Paul leaned over the steering wheel and stared through the pane of glass. “Is that the rebel forests? Or do we only call the woods near Smolensk by that name?”
“They’re all filled with rebels.”
“Do you feel safer with Morgenroth in the column?”
Emil Morgenroth was a young lieutenant who’d been named column commander. His two platoons were supposed to protect the supply convoy—which now consisted of thirty-two trucks—that was hauling gasoline to the front. On their return trip they would carry wounded men.
“He seems confused about who’s in charge, me or him.”
The lieutenant had been raised in the Hitler Youth and was the type of man who always saluted officiously. He and Karl had had several run-ins already. The young officer had difficulty accepting Karl’s relaxed leadership style. He insisted on strict discipline, and it quickly became clear that he had an itchy buttonhole—which is how they described soldiers eager to get medals clipped to their chests. Morgenroth was twenty-four years old and had been in France for six months, but as a newly appointed lieutenant, he’d requested a transfer to the eastern front. Protecting the supply column was his first real assignment, and he’d now been with Karl’s company for fourteen days.
“Why don’t you arm wrestle for it?” Piroska said, grinning. He stopped laughing when the truck thumped against something, startling them both. “What the hell did I hit?”
“You can’t stop,” Karl said.
“It was an animal.”
“You can’t stop.” In Piroska’s side mirror Karl saw a white wool pelt splotchy with red stains lying at the edge of the road.
Paul had seen it, too. “Why the hell is there a goat in the middle of the road?”
“It’s a trap. They want us to stop.”
Just then a spray of bullets pierced the radiator. Piroska jerked the vehicle to the side of the road. It sounded like an animal was dying beneath the hood. Then the motor sputtered out, its suffering over. The big truck rolled over the edge of the ditch and crashed against the other side. Piroska opened the door and leaped into the ditch. Karl’s door was jammed against the embankment, so he scrambled out the driver’s side just as bullets pelted the passenger’s side where he’d been sitting moments before. The glass shattered.
The vehicles behind them came to a stop, and the men followed their lead and dropped to the ground. Karl could see their attackers through the trees. He couldn’t tell how many of them there were, but the ones he could see weren’t wearing uniforms. They had a Maxim machine gun on a tripod, and he figured that’s what killed their Opel. His troops needed to put that machine gun out of commission, but a quick assessment told him they were outnumbered.
Here’s Morgenroth’s chance to earn some medals for his chest, Karl thought. He’d had his doubts about the conceited officer, but Morgenroth leaped around shouting orders, first to one side, then the other.
The rebels fired, and the Germans fired back. Grenades exploded, men were injured, men died. The machine gun was destroyed by hand grenades, and the rebels panicked. Against Morgenroth’s decisive leadership, their lack of organization became catastrophic. Some turned and fled while others fought on. In the confusion Karl had forgotten his pistol in its sheath. He reached for it, but then stopped. Everything was happening so fast. Paul lay in the grass screaming. Remmel, too. There was blood, lots of blood, a river, a sea, an ocean of red. Paul’s screams grew fainter, and Remmel fell silent, too, as he tried to concentrate on keeping the wounded man alive.
“Where’s the nearest field hospital?” shouted the medical officer. “He won’t survive without proper care.”
“I don’t know,” Karl shouted desperately.
Remmel struggled like a man possessed. “Press here,” he said, moving Karl’s hand to Paul’s chest. Karl could feel his friend’s crushed rib beneath the slick film of blood. Paul mumbled, gurgled, and began to cough. Karl spoke to him gently. Told him about the Alster, about things Piroska had described to him in Passau, and about Liesel. Though his head and body were about to explode and chaos was erupting all around, he spoke softly, with a steely calm. He hadn’t realized it, but he was crying.
Karl stood. Paul Piroska’s body lay lifelessly in the damp ditch. Until just a few minutes ago, it had been healthy and vigorous, but now it was bleeding and raw, reduced to flesh, bones, and guts. Remmel gave Karl a look of despair.
Morgenroth and his men had chased the rebels into the trees. Shots rang out from the woods, and the men soon returned, bringing with them eight or ten blank-faced Russians. They were bearded and beardless, young and old. The lieutenant was radiant, and in that moment Karl despised him with all his heart. Not because Morgenroth had taken the prisoners, but because he allowed himself to be happy.
“Gather the troops!” Karl shouted peevishly to the lieutenant.
“What about the prisoners?” Morgenroth asked.
“Tell them to go that way.” He pointed without knowing which way was west. “They’ll come to one of our prison camps sooner or later.”
“But our duty is to—” the lieutenant persisted.
“Do whatever the hell you want with them. They’re your prisoners, not mine,” Karl cut him off and turned to help maneuver Piroska into one of the vehicles.
Morgenroth pointed at one of the rebels. The Russian blinked, shrugging uncomprehendingly. The lieutenant walked over to him, grabbed his collar, and pulled him toward the woods. He threw the Russian to his knees and drew his service pistol. The other prisoners shifted nervously when he put the weapon to the man’s neck.
Shots resounded in the woods, and Morgenroth stood at the edge looking on while the rest of the prisoners were executed.
Karl sat with Piroska on one of the truck beds and puffed agitatedly on a cigarette. He exhaled vigorously, watched two cone-shaped spirals billow from his nose, and demonstratively turned away from the macabre scene. He shouldn’t have let Morgenroth decide. He should have insisted, but he’d let the idiot lieutenant take charge. Karl had been weak, he hadn’t wanted the confrontation, and now there were Russians scattered among the trees, their brains splattered across the forest floor.
Morgenroth and the others crawled onto the trucks at the back of the convoy, and the column headed out. Karl could see into the cab of the truck behind him and noted Morgenroth’s satisfied smile. He had an almost irrepressible urge to draw his pistol from his holster, aim it at the truck’s windshield, and empty the magazine into the dumb officer. Karl would make certain that this little incident cost Emil Morgenroth his career. Goddamn upstart. He would report the incident to Major Strunz when they returned to Rzhev. He would see to it that Morgenroth received his proper due. Karl was certain of that.
Piroska’s head lay in his lap. With his fingertips, he carefully closed Piroska’s eyelids. He would write to Liesel himself.
When the recently promoted First Lieutenant Morgenroth was transferred two months later, an Iron Cross Second Class hung around his neck. It gleamed as he reported to the headquarters of the Panzer Grenadier Regiment Grossdeutschland. Meanwhile, the Seventh Panzer Division was reassigned to France in half as many transport trains as had carried them to East Prussia a year before. Some cried with relief; the thought of putting the Russian hell behind them gave the worn-out soldiers hope that they might yet survive.
Near Maykop, Russia, October 12, 1942
Trees dotted the landscape ahead of August. With their scrawny trunks and bashful crowns towering over the other trees, some looked like gangly schoolboys. A tree with white, heart-shaped flowers strewn across its branches looked as though it had been blanketed with snow. Every hue of green, yellow, gold, and brown was represented among the leaves. Green had always brought out something calm and pleasant in August. The color was harmless. It bore no evil—unlike red with its associations with blood, love, and hate. Blue possessed the same traits as green, because of the sea—which he’d seen all too infrequently. As he pushed farther into the fores
t, he was calmed by the cloudless sky and the many shades of green.
A ways into the forest, he hiked down his pants. He squatted behind a tall maple next to a young tree that was not yet taller than a man. He trapped one of its thin branches between two fingers and pulled until it snapped. He released it, letting it dangle there. Like a man on the gallows, he thought, like one of the bodies they’d passed on the road. Three men and a woman had been hanged from a tree much older and bigger than the one he was squatting next to. They’d been barefoot, with blackened heads. Around their throats they wore signs bearing words written in Russian. He remembered the woman especially; her clothes had been ripped open in the front, exposing her belly and breasts. Her skin, which surely had been soft as silk, was black in death. He looked at the branch. The tree’s white pulp oozed out of the open wound, trying to heal itself. He wouldn’t allow the branch to become like the people in the tree. He tugged at it, but it struggled against him. The youthful tree was incredibly elastic. The branch refused to release the trunk, bending toward him instead. Though he pulled with all his might, the branch wouldn’t let go. Defeated by a tree, he finally gave up.
Just as August finished, he heard the Russians. He couldn’t tell how many there were. Slowly, so as not to make any noise, he got to his feet, squeezing his belt buckle in one hand to keep it from jingling. He pressed his spine into the tree and cursed to himself when he realized that he’d leaned his rifle against the other side of the maple. If they spotted him, he wouldn’t have the slightest chance. His heart was hammering as though it knew the end had come.
His companions would never find him out here. He hadn’t told anyone that he’d gone into the forest to relieve himself. The others just dug holes next to the trench when their need was urgent, but he wanted to be alone, to have peace and quiet, a foolish notion that might now cost him his life. What if his impatient gut was his undoing? His mind worked frantically to figure out how to get away without being seen. He heard them getting closer.
Judging by the noise, there were two of them, at most three. He heard one of them laughing, the unmistakable sound of a woman’s airy timbre. He slid down into a squat and leaned against the tree. He could barely discern the outline of the two figures between the trees. They’d apparently stopped walking.
They were about a hundred feet away and stood facing each other a few feet apart. They moved slowly sideways, so that their legs crossed and their movements formed a circle. They danced in this manner for a while, not once taking their eyes off each other. They smiled.
The young soldier appeared to be August’s age. He was wearing the kind of fur cap that could be buttoned on his head or fastened under his chin, and his coat was buttoned on one side. He’d leaned his rifle against a tree. The girl, too young to be called a woman, was probably about seventeen or eighteen. Like him she was in uniform, and she wore a soft cap that didn’t conceal her shoulder-length blond hair, which was combed back in a tight little ponytail. Over her shoulder she carried a canvas bag emblazoned with a red cross. August couldn’t tell whether she was armed or not. With her large and indelicate features and her short legs, she wasn’t beautiful, but he still found her strangely charming. Though he didn’t understand what she was saying, he could hear the playful tone in her voice.
She kicked at a fallen branch, which struck the soldier in the thigh. She laughed the most beautiful laughter August had ever heard.
“Я иду к тебе,” said the Russian soldier.
“Сперва тебе надо меня поймать, Владимир,” said the girl.
“Сейчас я тебя поймаю,” he replied.
Although August didn’t understand Russian, he sensed that the young girl was teasing the soldier, who hungrily devoured her body with his eyes. She winked flirtatiously at him, and he suddenly leaped at her. She tried to evade him but fell with a loud moan, then tried crawling away on all fours. He clutched one of her boots and it slid free with a slurping sound. She threw a handful of leaves in the soldier’s direction, covering him with the red-brown foliage. He put the boot in his mouth and shook it like a hungry bear. She rolled onto her back, surrendering, and he crawled toward her, laughing. She pulled herself up on her elbows and drew him close once he lay on top of her. They kissed for a long time.
The soldier slowly unbuttoned her jacket and pulled up her sweater. August trembled when he caught a brief flash of her naked skin. She helped him remove her jacket. August sneaked closer to get a better view.
The soldier had now pushed her sweater so far up that her small breasts were exposed. When the soldier began to caress them, August felt himself getting aroused. An overturned tree trunk partially blocked his view. He crawled soundlessly around it and hid behind a large rock.
The soldier got to his knees and slowly pulled her pants down around her ankles. Then he removed his own jacket and pants. They regarded each other expectantly, then the soldier gingerly climbed on top of her again. August’s heart accelerated, and when the soldier penetrated her, it skipped a beat. She let out a short moan.
The soldier slowly thrust up and down, and the couple quickly found a rhythm. She wrapped her short legs around him and buried her fingers in his broad back, making low, repetitive noises, like a sign swaying in the breeze. He’d never witnessed anything like it and was completely absorbed. It aroused him that they didn’t know they were being watched. He tried adjusting his pants, which felt tight in the crotch. August crept closer until he was only about thirty feet away.
A pheasant suddenly flew up right in front of August, flapping its wings over his head. The soldier stopped and turned toward the frightened bird. At first he didn’t notice August, but his roaming eyes soon settled directly on him. Both men were completely paralyzed.
August was the first to break out of his hypnotized state. He stumbled clumsily to his feet, nearly tripping with his first step. He recovered his balance and ran as fast as he could, his thoughts moving as quickly as his legs. If he gets to his rifle, I’m a goner, he thought, but the other man had started running after him. He’d hiked his pants back up and drawn a short knife from his boot. He seemed more agile than he had at first glance, and he was catching up to August, who threw himself sideways over the overturned tree trunk.
Though he’d traversed only a short distance, he already felt winded and his rifle was still thirty feet away. But did he remember the right tree? Had he remembered to load it? Was the safety off? He heard the soldier right behind him. The girl had seized her lover’s rifle and now rushed after them.
I’m going to make it, I’m . . . He stopped thinking and hurled himself onto his belly, grabbing the butt of his rifle, which nearly slipped from his hands. He searched feverishly for the trigger and spun around to face the soldier, who was closer than he’d thought; the short knife was raised above his head, ready to be jammed deep into August’s skinny body.
The shot caused several birds to fly off from the treetops, but all August heard was the girl hysterically screaming the soldier’s name. Vladimir.
Vladimir stood stock-still, so close that August could’ve touched him with the tip of his rifle. He dropped the knife. Like a dart, it penetrated the topsoil between his boots. The bullet had entered his upper chest, and the bloodstain darkening his green shirt quickly widened. He watched August with sad eyes, mumbling softly as if he were recounting a fairy tale to child.
“Vladimir!” The girl was now right beside August. He didn’t know what she intended to do with the rifle she carried. He swung the shaft of his weapon at her head, and she dodged it. But the blow struck her hard on the shoulder, and she tumbled onto her back.
August aimed the rifle at the soldier again and, closing his eyes, squeezed the trigger. Vladimir fell heavily. His lifeless body landed on one of the girl’s arms, breaking it with a loud crack.
August stared at the two Russians. He loaded his rifle as a reflex. The girl couldn’t move. Her arm was pinned underneath the dead s
oldier, who stared with wide-open eyes into the trees. Lying beside each other, they looked like a couple in their marital bed.
She didn’t make a peep but gaped intensely at August. He shifted nervously. What should he do with her? He couldn’t shoot her. Why would he?
A strange thought occurred to him. I have to apologize. I have to tell her I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.
She was trembling in pain. He watched as she struggled to free her broken arm from under the corpse. It clearly hurt too much, and she gave up. She looked up at him, pleading. She was so beautiful, lying there. Her blond hair was wreathed with red-brown leaves, and her pretty blue eyes were filled with tears that slowly trickled down toward her small ears.
“Oтпусти меня,” she said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Пожалуйста, отпусти меня.” Her voice was urgent.
“I don’t understand you. I wish I could let you go, but I can’t. You must understand.” August felt sad, but he knew he had to do it. He was a soldier, and it was too risky to let her return to wherever she’d come from before he’d randomly stumbled upon them.
He aimed his rifle at her. Her voice quivered, but she spoke slowly and clearly. Even though he didn’t understand a word, he still seemed to grasp what she was saying. He raised his Mauser and prepared to fire. She continued talking to him. Her tone of voice was kind, almost affectionate, like a mother addressing her child. He stood like that for some time, ready to fire the killing shot while she kept talking. He swayed slightly. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger halfway down—until he could feel its resistance. All his index finger had to do now was give the smallest tug, and he could forget all about the Russian girl. He’d never seen her before. She meant nothing to him.
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