War of The Rats - A Novel of Stalingrad - [World War II 01]

by David Robbins

  He’s up. There he is.

  A man. His arms are spread. He’s fallen.

  Why did he jump up like that? Strange. He should have gone straight down, crumpled. I know it was a hit.

  Heinz! Forget him! The second target. The tunnel.

  Find it. Move!

  Yank back the bolt. Smooth. Fast. Ram it home.

  Swing, swing down, right and low.

  Now find the Hare. Find his gleaming tunnel.

  Where is he? Find him! Fast!

  Too much movement. Damn it!

  Where is he?

  How much time has elapsed? Too much!

  Seconds. Only seconds, Heinz.

  Stay calm. He can’t see you. Find him.

  Stop! There’s the mortar shell.

  There’s his scope, with his soft eye behind it.

  The low target. Ease the pulse.

  The crosshairs. The beauty.

  Mark.

  I am finished.

  * * * *

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ZAITSEV LAY ON THE GROUND, STOMACH DOWN, HIS feet spread behind him for balance.

  He slid only the first centimeter of the Moisin-Nagant’s barrel into the brass casing he’d worked into the bottom of the wall the night before. This was today’s trick, a German ploy from the slopes of Mamayev Kurgan. Zaitsev hoped that after dueling for four days, Thorvald would not be vigilant enough to spot this small opening. It had taken him hours of chipping away at the stones to make the shaft for the mortar shell. Kulikov had lent him inspiration, working silently beside him through the cold night. Kulikov’s task was to cut a V-shaped notch into the wall with his trenching tool, twenty meters to Zaitsev’s left. Neither man exchanged a word until both jobs were completed.

  It was a simple idea. Draw the Headmaster’s fire with a feint. The gash in the wall was calculated to be so obvious it would be spotted by the Headmaster as soon as the morning light was full enough over the park. This would lock in Thorvald’s attention to keep him from blundering onto the mortar shell at the base of the wall to his right. In that small tunnel, pointed directly into his lair, lay the true sting of this day’s tactic, the Hare’s rifle.

  Zaitsev’s hope was that if he was staring straight into the darkness beneath the metal when the Headmaster fired at Kulikov, he might spot the muzzle flash. If so, he would risk a blind shot at the flash point. If he missed, he would scare Thorvald out of his position and the duel would surely start over in a different location in the city. As unpleasant a result as that would be, it couldn’t be helped. One man, one bullet? It sounded good. But Thorvald was not just a man. He was a killer ghost. It was best to seize on the first, and probably only, opportunity when it presented itself, even if the shot was less than certain. The hunt for the Headmaster had taken several days and lives; it might also take several bullets.

  The sun was high now and favored Zaitsev’s position, perhaps only for another hour. It’s time to move, he thought. The Headmaster will expect something from us while the light is out of the east. Zaitsev laid his cheek on the cool wooden stock. He crept his eye up to the scope, creating as little motion as possible. He swung the crosshairs to the metal sheet, which lay on a pile of bricks. He raised his cheek a millimeter, lowering the center of the cross to the black depth between the bricks, into the dark den of the Headmaster.

  “Now,” he called to Kulikov.

  Zaitsev knew what his partner was doing. A minute before, Kulikov had laid a brick on top of his head and donned his helmet over it, tightening the strap under his chin. The brick lifted the helmet ten centimeters above his crown. Both men hoped this would be enough margin of safety for Kulikov’s scalp. They agreed that a helmet jiggling on a stick would not flush out the Headmaster. The helmet had to move naturally; it had to be on a man’s head. Kulikov consented to the plan without comment. A brave comrade, Zaitsev thought, and a man confident in his ability to move with precision.

  With his helmet raised so, the scheme called for Kulikov to lean in and out of the notch to catch the Headmaster’s attention with the movement. Then . . .

  Kulikov fired the shot, the next step in the plan. The bullet was aimed at the empty bunker to their right, a random round to tweak Thorvald’s attention and a message that the Red snipers did not know where his hiding place was. The rifle crack flew past Zaitsev; he tied his thoughts to the sound as if they were a note to a pigeon’s leg, to have them flap across the park into Thorvald’s hole, where he would read We don’t know where you are, Colonel. You are safe. Come out.

  The crosshairs were like two swords in Zaitsev’s hands; he was ready to wield them. He snuggled tighter to the scope. His finger caressed the trigger. Come out, Headmaster. You snake. Make a move.

  Seconds passed. The crosshairs bounced once. His pulse throbbed in his hands. Ease off, he thought. Don’t go to him; let him come to you. Let him earn the bullet.

  It’s not working. The Headmaster isn’t home this morning. He’s already gone. Could he have left without finishing our duel? No, never; he hasn’t bagged his Hare yet. Or has he? Danilov. Did he think he hit me when he hit Danilov?

  No, not the Headmaster. He knows I’m here. Don’t be impatient. He’s there. He’s under the metal sheet, down in the blackness I’ve erected this cross over. We’re knotted together, the two of us. He can’t leave. Our eyes and hands are tangled above this park right now and cannot be untied except through death. He’s in there. I feel him there.

  Zaitsev recalled Baugderis’s pink, exploded face and the black blood hardened over the head of Morozov. The Headmaster had shot both snipers through their scopes. Through the scopes, he thought, marking the beginnings of alarm; is he staring at me right now? Are his crosshairs boring into this mortar shell, stretching across my scope? Has he spotted me, has the sun betrayed me after all my careful steps? These passing seconds—is he using them to wait for his own pulse to settle, to squeeze his trigger with my soft right eye for his mark? Thorvald can do it. I’ve seen the results. Baugderis, Morozov. I know he can shoot as fast as two men. Danilov. Kulikov. Shaikin. The dummy Pyotr. Was I wrong? Does Thorvald know this mortar shell trick? Did the Headmaster teach this to his boy killers at his Berlin school?

  Staring across the crosshairs, Zaitsev winced. Nothing, he thought, nothing but flat blackness. He clenched his teeth.

  All right, Thorvald. Come on, damn it! Come on! Let’s be done with it! If you see me, show me! Come on!

  A faint blue flash winked almost faster than Zaitsev’s eye could grasp it. But there it was, deep in the Headmaster’s hole.

  To Zaitsev’s right, Kulikov’s feet scuffled in the dirt. The little sniper’s rifle clattered on the ground.

  Kulikov cried out, “Aaayugh!” He stood, his arms flared out, then fell hard away from the wall. His back thumped the ground; his breath gasped on impact.

  Nikolay! The Headmaster shot him! He missed the brick and hit Nikolay!

  Zaitsev’s hands tried to release the rifle. His cheek pulled a millimeter off the scope. Nikolay! I’ve got to tend to him. He’s down! The bastard shot him!

  No! a voice commanded him. No! Stay in place!

  He became rigid around his rifle. Nikolay’s spirit can’t be helped now. The Headmaster. Focus, Vasily.

  The flash. It was him.

  A second passed. Fear crept up his spine like a wolf, low and powerful. Is another bullet on its way, this one for me, from the Headmaster? Another second ticked on his forehead. I’ve got to shoot. But I can’t. I don’t see him, only my eye’s memory of the muzzle flash. What if I miss? The Headmaster will answer.

  A third second. He held his breath; his heart and lungs seemed to be outside him, big as barns, filled with frozen air and coursing blood. His eye winced once.

  The fear leaped onto his shoulders. It clawed and barked around his head and eyes. The fear bit into his neck, and another second passed.

  Here, Vasha, take the spear, a voice from the taiga cried in his memory. The fear has power. Ki
ll it and take its power! Take the spear! Do it! You are one of us, Vasha, a hunter!

  Yes, a hunter.

  In that moment, he stabbed as hard as he could.

  There was nothing beneath his crosshairs but black. A blind shot, into the evil eclipse of Thorvald’s hole. The fourth second. The last one.

  Zaitsev cast a curse into the bullet. The Headmaster thinks his time in the darkness is done. He is wrong.

  His darkness is just beginning.

  Now.

  The rifle snapped into his shoulder, the report cracked in his ears. Beneath the crosshairs, the hole remained clamped shut.

  “Did you get him?” Kulikov’s voice!

  Zaitsev dropped the rifle and spun away from the mortar shell. Kulikov was on his rump, propped on his elbows. The front of his helmet was punched in. His face and the tops of his ears were coated in brick dust.

  Kulikov grinned. Zaitsev was dazed. The fear withdrew into the shadows of the forest inside him. Kulikov stepped out from those shadows. All happened at once.

  He exhaled. The wind was in his lungs again. He grabbed up a small stone and bounced it hard off his friend’s chest.

  “You son of a bitch! You’re not dead!”

  Kulikov played at taking his own pulse. He shook his head.

  Zaitsev threw another pebble to make his friend cover his face with his arms.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to jump up like that?” Zaitsev asked. “It scared the shit out of me!”

  Nikolay tilted his head. More rust-colored dust trickled onto his shoulder. He took off the helmet and dumped broken bits of brick into his lap.

  “I thought,” said Kulikov, “it might buy you another second or two if I made a show of it. Maybe the Headmaster would stop and admire his handiwork. I don’t know, it seemed like the thing to do at the moment.”

  “At the moment,” Zaitsev grumbled, pretending to be vexed. But Nikolay might have been right. The Headmaster had not gotten off his second shot in three, even four seconds.

  “Well,” Kulikov asked, “did you get him?”

  “I don’t know.” Zaitsev shrugged.

  Kulikov swept dust from his shoulders.

  The Hare laughed. His happiness surfaced at seeing Nikolay unscathed.

  “Here.” Kulikov tossed Zaitsev a flattened gray slug he’d sifted out of the shards of brick in his lap. “This was sent for you. I think it came out of my rifle.”

  Zaitsev fingered the lump of lead. He felt the Headmaster’s hands on it, just as he’d sensed his presence in the hole beneath the metal. He looked into the sky and tried to understand what had happened, whom he had just faced. The Headmaster. A phenomenal, fearsome man with a rifle. Thorvald has a strong spirit. So do I. That’s what we hunted in each other, how he called me and how I heard him in this massive boneyard of Stalingrad. Thorvald’s spirit is like tar; if you touch it, your hands will be smeared with it. The bullet in Zaitsev’s palm, which might have ended up in his head, felt black as pitch, almost sticky with the death it might have been. He tossed it away.

  He looked at the puncture in the front of Kulikov’s helmet, an ebony dot directly in the middle of the forehead. Thorvald’s shot had been perfect.

  Zaitsev reached into his pack for a loaf of black bread.

  “We’ll wait until tonight, Nikolay,” he said, bringing the dark crust to his lips. “Maybe we’ll get our chance to drag the Headmaster out by his feet.”

  “And if he’s not in there?” Nikolay asked, reaching for the bread.

  “Then,” the Hare said, sitting back, “I don’t know.”

  * * * *

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE PUNCH OF GUNFIRE KNOCKED AWAY NIKKL’S DROWSINESS.

  No! They’re shooting at me. Coming fully awake, he tensed to roll over and run. Blood bounded in his temples. He realized suddenly he’d heard only an echo off the high ruined walls.

  The shot had not issued from the colonel’s hole only ten meters away. The bang wasn’t muffled; there was instead a crispness to it, like a field of banners snapping. The shot came from the other side of the park.

  Zaitsev. He has fired.

  Nikki pressed his chest against the wall. If Zaitsev has at last pulled his trigger, it can only mean the colonel has flushed him out with some trick or other. Thorvald will be answering in another moment. Here it comes. And away we go, home.

  Seconds passed, ten perhaps. The quiet kicked at Nikki’s stomach. Shoot, Colonel. Kill him. What are you waiting for? Nikki wanted to cry out around the broken back of the wall. Shoot! Get him!

  Nikki laid his palms against the stones. He dug his nails into the mortar as if climbing the wall from his knees. Shoot, Colonel. Please.

  The answering shot burped out of Thorvald’s den. The report broke Nikki’s grip on the wall. He released his fingers from the stones and sank back to his knees. He brought his hands to his face and bent his head, almost prayerful. “Yes,” he whispered.

  Four seconds later, an echo bounced again off the ruins from the opposite side of the park, from the Red snipers,

  Nikki’s head jerked out of his hands.

  How could it be? Two shots from across the park? But the Hare is dead. The colonel drew him out, made him fire first, then punished him, killed him. Who’s shooting now? Thorvald missed? No. Thorvald hit somebody when he fired, that’s certain. He never misses. It must be the Hare’s assistant, yes, that’s who it is, firing back wildly in a vengeful rage, the Hare dead beside him, the Hare’s brains splattered on his cheek.

  Nikki wanted to holler into Thorvald’s cell: You got him, Colonel! Are we going home tomorrow? How many sandwiches are left, eh? Let’s eat them all!

  Nikki turned his back to the wall. He hugged his knees for warmth and gazed up at the mute, mangled buildings across the boulevard. The sun shone brightly on their empty faces. Sad, he thought, these giant husks, remnants of life that can’t fall down, dead and still standing. I wish I knew what they know, how to be dead and stay on my feet. It might make dying easier to take. Are you alive enough, buildings, to tell me what you heard, what you saw? Did Thorvald get the Hare? I’m small and behind this wall, I don’t know what’s happened.

  The black windows of the buildings kept a watch like buzzards in a line; they would not wink at Nikki to give him a clue who had survived, the Hare or the Headmaster.

  Nikki lowered himself into the well of sleep. There’s nothing I can do, he thought. I can’t call to the colonel. He dislikes interruptions. He won’t speak to me all day, it’s just his way. He’s probably napping in there; the action’s over for the day, maybe longer.

  The November sun weighed on the chilly air. Sit still, he thought. Huddle behind this wall and block the breeze. The stones will warm during the day. Nikki took off his gloves and unwrapped a sandwich.

  Time, he thought. Time has a heaviness you can feel when there’s nothing you can do but wait, when it sits across your shoulders like a yoke.

  * * * *

  NIKKI’S MIND RACED FOR AN HOUR. THE SUN DIPPED below the horizon. The quiet around him went undisturbed.

  Thorvald’s hole is the most silent, the blackest part of the world, Nikki thought. What is he doing in there? Is he asleep? Should I wake him? Maybe the colonel has set up another trick to nab the Hare, something in the night. Yes, something to surprise Zaitsev. Thorvald has deciphered some Russian tactic that’s going to take place tonight, and he’s lying in ambush. That’s why we’re still here. But the colonel has never worked after the sun goes down; we always leave the park the minute it gets dark. The temperature drops, and I know how he hates the cold. He grumbles like an old woman about it. What is he doing in there?

  Nikki kicked his boots on the ground to sting his heels. He rolled to his knees and bounced in a crouch. His hips ached from the cold ground.

  The afternoon had been sunny, almost comfortable at Nikki’s post facing into the light. Now the heat slipped away from the wall’s stones and the earth beneath him, suck
ed out into the night. The next morning was going to be foggy. Over his father’s pastures, fog often followed a starry, cool night. Am I going home? he wondered. How far am I from home? Two thousand kilometers. Come get me in Russia tomorrow morning, fog; land around me, and I’ll walk away from Stalingrad under you. I’ll walk all the way home at dawn. The fog will cover me, no one will see me. I know where the creek lies on the edge of our property, even in the fog. If you follow the creek, it widens and flows east to the River Elbe. The river flows through low, easy hills that roll like green over young bones. I’ll jump all the way over the creek this time. I’m older now. I fell in up to my knees the day before I left for the army. I could jump it easily now, even carrying a pack on my back. The dog will try, too, but he never makes it, misses by a meter. He’ll splash in, then swim over and shake. He’ll run ahead, scaring up the cows, announcing my homecoming. I’ll walk right up out of the haze. The dog’s barking will hide my footsteps, so my father won’t hear me coming until I’m on the front stoop. He’ll send for my sister at the hospital, and while we wait for her we’ll eat breakfast together, and we’ll talk, not about the war, but about the cows and the dog.