“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?”
“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 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.”
“Fuck 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 fucking 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 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,” 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.
“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.”
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.
“Would she 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 fucking 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?”
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 fucked 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 fucking 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.