let me tell you about my men. I've got fifty of them in the Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

woods. Five commissioned lieutenants. Five sergeants. What do you think they're going to do without me? They will never surrender. They will retreat just far enough to join up with the Wehrmacht motorized divisions protecting the western side of the mountains. You know how many troops are waiting there for you? Half a million. How far do you think your nineteen men are going to get? I know how the penal battalions work. No one will resupply you if they need the supplies themselves. What are you going to do?"

"My lieutenant thinks we should kill you."

"He is right. I'm the commander of the last vestige of General Vlasov's army. After I'm dead, there won't be any of us left."

"How do you know?" asked Alexander. "I hear the Vlasovites are running amok in Romania, raping the Romanian women."

"What does that have to do with me? I'm in Poland."

Alexander sat defeated with his hands on his legs. "What happened to you? Your family would have liked to know."

"Don't tell me anymore about my family," Pasha said, his voice catching.

"Your mother and father were torn up after you vanished."

"Mama was always so emotional," Pasha said and started to cry. "I thought it was kinder that way. Not to know. Suspect the worst. This is all slow death anyway."

Alexander didn't know if it was kinder. "Tania went to your camp in Dohotino looking for you."

"She's a fool," he said, his voice full of weeping affection.

Alexander moved a little closer. "The camp was abandoned, and then she moved on to Luga days before the Luga line fell to the Germans. She wanted to make her way to Novgorod to find you. She was told that's where the Dohotino camp members were sent."

"We were sent..." Pasha shook his head and laughed miserably. "God looks after Tania in mysterious ways. Always has. Had she gone to Novgorod, she would have died for sure, and I was never even close to Novgorod. The closest I got to Novgorod was passing Lake Ilmen in a train that the Germans blew up just south of the lake."

"Lake Ilmen?"

Neither man could look at the other. "She told you about that lake?"

"She's told me everything," said Alexander.

Pasha smiled. "We spent our childhood on that lake. She was the queen of Lake Ilmen. So, she came looking for me? She was always something, my sister. If anyone could have found me, it would have been her."

"Yes. But it turns out thatI found you." Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"Yes, in f*cking Poland! I wasn't in Novgorod. The Nazis blew up our train and with dead bodies piled house-high, they set us on fire. Me and my friend Volodya were the only ones who survived. We scrambled our way out of the compost heap and tried to find our own troops but of course the entire countryside belonged to the Germans by then. Volodya had broken his leg in camp weeks before. We couldn't get very far. We were taken prisoner in hours. The Germans had no use for Volodya. They shot him dead." He shook his head. "I'm glad his mother didn't know. Did you know his mother? Nina Iglenko?"

"I knew his mother. She wheedled food from Tania for the two sons that remained with her."

"What happened to them?"

"Leningrad took them all." Alexander lowered his head another notch. In a moment, his head was going to be in the mud he was sitting in.

Alexander wanted to talk to Pasha about the Vlasovites but couldn't find the words. How to express that never before had a million soldiers turned away from their own army and joined the side of the hated enemy on their own soil against their own people. Spies yes, double spies, individual traitors, yes. But a million soldiers?

All Alexander could manage was, "Pasha,what were you thinking?"

"What was I thinking? About what? Have you not heard what happened in the Ukraine, how Stalin abandoned his own men to the Germans there?"

"I've heard it all," Alexander said tiredly. "I have been fighting for the Red Army since 1937. I've heard everything. I know about everything. Every decree, every law, every edict."

"Don't you know that our great commander made being taken prisoner a crime against the Motherland?"

"Of course I know. And the POW's family gets no bread."

"That's right. But know this: Stalin's own son was taken prisoner by the Nazis."

"Yes."

"And when Stalin learned of this, and saw the potential ironic conflict, do you know what he did?"

"The lore is that he disowned his son," said Alexander, drawing his helmet tighter over his ears.

"The lore is correct. I know because I heard from the German SS that he was sent to Sachsenhausen concentration camp near Berlin, and there he died in the execution pit."

"Yes."

"His own son! What hope is there for me?"

"None for any of us," said Alexander, "except this: Stalin doesn't know who we are. That might help us. Save us." Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"He knows whoI am."

Alexander feared Stalin might know who he was, too. Foreign espionage in his officer ranks. His eyes bore into Pasha's face. "All of this put together and heaped on top of all the dead Chinese in 1937 cannot equal fighting on the side of the enemy against your own people. I think the army calls it high treason. What do you think they will do to you when they catch you, Pasha?"

Pasha wanted to wave his hands with emotion; he struggled against the ropes and whirled his head from side to side. "The same thing they would do to me if I were returned to them a prisoner of war," he said at last. "And don't sit there and judge me. You don't know me. You don't know my life."

"Tell me." Alexander moved closer. They were huddled near the same tree, their backs to the silent line of battle.

"The Germans put me into a camp at Minsk for that first winter of 1941 to '42. There were sixty thousand in our camp, and they couldn't feed us, nor did they want to. They couldn't cover us, or clothe us, or heal us. And our own leaders made sure that extra help wouldn't be coming from the Red Cross. We certainly wouldn't be receiving any parcels of food from home, or letters perhaps, or blankets. Nothing. When Stalin was asked by Hitler about reciprocity for the German prisoners, Stalin replied that he didn't know what Hitler was talking about, because he wassure there were no Soviet prisoners, since no Soviet soldier would ever be so unpatriotic as to surrender to the f*cking Germans, and then added that he certainly wasn't interested in unilateral rights of parcel just for the Germans. And so Hitler said, right, that's just fine with us. There were sixty thousand of us in that camp, I tell you, and at the end of that winter eleven thousand remained. Much more manageable, wouldn't you agree?"

Alexander mutely nodded.

"In the spring I escaped and made my way on rivers down to the Ukraine, where I was promptly seized by the Germans again, and this time put not in a POW camp, but in a work camp. I thought that was illegal, to make prisoners work, but apparently it's not illegal to do anything to Soviet soldiers or refugees. So the work camp was full of Ukrainian Jews, and then I noticed that they were disappearing en masse. I didn't think they were all escaping to join the partisan movement. I found out for sure when they made us non Jews dig out massive holes in the summer of 1942, and then cover up the thousands of bodies with dirt. I knew I was not safe for long. I didn't think the Germans had any special affinity for the Russian man. They hated Jews the most, but the Russians weren't too far behind, and Red Army men seemed to breed a special kind of hostility. They didn't just want to kill us, they wanted to destroy us, to break our bodies, first, then our spirits, then set us on fire. I had enough of it, and escaped that summer of 1942, and that's when I, plundering through the countryside, hoping to make my way to Greece, was picked up by a band of men fighting for Voronov who fought for Andrei Vlasov of the ROA, the Russian Liberation Army. I knew my fate. I joined."

"Oh, Pasha." Alexander stood up.

"You think my sister would prefer that I die at the hands of Hitler or at the hands of Comrade Stalin? I went with Vlasov--the man who promised me life. Stalin said I would die. Hitler said I would die. Hitler, who treats dogs better than the Soviet POWs."

"Hitler loves dogs. He prefers dogs to children."

"Hitler, Stalin, they offered me the same thing. Only General Vlasov stood up for my life. And I wanted Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

to give it to him."

Slamming a magazine upward into his machine gun, Alexander said, "So where is this Vlasov when you need him? He thought he was helping the Nazis, except the Fascists and the Communists and the Americans all seem to have one thing in common. They all despise traitors." Alexander took out his army knife from his boot and bent over Pasha, who flinched. Looking at him with surprise, Alexander shrugged and cut the ropes that tied Pasha's hands. "Andrei Vlasov was captured by the Germans, spent time in their prison and was finally turned over to the Soviets. You've been fighting on the side of Vlasov who's been a nonentity in this war for years. His glory days are over."

Pasha stood up, groaned under his compressed and aching body being in one position for too long, and said, "My glory days are over, too."

They stared at each other. Compact Pasha reminded Alexander of Georgi Vasilievich Metanov, Tatiana's father. Pasha looked up and said, "We're a fine pair. I command what's left of Vlasov's men, a nearly extinct breed. My battalion is first on the line of defense because the Germans want us all to be annihilated by our own people. And you are being sent in to kill me, commanding a penal battalion full of convicts who can't fight, can't shoot, and have no arms." He smiled. "What are you going to tell my sister when you see her in heaven? That you killed her brother in the heat of battle?"

"Pasha Metanov," said Alexander, motioning him to come, "whatever I was put on this earth to do, I'm almost sure it was not to killyou . Now come. We've got to put an end to this senselessness. You're going to tell your men to lay down their arms."

"Didn't you hear what I told you? My men will never surrender to the NKGB. Besides, do you have any idea what's ahead for you if you continue onward?"

"Yes. The Germans will get trounced. Maybe not by us on this f*cking hill, but everywhere else. Have you heard about the second front? Have you heard about Patton? We're going to meet the Americans on the Oder river near Berlin. That's what's ahead. If Hitler had any sense he would surrender and spare Germany an unconditional humiliation for the second time this century and maybe save a few million lives in the process."

"Does Hitler seem like the kind of man who would unconditionally surrender? Or care about saving one life, or a million? If he's going down, he's going down dragging the whole world with him."

"He's certainly doing that," said Alexander, and was about to whistle for Ouspensky when Pasha put his hand on Alexander to stop him.

"Wait," Pasha said. "Let's think this through for a minute, shall we?"

They sat down on a log and lit their cigarettes. "Alexander," said Pasha, "you've really done it by not killing me."

"I have, haven't I?" Alexander smoked. "One way or another we need to figure it out immediately. Or you and I won't have any men left to command."

Pasha was quiet. "And then just you and me in the woods?" he asked.

Alexander glanced at him. What was he saying? Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

Leaning in, Pasha said, "I will have my men surrender if you will guarantee not to give them up to the NKGB."

"What do you propose I do with them?"

"Absorb us into your unit. We have arms, we have shells, we have grenades, mortars, carbines."

"I was going to take your weapons no matter what, Pasha. That's what the vanquished do--they surrender their weapons. But your men? Are they going to switch and fight for the other side now?"

"They will do what I tell them to do."

"How can they do it?"

"What do you suggest? Dispersing?"

"Dispersing? Disbanding? Do you know what that's called? Desertion."

Pasha was silent. "Alexander, there is no hope. There are five hundred thousand men over that hill."

"Yes, and thirteen million men are coming over that hill to kill them."

"Yes, but what about you and me?"

"I need your unit's arms."

"So you'll have my arms. You've got nineteen men. What on earth are you thinking?"

Alexander lowered his voice to a whisper. "Don't worry about what I'm thinking. Just..."

"Just what?"

"Pasha, I need to get inside Germany. I need to live long enough to do it."

"Why?"

Because the Americans are coming to Berlin. Because the Americans are going to liberate Germany, and they're going to liberate the POW camps, and eventually they're going to liberate me. But Alexander didn't say any of this.

"You've lost your mind," said Pasha.

"Yes."

Pasha stared at Alexander for a long time, in the crackling, wet, absorbing woods, standing miserably next to him, his cigarette burning bleakly to ash between his ravaged fingers. "Alexander, don't you know about the Germans? Don't you know anything?"

"I know everything, but I still have hope. Now more than ever." He glanced at Pasha. "Why do you think I found you?" Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"So you could torture a dying man?"

"No, Pasha. I'll help you, too. Just--we've got to get out of here. You and I. You have medical kits?"

"Yes, plenty of bandages, plenty of sulfa, morphine, even some penicillin."

"Good, we'll need it all. What about food?"

"We've got canned everything. Dried milk even. Dried eggs. Sardines. Ham. Bread."

"Canned bread?" Alexander nearly smiled.

"What haveyou been living on?"

"The flesh of my men," replied Alexander. "Are most of your men Russian?"

"Most of them, yes. But I have ten Germans. What do you propose we do with them? Certainly they are not going to go on your side and fight their own army."

"Of course not. That's unimaginable, isn't it?"

Pasha turned away.

"We'll take them prisoner," said Alexander.

"I thought the penal battalions had a no-prisoner policy?"

"I make my own policy here in the woods," replied Alexander, "having been abandoned by my suppliers. Now, are you going to help us or not?"

Pasha took a last smoke, stubbed out his cigarette and wiped the wet off his face, a useless gesture, Alexander thought. "I will help you. But your lieutenant will not approve. He wants to kill me."

"You let me worry about him," said Alexander.

Ouspensky was not easy.

"Are you out of your mind?" he whispered hotly to Alexander, when Alexander outlined his plan for the absorption of Pasha's unit.

"You have better ideas?"

"I thought you said Gronin was coming with supplies?"

"I lied. Get me my troops, please."

"I say we kill the commander, and then lie in wait in the woods until we get arms and men."

"I'm not killing the commander, and I'm not waiting for anything. They are not coming." Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"Captain, you are not acting according to the rules of engagement. We cannot take the Germans prisoner. We have to kill their commander."

"Lieutenant, get me my men and stop this foolishness."

"Captain--"

"Lieutenant! Now!"

Ouspensky, his face full of squinting suspicion, turned to Pasha, who stood by Alexander's other side, untied. Ouspensky and Pasha glared at each other for a few moments. "Captain, you've untied him?" Ouspensky said in a low voice.

"Why don't you worry about what you have to worry about, and let me worry about everything else. Go!"

Alexander, Ouspensky and Telikov had fourteen privates and two corporals under their command. With Pasha's battalion, they would have over sixty men, not including the German prisoners of war. He motioned Pasha to come.

Pasha said, "My men need to know it's me when I call to them."

"Fine," said Alexander. "I'll stand by you, you yell. They'll know."

Ouspensky stood in Alexander's way. "With all due respect, sir, you are not headed toward the firing line."

"I am, Lieutenant," Alexander said, moving Ouspensky out of the way with his machine gun.

"Captain," Ouspensky said, "sir, have you ever played chess? Do you know that in chess you will often sacrifice your Queen to take the opponent's Queen? His men will kill you and him both."

Alexander nodded. "All right, butI'm not the Queen, Ouspensky. They will have to do better than killme ."

"They kill you, they win the game. Let the bastard go by himself. He can stop the bullets with his teeth for all I care. But if something happens to you, we've got nobody else."

"You're wrong, Lieutenant. We've gotyou . Now look. We are under a direct order to plow through the woods." He lowered his voice. "And I've finally figured out why. It's because of them--the Vlasovites. Stalin wants his Soviet dregs--us--to kill his Soviet dregs--them." Pasha was standing nearby. Alexander didn't want him to hear. He led Ouspensky away. "We have only one directive--to go forward--and only one responsibility--to save our men. We're nearly all out. To save our men you'd save Metanov's life, wouldn't you?"

"No," Ouspensky said. "I'm going to shoot the motherf*cker myself."

"Nikolai," Alexander said quietly, "if you touch him, you'll die. Just so you understand my position and won't accidentally fly into patriotic fervor, I want you to know your life is at stake. Anything happens to him, anything at all, I will blame you." Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"Sir--"

"Do you understand?"

"No!"

"That man is the brother of my wife," said Alexander.

Something appeared on Ouspensky's face. Alexander couldn't quite place it. Some clarity, some understanding, some completion, almost as if Ouspensky had been waiting for something like this. Alexander couldn't tell, the expression in the eyes was too fleeting. Then Ouspensky said, "I did not know that."

"Why would you?"

Alexander and Pasha began their mission. It was mid-afternoon. Quiet in the woods except for the sound of drizzle on the evergreens. Disturbing, unexplained quiet. A burning branch broke and fell to the ground. It burned reluctantly, dampened by November. Pasha Metanov stood ten meters away from Alexander and yelled, "This is Commander Kolonchak. Can you hear me? Bring me my Lieutenant Borov immediately."

There was no sound from the woods. "Hold your fire! And bring me Borov," he yelled.

A shot rang out. It narrowly missed Pasha. Alexander closed his eyes and thought, this is crazy. I'm not putting him in front of the firing squad before my own eyes. He called Pasha back, and sent for a corporal to shield Metanov next time he called out for his lieutenant. There was no more fire from the other side. Soon they heard a voice calling, "Commander Kolonchak?"

"Yes, Borov," said Pasha.

"What is the password?"

Pasha glanced at Alexander. "If they asked you, wouldyou know?"

"No."

"Would you guess?"

"Don't play games. This is for the lives of your men."

"No, it's for the lives of yours."

"Give him the password, Pasha."

"The Queen of Lake Ilmen," yelled Pasha Metanov, waving a white handkerchief.

After a pained silence, Alexander said, "Well, I'm sure your sister would appreciate her name being summoned in the heat of battle."

Borov walked forward from behind the gray trees not thirty meters away--that's all that separated the Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

two enemy battalions. In one hour this would have turned into hand-to-hand combat. Alexander had been in the woods too many times, up on hills, in the mud, in the marsh, shooting at phantoms, at shadows, at branches falling. He bowed his head. He was glad that at least for now the fighting would be over. He heard Pasha speaking to Borov, who was disbelieving and reluctant. "Permission not to surrender, sir."

"Permission denied," said Pasha. "You see a way out?"

"Die with honor," said Borov.

Alexander stepped forward. "Tell your men to lay down their arms and come forward."

"Captain!" Pasha cut in. "I'll handle this." He turned to Borov. "And the Germans are to be taken prisoner."

Borov laughed. "We're surrenderingthem ? They're going to love this."

"They will do as they're forced to."

"What about the rest of us?"

"We're going to fight for the Red Army."

Borov stepped back with a look of disbelief on his face. "Captain, what's happening? This is impossible."

"What's happening, Borov, is that I've been taken prisoner. And so you have no choice. This is for my life."

Borov bowed his own head, as if he truly had no choice.

A little while later Pasha explained, "Borov will always be loyal to me. He is to me what Ouspensky is to you."

"Ouspensky is nothing to me," said Alexander.

"Ah, you're joking." Pasha paused. They were walking back to the Soviet camp, their men in front of them, the ten Germans with their hands tied. "Alexander, do you trust him?"

"Who?"

"Ouspensky."

"Inasmuch as I trust anyone."

"What does that mean?"

"What are you getting at?"

Pasha coughed. "Do you trust him with personal things?" Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"I trust no one with personal things," Alexander said, looking straight ahead.

"That's good." Pasha paused. "I don't know if he can be trusted."

"Oh, he's proven his loyalty to me over the years. He can be trusted. Nonetheless, I don't."

"That's good," said Pasha.

Alexander was right about many things. Soviet reinforcements did not come. And there were no Red Army Imperial uniforms for Pasha and his Russian soldiers. Though he had lost many more than forty-two men himself, he buried his dead in their wet and bloodied resplendent velvet garb. Now he had forty-two men in German uniforms with German haircuts. Alexander ordered them shaved, but they were still in German uniforms.

Pasha was right about many things. German reinforcements moved to the foot of the mountain looking for their Russian battalion, expecting to find Pasha's men and instead found Alexander's battalion and not a Vlasovite in sight. Though their shells and grenades were more plentiful than Alexander's, Alexander had the advantage, for the first time in his military career, of being at the top of the hill. The German artillery unit was repelled, with difficulty, then an infantry unit was repelled with ease, and his men moved down the mountain, having lost only five soldiers. Alexander said he would never fight again unless it was from a great height.

Pasha said maybe the first time the Germans had sent in a handful of troops to block Alexander, but next time they would send a thousand, and the time after that ten thousand.

Pasha was right about many things.

On the other side of the Holy Cross mountains was more forest and more fighting, and another day brought a heavier artillery, heavier machine-gun fire, more grenades, more shells, less rain, more fire.

Alexander's battalion was again reduced by five. The next day brought more Germans, and the battalion became three squads. No bandages, no sulfa helped. His men had no time to construct defenses, pillboxes, trenches. The trees covered them but the trees were felled by mortar fire, by grenades, by shells, and his men were, too. Nothing could sew back their severed limbs.

After four days, two squads remained. Twenty men. Alexander, Pasha, Ouspensky, Borov and sixteen foot soldiers.

One of Alexander's men was bitten by something in the woods. The next day he lay dead. Nineteen men. Back to where they were before Pasha. But they had eight bound prisoners to barter their lives with.

The German army was not advancing. It certainly wasn't retreating. Nor were they sitting still. Their singular purpose seemed to lie in finishing off Alexander's battalion.

Alexander managed to hold out for a fifth day. But then there were no more bombs, no more shells and the guns were nearly empty. Borov had been killed. Pasha cried when he buried him in the mud under Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

wet leaves.

Then Sergeant Telikov. Ouspensky cried when they buried Telikov.

The bandages were gone. The food was gone. They collected rain water into leaves and poured it into their flasks. The morphine and the medic were gone. Alexander bandaged his own men.

"What now?" asked Pasha.

"I'm fresh out," said Alexander.

Retreat was the only option.

"We can't retreat," Alexander said to Ouspensky, who was ready to turn back.

"Yes, Lieutenant," said Pasha. "You know retreat is punishable by death."

"F*ck you," said Ouspensky. "I'd like to punish you by death."

Alexander and Pasha exchanged a look. "And you wonder why I chose the Germans over death," said Pasha.

"No," said Ouspensky. "You chose the Germans over your own people, you bastard."

"Look at the way our own people are treating their army!" Pasha exclaimed. "They've put you in here without any support, they've sent you to certain death, and to add insult to your injury, they made surrender a crime against the Motherland! Where have you ever heard of such a thing happening? In what army, in what place and time? You name me where." Pasha made a scornful sound. "And you ask why."

Alexander said, "Oh, Pasha, you take it all so personally. Who do you think cares for our death?"

He and Pasha mutely glanced at each other, and then Alexander stopped talking. He was sitting on a broken tree, pushed up against another, covered with his wet trench coat, carving a stake with his knife. From another tree Ouspensky called to Alexander to stop his useless tasks. Alexander replied that with the stake he was going to catch a fish, eat it himself and let Ouspensky starve for all he cared. Pasha mentioned mournfully that Borov always caught the fish for them, that he was his best friend and his right hand for three years. Ouspensky said, cry me a f*cking river Vistula, and Alexander told them both to shut up. Night fell.

Alexander and Tatiana are playing war hide and seek. Alexander stands very quietly in the woods, listening for her. He can't hear a thing except for the bugs and ticks and flies and bees. Many insects, no Tatiana. He looks up above him, nothing. Slowly he moves forward. "Oh, Tania," he calls for her. "Where are you, tiny Tania? Where are you? You better have hidden yourself good from me, because I'm getting the feeling that I need to find you." He is hoping to make her laugh. He stops talking and listens. There is no sound. Sometimes if she is near he hears her cocking the pistol he gave her. But today not a sound.

"Oh, Tania!" He walks through the woods, turning around every few seconds, watching his back. This Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

game ends once she is behind him, his own gun in his kidney. "Tatia, I forgot to tell you something really important, are you listening?"

He listens. Not a sound. He smiles.

Moss lands on his head. She is doing it again. Where did that come from? He immediately looks up. Not there. He looks around. Can't see her. During this game she puts on his camouflage undershirt and becomes nearly invisible. He is already laughing. "Tatiasha, stop throwing moss at me, because when I find you--" He hears a noise and looks up. Water pours on him from above; not just water, but a whole bucket. He is doused. He swears. The bucket is in full view dangling from a branch, but she is nowhere to be seen. The rope connecting to the bucket descends and disappears behind a fallen log to Alexander's right. "All right, that's it. The gloves are off. Just you wait, Tania," he says, taking off his wet shirt. "You are in so much trouble." He moves towards the log, and suddenly he hears a little whoosh, and in the next instant he is covered with a white powder that gets into his hair and face. It is flour; now it is moist glue around his wet hair and head. Alexander can't believe it. How long had she been planning this, to lure him into the woods, to an exact position first for the water, then for the flour? Marveling at her, at what a formidable opponent she makes, Alexander says, "Oh, that's it, Tania, that's just it. If you think you were in trouble before, I can't even tell you what--" He moves towards the log, but hears a soft tread behind him, and without even turning around extends his hand and grabs her as she is at his back. He doesn't actually grab her, he grabs the gun. Tatiana squeals, lets go of the gun, which remains in his hands, and runs wildly through the woods. He chases her. The forest near this part of the river is sloppy--not the neat pine forest leading from Molotov to Lazarevo, or like the one around their clearing, but overgrown with the underbrush of the oaks and the poplars, the nettles and the moss. The low-hanging branches, the fallen trees slow Alexander down. Nothing slows her down. She jumps over them, passes underneath them, zigzags, and squeals. She even manages to pick up moss and a handful of leaves and throw them back at him.

He has had enough. "Watch your back!" he yells and flanks her on the side; ignoring the bushes in his way, Alexander jumps over three logs and comes out in front of her, holding the gun and panting. He is covered with water and flour. Tatiana shrieks and turns to run away, but before she can move, Alexander is on her, toppling her flat on the mossy ground. "Where do you think you're going?" he pants, holding her down as she tries to get away. "What do you think you're doing, you clever girl, too clever by half for your own good, where are you going to go now?" He rubs his floured cheek against her clean face.

"Stop it," she pants. "You're going to get me dirty."

"I'm going to do more than get you dirty."

She struggles valiantly underneath him; her hands find his ribs as she tickles him without much success. He grabs her hands and pulls them over her head. "You won't even believe what kind of trouble you're in, you flour-throwing Nazi. What were you thinking, how long were you planning this?"

"Five seconds." She laughs. "You're so gullible." She is still fighting to get away.

He holds her hands above her head. Gripping her wrists with one hand, Alexander yanks up the camouflage T-shirt to her neck, exposing her stomach and ribs and breasts. "Will you stop fighting with me?" he says. "Do you give up?"

"Never!" she cries. "It is better to die on your feet--"

Alexander brings his stubbled face to her ribs and tickles her with his chin. Tatiana chortles. "Stop it," Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

she says. "Stop torturing me. Put me in the kissing prison."

"The kissing prison is too good for the likes of you. You're going to need a harsher punishment. Do you give up?" he asks again.

"Never!"

He tickles her ribs again with his mouth and his stubble. Alexander knows he has to be careful. Once he tickled her for so long, she fainted. Now she is laughing uncontrollably, her legs kicking up in the air. He puts his own leg over them, still holding her hands above her head, his tongue tickling her up and down her side. "Do--you--give--up?" he asks again, panting.

"Never!" she squeals, and Alexander raises himself slightly and grabs her nipple with his mouth. He does not cease until he hears her squealing change tone and pitch.

He stops for a moment. "I'm going to ask you again. Do you give up?"

She moans. "No." She pauses. "You better kill me, soldier..." Pause. "And use all your weapons."

Gripping her hands above her head, Alexander makes love to her in the moss, refusing to stop, refusing to be more gentle until she gives up. He continues through her first crashing wave, and then pants, "What say you now, prisoner?"

Tatiana, her voice barely above a murmur, replies, "Please, sir, I want some more."

After he stops laughing, he gives her more.

"Do you give up?"

She is nearly inaudible. "Please, sir, I want some more..."

He gives her more.

"Let go of my hands, husband," Tatiana whispers into his mouth. "I want to touch you."

"Do you give up?"

"Yes, I give up. I give up."

He lets go. She touches him.

After he is done with her, her face and breasts and stomach are all covered in flour too. Flour and moss and Alexander.

"Come on, get up," he whispers.

"I can't," she whispers back. "I can't move."

He carries her to the Kama, where they cool down and clean off in their shallow rocky canopied water hole with the fishes. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

"How many ways are there to kill you?" Alexander murmurs, lifting her up onto himself and kissing her.

"Just one," replies Tatiana, her wet warm face rubbing against his wet neck.

In the frozen forests of Poland past, Alexander, Pasha, Ouspensky, and their one remaining corporal, Demko, hid in the bushes, surrounded, out of ammunition, blackened, bloodied and wet.

Alexander and Pasha sat and waited for inspiration or death.

The Germans poured kerosene and set fire to the woods in front of them, and to the left of them, and to the right of them.

"Alexander--"

"Pasha, I know." Their backs were against the thick oaks. They were a few meters from each other. The fire was warm against Alexander's face.

"We're trapped."

"Yes."

"We've got no bullets left."

"Yes." Alexander was carving a piece of wood.

"This is it, isn't it? There is no way out."

"You don't think there is, but there is. We just haven't thought of it."

"By the time we think of it, we'll be dead," said Pasha.

"We'd better think faster, then." He watched Pasha. One way or another, he had to get Tatiana's brother out of these woods. One way or another he had to save him for her, though every once in a while during moments of blackness, Alexander did fear that Pasha was unsaveable.

"We can't surrender."

"No?"

"No. How do you think the Germans will treat us? We've just killed hundreds of their men. You think they'll be lenient?"

"It's war, they'll understand. And talk lower, Pasha." Alexander didn't want Ouspensky to hear, and Ouspensky always heard everything.

Pasha talked lower. "And you know perfectly well I can't turn back."

"I know." Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

They fell silent, while Alexander--to calm his idle hands--continued to carve out a spear from a wooden branch. Pasha cleaned his machine gun and suddenly snorted.

"What are you thinking, Pasha?"

"Nothing. I was thinking how ironic it is to end up here."

"Why ironic?"

"My father came here, long time ago. During peace. Came here on business. To Poland! We were so impressed. To around this part, actually. Brought us all back exotic gifts. I wore the tie he brought me till it frayed. Pasha thought there was nothing tastier than Polish chocolates, and Tania, her skinny arm broken, wore the dress my father gave her."

Alexander stopped carving. "What dress?"

"I don't know. A white dress. She was too skinny and young for it and her arm was in a cast, but she wore it anyway, proud as anything."

"Did"--Alexander's voice caught--"did the dress have flowers on it?"

"Yes. Red roses."

Alexander breathed out a groan. "Where did your father buy the dress?"

"I think in a market town called Swietokryzst. Yes, Tania used to call it her dress from Holy Cross. Wore it every Sunday."

Alexander closed his eyes and stilled his hands.

He heard Pasha's voice. "What do you think my sister would do?"

Alexander blinked, trying to get the image of Tatiana out of his tortured mind, sitting on the bench in that dress, eating ice cream, walking barefoot in that swinging dress through the Field of Mars, on the steps of the Molotov church, in his arms, his new wife, in that dress.

"Wouldshe go back?" Pasha asked.

"No. She wouldn't go back." His heart squeezed in his chest. No matter how much she wanted to. No matter how much he wanted her to.

Picking up his machine gun, Alexander came up to Pasha, and before Ouspensky lumbered up off his stump and came too close to them, Alexander whispered, "Pasha! Your pregnant sister got out of f*cking Russia all by herself. She had weapons but she would never use them. They were moot to her. Without killing anyone, without firing a shot, her belly full of baby, by herself she figured a way out of the swamps to Helsinki. If she got as far as Finland, I have to believe she got farther. I have to have faith. I found you. I can't believe that was for nothing. Now we have four good men, eight if you count the Germans. And they are our hostages. We have knives, we have bayonets, we have matches, we can make weapons, and, unlike Tania, we will use them. Let's not sit here and pretend we're finished. Let's attempt to be stronger men than Tatiana. It won't be easy, but we will have to try. All right?" Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

He stood still, his back against the oak, mud covering his face and hair. Alexander crossed himself and kissed his helmet. "We have to get through that burning forest to the other side, Pasha. Closer to the Germans. We have to, that's all."

"It's f*cked up, but all right."

The remaining prisoners and Ouspensky took some harder convincing.

"What are you worried about?" said Alexander. "You have half our breathing capacity; in smoke and flames that's actually to your advantage."

"I won't be inhaling smoke, I'll be incinerating," Ouspensky replied.

Finally everyone was braced for the forge. Alexander told them to cover their heads.

Pasha said, his empty machine gun over his shoulder, "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready," he replied. "Be very careful, Pasha. Cover your mouth."

"I can't run and keep my mouth covered. I'll be all right. Remember, the f*cking Fritzes burned my train down. I've been in a little fire before. Let's go. I'll breathe into my cap. Just promise me you won't leave me high and dry."

"I won't leave you high and dry," Alexander said, slinging his empty mortar onto his shoulder and covering his mouth with a wet bloody towel.

They ran into the fire.

Alexander breathed through the wet towel tied around his head as they ran through the burning woods. Ouspensky held his breath for as long as he could, breathing through his trench coat sodden with rain. But Pasha pummeled right through it. Brave, thought Alexander. Brave and foolish. Somehow they got through the flames. In this case, their wet clothes were to their advantage: they refused to catch fire. And the men's hair had all been shaved, it wasn't flailing in the flames. One of the prisoners wasn't lucky: a branch fell on him and he lost consciousness. One of the other Germans slung him on his back and continued forward.

With the fire behind them, Alexander took one look at Pasha and saw that he was more foolish than brave. Pasha was pale. He slowed down, then stopped. They were still amid the smoke.

Alexander stopped running. "What's the matter?" he said, taking the rag away from his mouth and immediately choking and coughing.

"I don't know," Pasha croaked, holding on to his throat.

"Open your mouth."

Pasha did, but it didn't help. He suddenly went down like a felled tree, and the sounds coming from him were those of a man who was choking on food or a bullet; they were the sounds of a man who could not breathe.

Alexander put his own wet towel against Pasha's nose and mouth. It wasn't helping, and he himself was Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

gagging. The open flames had been better than the enemy smoke in the oppressive forest. Ouspensky was pulling on his arm. The rest of the German men were up ahead already, held together by Demko's--the last remaining foot soldier's--machine gun. They were dozens of meters ahead, but Alexander couldn't get through the bush and could not leave Pasha. Couldn't move forward, couldn't move back.

Something had to be done. Pasha was hacking, wheezing, gasping for the breath that wouldn't come. Alexander grabbed Pasha, threw him over his shoulders, took the rag from him to cover his own mouth and ran. Ouspensky ran with him.

How much time had Alexander lost carrying Pasha? Thirty seconds? One minute? It was hard to tell. Judging by the man's stifling inability to draw in a breath, it was too long. Soon it would be too late. He called for Ouspensky when the air was slightly clearer.

"Where's the medic?" Alexander panted.

"Medic's dead. Remember? We took his helmet."

Alexander could barely remember.

"Didn't he have an assistant?"

"Assistant died seven days ago."

Carefully Alexander moved Pasha off his back, and sat down holding him in his arms. Ouspensky glanced at them. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know. He wasn't hit, he didn't swallow anything." Just in case, Alexander elongated Pasha's neck to be in a straight line with the rest of his body, and stuck his fingers into Pasha's mouth, feeling around for any obstructions. There weren't any, but deeper near the esophagus, he felt around for the opening to the trachea and there wasn't one. The throat felt pulpy and thickened. Quickly Alexander kneeled over Pasha, held his nose shut and blew quick breaths into Pasha's throat. Nothing. He breathed long breaths into Pasha's throat. Still nothing. He felt for the opening in the mouth again. There wasn't any. Alexander became frightened. "What the hell is happening?" he muttered. "What's wrong with him?"

"I've seen it before," Ouspensky said. "Back at Sinyavino. Seen a number of men die from smoke inhalation. Their throat swells;completely closes up. By the time the swelling goes down, they're dead." He took a wet breath from his coast. "He's finished," said Ouspensky. "He can't breathe, there is nothing you can do for him."

Alexander could swear there was satisfaction in Ouspensky's voice. He didn't have the time to respond to it. He lay Pasha on the ground, flat on his back, and placed the rolled-up bloody towel under his neck, with his head slightly tilted backward to expose his throat. Rummaging through his rucksack, Alexander found his pen. Thank God it was broken. For some reason the ink didn't drip down to the nib. Thank God for Soviet manufacturing. Dismantling the pen, he put aside the hollow barrell and then took out his knife.

"What are you going to do, Captain?" said Ouspensky, pointing to the knife in Alexander's hand. "Are you going to cut his throat?"

"Yes," said Alexander. "Now shut up and stop talking to me." Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

Ouspensky kneeled down. "I was being facetious."

"Shine a light on his throat and hold it steady. That's your job. Also hold this plastic tube and this twine. When I tell you, give the tube to me. Understood?"

They got ready. Alexander took a deep breath. He knew he had no time. He looked at his fingers. They were steady.

Feeling down Pasha's throat, Alexander found his protruding Adam's apple, felt a little lower and found the skin stretching over the tracheal cavity. Alexander knew there was nothing but skin protecting the tracheal lumen right under Pasha's Adam's apple. If he was very careful, he could make a small incision and stick the tube into Pasha's throat to allow him to breathe. But just a small incision. He had never done it. His hands weren't meant for delicate work, not like Tania's. "Here goes," he whispered, held his breath, and lowered his knife to Pasha's throat. Ouspensky's hands were shaking, judging by the shaking of the flashlight. "Lieutenant, for f*ck's sake, hold still."

Ouspensky tried. "Have you ever done this before, Captain?"

"No. Seen it done, though."

"With success?"

"Not much success," said Alexander. He'd seen two medics do it twice. Both soldiers didn't make it. One was cut too deep, and the fragile trachea was sheared in half by a knife that was too heavy. The other never opened his eyes again. Breathed, just never opened his eyes.

Very slowly, Alexander cut two centimeters of Pasha's skin. It was resistant to the knife. Then the skin bled, making it hard to see how far he was cutting. He needed a scalpel, but all he had was the army knife he shaved with and killed with. He cut a little deeper, a little deeper, and then put the knife between his teeth and opened up the skin with his fingers, exposing a bit of cartilage on both sides of the membrane. Holding the skin open, Alexander made a small cut in the membrane below the Adam's apple, and suddenly there was a sucking sound in Pasha's throat as air from the outside was vacuumed in. Alexander continued to hold it open with his fingers, letting the lungs fill with air and force the air out through the opening in the throat. It wasn't as efficient as using the upper airways such as the nose and mouth, but it would do.

"The pen, Lieutenant."

Ouspensky handed it over.

Alexander stuck the short plastic barrell halfway into the hole, taking care in his expediency not to ram it against the back of the trachea.

Alexander let himself draw a breath. "We did all right, Pasha," he said. "Ouspensky, the twine." He tied one end of the barrell to the rope, the other around Pasha's neck, so the pen would hold steady and not slip out.

"How long before the swelling goes down?" Alexander asked.

"How should I know?" replied Ouspensky. "All the men I've seen with their throats closed up died Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html

before the swelling went down. So I don't know."

Pasha was lying in Alexander's arms, erratically, sporadically, ecstatically breathing through the dirty plastic tube while Alexander watched his mud-covered struggling face, thinking that the whole war had been reduced to waiting for death while Pasha's life piped through the inkless barrell of a broken Soviet pen.

One minute Grinkov, Marazov, Verenkov without his glasses, Telikov, Yermenko, one minute Dasha, and one minute Alexander, too. One minute he was alive, and the next minute he was lying on the ice on Lake Ladoga bleeding out, his icy clothes entombing him. One minute, alive, the next face down, helmet down, in his white coat, lying on the ice, bleeding out.

But in less time than it took to draw a breath, Alexander had been loved. In one deep breath, in one agonized blink, he had been so beloved.

"Pasha, can you hear me?" asked Alexander. "Blink if you can hear me."

Pasha blinked.

Tightening his mouth, taking shallow breaths, Alexander remembered a poem,The Fantasia of a Fallen Gentleman on a Cold Bitter Night :

Once in finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy

And in a flash of gold heels on the hard pavement

Now see I

That warmth's the very stuff of poesy

Oh, God, make small

The old, star-eaten blanket of the sky,

That I may fold it round me, and in comfort lie.