“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,”
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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.
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“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.”
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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 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?”
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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.
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
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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.”
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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 fuck’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
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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 :