By the morning of August 23, the German forces were ready to resume their advance. The Russians had blown the bridge across the Don at Kalach, but now the pontoon bridge was complete, and the Germans controlled the west bank of the river and were rested and poised.
Heath knew when it started, because he heard the sound of the artillery and airplanes. Dr. Kohler also kept him informed, because where there was action, there would very soon be the call for medical support.
At 4:30 A.M. the push began. The Sixteenth Panzer Division, commanded by General Hans Rube, moved carefully across the bridge. The general was known as Der Mensch—"The Man"—to his troops. He had lost one arm in World War One, but it hadn't slowed him. Trucks laden with supplies, ammunition, and infantry followed close behind the tanks.
Russian artillery, alerted similarly by the noise, attempted suppressive fire, but it was ineffective. The Germans quickly secured their position as Stukas dived to attack isolated Russian artillery spotters. There was no effective resistance after that.
"We have got their goat," Dr. Kohler remarked with a smile. To be sure. One of the officers of that Panzer force was Lieutenant Hans Oettl. He had found a goat wandering the steppe. He tied a red ribbon around the animal's neck and made a pet of it. It had been with him ever since. Now the goat was marching into battle, a mascot.
Behind the Panzer Division, the Third and Sixtieth Motorized Divisions struggled to keep the pace. Traffic patterns had become snarled, and trucks jammed the roads. Horns were honking with futility. Kohler's medical detachment was stalled; the Russians hadn't stopped it, but other military traffic had.
The doctor was in the truck just ahead of the one Heath rode in. Heath saw the man get out and walk down the side of the road. This was curious, because there were no injured soldiers here.
Then the thin doctor confronted a line of trucks that were in the way. He drew his pistol and pointed it at the driver of the first vehicle. "If you don't let us through, you'll get it right in the tires!" he screamed.
Daunted, the driver yielded. Dr. Kohler waved his detachment into the line of traffic. His truck hastily obeyed, leaving him behind. So Kohler jumped into the sidecar of a motorcycle and waved the cyclist forward, to keep pace with the trucks.
The driver, startled, gunned his engine. The motorcycle lurched ahead—and ran right into a hole. The doctor was thrown sideways. His head smashed against the driver's helmet. Ouch!
There was laughter from one of the trucks the doctor had stalled. But Heath was alarmed. That had been one hard hit! Heath peered out and back as his truck passed. He saw Kohler swig down some cognac and gesture ahead. He was going to stay with his detachment. But his face looked bad. It was an hour before there was a pause in the momentum of the detachment. Heath jumped out and ran to find the doctor. "By your leave, sir," he said, putting his fingers to the man's swollen jaw. Sure enough: it was broken.
"I'll manage," the doctor snapped. "Just fetch me more cognac." Bemused, Heath obeyed. The force hurtled on.
By 6 P.M. the Sixteenth Panzer had reached the Volga River, securing a position north of Stalingrad. But it had outrun its support. The Third Motorized had halted for the night twelve miles to the rear. The Sixtieth was another ten miles behind that. There was a danger in such swift progress: until the units could link up, they were isolated and vulnerable.
Dr. Kohler was not concerned about the details of the military situation, if he was even aware of them. He was living on cognac and chocolate. He set up his field hospital along a railroad siding. There were casualties to attend to.
"But you need attention yourself," Heath protested.
"Get me something to chew on," Kohler replied. He was obviously in pain, but would not relent.
Heath found a piece of cork from a spent bottle, and gave him that. Kohler put it in his mouth and clenched on it to keep his fractured jaw in place, then proceeded with surgery on a patient.
Heath got to work on his own patients. True to their agreement, he did his professional best for every injured man brought to him, without regard for his uniform. Most of them did not even know he was not German, since he spoke the language well.
Next day it continued. Battles brought an endless supply of patients. Suddenly a soldier burst through the doors. "The Russians have broken through!" he shouted.
Later, Heath would be able to assimilate the situation better. Because the German units had gotten strung out, the relatively weak Russian forces were able to attack. The Sixteenth Panzer was up against surprisingly effective militia units surrounding it, and General Hube had radioed questions about his tardy support divisions. But meanwhile the Third and Sixtieth Motorized were both being engaged on their flanks by a reckless assault of the Thirty-fifth Russian Guards Division. It was pouring into the gap between the German divisions, trying to prevent them from uniting. This was what the soldier's shout meant.
Kohler finished his surgery, then went to the door. He grabbed a pair of binoculars. Heath, still working, glanced past the doctor. Soviet tanks were squashing German vehicles, scarcely a hundred yards distant.
Kohler spat out his cork. "Load the wounded onto trucks!" he screamed.
The orderlies got to work. Heath went to join the doctor, uncertain of his place in such a situation. Suppose the Russians captured Dr. Kohler? Where would Heath's proper loyalty be in such a circumstance?
He had an answer: he would do his best to protect the doctor from mischief, for Kohler was a good man. To see that he was treated with respect, and perhaps given the same chance he had given Heath.
In front of the tanks there were hundreds of Russian troops. They were marching with their arms linked together and singing as they came across an open field toward the hospital.
Kohler's jaw dropped, making him wince. "What is this eerie parade?" he inquired. "Those men aren't even armed. Don't they know there's a war on?"
"I believe they are tramplers, sir," Heath said.
"What?"
"Conscripts from prisons and slums, and especially deserters, put into uniform and used for the most menial or dangerous chores," Heath explained. "In this case, two tramp ahead of the tanks, to set off any mines that may have been laid to take out the tanks. They are given plenty of vodka to dull their awareness of the danger, and sent out with arms linked to be sure that every section is treaded."
"Oh. I have heard of this, but never before seen it. I believe we normally use prisoners for this purpose. Fortunately there are no mines." Kohler climbed onto a manure pile to get a better view.
"Fortunately, sir?"
"If there were mines, they would blow up the men instead of the tanks, and I would have to let you go to tend to your surviving countrymen. As it is, those men are merely slowing the progress of the tanks, giving us more time to evacuate."
A German officer drove up. "What's going on?" he demanded. Kohler waved the man onto the pile. Somewhat gingerly, the officer acceded, his shiny boots a contrast to the dung they trod. The doctor handed him the binoculars.
The officer put them to his eyes. "Gott in Himmel!" he swore in delight. He shoved back the binoculars and ran back to his car. The tires screeched as he sped off to an artillery command post.
Seconds later the whine of incoming artillery climaxed in rising geysers of earth and blood. The officer had called in the coordinates, and the big guns had virtually point-blank range. The song of the tramplers vanished into the wind, replaced by the screams of the dying.
Kohler turned away in disgust. "At least they could have dropped the first round short, as a warning," he muttered. "Or gone after the tanks instead of the men." He pulled a fresh cork from his pocket and shoved it into his mouth.
He glanced at Heath. "The attack is being rebuffed. Go tend the Russians. Send any who can walk, back to their own lines. Any you bring to our lines become our prisoners. I will give our sharpshooters the order to let the wounded go. But they will not let you go, you understand."
Heath nodded. "Thank you, doctor." That attack was indeed being turned back, as the tanks fled the artillery barrage.
Kohler went back inside, to his operating table. Heath made sure his medic's insignia showed clearly, and walked to the closest of the fallen Russians.
There wasn't much he could do. The man's head had been blown off. He cast about for others, amidst the debris of body parts, and a number were alive but clearly unsalvageable. With instant access to a competent hospital, and heroic measures, some might have survived with lost limbs. But even if the German facilities were available to these men, they wouldn't be enough. So he had to do triage, locating the walking wounded and sending them back to their lines, and letting the others go. The whole business was sickening.
In the end he sent perhaps a dozen back, brought three in for treatment and prisoner status, and left several hundred dead or inevitable. And returned to Dr. Kohler.
"We must move on to connect with the Sixteenth Panzer," the doctor said. "We must not remain separated, lest we be surrounded and destroyed. You saw how it was today; we may not always have artillery to call in at a moment's notice. The Luftwaffe will airdrop supplies. The Führer still insists that Stalingrad fall by tomorrow."
This time they got to ride in a command car. Dr. Kohler, still in pain from his fractured jaw, insisted that Heath ride with him in this relative comfort. "I need a distraction," he said.
So they rode in the back seat, and Kohler shared his chocolate and cognac with Heath. "What do you think of this war?"
"Sir, I am on the other side. You would not find my opinion compatible."
"Of course I won't! That's why I want to debate it. There's nothing like a good argument to distract the mind from incidental concerns."
Oh. Such as the broken jaw. "I feel that there could have been a certain lapse in judgment."
The doctor chewed on his cork. "Oh, come on, Heath! You can do better than that. Speak your mind."
"Naturally I think that Hitler should have left Russia alone. There was after all a mutual non-aggression pact."
Kohler considered. Then he leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "My friend here is an enemy national, here under flag of truce. Do you think he is speaking his true mind?"
"No, sir," the driver responded dutifully.
"Perhaps he is afraid he will be executed for treason if he is too candid. So nothing of this dialogue will be reported elsewhere. Agreed?"
"Yes, sir."
"Because if it is, it just might be someone else on trial for treason. Understood?"
"Yes, sir." The driver's mouth would be shut. He would not want to cross the notorious doctor.
"Now try again, Heath. Speak perhaps as your Marshal Stalin would speak."
"You dogs invaded our peaceful meadowlands without cause," Heath said, smiling. "We will see your brutal leader cowering against the firing wall."
Kohler smiled. "Not with your present organization. Stalin is the most brutal leader on the continent. He has slain millions, consolidating his power. When we entered Russia, we were hailed as liberators."
"What do you expect, from civilians facing guns? Any who speak their true minds will be beaten, raped, tortured, or shot—and many have been. But they don't hail the German intrusion any more, after what your troops have done to civilians."
Kohler raised a finger. "A distinction, here, if you please. After what the Waffen SS troops have done, and the Gestapo." That was a section of the German armed forces that won battles by taking enormous losses, and treated the losers with such brutality that it was said to revolt regular German army personnel. But the Waffen SS was in favor with Hitler because it got the job done when regular troops did not.
Heath nodded. "Distinction noted. I would have died fighting, rather than surrender, if I had faced Waffen thugs."
"Yet, setting aside the matter of civilized behavior, what of common sense? Your Stalin trumped up charges against most of your army's serious officers and had them exiled or executed, when everyone knew that they were good, competent, and loyal men. In two years he eliminated three of five marshals, thirteen of fifteen army commanders, eight of nine senior admirals, and the great majority of lesser commanders, commissars, and officers. That is why your army was unprepared to oppose any intrusion. Almost all of your trained officers were gone. And for what? To satisfy the political motives of a chronically insecure politician. No wonder you are unable to put up any effective resistance. No wonder your morale is lower than a pig's snout."
He had scored. Heath had seen the massive purges, and deplored them on both practical and moral grounds. But he wasn't free to say that. "I can not know exactly what was in our leader's mind. But when it comes to craziness, he can't compare to Hitler's confusions. Look at the foolish meddling that vegetarian is doing in your own army, so that your own stumbles slow you down as much as Russian resistance does."
Kohler smiled. "And did Stalin not change his mind frequently about the defense of Stalingrad? He was going to let it go, then decided to defend it at all costs once the military units were headed elsewhere. So we have no monopoly on crazy decisions."
"Which cost enormous loss of life and property, and set back the welfare of nations," Heath said.
"This debate is fading," the doctor said. "Now let me sleep." Heath, too, settled back for a snooze. He suspected that Kohler had broken off the debate because he found himself in too much agreement with certain points, and that was not politically safe. The same went for Heath; Stalin had indeed been a monster when it came to purges of the military and certain civilian regions, and it was not safe to criticize any of that. The green helmets of the NKVD were everywhere, and it did not hesitate to act. So perhaps the two sides were not far apart in essential merit.
The Sixtieth Motorized moved to link up with the Sixteenth Panzer north of Stalingrad. Dr. Kohler set up his field hospital, and there was always business. The Russians kept attacking and being driven back, but each attack hurt, bringing increasing casualties. The fighting was a rough standoff, with neither side able to make substantial gains.
On August 25 the German Sixth Army tried to break into Stalingrad from the west. There was a constant stream of information, both official, which was not reliable, and unofficial, which was. Men who had been wounded in action could pinpoint where it had happened. A number of them were brought to Dr. Kohler's hospital when their own hospitals overflowed. The German tanks were halted by tanks and Russian infantry. Though the Germans had the superior force, they were not used to fighting within a city, and the Russians were using desperation measures that were surprisingly effective.
"We attacked with seventy tanks," a badly burned man said as Heath treated him. "We lost twenty-seven of them." He laughed bitterly. "And I thought the Molotov cocktail was a drink!"
Heath nodded. "It's a bottle of gasoline with a wick. Let a man get close enough to a tank to drop it in the hatch with the wick lighted, and that tank is done for."
"Now I know," the man agreed ruefully. "In the city streets, we could not orient our guns to bear on targets too high or low, and they took advantage of that to drop things on us from high windows. We were like muzzled dogs."
Heath hadn't thought of that. A tank in the open was almost invincible, but a city wasn't open. "What is it like in Stalingrad?" He had special reason to inquire.
"It is still burning from the fires started by the Luftwaffe bombing. The downtown district is a pile of rubble. I saw people wandering around dazed. They say that the insane asylum was opened, and the denizens let go, and they don't know what to do. It's pitiful."
"War is hell," Heath agreed. Privately he was wincing. If the city was like that, what of Talena and the children? They should have evacuated by now, but he would have to check the house to be sure they were gone. Suppose they were still there?
He spoke to Dr. Kohler. "When will you release me?"
"Heath, I want to. You have fulfilled your part of the bargain. But we are about to crush the resistance and take the city. I would be sending you into hell."
"But I fear for my family in that hell."
"They have not crossed the river?"
"I hope they have. But I can't be sure until I check the house."
Kohler considered. "I would much prefer to release you by the river, so you could cross to safety. But you will not go until you are sure about your family. Let us compromise: I will ask a friend, a Sixth Army officer, to check your house specifically when the city falls. And if they are there, to preempt it for his own use, protecting it and them from marauders. He is a decent man, not given to rapine or murder. But they will have to forswear partisan activity, and not try to kill him in his sleep. Can they be trusted as you can be?"
Heath considered. This was another excellent offer. But to what degree could he speak for the women? Talena was not a physical fighter, though what she would do if her children were threatened he didn't know. Melee, on the other hand, was indeed capable of fighting and killing. Still, she was a person of her word.
"My wife is Talena. She would give her word, and honor it, as long as our children are not threatened. But we share the house with another family, and the other woman would fight."
"Suppose he approached the house with a white flag?"
Heath smiled. "They would honor that."
"Then stay here until you have that report. Give me the address."
Heath gave him the address, and Kohler noted it down carefully. "My friend is Major Wilhelm, very intelligent and honorable. I am sure he will do it. But until the city falls, he will not be able to check."
"I understand." Thus simply had his tenure with the Germans been extended. He did not doubt the doctor's sincerity. He knew Kohler wanted his continued service as a surgeon, but also knew that the deal was fair. Kohler gave value for value received.
On August 29, General Hoth launched a new drive with the Fourth Panzer Army, from the south. The Russian opposition panicked, and thousands of troops were captured without a fight. Now the Germans planned to encircle the Russian Sixty-second and Sixty-fourth armies, with General Paulus attacking from the north while Hoth came from the south. But Paulus hesitated, feeling that his position was perilous; his forces were too strung out. When his position improved on September 2, he finally acted. The encirclement was perfect, but there was nothing inside the trap. The Russians had managed to withdraw just in time.
"It is like a game of chess," Kohler remarked. "Sometimes bold action is disastrous—and sometimes the lack of it is. But it is but a momentary setback. I hear that the morale of the Russians is extremely low, and that one commander lined up his troops and shot every tenth man. The pile of bodies was a warning to the others to stand fast."
"Maybe General Paulus should have been put in such a line," Heath said. "To encourage him to act before the fish escaped the net."
Kohler tried to contain his laughter, but didn't quite succeed. He was quite cynical about the ways of military personnel.
The Luftwaffe bombed again, and the artillery shelled again, and Stalingrad became one massive smoking ruin. Heath could see the smoke rising from beyond the horizon. Talena, be not there! he prayed.
Meanwhile news circulated that Stalin had brought in his most able commander, Marshal Zhukov, who was given the tide Deputy Supreme Commander of the Red Army. He was now second in authority only to Stalin himself. General Yeremenko remained in charge of the action around Stalingrad.
"This Zhukov—who is he?" Kohler asked. "What does this mean on the front?"
"It means that you now face competence of a magnitude you haven't encountered before," Heath said seriously. "Zhukov is a master of strategy and tactics. This is where you are most likely to face defeat."
"But it requires troops and equipment to win battles, and we are the ones with those. Your marshal can't conjure these from the air."
"So the Japanese thought," Heath said. "Before he routed them."
"Well, we shall see. I still think you are safer here than there."
He was probably right. Heath was being well treated, and was in no immediate personal danger. Meanwhile, the retreating Russians were taking heavy losses, as any glance at the bodies on the battlefields showed.
On September 5 the Russians launched human wave assaults against the Germans' northern flanks, which meant many more casualties to the units served by Dr. Kohler. The attacks were not effective, but they kept coming, making the Germans nervous. General Paulus diverted some troops from the attack on the city to shore up this sector. Meanwhile, German tanks were again invading Stalingrad, and found the Russians dug in tightly amidst the rubble and cellars of the suburbs. Russian snipers and commandos were beginning to acquaint the Germans with a new type of warfare: guerrilla.
September 8, it turned out, General Yeremenko and Commissar Khrushchev retreated across the Volga River, setting up their headquarters at Yamy. That was another signal that the Russians believed that the city would soon be lost. The following day Paulus' mighty Sixth Army, 200,000 strong, prepared to deliver the final blow from the west, crushing the defenders against the river. The Russians hung on to the section closest to the river, twenty miles long and five miles deep. German intelligence indicated that the Russians had no more than 50,000 men and 100 tanks remaining.
"Their units are in tatters," Kohler said, relaxing with cognac after the latest emergency had been handled. "They will be destroyed." Then, aware of Heath's concern, he added: "I have told Wilhelm, and he has agreed. He will look for your house, and protect it. You will even be allowed to visit it, if you have reason. Then you will decide."
"Thank you, sir," Heath said, truly appreciative.
"You have earned it. You have saved many German lives, and eased my condition, especially considering my incapacity of jaw. I shall be sorry to see you go, and sorrier yet if I learn you have died. But your future is with your own. Perhaps we shall meet again, after the war."
"I hope so, sir."
Then another truckload of wounded arrived.
General Yeremenko had crossed the river, but General Lopatin remained in charge on the west side. German artillery and mortar fire had constantly disrupted telephone lines to the command bunker.
"We can't continue this way," Lopatin said grimly. "We can't hold Stalingrad."
"But we still have troops, and solid emplacements," Od protested. As a political officer he had not participated in the actual combat, but morale was a significant aspect of his job.
"You think so? The Sixty-second army has been decimated in action. An infantry brigade now numbers only 666 men, only 200 of whom are qualified riflemen. A regiment that should have mustered 3,000 lists only 100 remaining. The division next to it, which is normally 10,000 strong, has a mere 1,500 troops. On the southern fringe of the city, the once formidable Thirty-fifth Guards Division now boasts only 250 combat-worthy infantry. And our commanders have withdrawn across the river. The situation is hopeless."
In the face of Stalin's order to hold the city at all costs, this comment was tantamount to treason, however realistic the assessment might be. Od did what he had to do. "Then perhaps you should inform General Yeremenko."
"He'll fire me."
"Yes, sir. Then you will be able to leave here."
"Like a rat deserting a sinking ship."
"I would not put it so unkindly, sir. But perhaps it is better to leave than to drown."
"Perhaps. See if you can get me a line."
Od struggled with the intermittent phone system, and in due course managed to get through. "General Lopatin for General Yeremenko," he said. When he had confirmation, he handed the receiver to the general and retreated.
It required only a few minutes. "General Chuikov will assume command," Lopatin said soberly. "You will remain to guide and familiarize him with this sector."
"Yes, sir."
In the next two days, September 10 and 11, Lopatin took the ferry across the river, the command bunker became untenable, and Chuikov arrived. Od barely had time to cross the city to see Talena and Lita. They were now sharing the house with the neighbors whose home had been destroyed: Crenelle and her pretty but awkward daughter Tourette. They had given up thought of evacuation, partly because it was simply too awkward and dangerous to manage. But partly, he knew, because Talena wanted to be with him, Od, as much as she could, fearing he might die before the siege of Stalingrad was done. He was deeply gratified by that, for her presence enabled him to withstand the rigors of exactly that threat. And partly, too, because Talena wanted to be where Heath could find her. So that she could tell him personally about the change in relations. She was not one to delegate what she felt was her responsibility, and this particular business was very much that. She had to free him to pursue his own love, now that she had found hers.
When the crunch came, any day now, and the Germans took over the city, Od would have to go with the Russian troops. Talena would have to take her chances with the Germans. She masqueraded as a boy, as did the others in the house, to avoid trouble on the street. With luck it would spare them what the Germans could do to women.
Had he had his choice, Od would have packed all four of them off across the river. But with the Germans strafing the evacuation boats by day, and the perils of lightless night crossings, he could not argue with their decision to remain in the city. If only this war would go away!
On September 11 a steamer brought General Chuikov to his new command post. Od had not known exactly when he was coming, so waited in the empty bunker. In due course a broad-shouldered, stocky man approached. His general appearance was slovenly, but that was common in this besieged city. He had a row of gold teeth, and that was uncommon. When he turned, and Od saw a general's star on his cap, he stepped out to salute. "I am Major Od, sir, here to show you where things are."
"First, the bunker."
"Yes, sir. But it has been abandoned. The lines simply aren't working, so nothing can be done from there. The new command center is on Mamaev Hill."
"Then take me there."
Od had the use of a car, for this purpose. He drove the general through the rubble-lined streets, following the route he knew.
"Do you know," the general remarked, "while I waited for the steamer to come, on the other side, I entered a first-aid station. I saw wounded men with blood-soaked bandages lying on the floor. They had been ignored for hours. They continually pleaded for water. I found a doctor and asked him why the men were suffering this neglect. He just shrugged. It seemed that the station didn't have the personnel or equipment to care for the number of wounded men inundating them. Of course I saw that water was brought. But it was an unkind introduction to the reality of Stalingrad."
"Yes, sir. It is similar on this side of the river. Many of our medical personnel were working in field hospitals near the front, and got captured by the Germans." He thought of Heath. Where was he now?
"War is hell." It was the all-purpose answer to the unanswerable.
"Yes, sir."
They reached the impromptu command post. It was a wide trench with a bench of packed earth along one wall, and a bed and table on the other side. The roof was made of brush, and covered with barely a foot of dirt. The antitank defenses were so flimsy as to be almost nonexistent. "This is pathetic," Chuikov said.
There were two people in the dugout: a female telephone operator, and a man. The man stepped forward to introduce himself. "I am General Krylov, your chief of staff," he said, saluting.
"We have a problem," Chuikov muttered almost inaudibly.
But he got right down to work, and the more Od saw of this, the greater his respect became. First he familiarized himself with the available forces, and he was a quick study. Then he worked on restoring morale. He assembled those officers and troops that were within range, and read rousing messages from Yeremenko and Khrushchev. Chuikov himself had a forceful and confident manner that tended to stiffen spines in its vicinity. But what really made the difference was the news he brought: reinforcements were on the way. Ten divisions, two armored corps, and eight armored brigades. "We have been promised ten thousand men and one thousand tons of supplies within the next three days," he announced, and cheering broke out. "You have done a great job; you will no longer be fighting alone."
That night Chuikov and his staff made plans for an offensive to secure the landing stages, for they were now within range of the German artillery. "I recognize three tendencies of the German army which I mean to exploit," he said. "It relies on the blitzkrieg, which makes the Panzers and infantry delay attacking until air support is present. It relies on tank strength, so the infantry is unwilling to advance unless the tanks are moving too. And the infantry prefers to avoid close combat. Well, we will force them to fight without their air support, and before their tanks get organized, and we will give them such close combat we'll be spitting out their eyeballs. Just as soon as those reinforcements arrive."
The staff loved it. They worked out the details, then spread the word for the troops to get all the rest they could. In three days, on September 14, they would give the Germans one awful surprise.
But the surprise was by the enemy. At 6:30 on the morning of September 13, the day before the planned Russian action, the Germans attacked. Od was already up and ready to drive his military car to the command post when the shelling began.
Talena flew to his embrace. "I love you!" she cried, as if this were the last time they would see each other. He kissed her and ran out to the car, trying to suppress a premonition that she was right.
He drove, and the city shook with the bombardment. It had the feel of a blitzkrieg. He hoped it was just his imagination.
He reached the command post. General Chuikov was for once somewhat at a loss. Explosions had severed his lines of communication, and he fumed as the repair crews hastened to restore them. But it seemed that as soon as one line was restored, another was knocked out. "We can't operate from this damned exposed trench!" he cried. But what was the alternative?
By mid-afternoon, the general was almost completely cut off from contact with his troops. "Pack up the command center and move it back to the Tsaritsa Gorge bunker!" he ordered. "At least we'll have decent cover there."
It was done. Reports came in, and the general stuck pins in a big map, getting the picture. The Germans had launched a two-pronged attack from the south and west. Mamaev Hill was one objective: where the command post had just been. Was that coincidence, or had the Germans known? The other objective was the ferry port.
It was indeed a blitzkrieg, the "lightning war." Luftwaffe fighter-bombers commanded the sky in groups of fifty or sixty, and the German advances were swift. Mamaev fell, and then that column turned toward Railroad Station Number One, seemingly unstoppable.
Chuikov got a connection to the other side of the river. "Where are those reinforcements?" he shouted into the phone. "We need them now! We are being torn up here." He listened, then hung up. "We are promised new troops to be ferried over in the night," he said. "But we must hold out until then."
The general summoned his last reserves of armor, nineteen tanks, and ordered them to guard the ferry landing. If that fell, the city was sure to follow.
Od could not go home, of course. His house was on the other side of Railroad Station Number One. That section was in immediate peril. "Oh, Talena," he murmured, pained.
That night the German lines came to within eight hundred yards of the command bunker, and half a mile from the Volga. Reports from the front indicated that the Germans thought that victory was at hand, and were relaxing their vigilance. They were drinking heavily and singing songs, lurching from corner to corner in the city streets.
That was not smart. Russian snipers took advantage of the situation, logging hundreds of kills. But it was spit in the wind; more German troops kept funneling into the center of the city.
In the morning of September 14, the promised Thirteenth Guard Division finally reached the east bank of the Volga River. One day late—and what a difference that made. They couldn't cross by day; the German aircraft would strafe them out of existence. They would have to cross that night. Which meant that the beleaguered Sixty-second, what was left of it, would have to hold out another day.
"Fetch Colonel Sarayev," Chuikov snapped to Od. That was the captain of the NKVD garrison.
The NKVD did not like working directly under the Army's orders, but Chuikov pressed the issue. "Do you want Stalingrad to be lost because you sat on your hands while the enemy took the ferry port and stopped our reinforcements from saving the day?"
Sarayev hemmed and hawed, but had to acquiesce. In this manner Chuikov obtained fresh troops. He promptly abandoned standard Red Army tactics and divided the NKVD forces into "storm groups" of ten to twenty men. "I will place these in strategic buildings throughout the downtown area, where they can act like breakwaters to funnel the German advance into approach roads that are already registered by Russian artillery. We can direct a withering fire there against their armor, while the storm groups can deal with the infantry that will be exposed by the absence of their armor. In addition, our small units will be mingled so closely to the German lines that the Luftwaffe bombers will be unable to drop their loads without risking their own ground forces."
"Yes, sir," Sarayev agreed wanly.
"Then make the assignments. I expect your men to show their mettle." The general went on to other business.
Colonel Sarayev got busy. He gathered his officers and others available and sent them to specific buildings. Od, conversant with downtown Stalingrad, was there to call out the most defensible and most strategic sites.
"And this?" the colonel asked, setting his forefinger on a large square just south of the Tsaritsa Gorge.
"That is a huge cement grain elevator," Od explained. "It is defensible and critical, for it still has much grain that either side can use. But it will take at least a hundred soldiers, because of its extent."
"We can spare only fifty," the colonel snapped. "So to make up for that, we shall give them especially competent command. Major, this is your mission."
Od felt as if he had suddenly been lined up before a firing wall. He wasn't a combat officer! But he realized that the colonel, angry about having his unit co-opted for gut fighting, was getting back at the general indirectly. There would be no appeal to reason. "Yes, sir."
He gathered the men, who were a motley group from several prior commands, briefed them, and led them to the grain elevator. It rose high on the plain, between the city and the river. It was in its way like a fortress, but it was so extensive that they would be lost if they tried to spread out across its every crevice. So he elected to occupy a limited section that could cover a broad approach. It was hardly ideal, but maybe the Germans wouldn't know the thinness of the defense. They would put on a bold show, anyway.
There was a corrugated metal side tower that had the height and position to oversee the main approach to the grain elevator. From this they could pick off any enemy soldiers who tried to get in, and could use their mortar to focus on any tank that dallied long enough for them to pinpoint. But it would be no picnic.
He assembled them within the tower. "Men, this will get difficult in short order," Od said, assuming his best combat-officer expression. "We shall have to be constantly alert. I know you are tired; so am I. So we'll divide into three sections, each of which will take a four-hour shift while the others rest. When we have to, we'll put two sections on duty, and finally three. Now assemble yourselves into compatible groups. You want to be fighting beside men you know will protect your life with their own." He glanced around, then pointed out the one other officer here. "Lieutenant, you will command Group A." He looked again. "Sergeant, you have Group B. I will take Group C. We must make the groups approximately even in size; if they are not, I will reassign men until they are. Now go and cluster around your choice of groups."
The men hesitated. Then one went to join the lieutenant, and two of his friends followed him. Another went to the sergeant, and several of his friends followed. Several who had been working with Od came to his group. Those at the end filled in to make the groups even; they evidently didn't much care which leader they had.
"Group A, take the first watch," Od said. "I think it will be a few hours yet before the Germans come, so if some of you wish to rest on duty, you may do so. But make sure that at least one man is constantly on watch at every checkpoint."
The lieutenant nodded, and made his assignments. The other two groups found places on the floor and disposed themselves for sleep. They knew that sleep would be in short supply once the action started. Some ate from their limited personal supplies, knowing that food, too, would probably be scarce.
That gave Od a notion. "Those who do not wish to rest yet, come with me," he said. "We're going to liberate some grain for personal use. Maybe we can make some decent gruel."
Several men came. "Sir," one said.
"Yes?"
"What about water?"
"Good thought! We'll probably have to dip it from the river. It will taste foul, but will have to do. Scavenge for containers; we'll need to stack all we can."
They found grain, and filled bags with it. Then six men took containers and went to the river. In the course of two hours they managed to bring a fair collection of pots and cans filled with water.
There was a man with experience as a mess worker; he became the cook. He made a small fire and boiled wheat, making batches of hot whole-grain cereal. They gave small servings to those who wanted them. There was no salt, sugar, or milk, but it was much better than nothing.
The sergeant approached quietly. "Some men were unsure of your leadership, sir," he murmured. "But they are reassured."
"Thanks," Od said, gratified. "But this is incidental. The test will come when the Germans attack."
"For sure, sir."
Od settled down and to get some sleep. He was lulled, ironically, by the sound of guns firing. They were still in the distance, and their progress was slow, as other defended buildings gave them pause. Most of the activity was to the south, as the Germans forged up toward the river. They would certainly pass this point, because they would want the grain, and this was on their way to the ferry port.
Could the elevator be held? He doubted it, but could never say that. Talena, he thought, and pictured her face. He had found true love late, but had no doubt of the fact. If he died tomorrow, he was glad he had had these few days in her arms. He hoped that as the Germans took over the residential sections of the city, they would spare the noncombatant civilians. He had agreed with Talena: she would surrender without resistance, and cooperate with whatever the Germans demanded, in the hope that they would have no reason to brutalize or kill her or the others. The Wehrmacht was a far cry from the Waffen SS, and they had pinned their hopes on that.
When he woke, Group B was on duty, and the men of Group A were relaxing and eating boiled wheat. Things were going well, so far. Men were drinking the water, and going out quietly to refill the containers, using the cover of night.
At dawn, it was Group C's turn. Reasonably refreshed, they took over the landings and slits that were the guard posts. Od felt tight, knowing that the Germans were most likely to attack by day, when they could see what they were doing. By the sound of it, they were now very close.
Too close. Od saw a German helmet down the street. "Enemy sighted," he announced calmly. "Let him get closer before firing; we want to take out as many as possible in the first volley. Those will be the only easy kills." Soon the German soldier was joined by three others, walking warily toward the elevator. They were the advance scouts, the throwaways, there to trigger enemy fire so the tanks and artillery could orient on the resistance. The tramplers. But they could not be allowed to enter the building.
"Take aim at each soldier," Od directed. "The man farthest to the right, take out the German on the right. Next man, take the next, and so on. When I give the order, fire together, once, so there is no single source they can identify. If your shot wounds your target, don't fire again; casualties are more trouble to them than deaths."
When the four enemy soldiers were in comfortable range, he gave the order: "Fire."
There were four shots, almost together. Three Germans fell; the fourth staggered, then dropped to his knees. They let him suffer.
In a moment a tank appeared. It was of course invulnerable to their small arms fire, but not to their mortar. But the mortar needed a stationary target, and the tank kept moving. Its cannon oriented and fired. The shell struck the near wall of the grain elevator, knocking a hole in it.
"They don't know where we are," Od said, satisfied. "Don't fire until they send out more men."
Then the tank did something unusual. It raised a white flag of truce. "Let it approach," Od said. "But orient the mortar on it. When they emerge to parley, do not fire. But if they try to return to the tank, destroy it." He walked toward their concealed exit. "Meanwhile, Lieutenant, you are in charge if I am lost." Od left the tower and ran silently around behind a wall, until he could emerge well clear of his true redoubt. Then he stepped out into plain sight.
The tank rolled slowly toward the elevator. It halted when it saw him, and its turret opened. An officer emerged, followed by an enlisted man. They came to stand about fifty feet from Od.
The officer spoke to the enlisted man, who then called out to Od in Russian. "Surrender to the heroic German Army."
"Go to hell!" Od called back, in Russian.
"We will spare you and your men if you surrender," the interpreter said.
"We will spare you and your men if you give us the tank," Od retorted.
The officer, receiving the interpretation, blinked in disbelief. "This is outrageous! We have three divisions here. One last chance: surrender, and save your lives."
"Walk away from the tank," Od replied evenly. "Then we will spare you and it."
The officer and translator turned and ran for the tank. But as they tried to jump into it, the mortar shell came down. The tank exploded. The officer, half stunned, stumbled back. They let him go.
But after that no truce was offered, and they knew that no quarter would be given. Od ducked back behind the wall and returned to the tower. He was immediately surrounded by his men. "That's telling them, sir!" one cried.
Now his knees felt weak. He had done what he had to do, but in retrospect it seemed suicidal. But at least he had won the respect of his men.
But at what price? The German officer had claimed they had three divisions in the area, and now it appeared he had spoken the truth. The enemy guns blasted the elevator and the tower day and night. The corrugated metal resisted the bullets and shells, refusing to fragment or crumble, but when a bullet came through and struck a man, that man was wounded or dead. Od's original fifty dropped to forty, and then to thirty, in the course of two days. Also, they could no longer go out to fetch in supplies. They had enough grain, especially considering that they had fewer mouths to feed now, but bullets had riddled several of their water cans, and they were getting nervously low on fluid.
Yet they held out, wreaking devastation on any German soldiers who ventured within range, and taking out another tank. That last had been a neat maneuver: the mortar had oriented on a particular spot on the street, and timed its fire to blast that spot just when a tank crossed it. The Germans thought it was spectacular sharp-shooting, and held their tanks back thereafter. But the Russians were running low on ammunition, and the Germans were massing. The end was drawing nigh.
Then they were reinforced by a platoon of marines, in their striped shirts and navy hats. Od had not thought much of that uniform before, but now it was beautiful. The marines brought supplies and ammunition, and gave them a chance to scramble for more water.
But the fight was hardly over. For the next three days German artillery fire pounded their stronghold, setting the grain on fire with incendiary shells, and riddling the outbuilding with high explosives. The enemy certainly knew where the Russians were now!
German infantry broke in and crept up the stairs. A man cried the alarm, and the Russians rallied to fight for their lives. They fell on the Germans with fists, knives, and small arms fire. They were used to the gloom of the interior, and were familiar with the tower's every crevice. The Germans were not, so were at a disadvantage. They were driven off in a savage fracas.
But the defenders were worn out, their ammunition was almost gone, and their water had run out the day before. Thirst alone would vanquish them if they didn't do something. So on the night of the twentieth Od roused himself to lead the men in a desperate search for water. His legs felt like deadwood, and he was bleary from lack of sleep, and knew he looked and smelled like a thug with his unshaven face and six-day-old uniform. But he was one with his men, and he had a job to do.
They sneaked out the door, crossed a field, went across a road, and into a gully. There they stumbled onto a German mortar battery. "Kill!" Od cried.
Desperation gave them strength. They waded into the enemy. The startled Germans, who must have been snoozing without a lookout (very bad form!), fled during the melee. Od's group had won the mortar position!
Better yet, the Germans had left behind gallons of cold water. Od and his men gulped it down gratefully.
But they had made a fatal mistake. They had been too dehydrated, and suddenly drank way too much water. The men started falling, suddenly sick. Od felt faint, and collapsed on the ground.
When he woke, he was in a dark cellar. He was missing his shirt and one shoe. His head felt light, and he could not move his arms or legs. He was lying on his side, bound hand and foot, and standing guard over him was a soldier of the German Fourteenth Panzer Division. The Germans were quickly putting out the flames and saving most of the grain. The elevator Od and his men had fought so hard to defend had passed thus quickly into enemy hands. Because they had been foolish about drinking water.
Forgive me, Talena, he thought. He had hoped to be a hero, and instead he was lost. He would never see her again.
Then he felt the metal poking into his bare back. It felt like shrapnel. Sharp edges.
He shifted slowly, heedless of the way the jagged metal cut his skin, while the guard peered out the window to watch the action at the elevator. He got his fingers on the shrapnel, and tried to work it around to cut the rope around his wrists. But he couldn't. So he bent his knees and brought it slowly to his ankles. He sawed, and sawed, interminably, scraping through one strand after another.
And in time he felt the rope ease, and loosen, and he was able to free his legs. Now could he use his feet to hold the shrapnel and free his hands? No, that just didn't work.
The guard came to check him, in the gloom. Od kicked up with his shoed foot, catching the man on the side of the head. He kicked again, aiming for the face, but hit the shoulder. He kept kicking, having no alternative, while the surprised German floundered. He hooked the man's legs with his other foot, making him stumble. Finally he scored on the chin, and the man dropped with a groan.
Od sat up, then lurched to his feet. He left the German and ran out the door. There would soon be pursuit, but if he could get outside, in the darkness, he could disappear. He ran up steps and out an open door. No one was watching.
Where were his men? He feared he knew. He had been spared because he was an officer, and they wanted him for interrogation. His men would have been dumped in a truck and shipped behind the lines to a compound, if they were lucky. Otherwise they simply would have been killed. They had caused the Germans a lot of trouble, stopping their advance for five days. In any event, they would not be sitting around waiting for him to lead them to safety.
So Od walked quietly away, toward the river. Now he was watching for Germans, and hiding at any sound. But the enemy was not looking for him, and he made it without trouble.
But his hands were still bound behind him. What could he do? He looked around, and found an old pier projecting into the water. Like most such structures, it had nails and hooks on its posts. He backed up to a hook, and set his knot on it. Bit by bit he worked the knot loose, untying it, until he had enough slack to draw one hand free. He had done it!
After that it was easy. He knew it was pointless to try to return to the command post; the Germans were thick between him and it. So he scrounged for planks, driftwood, and bits of rope, and fashioned himself a makeshift raft. He found a board to use as a paddle, and shoved off into the dark river.
It was no easy trip, even so, but he made it far enough across so that he was spotted by the Russians. They knew that no German would be crossing in such manner. They hauled him in and took him to the east bank. There he was given a ride to the refugee center.
A weary officer questioned him. Od started to explain about the grain elevator, but the man did not have time for details. "I believe you. Have you any family here?"
"Six children. And a lovely woman minding them. My wife." That was the truth, though reality was something else.
Soon he was dropped off at a house where several families with men in action were quartered. But they weren't entirely trusting. "Melee," a man said. When she appeared, the man flashed his light on Od's face. "Do you recognize this man?"
"My husband," she said instantly, running to embrace Od.
That was enough. "Take care of him; he's near dead on his feet." The man got back into his car and drove off.
Melee hauled him inside. The children screamed with glee when they saw him, and buried him in hugs and kisses. They seemed not to care at all about his horrible appearance.
Soon Melee was feeding him, and cleaning off his face and arms. "I'll give you one day to recover," she murmured. "Then you will take over here, and I'll go to war."
"But—"
"I have been going stir crazy, with you and Heath both gone, and Talena trapped. I must get into the action."
He saw that it was true. She was a fighting young woman, and it would take him at least a week to recover. "I will care for my children," he said. "And yours. You find Talena. And Heath, if he's there."
She kissed him. Then she put him to bed, alone. He did not protest. Their marriage was now in name only: a totally amicable separation.
That morning Talena had seen Od off to work. That day the enemy forces rolled in. There was sporadic gunfire, but the Germans came in such numbers that it was clear they owned this section of the city. Talena watched apprehensively from her window. So it had after all come to this: they were to be captives of the Germans. Od would not be able to return to the house, even if given time to do so.
She saw the soldiers going from house to house, going inside, breaking down the doors if they were locked, and hauling out whatever they wanted. She saw them go to her neighbor Natasha's home. Natasha and her mother had been wounded by bomb fragments two days before, and Talena knew they were lying helpless inside. The men broke down their door and charged in with machine guns.
But soon the men emerged, carrying pots, pans, food, and bedding. Lita slipped out when the street was empty and went to inquire. Soon she was back with news: "They didn't pay any attention to Natasha or her mother. They just ransacked the house for what they wanted and went on. They are going to post their house for typhus, so the Germans will stay away."
"Clever notion," Talena agreed. Sure enough, soon a sign with TYPHUS scrawled was hammered to their door.
But hours later, a German medical detachment saw the sign. It acted promptly: it fired the house. The last thing the Germans wanted was that disease spreading to their troops. Natasha dragged her crippled mother into a backyard storage shack. There they huddled under a blanket on the concrete floor and prayed for rescue. Their ploy had cost them their house.
But no one came to Talena's house. The soldiers glanced at it and passed it by. What was going on?
Next day they learned the answer. A German infantry officer, a major, approached. He stepped up to the front door and knocked.
Talena stared at Crenelle. "Answer it," Crenelle said. "Otherwise he'll break it down."
"But what do I say to him?"
"The truth. We are at their mercy."
Talena went to the front and opened the door. "Yes?" she said.
"I am looking for the woman of the house," the officer said in passable Russian.
Talena realized that he had mistaken her for a boy. That was scarcely odd, because she was still masquerading as one. But this was the time for truth. "I am she."
The officer paused. "What is your name?"
"Talena."
"What is your husband's name?"
"Heath."
"What is his profession?"
"He is a doctor."
"What is your eldest child's name?"
"Telita. She is here."
The man smiled. "Then you are the one I seek. Will you give me your word to practice no evil against me, and to deceive me in no way?"
Talena nerved herself. "No."
"I am Major Wilhelm. Your husband is our captive. He is working with Dr. Kohler, as a surgeon. He is protected as long as he works loyally for us. He asked me to bring news of you, if you remained here. Since you are here, I am taking this house for my own residence, and will protect it and its residents from molestation. But you must give your word, for you are an enemy national. In return I will give you mine that you will not be abused in any way it is in my power to prevent."
Talena was astonished. "If I may—what did my husband say of me?"
The man considered. "Very little, actually. That you have six children, all girls. That he married you when you were just thirteen."
"Did he say he loved me?"
"I am sure he does. He was much concerned for your welfare."
"But did he say it?"
"I don't believe he did. But that would be a private thing."
It did sound like Heath. "I will give my word."
Surprised, he nodded. "Then please let me come in, for we must talk."
"We must talk," she agreed, opening the door wide.
He entered. He glanced around the sparse living room, selected a chair, and seated himself. "Please assemble all the occupants of this house."
"There are three others," Talena said. "My daughter Telita, who is eight years old." Lita emerged from the back room. "And my neighbor whose house was bombed, Crenelle and her daughter Tourette." The woman and girl emerged.
Wilhelm studied the three. "I think I would not have known you for women, had I passed you on the street." He glanced back at Tourette. "Except perhaps for you. I can see your beauty despite your camouflage."
"I think we must go," Crenelle said tersely.
Wilhelm held up a hand. "Do not be premature. I am not making any untoward suggestion. I am a family man. My daughter Faience is thirteen, which I judge to be about two years younger than you, Tourette. She will never be the beauty you will be, but she is bright and sociable, and I believe you would like her. I presume the name is not intended as a cruelty?"
"It is not," Crenelle said.
"In medieval times she would have been in danger as a witch. But we know better now. You are naturally very protective of her. You are of course armed."
Crenelle nodded, and Talena was impressed. This man was observant. Heath could not have told him of Crenelle and Tourette, because Heath had not known they would be here.
"I want your given word that those weapons will never be used against me or any member of the German occupation force."
"But we are enemies!" Crenelle protested.
"You are captives. I am offering you the freedom of this house, and to a degree this city, and protection from the Third Reich. Ordinary captives are to be deported to work camps in Germany. You may remain here, as my servants. You may keep your weapons, for you may be subject to attack by ruffians on the street. But you must give your word."
"What is your price?" Talena asked.
He returned his disquietingly sharp gaze to her. "Ah, you assume I wish the use of the women. But as I said, I am a family man, and my wife Fay would not understand. Yet it will have to be understood outside this house that I do have such use of both adult women, and that this is the price of your freedom from deportation. You will prostitute yourselves to protect your daughters and to remain here, where perhaps you have a better hope of survival and rescue. I control you by the threat to your children. So it must be believed. We will share a bedroom and a bed. Others need not know that the use occurs in shifts."
Talena exchanged a glance with Crenelle. Was this the first stage of a carefully choreographed seduction?
Crenelle shrugged. "Obviously you have the means to make such use of us real, if that is your intent. We don't have many options."
Wilhelm nodded. "Our relationship must be based on trust, for without it we shall be unable to cohabit in this house. But it seems evident that the four of you have reason to accept the agreement I offer, and that I can have the company and services of the group of you if I make this possible. I do miss my home life, with my wife and children. I will expect full maintenance of the house, cooking, laundry, errands, and social appearances at such time as I may entertain other officers. I should like to relax in the evenings with compatible dialogue, and to sleep without fear of betrayal. I believe we can do each other some good."
"Social appearances," Crenelle said. It was a question. "One of you will dress in feminine style, attractively, and perform in the manner of a hostess. But you will not be subject to any sexual attention by any other man. It should be possible to make it seem that you are mine, without actually saying so. That is the best protection of that sort that I can offer." He paused, considering. "But should I be visited by a superior officer, and should he take an interest, I will not be able to deny him. You will in that event have to do what you must do, preserving the situation or destroying it. I can promise only that I will never try to arrange such a thing. But for this reason, I suggest that the girls remain as boys. They should never be part of any compromise of this nature."
Talena exchanged another glance with Crenelle. Perhaps she was indulging in foolish wish fulfillment, that this man was decent and would truly protect them. But there was no realistic alternative. "I agree."
"I agree," Crenelle echoed.
"Very good." Wilhelm drew an emblem from his pocket. "Put this on the front door. It signals that the house is reserved for an officer. Now conduct me to your bedroom, for I am tired."
Crenelle took the emblem. Talena showed him the bedroom. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes. She backed away and shut the door.
"I like him," Lita said.
"Stay clear of him," Talena said grimly. "Unless he commands you." She glanced at Tourette. "You especially."
The girls nodded. They had seen enough of war to know that the ordinary rules of behavior could be suspended, and that rape was not confined to grown women.
It settled in very quickly. Wilhelm gave them German money to purchase food, and they took turns going out to do it. They made meals as good as they were able, and took turns serving as hostess: dressing prettily and chatting in the evening as if they were Wilhelm's friends. He would dress informally, and they were supposed not to call him sir when he was out of uniform. It was a charade, yet it was satisfying too, for it made the war seem distant.
On the third day, Tourette insisted on taking a turn as hostess. Neither her mother nor Talena was easy about this, but the girl was mature for her age and extremely poised. It was her burgeoning beauty that bothered the adult women; a man could well take an interest, and that would be special mischief. She did, however, suffer a siege of her syndrome. Wilhelm simply looked away, ignoring it, as he did her loveliness. That was a relief in two respects.
They did rotate shifts, with Wilhelm storing his things in one section and having the bedroom from eleven in the evening until seven in the morning, Talena from seven to three in the afternoon, and Crenelle from three to eleven. It was understood that no one would open the door out of turn, and it worked well. It also meant that someone was always alert, and that was important. There could be hungry and brutal intruders who would be a threat to Russian and German alike. The girls shared the other bedroom, sleeping at night, and being quiet by day. Talena and Crenelle took turns tutoring them, and on occasion Wilhelm did also. "You may not approve," he said. "But at some point your survival could depend on your knowing some German words and culture. Always study your enemy, so that your decisions, when you have them, are based on a balanced picture. Now who was Johann Sebastian Bach?"
As the days passed, it became clear that the German officer was indeed honorable. He was out much of each day, active in his command, but relaxed when he returned for the nights. When Lita was confused about a German expression she had overheard when there was mischief on the street, he glanced at Talena, making sure she was paying attention, then explained to the girl.
"The literal translation is 'Thunder weather.' Donnerwetter, In other languages it refers to storms, but in German it is a swear word. Pretend you don't know it, as a lady who used it in company would be considered low grade."
Lita was delighted with the term, however. But she was careful not to use it audibly. Once when there was a storm, and there was a close crack of thunder, Talena heard her murmur "Donnerwetter."
Then Wilhelm announced company. "Please adjust your schedules, for I will be home tomorrow, and there will be a visitor. You, Talena, will serve as hostess. This is a very special occasion."
"When must I be ready?" Talena asked, apprehensive about this change in the routine.
"He will be here at ten in the morning."
"I could do it," Crenelle said, for that was the shift Talena normally slept.
"No." And that was that. Wilhelm's word was law. They had never known him to invoke it without reason, but neither did he always see fit to explain himself.
So Talena slept early, and dressed her best in the morning. She hoped the man did not turn out to be some grabby senior official.
Wilhelm dressed in full uniform. As the time approached, he explained a bit more. "The man wishes to meet you and Telita. She must wear a dress for this occasion. He will talk with you, but I must remain in the room. I regret this, but it is a condition of the meeting."
What was this? It didn't sound like an ordinary German officer. "Yes, sir."
"I will escort him in. You and your daughter will greet him as he enters. Then I will retreat to the background and be silent."
Not ordinary at all. What was expected of her? She would have to smile and socialize regardless, and hope that this did not bode ill for Lita.
Shortly before ten a vehicle approached. "Wait across the room," Wilhelm said. "The two of you together."
They stood together, facing the door, as he went out to greet the visitor. Talena heard their steps as they came to the house. They entered. The outlines of their bodies appeared in the doorway. Lita screamed. "Daddy!" She flew across to hug him. It was, indeed, Heath. He picked Lita up and swung her around, kissing her on the forehead. Then he turned to Talena.
She was in his arms and kissing him before she knew it. "Heath! You look so well! I was so afraid!"
"I was taken captive," he said. "I made a deal. I have been helping wounded German soldiers, in exchange for this reunion. They said the others evacuated."
"Yes. We—the car broke down, and we couldn't make it out. But we're all right."
Wilhelm cleared his throat. "You may use the bedroom, if you wish. I don't believe that will be a violation, if you promise not to speak of anything political or military."
"The bedroom," Heath said, amazed. "I never thought that would be allowed. Understand, Talena, I'm still a prisoner."
The bedroom. An aspect of reality dropped on her. "No."
Heath looked surprised. So did Wilhelm. "There is something?"
"Is there ever, Daddy," Lita said.
"Not—something didn't happen to the others?" Heath was abruptly looking nervous.
"Not exactly," Lita said.
Talena floundered, looking wildly around. Where was she to begin?
"I can tell him," Lita said.
Talena stifled hysterical laughter. "Maybe you had better, dear."
"Sit down, Daddy," Lita said. "This is wild."
They sat down. Wilhelm looked just as curious as Heath did.
"You are swapping partners," Lita said. "Mom's with Od, and you're with Melee."
Heath's jaw dropped. "I don't understand."
"We figured it out," Lita said proudly. "You always had the hots for Melee, and she did for you. So now you're switching. Mom's with Od now."
Heath looked at Talena. "I never touched Melee."
"I know, dear. But she has always been your desire. I concluded that I would rather see you happy with her, and look elsewhere for myself. So we agreed to exchange."
"I never asked you to do that. Our children—"
"Will be fine with Od," Talena said. It was getting easier, now that the ice had been broken. "Heath, we wanted to discuss it with you, but we couldn't, because you were gone. With the uncertainties of the war, we—we had to do as much as we could, when we could. So Od freed Melee, and I—I went with Od."
"Went with Od?"
"I love him, Heath. I was surprised, and so was he. But when we tried it, it was like a sudden realization. We are right for each other. As are you and Melee. I hope you understand."
Heath looked at Wilhelm. The German spread his hands. "I did not know. I thought all was well between you."
"All was well," Talena said. "Except that Heath couldn't love me. Now he can find love."
"But you have six children!" Wilhelm protested.
"And I'm the first," Lita said proudly. "But that was just sex. He wanted Melee."
"This Melee—what kind of a woman is she?"
"Oh, she's great," the girl said. "She cooks better than anybody, and she's the prettiest woman in the city. Except she's across the river with my sisters and brother."
"Brother?"
"Well, not exactly. But his mother died last year when the Germans—when you invaded, so they adopted him, and he lives with us."
"And she agreed to this exchange?" Wilhelm asked.
"Sure. She was all for it. She always liked Daddy, too, and now she can have him. It's great."
Wilhelm spoke to Heath. "I apologize for bringing you into this confusion, which should have been no business of mine. Can you accept their decision?"
"No!" Heath said. He stood. "I will return to Dr. Kohler now."
"Daddy!" Lita protested.
But Heath was already walking out. Wilhelm hurried to accompany him.
Blinded by tears, Talena didn't move. How could it have gone so wrong?
Crenelle and Tourette came from the kitchen, where they had been staying out of the way. They could not have helped overhearing. Crenelle sat on the arm of Talena's chair and drew her head to her bosom, wordlessly.
"But it's so good," Lita wailed. "Why did he walk out?"
"Sometimes men are like that," Tourette said, comforting the girl in a similar manner. "Their minds don't work the same way. Maybe when he thinks about it, it will be all right. This was sort of sudden."
Talena heard the car driving away. Then Wilhelm returned. "I'm sorry. I didn't know," he repeated.
"You're a man," Tourette said. "You must have a notion. Why did he do that?"
Wilhelm sat down again. "I think it was too much of a surprise. For more than a month he has been away, not knowing whether his wife and children were safe. Now he suddenly learns that they are safe—and that his wife has left him for his friend. If I returned to Germany to a reception like that, I would be devastated too."
"But if it is true that he always wanted the other woman—" Tourette said.
"I have on occasion seen lovely women, and have worked with them, passingly," Wilhelm said. "I might even have imagined how it might be to be with them. But I never had any wish or intention to leave my wife, I don't believe she ever wanted to leave me, either. It would be a considerable shock if she did."
Talena finally recovered enough to get into the dialogue that so directly concerned her. "But did your passing notice of other women ever prevent you from loving your wife?"
"No, of course not."
"Heath never loved me. He married me because he had to, after he lost his first wife. I thought he would come to love me, but he never did. He was a perfect husband, but he never loved me. Finally I realized that he never would. So it seemed to make sense to let him go to the one he could love."
Wilhelm shook his head. "You may have done too much. Had he initiated it, and you agreed, then perhaps it would have worked. But you did it without him. That may seem like betrayal to him."
"Oh, I never meant that! I thought he would be pleased."
Wilhelm considered. "This Melee—she really does want him?"
"Oh, yes."
"And she really is a good person? I mean, she would be good for him?"
"Yes, definitely."
"Then perhaps she should be the one to persuade him."
"But she's across the river, taking care of our children."
"But if he were freed to go to her—"
"He might not do it," Crenelle said. "Not if he rejects the idea, as he seems to."
"There is surely some guilt there," Wilhelm said. "He may feel that he drove you to this, by not loving you. He may feel that he should not have a reward for doing that."
Talena nodded. "That could be. He is a very moral man."
"But if this woman were to go to him—"
"Oh, she would convince him," Talena agreed. "She's a passionate tigress. She always held herself in check, out of respect for me. But now she doesn't have to. She would sweep him away like a tempest."
Wilhelm nodded. "Then if there should be the chance, she must be enabled to go to him. I feel a certain responsibility for this impasse, and wish to abate it if I can."
"You have no responsibility," Talena said. "You have been more than good to us already."
"Put it down to the vagaries of male perspective," he said, smiling. "If you should have any contact with Melee, let me know, and I will see what I can do. It may be as simple as arranging Heath's release, as Dr. Kohler has agreed to do, in a place and at a time when this woman can then intercept him. Then it will be up to her."
Talena got up, wiped away her tears, went to him, and kissed him. "I owe you more than I can pay," she said.
Wilhelm shrugged. "If ever a time comes when payment is feasible, then you can do it. Until such time, have no concern." But he seemed pleased.
Crenelle was less teary and more realistic. "If we have contact with Melee, it is apt to be because she has sneaked across enemy lines to rescue us. She will not be under the truce."
"But you are," Wilhelm reminded her. "She must accept it before she enters here."
Crenelle nodded. "But if she does, you must let her go again. I know this woman; she will not be a captive."
"This is the nature of a truce," he agreed. "She must bring no mischief to me, and I must bring none to her. But if she brings any mischief to the German Army while in the city, she will pay."
"If she comes here, no mischief," Talena agreed. "We will hold her to that. If she comes."
He smiled. "I rather hope she does make an appearance, if she is as beautiful as you say." He glanced around as if guilty. "No offense to anyone here."
The women and Tourette frowned, but then Lita laughed, and they couldn't hold the expression any longer. They knew that Wilhelm was joking, not really believing in Melee's power of appearance, but that Melee would make him a believer.
Melee found space at the edge of a barge heading into Stalingrad. She wore slacks and an overcoat, and her fair hair was bound back under her cap, but she could not conceal the fact that she was a woman. It was the evening of September 23, and this barge filled with soldiers was the only one she had been able to approach. So she just had to take her chances with the men.
"Hey, beautiful, I have good vodka," a man called to her. "It has great warmth."
"Then it will keep you warm without me," she replied, making a joke of it. It worked; several men laughed.
She had always been noticed by men, though her family had tried to protect her. As a child she had worn ballet slippers and practiced pirouettes. Later, determined to be more than a calendar image, she had studied medicine. That was, she now realized, partly because Heath had become a doctor. When she married Dillon she had devoted herself to his support, but retained the dream. But when the Germans invaded Russia in 1941, and Dillon had been killed, she had abandoned any dream but vengeance. She had done her best for Od, supporting him and Avan fully, but her real desire had been to get out there and break sticks. She thought of the Germans as sticks of wood, to be broken, rather than as people being killed. Now at last she was free to break bundles of sticks. It would never be enough to assuage the loss of Dillon, but it might help. She was tired of being a gentle wife and mother; that was for Talena, who really liked it. Melee was a fighter.
She might have gone anywhere, to join the Resistance. But Talena had been caught in Stalingrad, and if she and Telita still lived, Melee had to help them escape. And Stalingrad was closest. So she would get there, and break sticks, and check on the house when she could. She knew it wouldn't be easy, but she would do it. In time.
The Germans had overrun the suburban areas of Stalingrad on September 13 and 14, but resistance had stiffened around the factories to the north, and along the river. It was the factories that counted, militarily; industrial capacity was the muscle of a nation. But the Germans were pressing hard, and Russian losses were bad, so replacements had to be supplied constantly. Morale wasn't good; deserters were constantly being shot by the NKVD and left lying in full view as a warning to others. It hadn't occurred to the authorities that anyone would try to sneak in to this action, which was why she had been able to. And of course the men did not object to the company of a young woman, however briefly.
She stood at the railing, gazing out across the dark water. She could see the flashes of guns firing, and hear the distant explosions. It was beautiful, in its ugly way, for it meant that not all of the city had fallen. The Germans had swept in, but had been slowed, and now their advance was more like a city block a day. Maybe the tide was turning, and soon it would be the Germans in retreat. She was here to help that happen.
The barge worked its way slowly toward a landing site near the Red October plant. The old landing site was no longer secure, so they couldn't use it, but the new position left them exposed on open water for a longer time. That made the trip nervous business, for the Germans knew about the reinforcements and were targeting any craft they spied.
"What brings you here?" a man inquired. Then, as he saw her wary reaction: "Don't worry; I'm fifty, and I have children your age. I'm not trying to get you under a blanket."
She could afford to trust him that far. After all, they were comrades in arms. "My husband was killed last year. I want vengeance."
A man about her own age joined the dialogue. "He must have been a lucky man—before he became unlucky."
"He was a fine man, and an officer. But he wouldn't leave his post when the sticks overran it, though he was wounded and ill."
The older man laughed. "Sticks! Very nice. We'll make a bonfire of them."
Then a German plane passed over them, so suddenly that it was as if it had come from nowhere. And it dropped a bomb directly in the center of the ship. Right where Melee would have been, if she had accepted the invitation for vodka. She and the two men were thrown over the railing.
Melee knew how to swim, of course, even in an overcoat. But it weighed her down too much, so she had to struggle quickly out of it, sacrificing her food and knife. She saw the two soldiers floundering near her. "Swim for shore!" she cried. "It's not far!"
She set the example, stroking for the west bank. The two men followed.
The current had not seemed strong when the barge was drifting, exposed to enemy fire. But now it seemed fierce, sweeping them farther downriver than their forward progress swimming. She was rapidly tiring. But she made it, reaching the sands of the west bank, gasping for breath.
In moments the two soldiers joined her, no better off. "Where are we?" the young one asked.
"I have no idea," Melee said. "We must be far downstream, well into German territory. It can't be safe."
"But we can't just walk north to join our unit," the older man said. "We'd have to cross the line of combat."
Melee realized that if there was to be any leadership here, she would have to provide it. She saw a light approaching them: surely a German patrol. "We have to get out of sight immediately," she said. "In here." She ducked into a nearby sewer outlet.
The two soldiers hardly hesitated before following her. It wasn't as if any of them had not discovered what the attention of the Germans meant. But the stench was horrible. Melee hadn't realized how bad it would be. But of course a sewer was a sewer; one did not expect roses.
They stood near the outlet, hoping that they could go back out on the open sand soon. But the flicker of the light just came closer. "They will see our footprints," the younger man said.
He was right. "Then we can't go back out," Melee decided. "They probably won't follow us far in, because of the smell. We'll have to follow the sewer until we can find an exit into friendly territory. If we go far enough north, that should be feasible."
"Good thinking," the older man said. "The tunnels should go to every part of the city."
Melee appreciated his concurrence. She thought of asking his name, but realized that they might be better off anonymous, so that if one got caught, he couldn't be made to tell the identities of the others. Also, exchanging names would personalize them for each other, making them acquaintances, bordering on friends. She wanted neither the implied obligations of friendship—how long before the younger man thought of sex?—nor the heartache of loss when one of them died. Because she knew that the chances of all of them escaping alive were small. They were lucky to have survived the bombing of the barge; for all she knew, they were the only survivors, because those others who had not been killed by the blast could have been stunned so that they would have drowned. Luck was a fickle lover; it could kill them as readily as it had spared them.
The deeper they got in the sewer tunnel, the darker it became, and the worse the air got. Excrement clung to their shoes and trousers. Melee had had a small flashlight, but had lost that with her jacket. So she just had to put her hand out front to feel the filthy wall, and trust that there was no hidden drop-off.
Something shoved her shoulder. She tensed, turning. It was the old man. "Sorry," he said. "I'm afraid I'm getting a bit dizzy. I can't breathe well." She couldn't blame him. It was like sucking in a fog of feces. "We've got to keep going," she said tersely. "There's nothing to eat here, and we wouldn't want to drink what we're wading through."
"I know," he gasped. "I'll be all right."
They went on. But after a while the old man collapsed. "Hey, it's not sack time yet," the younger man said, trying for humor. But it wasn't funny; the older man had fainted.
"We can't leave him here," Melee said. "We'll have to drag him. Maybe there's an exit close ahead."
"Maybe," the young man agreed.
They caught the man under his arms and dragged him along. But the extra burden not only slowed them, it made them breathe harder. The air seemed to coat noxious slime on Melee's lungs, making her nauseous. She could tell by the young man's gasping and staggering that he was suffering similarly.
The old man woke. "You can't do this," he said. "You're wearing yourselves out. There's no sense all three of us dying. Leave me here. If you find help, send someone back for me."
Melee exchanged a glance with the dim outline of the younger man. "I hate this," she said. "But I'm exhausted. I think we'll have to do it."
"Until we meet again," the older man said, as they left him sitting there in the sludge.
"Until we meet again," Melee and the young man agreed, knowing it was a lie.
She didn't know how long they trudged on. Were they still going north? There had been curves in the tunnel, and branchings. She had lost all sense of direction.
She found herself holding on to the man. She realized that he hadn't grabbed her; she had become dizzy, just as the old man had. "Maybe you had better leave me, too," she said.
"I couldn't stand to be here alone," he said candidly. "We can rest, then go on."
She was far too tired to object. They sank down against the wall, and she slogged on into a troubled sleep. At least it was some relief from reality.
"I think it's morning," the man said, waking her.
Sure enough, there was a wan light showing from somewhere down the tunnel. Time had passed. "We've got to get out of here," Melee said. "I can't take any more of this."
They went toward the light. It was filtering down from a manhole cover. They stood under it and listened. There were no close sounds. So they braced under it and slowly pushed it up.
Fresh air wafted down, a blessing from heaven. Melee put her face to the slit and peered out. "Seems clear," she said.
They pushed it up the rest of the way, and scrambled out. Then they replaced the manhole cover. They hurried into the nearest alley, getting out of sight.
"Well, we're here," Melee said, perking up. The fresh air was doing wonders for her. "But where is here?"
Then a group of soldiers walked down the street, passing the alley. Their outfits were so dirty and ragged that it was hard to tell what nationality they were.
"Are we in the wrong section of town?" the man asked.
Melee considered. "Does it matter? We'll have to go out among them, until we can find our way to our own unit. We can pose as civilian workers. But I had better not look like a woman."
"Agreed." He faced her and helped her get her hair jammed back under her soiled cap. A button had been lost from the front of her shirt. She found a pin and used it to close the shirt up. "Slouch, and take small breaths," he recommended. Then: "I'd sure like to see you in a dress sometime."
She flashed him a smile. "Maybe if we make it back alive."
"Just in case—do you speak German? I don't. If they are the enemy, and question us—"
"Some. So I'll do the talking."
They walked boldly out into the street, as if they had a right to be there. Down the street, where the men had gone, a group of soldiers were lining up in front of a building.
"They have mess tins," the man said. "God, I'm famished!"
"So am I. So we'll join them."
"But those are soldiers! We don't know whether they're ours."
"And we're workers. Come on."
They joined the line. They didn't have any mess tins, but maybe they could borrow some. Melee nerved herself to bluff their way through.
A soldier next to them wrinkled his nose in disgust. "What in God's name is that smell?" he asked in German.
Melee's heart sank. They were after all in the wrong section. And the odor of the sewer clung to them, marking them distinctively. But she was too hungry to quit. So she decided to bluff. She held her place in line, ignoring the soldier's comment as if she had not heard it.
They made it into the mess hall. There were some spare mess kits, so they picked them up and took their servings. There was a Russian cook who peered hard at them, but did not speak. Melee thought feverishly: was this an ally, or an informer? She gambled, acting on intuition. She looked him in the eye, then turned her head and lifted her cap, giving him a glimpse of her bundled long hair, Russian style. It worked. He gave her an extra portion.
They sat at a table, side by side with the German soldiers. Another sniffed and spoke up: "There's an awful stench here."
There was a murmur of agreement around the table. Melee wrinkled her nose too, pretending the smell came from somewhere else. Meanwhile, she gobbled down her food. It was so good to eat again!
Then a German officer passed the table. He took one look at Melee. "You're Russian!" he said.
"Nein,"she said, knowing it was hopeless. They had been discovered. Was there even any point in trying to make a break for it? Without weapons, surrounded by the enemy—
Then the Russian cook she had halfway befriended rushed over to the table. "Sir, it is all right," he said in halting German. "These two are working for the Reich. Undercover work."
"They still stink to high heaven," the officer snapped. "Get them out of this hall."
"Yes, sir," the cook said. Then, to Melee, "I should have told you. You must eat separately. Not with the regular troops. Come with me."
Wordlessly, Melee and the young man rose and followed the cook to the kitchen, where he fed them well.
"You saved our lives," Melee murmured. "We are deeply grateful."
"When you get out of here, get across to the Russian lines," the cook said. "Don't waste any time, because if the officer investigates, he'll know I lied. Take the road north, out of the city; there's no action there at the moment, and you can get across at night."
Melee was about to thank him again, but at that point the German officer came into the kitchen. "You still stink," he said. "I don't care what kind of work you are doing, you're polluting the food. Get out of here now."
"Yes, sir," Melee said briskly. She stuffed a roll in her pocket, gulped down more water, and walked calmly out of the mess hall.
Only when they were safely away from the building, and out of sight around a corner, did she allow herself to react. "My knees feel like cooked noodles," she confessed.
"Mine too," the man said. "Thank God for that Russian cook!"
"He saved our lives," Melee agreed. "I could have kissed him. But I would have made him stink."
He laughed, perhaps more than the remark warranted. It was just such a relief to be alive and free.
Invigorated, they walked north. When they found a place to hide, they did so, and slept for several hours. Then they made their way at nightfall to the no-man's-land between the lines.
The moment they were through, Melee spoke up, loudly addressing the seemingly empty night alley. "We are Russians," she said. "We just crossed from the other side. Do not shoot us. I'm female."
They were immediately surrounded by soldiers. Light bathed them. Melee removed her cap and let her fair hair fall down across her shoulders. If there had been doubt before, it dissipated. Suddenly solicitous, the Russians conducted them farther behind the lines, gave them a drink, clean clothes, new rifles, and a chamber with a basin of water.
The young soldier hesitated. Melee knew why. "You have been a good companion," she said. "We may never see each other again. So I will give you a sight to remember. Just stand there and watch."
Then she stripped before him, and took the cloth and basin and washed herself completely. He neither spoke nor moved. He was riveted, as she had expected. She showed him everything, without being obvious about it. She had rewarded him for his constancy. Then she dressed in the new clothing. "I'm sorry I couldn't show you me in a dress. I hope you will survive the disappointment."
He tried to speak, but didn't seem able to. He did not, however, seem disappointed. "Now it is your turn. I will wait outside."
He nodded. She went outside the chamber. She had done him the additional favor of not embarrassing him by making him strip before her in an obvious state of sexual excitement. He would never forget her, though they had never exchanged names.
There was an officer outside. "Oh," Melee said, remembering. "There was a third member of our party. A man of about fifty. He fainted in the stifling sewer. We tried to drag him, but he made us stop. We had to leave him. We said we would send someone back for him, if possible."
"In the middle of German-occupied Stalingrad?" the officer demanded. "In an unmarked sewer?" Then he paused, noting Melee's expression. "We will do what we can."
"Thank you, sir." She gave him a smile. She knew they would not be able to do anything, but at least she had asked.
The line here was stable for the moment; they were content merely to hold the Germans off, as it was easier to shoot down an attacker from cover, than to do the attacking. They knew that their numbers were much smaller than those of the Germans, so a holding action was best, while they waited for significant reinforcements.
Melee had had some experience with rifles, but not enough, and this was serious. Nevertheless, she found that she was a pretty good shot, considering. She liked the contained explosion of the rifle, and the power of the shot as it struck a wall. This was much better than skulking through the sewer.
So she volunteered for sniping duty. They had set up a school for snipers in the Lazur Chemical Plant. She reported there with her rifle, not bothering to conceal her gender.
"But you're a woman!" the officer in charge protested.
She frowned as if confused. "What is your point, sir?"
Embarrassed, he brought her inside. On one wall of a long room they had painted helmets, observation slits, human outlines, and similar devices as targets. The room echoed with the reports of rifle fire as instructors hovered over their students, criticizing and improving their technique.
The officer brought her to an empty slot. "Fire at that pair of eyes," he said, indicating a crude sketch of a face with two big eyes.
She lifted her rifle and took aim. She fired. She saw the bullet strike to the right. She had missed.
"If you were in the field, the return shot would kill you," the officer said, disgusted.
That annoyed her. "Not if I had cover." She dropped to the floor, set an empty ammunition box in front of her, and poked the muzzle of the rifle just beyond it. She fired, this time missing to the left.
"I like your spirit," the officer said. "I will assign you a trainer. But if you don't get more accurate, you'll be out soon. We have too little ammunition to waste."
"Yes, sir!" she agreed enthusiastically.
She took turns firing all day, until her shoulder was numb from the shock of the recoils. But she was getting steadily more accurate as she responded to the advice of the instructor.
The man nodded approvingly. "You are learning well, and you respond well. I believe you can make a decent sniper. But you must understand, the work is dangerous."
"I want to break sticks," she said.
"Tomorrow, September twentieth, this school will be taken over by Vassili Zaitsev, a famous Russian sniper. He is arriving with the 284th Division. I will recommend you to him."
"Thank you."
The man hesitated. "He—he is said to have a taste for the women. You are a beautiful woman. If you do not wish—I mean no offense—"
"I will be other than beautiful tomorrow," she said. "Thank you for the warning."
As it happened, she was not the only woman in the sniping school. Three of the thirty students were female, and one of the others was well endowed. Melee kept her hair concealed, her shirt baggy, and rubbed some dirt on her face. Most Russian soldiers were unable to change clothing or wash frequently, looked chronically grubby, and suffered infestations of lice, so the appearance was not unusual. She resembled a boy. Even so, she was glad for the presence of the other woman, who was plainly flattered by the new instructor's interest.
Zaitsev did know his business. In short order he had winnowed out the poor shots and sharpened the good shots. Nervous when he first reviewed her, Melee missed her target, but hit it when he corrected her, and hit it dead center when he corrected her again. He could see exactly where she went wrong, and correct it with a few words. She was suddenly shooting better than ever before.
"But a target is one thing," he said. "A moving target is another. And a living person is another. Can you hit a man?"
"I can break a stick," she said. "Germans are sticks."
"You will do. Tomorrow I will teach you and the others the use of the sniperscope."
The training progressed rapidly. When Zaitsev was satisfied, he took a select group out to "No-Man's-Land," where they could get practice against actual German front line troops. They set up after dark, each behind carefully undisturbed rubble, and waited. Each was to cover an assigned section of the enemy line, and to wait for the proper opportunity. There was to be no random shooting; every shot was to be an attempted kill. Because, as Zaitsev made clear, each shot was a marker of the position of the sniper. If the kill was not made, the sniper quickly became a German target, for the enemy had snipers too. One shot, then hide.
After an hour of silence, during which her eyes became fully attuned to the darkness, Melee saw activity in her section. Was a stick about to foolishly show himself? Yes! A helmet was slowly rising from its cover. She waited, knowing it could be the oldest ruse in the business, a helmet on a stick. But it wasn't; it was a German solder who just couldn't resist looking at the enemy positions, thinking that because they were silent, they were inactive. She saw him more by the motion than the outline, a darkness against a darkness.
She let him stand, and turn, until he faced her directly. Then she squeezed off a single shot aimed at the center of the face. The rifle bucked, the head flung around, and the stick fell.
She ducked her head, keeping well out of sight. There was no return fire. But she was not fool enough to make herself a target. She knew the German snipers were looking for her, having a general notion where she was, but not a specific one. Because her shot had caught them by surprise, and the only one who might have seen the flash of her muzzle was dead. She thought she might have been horrified, but instead she was exultant. Her first kill! She had come through. One trifling part of her vengeance against the Germans had been accomplished.
Later in the night, there was another shot, by one of the other snipers. The target fell, and there were return shots. But they were scattered; they did not have a specific target.
In the morning the snipers retreated. Zaitsev briefed them before they retired for sleep. "Congratulations, Melee!" he said. "You have graduated. But next time aim for the center, instead of for the left eye."
"Yes, sir," she agreed as the others laughed. They all knew that she couldn't have hit the left eye if she had aimed for it.
Then it was time for Zaitsev to break in a new batch of students, so the recent graduates had time off. Melee had special business, but she respected Zaitsev enough to clear it with him.
"You want to sneak alone across enemy lines?" he asked incredulously.
"I must check on my friend Talena," she said. "I need to know whether she and her daughter are safe."
"Do you know what the Germans will do to you, if they catch you?"
"They will rape my dead body," she said, touching the concealed dagger she wore. She would kill herself rather than submit to capture, because she knew they would torture her to death.
"That would be such a waste," he said. He had of course long since caught on to her real appearance, but also to her disinterest in having a more personal relationship with him. He knew that she had a man who was captive of the Germans.
"So may I go?"
"If your personal situation should ever change, remember this favor," he said, not compromising himself by giving open permission.
"Yes, sir." She was agreeing to consider him as her lover, if she lost the man she was after. In the circumstances, it was a fair exchange.
He produced a map. "Here, tonight, is safest." He touched a spot along the line of battle. "And here, tomorrow night, for the return. Do not get caught by either side."
Fair warning. He would cover for her absence, but would denounce her if she were caught. She nodded, and departed.
So, on the last day of September, Melee girded herself with dagger and pistol and went to the first crossing site. The line was in daily flux, with each side studying the position of the other, and at the moment this one was porous on the German side. Crossing was still dangerous, but her sniper training served her well; she could move silently, and spot sticks wherever they might be. She couldn't take her rifle along, but she should be able to avoid detection. She was wearing nondescript clothing that concealed both her nationality and her gender, though that would not save her if she got caught in no-man's-land.
She succeeded. By midnight she was across and moving southwest through the dark city. Before dawn she was watching Talena's house. It was occupied—but by whom? She could not afford to assume too much.
Just before dawn, a woman emerged from the back door. Melee recognized her: Crenelle, a neighbor.
She followed the woman, making sure no one else was watching. Crenelle went to her own house, which had been bombed. That explained why she had moved. But was that all?
Melee waited as the woman entered the wreckage. Then she approached, taking cover near the back door. When the woman emerged with a package, Melee addressed her.
"Crenelle."
Crenelle stopped immediately. "So it's you, Melee! I wondered."
Melee came out to meet her. "And you were ready," she said.
The woman shifted her package, revealing the pistol she was holding. "The streets are not necessarily safe at any time. What is your situation?"
"I am with the Russians on the front. But I had to check on Talena and Lita. What is their situation?"
"They are safe and well. Tourette and I share their house now. I have some supplies that help."
"The Germans didn't deport them?"
"We are protected by a German officer. Heath arranged for that. We serve the man, and he protects us."
"He lets you go armed?"
"Yes. We have a truce. We will not betray him."
"Well, I have no truce!"
"Then stay away, because we gave our word. He is a good man, and we need him."
"You prostitute yourselves for protection from deportation?"
"No. He does not ask that of us. But we would if we had to."
It was a fair answer. "What of Heath?"
"He works for a German doctor, under similar truce. But Melee—when Talena told him about the change, he did not accept it."
"Foolish masculine pride," Melee muttered. "Maybe I can seek him out and reason with him."
"No, that is too dangerous. But he could be summoned here. But you would have to join the truce. You would have to trust Wilhelm."
"Trust a stick? I'd rather kill him!"
"You must not!" Crenelle said quickly.
Melee reconsidered. Crenelle was a tough woman who could be trusted. "Suppose I agree for an hour, so as to see Talena and Lita?"
"For an hour," Crenelle agreed.
She followed Crenelle, and they entered the house together. "I have a visitor," Crenelle announced, not loudly.
Lita appeared. "Melee!" she cried, hugging her.
Then Talena appeared, and did the same. "But where are the children?" she asked next.
"With Od. He had a rough session, and finally rafted across the river. So he took over there, and I came to fight. I'm a sniper now, in the factory zone. But I had to make sure you were all right."
"We are. But we're prisoners. You can't stay."
"So I thought. Crenelle said I would have to make truce for an hour, so I have done so. I just need to know how everything is with you, so I can tell Od and the children, or send word."
"But if Wilhelm sees you here, he'll have to report you," Talena said. "We're so glad to know you are safe, and so is Od. But you must go."
"Crenelle says I must trust your German officer."
"To meet Heath," Crenelle said.
Talena drew back. "Oh, I had forgotten! Yes. Heath—he—"
"Crenelle said. I said I could look for him, but she—"
"No, you would be caught and killed, and compromise him too. But he could come here, if you talked to Wilhelm. Then he could go with you, if he wanted."
"Do you expect me to believe a German officer would help two Russian nationals to meet, and to escape, without turning them in? This smells like bait for a trap."
"No!" Talena protested. "He is a man of honor. You must trust him."
Melee shook her head. "I don't think I can do that. I want to meet Heath, but it has to be my way. I will not trick him and me into betrayal and torture."
Talena clenched her hands. "Damn it, you're as bad as Heath is! You just can't accept something that runs counter to your prejudice."
That set Melee back. Talena had never before spoken to her like that. She looked at Crenelle.
"Believe her," Crenelle said.
She looked at Telita. "It's true," the girl said.
They all believed. Either this German was true, or he was the world's best deceiver. Melee would not accept it, except that her desire for Heath was so great as to imperil common sense. "You all swear that this German can be trusted?"
They all nodded.
Melee shook her head. "Then be it on your heads, if you are wrong. I will talk with him. But if he tries to kill me, or turn me in, I'll kill him first."
"He won't," Talena said. "He will honor the truce." She went to the bedroom door and knocked. Melee tensed, watching the door. "Sir."
"Yes." The voice was behind them.
They all whirled. There was a German officer in full uniform, with his Luger drawn and pointed at Melee. He must have overheard them talking and climbed out the window, circled the house, and so caught them all off-guard. She had after all walked into the trap.
"But she is here under truce," Talena protested weakly.
"She spoke of killing me," the man said grimly.
"If you betrayed the truce. That is reasonable. She's not a prisoner."
"Lita has told me much of her," the officer said. "Even through her dull clothing, I can see her beauty." He smiled. "I think I can trust her honor. Now she will trust mine."
"Like hell!" Melee snapped.
Then he took the barrel of his gun in his left hand, let go with his right, and proffered it to Crenelle butt first. "Verify that this is loaded, and give it to her. Then I will summon her friend."
Crenelle, who clearly knew guns, checked the weapon, and brought it to Melee. "It is as he says. Do not act rashly."
Melee took the Luger and checked it herself. It had a full clip. She looked at the officer. He stood at ease. He had indeed forced the issue. He had given her the ultimate power in this house.
"Now I will make the call," he said. He walked to the telephone and spoke a series of numbers into it as Melee watched, holding the gun. The only way he could be sure of keeping his life was by playing it straight, because she could kill him before any German rescue could occur. Even if they surrounded the house with machine guns, she could take him out.
"Doctor Kohler," the officer said. "Wilhelm here. I have a message for Heath: Melee has come for you." He listened a moment, then hung up. "It may take two or three hours to get him cleaned up and routed here, but he will come. Now shall we relax." He walked to the easy chair and sat in it.
"Heath will come here?" Melee asked numbly.
"He will come here," the officer agreed. "Now we must plan strategy, or perhaps tactics. He may believe he must deny you, and that weapon will not win him over. Have you a better program?"
"But if he comes, the Germans will know," Melee said. "They will come too."
"No. Doctor Kohler has arranged to let him go, when the time comes. If you have a way to get him out of the city, you have only to persuade him to take it. There will be no pursuit." He fixed her with an eye turned steely. "And no word among the Russians of how he escaped. You understand why."
She did understand. There were Russian defectors as well as German defectors, so what was known in one camp was soon known in the other. Wilhelm could be betrayed by the Russians, and court-martialed by the Germans.
Melee realized that she had to trust Wilhelm. If she lost, it was only her life, which had been in constant peril in recent weeks anyway. If she won, she would have Heath. At last. "Agreed." Then she handed the gun back to Crenelle, who returned it to the man. He put it away without looking.
"You must change," Talena said. "One of my dresses can be altered for you."
They went into the bedroom and got busy selecting a dress and adjusting it to fit perfectly. They worked on her hair. They found suitable slippers. And makeup.
Within the hour Melee stepped out to the main room. "Perhaps the judgment of a man is best," she said. "Will this do?"
Wilhelm, seated in the chair, looked her up and down. "Ravishing," he said. Then he got businesslike. "When he comes, we can not go outside. You will have the bedroom, and we will not intrude. But if you let him leave this house without you, there will be no more I can do."
"Understood." Then Melee sat in a chair opposite him. "What is your price for this?"
"I have a wife and children in Germany. I want to return safely to them. If Germany wins the war, this will be feasible. But if Russia wins, it will be more difficult."
Melee nodded. "Give me Heath, and I will give you your family, if it is in any way in my power. If Russia wins, and I live."
He nodded. "We need say no more of this." For such a deal could imperil either of them with their own governments.
The six of them—for Crenelle's daughter Tourette appeared—talked amicably of general things, and Melee found herself coming to like Wilhelm. He had the sharpest mind she had encountered, and he was neither coward nor fool. She had to admit that not every German was a stick. She could see why the others had come to trust him, and to work with him.
Then a vehicle approached. "Perhaps you, Lita," Wilhelm said. "You have no adult agenda."
The girl nodded and went to the front door, then outside. "And perhaps you should make an entrance when summoned," he said to Melee. She agreed, and retreated to the kitchen.
Soon Lita returned with Heath. He was dressed in a reasonably clean civilian work uniform, and looked well. He stood at the doorway, looking at them all. "I had to come," he said. "To abate this nonsense. Is she really here?"
"She is really here," Wilhelm said. "Under truce. Will you go with her?"
"Of course not. My wife is Talena."
"In name only," Talena said. "Just talk with her, Heath. You owe us all that much."
"I will talk with her. Where is she?"
This was her cue. Melee stepped into plain view. She knew she was as striking as she had ever been. "Hello, Heath."
He looked at her, and paused. It had probably been months since he had seen any woman in a dress, and she was not just any woman.
In the silence, she walked on across to stand immediately before him. "I have come for you, Heath. After ten years, I have come at last."
He managed to speak. "You are Od's wife!"
"In much the manner you were Talena's husband. The motions are not the reality."
He looked around. "We can't have this discussion here."
"We'll have it in the bedroom," she said. She took him by the hand and led him there. No one else moved or spoke; they were like statues.
She closed the bedroom door. Then she embraced him and sought to kiss him. He averted his face.
"I know you have always wanted me," she said. "As I have wanted you. Why won't you take me?"
"This isn't a chess game, where pieces can be moved in honor of some grand design! This isn't right. We are married to others."
She decided to press the issue. "And all these years, you took poor Talena to bed but never gave her your love. Was that right?"
"I was always faithful to her."
"In spirit?"
"What do you want of me?"
"I want you to recognize reality. Come with me to the Russian lines. Rejoin your own people. Be my love."
"No."
She had intended to be alluring and persuasive, but suddenly she lost it. "Listen, you ingrate! We have risked our lives to fulfill your dream. You can't throw it away."
He turned, reaching for the door handle. She wrapped her arms around him and hauled him away. He tried again to reach it. She clung to him and wrapped her legs around him.
"Get off me, you bitch," he snapped.
"You turd!" she screamed. "I could have stayed safe across the river. I could have had another officer for a lover. I gave it all up, for the mere dream of you. And now you are rejecting me? You have no right!"
"I never sought the love of a twelve-year-old!" he said.
"So that's it! Well, I'm not twelve any more. And I'm going to prove it." She dropped her feet to the floor, braced herself, and hauled him stumbling to the bed. "Now get out of those clothes before I rip them off you."
"Don't act like a whore!"
"If you had the courage of your desire, I wouldn't have to!" she retorted.
"Sex has nothing to do with it. You have no right to break up my marriage to a fine woman."
"Talena's been bedding Od. Get it through your skull: those marriages are over."
He froze. Apparently on some level he had refused to recognize the relationship of Od and Talena. "That can't be."
"It can be, and it is. Now it's our turn." She backed him up against the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt.
He caught her hands. "Stop this, Melee. It's an ugly scene."
She went limp. "Do it with me this once, then go, if that's the way you really want it. Abolish the dream by realizing it."
He shook his head. "If I touch you, I'll never get free. You know that."
"Because you truly want me, and I want you."
"That's irrelevant." He let her go and turned away. She realized with a shock that her all-out frontal attack was not working. He would not be seduced. She did not have the winning hand. It unnerved her; her power over men had always been unfailing. How could she fail with this most important one?
"Heath, tell me what you want of me. I love you. How can I be near you?"
He paused at the door. "I don't think it's right for you to be near me. I'm sorry." He opened the door.
She lay on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. She refused to cry, or to plead. She had been defeated, when she had never anticipated it. She had to let him go.
She heard the door close behind him. She did not move. She had lost the most important battle of her life.
She lay there for a brief eternity, stunned, knowing that when her feeling returned, the pain would be unbearable.
Then a hand touched her shoulder. She hadn't heard anyone come in. "I can't leave you, Melee," he said.
She lifted her head, not trusting herself to speak. Was this a dream, or a confusion?
"I crossed that room, and they were all looking at me," he said. "Every step I took was harder. I saw Talena crying." He paused. "I had to free her."
She nodded, still afraid to speak, lest it all puff away in smoke.
"I can't bear to see her cry. She's not like you."
Yes, Talena could express her pain. She could move him in a way Melee could not. Melee stared at him, dry-eyed.
He bowed his head. "I will go with you."
She found his hand, and brought it to her face, and kissed it. Then, suddenly, completely surprising her, the floodgates opened, and she was weeping.
He sat beside her and put his arm around her. "Melee, I'm sorry. I did not mean to be insensitive."
She still couldn't speak. She was afraid the tears would never stop, but then he was mopping her face, and it seemed unfair to keep wetting it down again, so she dried out.
Then she got up and changed back into her nondescript clothing. He sat on the bed and watched her without comment. When she was done, he stood, and they went together to the door.
The others remained as they had been, silent. They must have heard everything, and seen enough. It didn't matter.
"Thank you," Heath said to all of them. Then the two of them walked out the door.
Melee would have liked to say farewell to the others, but the present mood was too fragile to risk. They surely understood.
A car was waiting. Heath went to speak with the driver. "I will not be returning," he said. "Please thank Dr. Kohler."
The driver nodded, and drove away. Then they started walking north.
They avoided any Germans they saw, sometimes ducking into alleys or behind rubble. But as they approached the battle line there were too many. "We'll have to hide until nightfall," Melee said.
They found a bombed-out building with part of its second floor remaining. They crawled up into that, and lay waiting for the night.
"Shall we?" Heath inquired.
She kissed him. It was, she realized, the first time. Then slowly, gently, quietly, they made love. It wasn't at all the way she had imagined it, with roaring passion, but it, was infinitely more tender.
They slept, and it was beautiful, just being with him. He was indeed the man of her dreams. She just hadn't dreamed it correctly. How different reality was from expectation, yet also better.
In the night they resumed travel, and she led him through the secret route to the Russian lines. She was glad there was no trouble, because she would have hated to have to kill somebody while in this beatific mood.
She took him to her small chamber. "In the morning I'll introduce you," she said. He nodded, and they slept again, without sex.
The following day she introduced Heath to Zaitsev. "Good enough," the man said, as if this were routine. "We need another doctor."
Indeed, Heath was immediately busy tending to the Russian wounded.
Meanwhile there was important news on the sniping front. They learned that the Germans had sent for their own super sniper, Major Konings from Berlin. He had come to kill Zaitsev.
Far from being cowed, the Russian was satisfied. "It is a challenge," he said. "I must meet their champion and destroy him."
Melee was fascinated. Zaitsev was happy to acquaint her with the full significance and detail of the challenge. She knew this was because he hoped to persuade her to become his lover, despite her rescue of Heath, but she went along because she was truly interested.
Their first word of Konings's presence came from a prisoner, who revealed that the major was prowling the front lines. There was an immediate meeting of the Russian sniper group. Colonel Batyuk, commander of the 284th Division, was certain that the German sniper would be easy meat. Zaitsev agreed.
"But first I have to find him," he told Melee. "I have to understand his methods and habits."
Melee understood. Zaitsev had already killed several German sharpshooters, but only after days of watching their habits. It was relatively easy to kill a recruit who carelessly poked his head up to look around; she had done it herself. But a sharpshooter was another matter. He was hunter, not prey, and his weaknesses were subtle. So the special prey had to be studied, his spoor tracked, his water holes zeroed in, his sleeping and feeding patterns established. What was Koning's camouflage, his firing patterns, his ruses? Only then would Zaitsev end the hunt with a single perfectly placed shot.
"And I know that he is studying me as carefully," Zaitsev said. "He came here to get me. He will be reading leaflets describing our sniper techniques, and descriptions of my mannerisms. And of my girlfriends." He paused, but Melee did not comment. She did not care to offer him hope of success in that department, but neither did she want to discourage him prematurely. "Major Konings does not yet know the lay of the land. He needs to study the local terrain. He will not act until he is satisfied. That gives me time to prepare for him."
Melee paid close attention, because she aspired to be the best of snipers. It was a science in itself, with perhaps a week of work preceding the single second of the finish.
For several days she and the other snipers searched the ruins of Stalingrad through their field glasses, hoping to discover the prey. They came to Zaitsev with schemes to pull Konings out into the open, and some of them were fresh and novel. But Zaitsev rejected them all. "I will wait for my enemy to reveal himself," he said.
The duel began in earnest on October 7. Two Soviet snipers in the same area were taken out by single rifle shots. That had to be Konings's work. The field of battle was a stretch of no-man's-land between Maemev Hill and the Red October Plant. Zaitsev searched the familiar terrain. "Nothing unfamiliar," he muttered. "The trenches and bunkers are unchanged."
But they had learned one thing: the German had struck during daylight hours. He liked to sleep at night. So the duel had to be by day. Conditions were different, but Zaitsev was glad to oblige. One had to go where and when the quarry went.
Throughout the afternoon Zaitsev and a friend lay behind cover, running their field glasses back and forth, searching for a clue. Melee watched too, determined to contribute if she possibly could. Around them the constant bombardment of opposing armies faded into the background. At the moment it was a search for a single man. Melee and other snipers lay in better protected holes farther back, to observe and learn. They were too far away to be either good snipers or good targets, but they could see reasonably well.
As the sun dimmed, a helmet bobbed unevenly along a German trench. There he was! But Zaitsev did not raise his rifle and fire. Melee realized that it had probably been a ruse, a helmet on a stick or even an ignorant soldier sent out to draw fire, so that Konings could spot the location of the Russian sniper. Zaitsev had been too canny to fall for that.
When darkness was complete, the Russians crept back to their own bunker, arguing about Konings's strategy. The man had done nothing to reveal himself. Yet he could not hope to take out Zaitsev unless he joined battle. He had to be there, somewhere.
Before dawn the snipers were back in their holes, studying the battlefield again. Konings remained silent. When night came, they retreated to get some sleep. "I have to admire the man's skill and patience," Zaitsev said. "He took out two of mine, to get my attention. He knows I am watching. He knows I know that he will take out more of mine, if I don't get him." He glanced obliquely at Melee. "Perhaps even you, my dear." Again she remained, as it were, in her hole, not responding. If she gave him any opening, he would take her. "So I can not depart. He has me captive. Until I kill him."
The third morning began like the second. Then it changed. A political officer, whom she recognized as one of Od's associates, Danilov, came out to witness the contest. At first light the heavy guns began their normal barrage. Melee eyed the landscape, oblivious. It was as if the rest of the war did not exist, only this tense vigil.
Danilov suddenly stood, like an utter idiot, shouting "There he is! I'll point him out to you."
A single shot took him through the shoulder. The stretcher bearers came to take Danilov to the hospital. Zaitsev never moved. They couldn't even be sure it was him, and not some lesser sniper, for Danilov had been an easy target, and the shot had not been through the head.
Melee put her glasses back to the battlefield, concentrating on the on the sector in front of Zaitsev where she thought the shot had originated. On the left was a disabled tank. To the right was a pillbox. She hardly bothered with the tank, certain that no experienced sniper would use such an exposed target. The firing slit in the pillbox had been closed up. That wasn't a good prospect either. She saw a sheet of iron, and then a pile of bricks lying between the tank and the pillbox. Could that seemingly innocuous rubble be a hiding place? No, it seemed impossible.
Then Zaitsev used a simple trick, one that no self-respecting sniper would fall for. He raised a white glove on the end of a stick. As it showed above his parapet, a rifle cracked, and the glove was hurriedly pulled down. Melee knew it had been holed in the center. And she had seen the flash: Konings was under the sheet of iron.
But Zaitsev didn't fire at it. She knew why: there was no shot to be had. The iron would deflect the bullet, and a shot anywhere else would miss. The man had to actually show himself.
Night came, and the Russians retreated. "He's under the metal," Zaitsev said. "But I can't get a clear shot. Tomorrow I'll take a new position, one that will put the afternoon sun at my back." He glanced at Melee. "Pray that he doesn't change his hole."
"I supposed I could put on a skirt and dance over the metal," Melee said.
He laughed. "That would keep him there! But his jealous girlfriend would take you out with one shot through the knickers."
Melee didn't answer. Zaitsev was the one who wanted to get a shot at her knickers.
Next morning the Russian contingent was in its new nest. Konings's metal blind was to their southeast. Zaitsev's companion fired one blind shot, just to arouse their enemy's curiosity. Then they settled down to wait until late afternoon.
When their position was shrouded in shadow, and the sun was in the German's eyes, Melee knew that Zaitsev was raising his rifle into position and focusing through its telescopic sight. She saw a piece of glass glint once from the German's hiding place.
A helmet slowly lifted over the lip of the parapet. A shot cracked, and Zaitsev's companion jumped and screamed convincingly. For an instant Melee though he had been hit, before realizing the ruse.
Under the iron sheet, Konings lifted his head slightly, to make sure of his victim. It wasn't enough for any kind of target, but Zaitsev's shot took him between the eyes.
Heath just shook his head when she told him about it. "What you see as a great victory, I see as the sad death of one more man."
"But we have to win this war!" she protested. "We have to abolish the diabolical sticks!"
"They are not sticks! They are human beings, as we are."
"They are monsters!"
"They are human beings in a dreadful situation, as we are."
"How can you say that? You know the atrocities they have committed."
"I have seen the atrocities we have committed, too. There are good and bad men on either side."
She saw he would not be moved. She tried to end the difference by kissing him, but he would not bend to meet her. She realized, then, that their ideal love was nothing of the sort; she had brought him back, but they were still two different people. The perfection of the dream was not translating into reality. He had never said he loved her.
Was she to be like Talena, longing after a man who gave her lip service rather than love? She rejected the notion.
Melee was still in training, though she had a good grasp of the essentials. She was eager to do more, driven in part by her private personal frustration. So she was glad when she was sent on a special mission for the 284th Division. A captured prisoner had pinpointed the position of the German Army HQ. It was in a building between the Stalinski Flying School and the Red October Plant. She and five others were assigned to dynamite it.
Heath was one of the five. When she learned that, she went immediately to the commander. "What are you trying to do? Heath's not a fighter!"
"He asked to go," the commander said evenly. "Considering your relationship, I did not feel free to deny him."
Melee's protest died. Heath did care. But she hoped he didn't get his head blown off.
Still, she asked him why. "I thought I should get a better notion what you are doing," he said.
She had to be satisfied with that. "Just see that you don't get hurt."
At night they passed beyond Russian lines and crawled into German territory. They froze whenever they heard voices or saw a flare burst overhead; any motion could betray them. After a painstaking hour they reached their target: a half-destroyed apartment house. One entire wall was missing, revealing the tiers of its floors like a battered doll house.
The patrol slid into an intact stairwell. Melee was last. When they reached the second landing the others disappeared around a corner, but a noise distracted her. She whirled to see a German soldier emerging from behind a post.
"Hände hoch," he grunted, waving his pistol in her face.
The fool! He was telling her to arise her hands. He should simply have shot her. She lashed out with a boot, catching him in the groin. He doubled over, dropping his weapon. She grabbed his helmet and cracked his face into her knee. She needed to take him out silently, so as not to alert the Germans.
The man savagely bit her thumb. She knocked him down, twisting his right arm under his body. Then she took hold of his throat with both hands, choking him. He thrashed violently, but she held on. His helmet came off, and she saw that he had bright red hair. She leaned harder against his windpipe, and he gurgled horribly.
Then Heath appeared, looking for her. When he saw the situation, he pushed her away and smashed the German's head with his rifle butt. Then he paused. "What have I done?"
"You broke a stick," she said shortly, and ran on up the stairs, leaving him there. The others had put the dynamite in place.
It was time to light the fuse. "You do it," the sergeant told her.
She was glad to. She lit it, and saw it sparkle as it caught. At the sight, the others lost all caution. They ran down the stairs, careless of the noise. Scattered shots sounded behind them, but no one was hit.
Heath was below, tending to the red-haired German. "What's this?" she demanded.
"I am a healer, not a killer," he said.
"He tried to kill me!"
"No, you were trying to kill him."
She had no patience with this. "Come on!" She grabbed Heath's arm and hauled him along with her.
As they cleared the area, there was a shattering explosion. Light flared behind them. The German HQ building was destroyed. Later they learned that there had been no significant loss of personnel, but at least their mission had been accomplished.
Once they were safely back on their own side, she had at Heath. "You were trying to save that stick!"
"Yes."
"What am I to do with you?"
He looked soberly at her. "I think now I understand your appeal. You represent my dark side. I set out to be a healer, but there was that in me that desired the other face of the coin."
That cut right through her spirit. She could not deny it. Because his appeal for her was his healing. She was a killer. He was her bright side. "Oh, God, Heath! We are a match made in hell!"
He did not deny it.
In the last week of October the Germans assaulted the factories. They were being stupid about it. Had they focused their forces north and south of the city and driven wedges between the Russian defenders and the river, they could have cut off their supplies and starved them out. The way Od had been starved out of his building. Instead, the Germans were trying to use brute force in repeated frontal attacks, and taking heavy losses because of it. The snipers were a significant part of the defense.
Melee and several other student snipers took up positions in the top story of a tall building. They settled down behind piles of bricks to monitor enemy traffic. She saw German soldiers scurrying back and forth between trenches. She tracked their progress through her rifle scope. She was a student, but she was now a dead shot. It would be so easy to break those sticks!
But no one fired. Zaitsev had told them to wait for his permission before revealing their position. What a waste! She fidgeted at the window, furious at having to let so many sticks get away.
Then a column of German infantry suddenly burst into the open. She could stand it no longer. "Shoot!" she screamed.
The room blazed with rifle shots. Melee pumped bullet after bullet into the gray/green uniforms. When it was over, she counted seventeen dead men sprawled on the pavement.
They exchanged congratulations. They had struck a significant blow against the enemy, and registered many easy kills.
Then a succession of artillery shells exploded in the sniper's nest. Melee saw her friends being blown across the room. They were dead before they landed.
She fled the carnage and ran down and out the building. She escaped unscathed. But what bad luck to have the artillery strike just then.
But when she told Zaitsev her story, he slapped her violently across the face. "You fool!" he raged. "The artillery zeroed in on the source of the shots, exactly as countersnipers do. I told you not to reveal your position! Your stupidity alone is responsible for the deaths of your comrades."
Melee was stricken. He was right. She had been a fool, and her friends had reaped the consequence. She seldom cried, but now she did.
When she recovered full awareness, it was Heath who was comforting her. He said nothing about death or foolishness. He just held her. In that moment she loved him more than she had believed possible.
The siege was hard fought, but as October passed and November came, the balance was slowly shifting to favor the Russians. The stubborn defense had bogged down large numbers of German troops. The news was that a massive buildup of Russian troops was occurring beyond the Volga, enabled because the German attention was taken by Stalingrad. Melee was exhilarated. What they were doing here was paying off.
But there was a troubling development. Chunks of ice and sludge were drifting down the river, making it dangerous for supply boats to navigate. There would be little if any resupply until the Volga froze solid. Without adequate supplies, they could still be wiped out. Hungry and exhausted, they clung to their narrow strip of land along the west bank of the Volga, taking what strength they could from the fact that the Germans had not yet found the strength to complete their conquest of the city.
The news got worse. On November 7 special reinforcements arrived on the German side. These were the Pioneers, elite combat engineers. They were armed with flame throwers, machine pistols, satchel charges, and dynamite, and they were trained and experienced in urban combat. It was reported that they were confident that they would soon end the Russian resistance in Stalingrad.
Zaitsev was grim. "Hitherto we have been up against amateurs," he said. "These are professionals. Mere sharpshooting won't stop this crew. Still, we may have some surprises for them."
On November 9 the engineers made ready to assault the Russian strong points. Russian scouts had kept track, without being able to stop it. They knew that other troops had warned the engineers that here they were up against a different kind of war. The engineers shrugged this off.
Then they stumbled onto one of the surprises that Melee had helped set up. Just after midnight an explosion destroyed a room at the edge of a factory, killing eighteen Pioneers. They had triggered a booby trap.
But it didn't stop the attack. At 3:30 in the morning an artillery barrage signaled its beginning.
The Germans focused on two Russian strong points: a chemist shop, and the commissar's house. The first fell to them without trouble. But the commissar's house was another trap. Every opening had been sealed with debris, and Melee and others shot from tiny pigeonholes with deadly accuracy. One, two, three—she counted her kills as she picked off engineers. Maybe now the Germans appreciated what kind of war this was. The attackers were driven back with heavy losses.
But the engineers were tough. In the morning they managed to break into the house. The Russian defenders retreated into the cellars, but the Germans tore up the floors and threw down gasoline. "Get out!" Melee cried, realizing what was coming. They barely made it out before the Germans ignited the gasoline. The cellars were filled with fire. But the engineers didn't stop there. They lowered and set off satchel charges. Then they laid down smoke cartridges to blind anyone who might have survived the flames and explosions. They were indeed professionals.
Melee realized that the end was near. She and the others would continue fighting, of course, but it was clear that the engineers were going to take the remnant of the city that remained in Russian hands.
Within days of their arrival, the engineers had lost a third of their numbers. But the Russians had suffered worse, proportionately. Few of their troops remained, and Heath was working day and night to save the lives of those who had any hope of survival. The German assault on the factories had reduced Chuikov's HQ bunker to smoldering ruins, forcing him to relocate for the fourth time in seven weeks. No more supplies were arriving.
On November 15 the engineers turned right and left along the Volga, doing what should have been done at the outset. Melee and the others refused to be dislodged, but it seemed that any hour they would be wiped out.
That night two Soviet biplanes flew over at less than fifty feet altitude, hovering over the Russian position so as to mark it for a supply drop. The Russians lit bonfires, marking their position. But the canny Germans lit bonfires too, tricking the planes into dropping most of their supplies into German lines or the river. It just kept getting worse. Yet they hung on. What alternative was there?
One faint hope was that the Germans would misjudge the severity of the Russian winter, as they had in 1941. The hot dry extremes had held through October, but now were yielding to cold nights and drizzly mornings. The gray skies promised that the hard Russian winter was not far away. Melee, like all the others, knew the signs well. They might be short of food and ammunition and personnel, but they knew enough to be warmly dressed. If the Germans didn't, they might go the way of Napoleon.
But it turned out that the Germans had indeed learned the hard lessons from their campaign of 1941. Russian intelligence indicated that already German supply depots in the rear echelon had been established and stocked with winter gear.
That thought made Melee angry, because it reminded her that many of these depots drew part of their work force from Russian defectors. These "work volunteers" were dressed in German uniforms, given the same rations as soldiers, and paid for their labor. She hated them, of course, and would have killed any that came within her range.
"But what of the Russian cook who saved your life?" Heath asked. She hated questions like that, too, because they distorted her certainty. The matter of Wilhelm was similarly difficult, because he really did seem to be a good man. But for him, Talena and Lita would have been dead or in Germany long since, and Heath himself would still be working for that doctor. She would do her best to save Wilhelm, when the time came; she had given her word. But the matter left her with a knot in her emotion, where there should have been straight conviction.
Meanwhile, their desperate situation had its lighter moments. General Chuikov had a bunker under forty feet of earth, and thanks to his expertise and determination the Russians clung to the most critical ten per cent of the city: the industrial section. The general had thought to requisition twelve tons of chocolate before the ice floes made the Volga impassable. This wasn't foolish indulgence. Chuikov figured that if the river failed to freeze over soon, a ration of half a bar per day per man could allow them to hold out for two weeks longer. That could make all the difference.
There was a more serious wrangle over supplies. Every Russian soldier in the 284th Division in this area received a daily ration of three to four ounces of vodka. Most waited for it eagerly; very few declined. Even Heath accepted his ration, though he saved it to use as disinfectant in emergencies.
But Senior Lieutenant Ivan Bezditko, "Ivan the Terrible" to his men, had a prodigious thirst for alcohol. When troops from his mortar battalion died, he continued to report them "present" and pirated their daily rations for himself. Soon he had accumulated several gallons.
A supply major, in his warehouse on the Volga's bank, noticed the discrepancy in casualty reports. He phoned Bezditko to accuse him. "You thief! You are stealing from Russia. I'm going to report you. And I'm canceling your personal vodka ration."
Bezditko wasn't cowed. "If I don't get it, you'll get it!" he yelled.
The supply officer hung up, reported the transgression, and cut off the liquor ration. Nobody could bluff him.
Enraged, Bezditko contacted the firing point for his 122 millimeter mortar batteries and gave them precise coordinates. They fired, and the shells dropped with pinpoint accuracy. On the supply warehouse. Hundreds of bottles of vodka were shattered, and the startled supply officer was buffeted.
The incensed supply major called headquarters. But it brought him no relief: they needed those mortars. He was furious, but impotent. Within hours Ivan the Terrible's vodka ration was delivered, right on schedule.
Melee took heart in the story. To those in the trenches, the pursuit of vodka was serious business. Just a few days earlier some soldiers of the division had found several cisterns full of alcohol. They wasted no time: they drank the spirits so quickly and completely the cisterns were soon dry. Then they found another cistern brimming with spirits. They rose to the occasion and drank that one dry too. But that last cistern had held wood alcohol. Four men died and several others went blind. But the tragedy failed to daunt the soldiers' appetite for liquor. Many of them began drinking cologne to dull the horrors of life on the front.
Other troops of the unit found diversion in the company of two women who had set up housekeeping right on the battlefield. They had a cellar room twelve feet square whose only entrance was a door that lifted up from the ground. Inside was a mattress, about twenty pillows, a kerosene lamp, and a gramophone with several records. One was an Argentine tango they always played for visiting soldiers. One woman was a thirty-year-old brunette who had managed to find bright red lipstick, which she wore all the time. The other was a younger blonde who seemed pale and sickly. It seemed they were just waiting for the Germans to arrive. But they would entertain any man for a few minutes in exchange for chocolate or vodka. Lines of men braved shells and bullets to listen to that Argentine tango. Or so they said. It seemed that a great deal of musical satisfaction could be had in three minutes on a mattress. Melee didn't care for it, but at least it kept the men from trying to grope her as much.
Even the squalor became a source of diversion. Lice were everywhere, because of the men's inability to wash or change their uniforms. So some men would go to a bare patch of ground and line their lice up to see who could field the largest army of parasites. The greatest joy was word of relief, which meant that a man could go to safety across the river, luxuriate in a hot bath, be refitted with a clean uniform, white parka, and fur boots, and then return to the lines. With luck and vigilance, it might be several days before his condition reverted to normal. But of course the ice in the Volga cut off that relief. Melee chafed as much as any; she loved sniping, but hated being dirty and louse bitten.
So they endured, somehow, through November 18. Then on the nineteenth the Russians launched their counteroffensive. They struck at the German lines north and south of Stalingrad, which were manned by Rumanians. Foul weather kept both air forces grounded. Morning fog gave way to high winds and driving snow. The German reserves had trouble moving through the snow to plug the opening gaps. The Russians, well prepared, destroyed the resistance and moved on. The encirclement of the German Sixth Army had begun.
Melee and the others celebrated. They knew that the Germans would never take the factories now. They would be too busy defending their own rear. So now it was just a matter of holding firm while the enemy grew steadily more desperate. What would the Germans do when their supply lines were cut?
Their holding strategy meant that there were fewer casualties, and they were able to relax somewhat. Melee was able to spend more time with Heath. She flung herself into sex with him, and he responded. But that wedge between them remained. He was life; she was death. How could they love each other?
"I would give you back to Talena, if I could," she said as they lay physically but not emotionally sated.
"She is better off with Od. He can give her the love I could not, and he is a thoroughly deserving man."
"But you can't love me either," she said bitterly. "You can revel in my body, but not my spirit."
He did not deny it. "It was my ten-year folly. The unattainable pasture seemed greenest." He paused, considering. "But you could do better with Vassili Zaitsev. He understands you, and has killed more Germans than you have. I know he desires you."
"But I desire you," she said. "I always knew you for what you were, a healer and a truly decent man. All that is decent in me yearns for you, and that will never change."
He shook his head, bemused. "It is indeed an irony. I would never have visited this pain on you, had I not been foolishly blind to my own nature."
She got a glimmer of a strange idea. "I would not change you if I could. But could you change me? What would I have to be, to be loved by you?"
He sighed. "It is a fair question, but I fear it has no fair answer. I would not have you be gentle and supportive like Talena, because though I regard her as the finest of women, I never could love her as she deserved. You are her opposite, in that death is part of your makeup. Yet without that, your appeal for that aspect of me would be gone. I think I am defective, Melee. A puzzle that has no solution. I deeply regret that failure."
"No, you are perfect," she insisted. "I am the one who is wrong. I must change."
"I don't see how. I am attracted to that aspect of myself I hate."
That balked her search for a solution, so she let it go. For now she would take whatever aspect of him she could get.
In the following week they lived for news of the new front. The Russian armies slowly closed their pincers, but the Germans could still escape if they left Stalingrad and moved west in force. Yet, oddly, they did not. Instead they braced themselves within what they called Der Kessel, "The Cauldron," and did not move. It became apparent that Germany's Hitler, like their own Stalin, had decreed that there be no retreat. The Germans were caught not because they lacked the strength to escape, but because their leader refused to recognize reality. One German unit did try to break out, but the Russian forces destroyed it.
The enclosure was complete. The Russians had hoped to trap perhaps 100,000 German troops. Instead they had trapped nearly 300,000. What were they going to do with that many?
The Luftwaffe brought supplies in to the trapped Germans. But it was apparent that it was too little, and it would not continue, because a storm front was rolling in. The news from captured prisoners verified the obvious: the Germans were on less than half rations, and only a fifth of what they needed was coming in. They were, literally, beginning to starve. Time was destroying them.
"What of Talena?" Heath asked. "If the Germans starve, so will the Russians there."
"When I came for you, I talked to Crenelle. She has hidden supplies she is using to support them. She must have prepared well for such a siege. She's probably helping Wilhelm too, as long as he helps them."
"That is a relief," he said, and kissed her. "But we must help them, when we can."
The troops in the factory zone were not idle. They made increasingly bold thrusts against slowly fading German resistance. And on December 13, Soviet intelligence announced that it had pinpointed the German General Paulus' command bunker within the city. If they could take him out, German resistance might well collapse.
Zaitsev, Melee, and two others penetrated the lines in order to kill the general. One of the others was the girl whom Zaitsev had taken as a lover. Melee resented her, despite the knowledge that she could readily have taken Zaitsev herself, had she wanted to.
As they picked their way through the rubble, Melee tried to control her temper. The girl was immediately ahead of her, and she kept blundering and making too much noise. Why couldn't Zaitsev have left her back in his bed, safely out of the way, while the real warriors got the job done?
The girl made halting progress, and stumbled. "That cow!" Melee thought as she glared at the plump figure.
Then the cow stumbled again—and an explosion smashed Melee to the pavement. She had been hit in the stomach by shrapnel, and was bleeding into the gutter. Oh, Heath! she thought despairingly as her consciousness faded. Now she would never be able to change herself and win his love.
Her perception flickered, briefly. Zaitsev was carrying her back to Russian lines. She tried to protest, to tell him to leave her and get the mission done, but she was too weak even to maintain consciousness.
She touched awareness again, finding herself in a cellar hospital. Doctors were working furiously to control her bleeding. But what was the point? She would be better out of the picture.
At some point thereafter she heard, almost as if in a dream, two men talking. She recognized their voices. One was Heath.
"But I am a man of healing," Heath was saving. "How can I love a killer?"
The other laughed. It was Zaitsev. "That is no problem for me. I am another killer. But perhaps opposites do attract, for it is you she desires, not me. With that in mind, I would ask you this: predators are as much a part of the natural order as prey. Both need the other, if they are to prosper. Isn't the leopard as lovely in her way as the lamb? Isn't it possible to love the one as well as the other?"
"She is a leopard," Heath agreed thoughtfully. "I never thought of it that way before."
"I have heard she was gentle to her kitten."
"Her adopted son. Yes, she has been a good mother."
"And you were married to a lamb."
"And couldn't love her," Heath agreed. "I did crave the leopard."
There was a pause. Then Zaitsev spoke once more. "I think you can no longer postpone your decision."
Melee faded out again. She wasn't clear whether it was for an instant or an hour.
Then she became aware of someone's hand taking hers. She recognized that touch. It was Heath. She felt his breath at her ear as he whispered to her. "Melee! I can love you. But you must give me time. You must live to make it happen."
He had decided! He had chosen the leopard. Strength poured into her from somewhere. She smiled, and gathered her remaining resources for the effort of survival. She would break out of this siege. For the sake of what could be.
When she eventually regained full consciousness, Heath was there, loyally tending her. Her belly was bandaged and felt awful, but she was evidently surviving.
"What happened to the patrol?" she asked.
"The girl in front of you stumbled onto a mine," Heath said. "Fortunately she escaped with only minor injuries. You were the one who caught the brunt of it. Zaitsev abandoned the mission and carried you back."
"Abandoned the mission! But it was our chance to take out General Paulus!"
"No. It turns out that the intelligence report was incorrect. The pinpointed building was not his headquarters."
"You mean I almost lost my life for nothing? Because of a futile mission, and that damned cow?"
"Melee, I'm just glad that when your turn came, we were able to save you. Now you will be evacuated across the Volga, which is now blocking up with ice, forming a bridge. Your war is over."
"But the job isn't done! The sticks aren't gone from Stalingrad!"
"The ice bridge gives us access to the far bank. Our supply problems are over. And inside the Cauldron things are desperate. Their morale is suffering. Horses are being butchered. Guard dogs are as likely to be cooked as walked. They are done for. It is just a matter of time. Your job is to rest and recover. You almost died; now you must live."
"For you I will live," she agreed. "But we must rescue Talena. And her friends." By that token she included the German officer Wilhelm.
Heath had to remain, for there was severe need of his skills. But Melee was evacuated as soon as the route was secure. Heath kissed her as they bore her stretcher away. She smiled at him, hoping that this was not a long parting. She did not like being helpless.
They took her on a sled on the weird ice bridge across the Volga River. In due course she was back with Od and the children. They were solicitous, and though she felt she should get up and get back into the fray, she had lost a lot of blood, and there were infections to fight, and her recovery was slow. So she had to be satisfied with reports from the front. Each day that there was no report of injury or death to Heath was a relief.
It was a bleak Christmas season for the Russians, but worse for the Germans in the Cauldron. New Year's Eve Russian troops were entertained by musicians, actors, and ballerinas. Officers had parties for the entertainers. But one entertainer, the violinist Mikhail Goldstein, avoided the parties and went directly to the trenches to entertain. He serenaded them for hours. The work of German composers was forbidden, but he gambled that no one would report him, and played some Bach. The music was carried by loudspeakers, and reached the German lines. Suddenly all shooting stopped. When he finished, a loudspeaker in German territory carried a plea in halting Russian: "Play some more Bach. We won't shoot."
News came of Zaitsev: an exploding land mine had temporarily blinded him. He was out of the fray, after killing 242 Germans. But no word of Heath.
Offers were made to the Germans to treat the wounded and sick, and feed them full rations. But the Germans did not surrender. On January 10 the Russians attacked the city in force. Almost all German resistance faded under pressure. But still no surrender.
January 16 the Russians took a major airfield, leaving only one in German hands. Luftwaffe pilots soon refused to land at that last one, because it was unsafe and insufficiently managed. A few days later the Russians took that field too. News came back that word was spreading among the Germans that those who surrendered really were being treated well, not summarily executed. More than 100,000 German soldiers burrowed into the basements of Stalingrad to await the end.
January 31 General Paulus surrendered. The countersiege of Stalingrad was over.
Still no word of Heath. That had to be good news.
A few days later a military vehicle drove up to their house. Six figures got out and came to the door. Melee got up and went to see. She had been recovering for six weeks, and was doing better. She was alone at the moment; Od was out with the children.
Heath stood there. She extended her hands to him, yearning for his embrace. He enfolded her, gently. "I love you, leopard," he murmured in her ear.
"I love you, lamb," she whispered.
Then they got to business. "These five women need a place to stay," he said.
She looked past him, and saw Talena, thin but well. And Crenelle. The three others were shrouded. They would be the girls Tourette and Lita and—
"Five?" she asked.
"It may be years before German prisoners are released from internment, and we can't be sure of their treatment there," he said. "So we thought it better to bypass the process in this case. It was necessary to honor your promise."
"My promise?" she asked blankly.
The fifth figure in female clothing lifted the veil. Melee saw the somewhat embarrassed face of Wilhelm, the German officer who had protected Talena's house and brought Melee herself together with Heath and let them escape. One of those she had chosen to call sticks to be broken. Heath had seen to it that she honored her word, even to a stick.
Melee couldn't help it. She began laughing perhaps somewhat hysterically. Soon they all were laughing as they moved into the house.
Thus the German siege of Russian Stalingrad became the Russian siege of German Stalingrad, ironically. Because Hitler would not hear of retreat, 300,000 soldiers were sacrificed. It was arguably the turning point of the European theater of World War Two, for thereafter the Germans were retreating more than they were advancing. Severely weakened by its reverses on the Eastern Front, Germany thus in due course became vulnerable to the invasion by the allies across the English Channel.
Stories of personal heroism and dedication abounded, but were not always rewarded. One concerns Dr. Ottmar Kohler, who insisted that all aid stations should treat casualties within minutes of their wounding. He was certain that his method was saving lives. His patients often recovered from wounds that would have been fatal under the traditional methods. He was constantly receiving postcards from former patients, thanking him for his dedication and bravery.
Conditions at the end were truly desperate for the Germans. Dr. Kohler was rewarded early in December for his efforts with a ten-day leave in Germany to see his family. He tried to decline, but his superiors made it a direct order, and he went, promising to return. He could easily have feigned illness to avoid returning, but did not. Early in January the men of the Sixtieth Motorized enjoyed a special feast: the doctor had managed to bring thirty geese along in the Heinkel bomber that delivered him back to Stalingrad. Some of the patients in the hospital wept when they saw him come through the doors of the hospital.
Kohler was appalled by the condition of his patients. Many simply lay there and died without a struggle. No one professed to know what malady was responsible for this unusual plague. Convinced that he knew the underlying cause, he scheduled an autopsy on a thirty-year-old lieutenant to prove his case.
They laid the corpse open. There was a complete absence of subcutaneous fat. The verdict was obvious to the doctor. But the pathologist said "I cannot find any valid reason why this man is dead."
Kohler was stunned. "Shouldn't we at least offer an opinion among ourselves?" he shouted. "This man's heart has shrunken to that of a child. There's not a bit of fat on him. He starved to death."
There was only silence. During his absence, any mention of starvation as a factor contributing to death had been banned. The authorities did not want to admit that there was a supply problem. Disgusted, Kohler stormed out of the room.
On January 28, as the Soviets were retaking the city, Kohler had his hospital in the block across from the Tractor Plant. Wallowing in filth and blood, he operated in flickering lights and terrible cold. He had run out of morphine. Soldiers lined up outside the building, looking for a place to sleep. They were sent away, as there was no room in the hospital. In the morning they were still there. They had all died from hunger and exposure.
When the Germans surrendered, Dr. Kohler became a prisoner. Charges were trumped up against him, and he was imprisoned for eight years before finally being repatriated. It was another irony of war that a man so thoroughly dedicated to healing was punished for it. But he was just one tiny part of one minor unit involved in the siege of one city in one section of one theater of the greatest war of modern times. Who would notice him?
Mankind has always been violent, and though all the arts advanced with time, they have been paced by the art of destruction. The warfare between hominid species was brutal half a million years ago, and remains brutal today within our own species. Science, technology, and ingenuity have greatly increased the amount of damage a given war can accomplish in a short time. Finally, in the year A.D. 2024, it has become almost total. Fanatic cults have achieved the power and science to wreak utter havoc. Their problem has been to exterminate the unbelievers without being taken out with them. Thus World War Three started subtly, and was not quite perfect. The site is Tuva, and the language is Turkic, here rendered in approximate translation.
Tuva is a small country, about 65,000 square miles, wedged between Russia and Mongolia, with a population expanding from about 300,000 late in the twentieth century to about one million in the first quarter of the twenty-first century. It was under the domination of the Mongols from the thirteenth to the eighteenth centuries, then ruled by China until 1911. Then it came under the sway of Russia, and was part of the Soviet Union until the dissolution of that empire in 1991. Thereafter it was nominally independent, but the expanding population and influence of China dominated first Mongolia, then Tuva, and about half its population became Chinese. Its capital city was Kyzyl, on the headwaters of the Jenisej River. Because Tuva was about as far from the centers of Eurasian power as it was possible to get, it was considered an ideal site to test special new technology.
TALENA was concerned. Od had been distracted for the past two weeks, and Melee confided that the same was true with Heath. Their two families shared a suite at the foot of what was colloquially called the Smog Nog, and the men shared an office in the Tower of Power. Things were chronically crowded all over, as it was believed though never spoken that the real population of China was now two billion people, and that this population was overwhelming all the neighbor states. The crowding brought the benefit of modern technology, providing excellent jobs and a high standard of living. So they weren't complaining. They had seen much worse times before.
Their small group had been close for years—closer than most others suspected—and they didn't mind sharing quarters. That way they didn't have to try to explain to others why their reality did not quite match the official relationships. Talena's nominal marriage was to Heath, and Melee's to Od, but that had become a fiction of the records. Similarly, her seven children, and Melee's two, were on the records as being from six families, and Talena cared for the nine as a foster parent, allowing both nominal parents in each other family to work full time. No one ever hinted otherwise; everyone knew how to get along despite the system, passing under and through the governmental rules.
"We must meet at the office today," Od said tersely. "Briefly, but all the children together."
"Od, what is it?" Talena asked.
"Nothing important," he said reassuringly. But his eyes flicked to the side, as if seeking the hidden monitor they knew was there. "A little party to celebrate the success of the Power Tower, which has been in operation a full six months today." But his eyes squinted; he wanted her to know he was lying for the benefit of the monitor.
"Oh, that's nice," she said, forcing the sound of delight. "I'll bring cake to surprise the children."
"And Melee can make party hats," he agreed. "But we must limit it to an hour, lest there be waste."
"Of course," she agreed, kissing him. The authorities had to know of their exchange of marriages, but didn't object, because it wasn't a political matter. If they ever got into political trouble, the matter of wife swapping (why was it never considered husband swapping?) would be exposed to ruin their reputations and justify their expulsion from society. So it was really a lever the state had to ensure their political correctness. Most families had similar liabilities; it was part of the system. So she made no in-house secret of her love for Od, and their friends and business associates never mentioned the matter.
But it was evident that something serious was afoot, for Od was not a man to cry wolf without reason. She would make sure to be there with all the children for the "party." And there they would learn what was bothering the men. The men would have a monitor-free section of the laboratory; that was the significance of the location of the party. The fact that they would not say what it was beforehand even to the women they loved indicated just how serious it was.
When Melee returned from grocery shopping, Talena mentioned it to her in the same manner as Od had: facing seemingly coincidentally away from the monitor and flicking her eyes as she spoke. "The men have set up a little party for the children at the office, in honor of six months' successful operation of the Power Tower. We'll take cake and party hats. But it must be limited to an hour, so as not to waste resources." The office was at the Power Tower, while the laboratory was here in the Smog Nog. Once the auxiliary work on the Tower had been completed, more would be done there. It was called the office mainly by courtesy; it had no electric power yet, and was a bare series of subterranean chambers. This was an irony, because the Power Tower itself was generating much of the power for the city.
"What a delightful idea," Melee agreed. "Let me make the makings, while you round up the children."
Talena nodded. She left the apartment, climbed stairs to the ground level, walked along the exit tunnel, was pushed by the cool six-mile-an-hour wind at her back, and stepped outside the building. She was near the center of Kyzyl, not far from the river. She stood by the street, signaling a ricksha. She knew most of the ricks, as she called them, and always got good service. Sure enough, one spied her and quickly came to pick her up.
"The school," she said, giving him a coin. He knew which one. She climbed into the covered rear portion and sat comfortably.
The young man pedaled his machine out onto the street and soon got up good speed. Talena gazed out across the cityscape, taking in the vertical signs and tall buildings. Even in her lifetime she had seen the massive presence of China intensify, until Kyzyl was arguably a Chinese city. There had been increasing local concern as the quiet invasion came, but this was mitigated by the improvement in the business climate. The Chinese had come bearing wealths of many kinds.
However, much of that wealth had gone into industrialization, and though that had brought jobs and money to the common folk, it had also brought pollution. This was the backwoods; it lacked sophisticated standards. That, it belatedly turned out, was much of its appeal for investors. Dirty industry was cheap and profitable. It had taken some time for the backlash to develop, with the struggle raging between jobs and breathing, but finally a special compromise had been worked out. The industry could stay, but the pollution would be addressed.
Now there was substantial development of a nature she suspected even the major centers of the world were not seeing. Such as the Smog Nog. She craned her head to glance back at it as the ricksha turned a corner. It was a massive translucent structure, six hundred feet high and almost five hundred feet in diameter. It was round, and hollow, so that it most resembled a giant drinking glass. It was in fact a pollution cleaner.
Its theory was simple: a circle of steel radio towers, each as tall as a sixty story building, was wrapped by a huge sheet of Teflon-coated fiberglass to make a single enormous chimney. Reclaimed waste water from a reservoir was pumped to the top of the structure and sprayed into the air above the glass as a fine mist. The mist evaporated and cooled the surrounding air. The moisture dissolved many of the pollutants in the air, which then rained down the chimney to be processed by the equipment below. The spent cool air flowed outward through a ring of apertures, cooling the vicinity. It displaced the hotter, polluted air in the vicinity, which rose up to be treated in turn as it crossed the structure. The downdraft also drove fan turbines that generated power to pump the water. Thus it was a smog cleaner that generated its own power and left the surrounding city cooler. The natives had viewed its construction with misgiving, but the decade it had been in operation had entirely persuaded them, and now the land around it was choice real estate. Cooler and cleaner air: what more could be asked?
After the success of Smog Nog, the design had spread to many other cities of China, and of the world. The air of the world was getting cleaner, and long-term pockets of pollution were being reduced. But the laboratories and scientists assembled for this first project had gone on to greater challenges. Such as the Power Tower.
But now they were arriving at the school. Talena was suddenly busy collecting nine children. By the time she had them assembled outside the school, the rick had whistled in a pedal wagon for her. Two strong men pedaled that, and there was room for all ten passengers.
Talena sat with her legs dangling over the edge, holding one baby, while nine-year-old Telita held the other. The remaining children sat around the rest of the edge, jostling each other and swinging their feet.
"Children," Talena announced, "we have a surprise today. We're having a party."
The children burst into applause. But Lita glanced sidelong at her, knowing that there had to be a reason. Lita had shared some rougher times with Talena than the others had, and was savvy for her age.
"It is to celebrate six months' operation of the Power Tower," Talena explained. "Your fathers worked so hard on that, and it has worked so well, that now we will all go to visit it."
There was more applause. They liked visiting the Power Tower. Talena could appreciate why. It was about as impressive a structure as mankind had built. And it bid fair to solve the power problem of the future.
They reached the Smog Nog. Melee was there with a package. She got on the wagon, and the peddlers set out for the Tower, having overheard the discussion.
"Who wants a party hat?" Melee inquired, opening her package. Of course there was a joyful chorus. She passed out the little paper bits, and she and Talena and Lita helped get them on the younger children.
Talena thought about Melee. She had adapted well to being a mother, after years of being siren and partisan. She had loved Heath, but discovered that he could not love her unless she curbed her killer instinct. Now she had her own baby, as well as the one they had adopted, and was learning to relate. And it looked as if Heath was responding. Talena knew Heath well, very well—she had after all borne him six children—and could see that it was working out with Melee at last. She was glad of that.
The Power Tower was out of town, but could be seen from a considerable distance. As they circled around a hill, it came into view, a thin spike on the horizon. That spike quickly grew as they moved toward it and the land leveled out. Its base was in a valley, so that it was taller than it looked from afar.
The children watched. They had seen it before, but were always awed by its sheer size. For it was the tallest man-made structure ever made, three thousand feet. It was not a lot wider than the Smog Nog, but was five times as high. It was made of stone and steel, with flying buttresses, and a network of guy wires. Even so, it looked precarious, because it was like a staff standing on its end, reaching far into the sky.
They reached the base of the tower. From here it was completely awesome as they craned their necks, trying to see the top through the buttresses and wires. There was a roaring sound from the wind that blasted out of the turbines at the base and swept across the landscape in dissipating channels. The ground shook with its constant force. Talena thought of a waterfall, only with air coursing along instead. The Tower was a mighty structure, with a feeling of enormous and barely contained power. She wondered perhaps irrelevantly what it would be like to make love in the Tower.
She approached the lead driver. "Please wait," she said, giving him more money. "We must return in an hour."
He nodded. He had probably taken officials here before, and waited for them.
They gathered in a group, wearing their party hats, and trooped to the entrance in the base. Talena and Melee carried the two babies, and Lita helped the youngest toddler to walk. Od came out to meet them, carrying metallic passes. Every person had to have a pass, for this was as yet restricted territory. Once everything was complete it was expected to become a major tourist attraction, because of its sheer size and its significance as the first of the future engines of power generation. But it would be another six months before the bureaucrats were sure it was safe.
The principle of operation was much the same as for the Smog Nog: tons of water were pumped up and sprayed from the top. It evaporated, cooling the air, making a fierce thirty-five-mile-per-hour downdraft within the tower that was used to generate enough electricity to power the city of Kyzyl and all its industry. The industry was not actually using it yet, because this first test year was in large part to establish the reliability of the system, but the capacity was plainly there. Towers like this, across the world, would make all other sources unnecessary. That was the dream, so close to being realized. Safe, free power!
Each child put on a pass. There was an electronic checkpoint at the door that beeped as each person passed through. Then they were inside the somber passage. The sound was diminished here, but the walls and floor vibrated with the power.
"Do you want to see the top?" Od asked the children.
There was another cheer, augmented by dancing and waving of arms. Talena was surprised, because hitherto only engineers and specialized workmen had been allowed aloft. Someone must have pulled rather forcefully on a string to obtain permission for this.
They crowded onto the service elevator and held on to the rail around its edge. It started up, accelerating swiftly to its ten-mile-an-hour cruising speed. Even so, it was three minutes before it stopped.
The door slid open, and they stepped out onto the giant rim. It was ten feet wide, but seemed precariously thin.
Heath was there. "Hello, leopard," he said, kissing Melee. But it was perfunctory, for they had serious business.
"Line up and look out across the landscape," Od said. "Like tourists. But listen carefully. Heath will give each of you an inoculation. It may make some of you feel a bit uncomfortable in a few hours, but it is necessary."
They lined up. There wasn't much of a view, actually, because the nozzles spraying water were making mist, and the incoming breeze was cloudy. But they could see way down the side of the tower, which was awesomely high. It fascinated the children.
"What is going on?" Talena asked. She knew that there were as yet no monitors up here, which was why they had come.
"A fanatic terrorist faction has started World War Three," Od said evenly. "They have developed a new variety of influenza that will kill perhaps ninety-five per cent of those it infects within five days of the onset of symptoms. It has no treatment, because it is designed to be resistant to all established remedies. The only way to avoid it is to be immunized against its carrier disease. This is another virus, a variant of the common cold. Heath could explain this in more precise detail—"
"Ballpark detail will do," Talena said tersely.
"The cold is typical and minor," Od said. "A few days of coughing and sneezing, and it passes. No fever, no lasting discomfort. Most victims can ignore it. But it carries a piggyback virus, a secondary infection, which has no immediate effect. It seems latent. Actually it is replicating itself, building up until it reaches its critical mass, as it were, when it overwhelms the host body."
This still needed simplification. "The cold spreads the flu," Talena said. "Then the flu kills you."
"Yes. The cold virus was released at the recent Olympic event, when athletes and officials from all the countries of the world were gathered in one city. Heath has been doing research on biological warfare, lest it be used against us, and noted the frequency of colds in those who returned from the Olympics. He studied samples, and discovered a mysterious complication. He notified the local medical authorities, but they demanded more solid evidence before acting. I notified the local political authorities, but they also saw no reason to react to an obscure suspicion. Nevertheless, we knew there was something, and it fit the pattern of a distribution device for a sneak attack of biological warfare. So Heath focused entirely on his laboratory cultures, while I focused on the political situation. I have not been able to isolate the particular faction responsible, but Heath did work out the nature of the flu. He developed a vaccine to prevent the flu from replicating farther."
"Farther? You mean we already have it?"
"We believe so. We caught those colds too. It would of course have been better to stop the cold, but we were too late for that."
Melee spoke. "The cold? But that's the harmless one!"
"In the same sense a gun is harmless," Od said grimly. "It is the bullet that kills. But the best prevention against the bullet is to deactivate the gun. The flu is spread initially only by its carrier virus, so if that is blocked, there is no contagion. But as I said, we were too late, by the time we learned, as the perpetrators surely intended. So we are acting against the flu. We can't abate it directly, but we can prevent it from growing beyond its present level in our bodies. That should keep it at subcritical levels and enable us to survive."
"And you are inoculating us against the bullet," Talena said, as Heath came to her with his little nozzle. He squirted a whiff into her nose, and it was done. "But once the flu appears, it will spread itself, won't it? So we'll be breathing in more of it anyway."
"Yes. And it might mutate. So we must move into the Power Tower before then, and remain isolated until it passes, just to be sure."
"How long?" Melee asked. "Before the flu starts?"
"It appears to have a delay of about two months," Od said. "Six weeks have passed since the Olympics, so our time is limited."
A typical understatement. Two weeks before the holocaust. But at least they had caught it.
"Why didn't they just distribute the straight flu?" Melee asked. "Instead of all this complication about a carrier disease."
"Because the key to global infection is global distribution," Od said. "If the flu started killing people immediately, its source would quickly be traced, and preventive measures would be taken before it spread widely. So there needs to be enough of a delay to allow it to spread across the world, and to be uncontainable. The two month period accomplishes that. Most people hardly notice and little remember a cold that passes; we didn't. So they fall naturally into the trap. Bureaucracies don't listen well, if at all, so nothing will be done. That is why we are saving ourselves; we can't do much more."
"But our friends!" Talena protested. "They will all die!"
"If we had enough vaccine for them all, we still wouldn't be able to use it," Od said evenly. "Because the moment we tried to do it in a monitored area, the authorities would sweep in and confiscate our supply, and probably imprison us for practicing illicit medicine. The bureaucracy may be slow to respond to a national or global threat, but any hint of untoward activity on the personal level will be obliterated. We must remain silent, and act in secrecy. If you are able to bring in any friends with their families, without alarming the populace, by all means do so."
Lita spoke up. "Does it matter if they get alarmed? Maybe then they would do something."
"Honey, they would riot," Od said. "And take us out with them. If only because they knew we were going to survive while they were not."
Lita considered, and nodded.
But Melee wasn't satisfied. "I've had some experience in combat. There will be riots anyway, when the nature of the flu becomes evident."
"Yes," Od agreed. "That's another reason we must get isolated."
"I mean international. Each country is going to blame its neighbors for the plague. They will go nuclear to eradicate what they think is the source."
"That too," Od said. "We hope that the depths of the foundation structure of the Power Tower will shield us from a nuclear blast, if it is not too close. The Tower itself is probably doomed, but its roots run extremely deep."
"You have thought this out," Melee said.
"Yes. We believe you should move the children in today; we have arranged for some supplies to be stored already. If you can get friends to come here quietly, we will accept them. But whatever is done, should be done within a week, to allow a margin of error. If we miscalculate the wrong way, we will get taken out with the others."
"Crenelle," Talena said. "Her family."
"Of course."
"Now we must descend," Heath said. "Before our hour is done. I suggest that you leave the children here; we will conduct them to the deep hidden bunker we have prepared. Wrap up your business and shut down the suite. We must be quietly gone."
"We can't leave the children here," Melee said. "The home monitors will note their absence, and know that we are up to something. We will be routed out before the mischief starts, and then we will be part of it."
The men exchanged a glance of chagrin. "She's right," Od said. "We overlooked the obvious. We must not do anything out of the ordinary, until the plague actually strikes."
Heath reluctantly nodded. "Then we must play it uncomfortably close. The Tower will be ready; we must be ready to move to it rapidly, on that day. But we can't discuss it or make any obvious preparations, at home."
"We know what we must do," Talena said grimly. "We will get it done."
"I can help you," Lita said. "Let me talk to Tourette. And Great-grandma Bata. No one will notice me."
Talena nodded. "That will be best." She acted as if this were routine, but her head was spinning with the amazing revelation. Biological warfare—and they were already victims. Except for the intercession of their savvy men.
They stepped back onto the elevator and started the brisk descent. Talena cautioned the children to silence about this. They had seen enough of war to understand.
The details were quietly accomplished. The key others were notified in hasty whispers at odd moments. But nothing overt was done. The children went to their day groups as usual, and the men worked in their office, and Talena and Melee did their work and home organization as they always had. But at night when Talena made love to Od, it was not endearments they whispered in each other's ears, but the details of their plan of action. There turned out to be a lot they needed to do, in very limited time.
They did it. As they organized for supper in the evening, Talena staged a dialogue with Melee for the benefit of the monitors: "Melee, remember last year when Lita and I were trapped with Crenelle and Tourette? We never really thanked them for their help. Let's invite them for a visit next week."
Melee considered. "That seems nice. But then what about William? If we want to have a reunion with those to whom we owe favors—"
Talena put on a look of surprise. "Why, you're right! But he's in Europe. He wouldn't want to leave his family."
"So invite the family too. I'd like to meet his wife and children."
Talena nodded. "He said Lita and Tourette would like his daughter Faience. But where would they stay? Local paid accommodations are too expensive."
"They can bunk on the floor of the office in the Power Tower, at night. We can move in some bedding for the occasion. It won't be plush, but I think they can stand it for a few days."
"Let's do it!" Talena agreed with girlish enthusiasm. "You call the men and warn them, and I'll call William now, before I realize how complicated this could be and change my fickle mind."
"I'll warn Crenelle too."
So Melee got on one line, and Talena on the other, placing the international call. She was in luck: six P.M. Tuva time was noon West Europe time, and his lunch hour. "Wilhelm!" she exclaimed in his language, using the current form of his name. "Do you remember when we exchanged favors last year, sharing a bedroom? Crenelle and I thought we'd like to do it again, for old times' sake. Melee wants to, also."
He was taken aback, understandably, but he was a very far cry from dull. He realized that she was speaking for the ubiquitous monitor as well as for him. She was implying intimacies they had not practiced, which meant she had something else on her mind. "I would like that, if the situation is similar. But I would not care to leave my family again."
"Then bring your family! We'd love to meet your wife, and children. So Lita and Tourette can meet Faience. Can you get time off from your work?"
"Perhaps next month. There are complications."
"Make it next week. In fact, make it this week, if you can. Our schedule is very tight, and next week may be too late. It means everything to us."
"If it is that important—"
"Believe me, William, it is. We want so much to see you, we just can't wait. Please say you will be here in the next few days."
"For a favor like that, we will do it," he agreed. "We shall make immediate arrangements."
"You're a lifesaver," she said brightly, again using a term that had a hidden literal meaning. "We will meet you at the rocket port."
She disconnected. "They'll come," she told Melee unnecessarily. "We must show them to Power Tower first thing."
Melee nodded. "They will be impressed." Especially with the news the men would give them along with immediate shots against the plague. Even one day before its outbreak would block it enough to save their lives.
Talena had cruelly mixed feelings. Suppose it didn't happen? That this was a false alarm, and they were disrupting their families for nothing, in the manner of end-of-the-world societies? Then they would look very foolish. Yet wouldn't that be better than what they believed would happen?
There were of course bureaucratic delays about scheduling, and it was six days before William and his family arrived. The time was very close, so Heath had to bring the immunizations to the house, concealed as a wad of handkerchief. Talena took them, and when she met them at the port, she embraced William, kissed him, and pressed the wad into his hand. "All of you," she whispered urgently into his ear. "Use these immediately."
"We are somewhat worn from the trip," he said. "Where is the public sanitary facility?"
She guided him to it, and the five of them entered. They would take the shots. Because the plague had not yet broken out, they were in time.
Soon they were riding a wagon to the apartment. William introduced his family: his wife Fae, fourteen-year-old daughter Faience, and eighteen-year-old son Bille, whose fifteen-year-old girlfriend Minne had also come along.
There were frantic greetings at the apartment, because Lita had brought Crenelle and her husband and Tourette there to meet the visitors. But Lita also whispered grave news to Talena. "Mom, it's started."
It had started. Talena forced a smile. "We must show our visitors the Power Tower, where they can camp during their visit," she said. "Lita, get the pedal wagon we reserved."
But the girl shook her head. "The driver's sick."
"Then we must rent rickshas."
Lita and Tourette took Bille, Faience, and Minne out to round up rickshas. Talena faced the adults, her back to the monitor. "I know you can't wait to get settled. We won't waste any time." She made a small motion as of slicing across her throat, to indicate the seriousness of the situation.
They followed her out, carrying their small bags. And saw Bille hauling along a ricksha. "The rick is sick," Lita called to them. "We had to borrow it."
In a moment Tourette appeared with another. "We must maintain appearances as long as possible," Talena murmured to William. "So they don't realize where we're going. Within a couple of days, everyone will be terribly sick."
So William took his place in front and hauled the ricksha containing his wife and daughter and Minne, while Bille hauled the one holding the younger children. Talena, Crenelle, and Tourette walked beside, all of them secretly armed. Lita ran ahead, showing the way. Melee, who was in fine physical condition, followed, guarding the rear. They moved out into the city.
Chaos was commencing. The first sign of the plague was sudden fever and weakness—so sudden and severe that people were collapsing in the street. Others, realizing that something awful was developing, were desperate to get home. A man approached William's ricksha. "I'll take that," he said. "Unload your passengers."
William hesitated. Melee jogged up from behind. The man didn't notice. "Now!" he said, showing a knife.
Melee raised a small club that seemed to appear in her hand. She caught the man on the side of the head. He fell. William resumed motion.
After that, Crenelle and Tourette took up positions on either side of that rickshaw, and Melee and Talena went to the other one. There was no longer any doubt about the desperate nature of their situation. They had to get to the Tower as fast as possible, even if they had to kill to do it. "All sick people will die anyway," Talena said to William.
He nodded. Then he stumbled. He caught himself, but stopped walking. "I fear I received that medication too late," he murmured.
Oh, no! But she put the best face on it. "It should be effective, just not as much so, late. You may be sick, but will not die. Get on the other ricksha; the children can walk. They are just on it for appearance."
He nodded. He let go of the handles, removed the harness, and walked slowly to the ricksha. The children piled off, except for the smallest. Talena took the handles, but Melee came across. "I can do it better," she said, and she was surely right, because she ran miles each week for exercise.
They resumed motion. Another man tried to intervene, but Crenelle cut toward him with such an aspect of business that he fell back.
Then Bille faltered. They packed him onto the rickshaw in place of his mother, who walked, and Crenelle took up the job of hauling. They did not move at the speed the regular ricks did, but they were making suitable progress.
As Melee tired, Talena took her place. They were wearing themselves out, trying to go too fast for their abilities, yet their urgency was overpowering. Soon Crenelle tired, and Tourette took her place. They kept shifting off as required, rather than pausing to rest.
In due course they came into sight of the Power Tower—and were dismayed. There was a crowd of people around it. What was the meaning of this? Talena did not trust it.
"I'll find out!" Lita cried, and dashed ahead before Talena could stop her.
"I think we had better gird for defense," Crenelle said. Her daughter nodded, and so did Melee.
"There's a secret entrance," Talena said. "A construction tunnel the men salvaged as an emergency exit, just in case. It opens on a storage shack."
"Go there," Crenelle agreed tersely. "I don't think that crowd will let us through to the Tower."
Indeed, Lita was now running fleetly back, and several men were pursuing her. Talena felt a terrible thrill of apprehension. Her child was in danger!
"You get the others there," Crenelle said. "Let us handle this. We may not have much time."
Talena knew that this was best. She hauled on one ricksha, and two of the children pushed, moving William toward the key building. Melee did the same with the other rickshaw, bringing Bille, while Minne pushed.
Lita made it back. "They—they say the Tower," she gasped, and gulped for air. "The Power Tower brought the plague." She took another breath. "Mom—you and Melee—they recognize you."
That meant that the crazed people would try to take it out on them, as supposed agents of the horror. "Stay with me!" Talena cried. "We have a way in."
The first of the pursuing men arrived. Crenelle intercepted him. There was a plastic pistol in her hand. "Halt!" she cried.
But the man charged on in, ignoring her. His eyes were fixed on Lita.
Suddenly he stumbled and fell. Talena saw a wisp of vapor rising from Crenelle's pistol. It was a pressure gun, silent but deadly. The man had been shot to death.
"Everyone in that crowd will die anyway," Melee called. "It doesn't make any difference.
Talena remembered that it was so. Trying to spare crazed men who wanted to kill them was pointless.
Two more men came. Crenelle pointed the pistol warningly, but the men didn't stop. Crenelle didn't fire, and Talena realized why: the gun needed a couple of minutes between shots to recharge its pressure. But then the leading man fell. Tourette had shot him. As the second one charged Crenelle, she dodged aside, and clubbed him on the head as he passed, bringing him down.
But now Talena had to focus on her own business. They were at the storage shed, but the rickshas couldn't get inside. "Door inside, in back," she said, as she went to William and tried to help him get out of the ricksha. She caught his arm. It was burning with fever. "Lean on me! You must walk."
He tried, but could barely support his own weight. Then Lita came to help prop him on the other side, and they made an awkward trek into the shed. "Here," Talena said, spying the door, which looked like an ordinary exit. "Push on the center panel, and lift it up."
The children found the panel, pushed, and it depressed slightly. Then they slid it up into the door, and behind it was revealed a lever. They pushed that up, and the door catch released. The door swung toward them, opening onto a ramp going down into darkness.
There was noise behind them. Had the crowd followed? Then there came Melee's voice. "Go down. It's dark but clear, until the next door." She was telling Bille and Minne.
They careened down the ramp, the mass of the weak men propelling them. The children ran ahead, finding the second door, and opening it the same way. But William's increasingly awkward weight was bearing Talena down; she couldn't handle this much longer.
"This is just like old times," Melee gasped. Talena realized that she was thinking of her tour of the sewers the year before.
A light showed in the tunnel ahead. "Talena!" It was Od. He had come from the other direction. But he didn't take the burden of William. "Hold on; I must make sure all of ours are in."
Talena and Lita staggered on, while Od squeezed by and went to Melee's group. She heard him calling. "Crenelle! Tourette! Get in here now!"
"But more are coming!" Crenelle's voice came back. "We must hold them off while you escape."
"No! Just get on in. We mined the tunnel."
That made the point. Talena heard a woman scream, but it wasn't one of theirs. Then Crenelle and Tourette were in the tunnel, backing along it, watching for pursuit.
"All in?" Od asked.
"I think so," Crenelle answered. "We are the rear guard."
"Turn forward and brace," he said. "Cover your ears if you can."
Talena couldn't support William any more. They sank to the floor of the tunnel. "Hands over ears!" she hissed at him and Lita, and covered her own.
There was an impact of air, and a shuddering of ground. Dust swirled. Od had set off the mine, collapsing the tunnel near the shack. There would be nothing but rubble there.
After that it was easier. Od fetched a stretcher on rollers, and they hauled William along the length of the tunnel, and then Bille. Talena herself was hardly aware of the details, being too tired, and somewhat dazed by the explosion. But she knew they were getting it done.
In due course they were in the extensive subterranean network associated with the Power Tower; like a tree, it had as much of its structure below ground level as above, to ensure anchorage. Much of the labyrinth was unused and sealed off; it was in these depths that the men had hidden their retreat.
Other friends had made it in at different times by other routes. As Talena recovered full awareness, she took stock of their full complement. She wasn't sure how some had arrived, but was glad they had done so.
Crenelle and her husband were there, and Tourette and her boyfriend Bry, with his family. Bry's sister Lin was a very pretty girl, but she had six fingers on her left hand. William's family were there of course, with Minne; the girl had come down with the fever, but it was not as bad. And others, including specially ancient Bata, to whom they all owed so much. Like the Christians' Noah and his Ark, they had become a fair assemblage of bright and nice people, of several generations.
Then they waited. They had rigged a monitor system that tapped secretly into the State's Monitor network, so as to have comprehensive access to the world outside. Through it they could obtain news, entertainment, and critical data.
There wasn't much entertainment. All over Tuva and the world, people were stricken severely sick. What was evidently a terrible fever brought them low. The hospitals were crowded, but the nurses and doctors came down with it at the same time. Business, transportation, farming, and government crunched to a halt. Most made it home before the illness got too bad; some were caught on the way, as the rickshas stopped, and the motor vehicle drivers fell too ill to continue. So what they had seen during their rush to the Tower had been but a slice of the macrocosm, as they had thought. They had been right to fight their way there immediately.
Announcements were made: first, not to be alarmed. Then not to go out on the street. Then not to doubt that the perpetrators would be discovered and punished.
William and Bille began to improve. Their fever was declining. This was the proof of the vaccine: it had been effective, even only an hour before the outbreak. The virus had crested, and was not replicating further. But it would be some time before the men and Minne recovered.
The monitor system began to close down. It was largely automatic, but people had to operate the switches, and they were no longer doing so. Power had to be routed through the region, to operate all of the systems. It stopped. The screen went blank.
Their own power remained, because it was tapped from the Power Tower itself. But without anyone overseeing it, soon it too shut down. Now they went to batteries. And to candles, which they had stocked substantially. The children enjoyed wandering around, each with a lit candle.
"Now comes the hard part," Od said. "We must wait without information at least a month, to be sure it is safe to emerge."
But in only one day they felt the terrible distant shaking of it, followed by much closer and worse: a nuclear blast had rocked the ground so hard that the Power Tower itself came down. Guy wires and flying buttresses could not hold it up when the ground itself rocked with such energy, and when an outflow of hurricane-force wind caught it.
After that, all was quiet. The war was over, in this section, and perhaps in the rest of the world. The angry victim nations had targeted anything suspicious, trying to be sure to get whoever had set loose the plague. The moment the first loosed a missile, others had too.
"Well, I hope they got the true perpetrators," Melee said.
"It seems likely," Od said. "Some nation's intelligence service should have had a notion, and they would have bombed all likely suspects. If any area of the world failed to come down with the plague, that region would be a target. Our region was a target because of its forward-looking technology. Fortunately for us they didn't attack the Power Tower directly."
"But we'll likely have some digging out to do," Heath said. "A number of passages near the surface will have collapsed."
"Which may save us from immediate nuclear fallout," Melee said.
"Our instruments show that the blast was close, but not critically close," Crenelle said. "If the normal weather pattern holds, the fallout will be away from us. This region may retain most of its vegetation."
That would be a blessing, because it would mean they could live on the surface, and begin to forage for fresh food. They could start farming, ensuring that they would not run out of food in the long term.
Talena knew that they would have to spend the month with candles and canned air, and would approach the surface with radiation counters. She knew that when they emerged there would be desolation. But there was substantial hope.
A few survived the plague by design. More survived by accident, in isolated villages to which the carrier cold had not spread. A number on missions on Antarctica and northern Greenland escaped. There were also those five per cent who endured the influenza and lived. Many of those were taken out by the nuclear fallout. Others died fighting for the diminishing spoils of a world no longer producing food. So the net survival was on the order of two per cent. Still, that was enough. Humanity had made it through its self-induced population crash.
Would it do better in the future? Only time would tell. But at least it had the chance.
FOR a quarter century I dreamed of the project that was to become this Geodyssey series. The first three novels essentially completed its essence: the history of our human species from dawn-man through the present. But the subject is so large that no one, or ten, or a thousand writers could ever complete it. It is my hope to continue exploring the bases and nuances of history as long as I live. How long that will be is uncertain; I am now in my sixties and my wife and I are considering whether to move to a retirement community. But I have hardly given up on living. Just before I started this novel, I bought a compound bow, and during the novel I learned to hit the target (never anything living) with increasing accuracy. I really hate losing or breaking five-dollar arrows! Just as I finished it, I bought a recumbent bicycle, and started learning how to pedal and move while lying almost on my back. Both of these relate to my continuing program of exercise, which together with a careful diet keep me about as healthy as I am able to be: good, but far from perfect. I also exercise my mind, which is why I learn new things, physically as well as mentally. This series illustrates much of the mental part.
At this writing, the next volume is just beginning to form in my mind: departing from prior conventions of the series, as this present volume does in some respects, it will follow several tribes or peoples through history, until they interact in the present. Such as the Alans, or the Basques, or the Maya. My researcher, whose work was invaluable for this and the prior volumes, should like the research on the Alans, for his name is Alan Riggs. But I was aware of the Alans long before I knew Alan. It should also address the problem of water. We need fresh water, and we are running out of it. It should also touch on other intriguing aspects of history, as I try to make them come alive for today's audience. History, as must be apparent, is totally fascinating for me, once it is gotten out of the schoolroom. Schools are the places that can make even sex boring, and certainly they do that for history, as students have to memorize the names and dates of lists of kings, as if that's reality. Well, when you start seeing novels like this one in the classroom along with the dry texts, you'll know that the schools are finally getting serious about teaching real history.
Every novel I do is its own adventure, and this one was typical in its atypicality. What seems to be straightforward in the planning stage can be diverted in many ways, as the Coriolis force of research and assimilation and greater understanding deflects my innocent notions into unexpected channels. Chapter by chapter, this one took its own course. I was going to start it at Chapter 3, the point at which the human species suffered reduction to a single region or tribe, accounting for the spread of the mitochondrial genes of "Eve," the common female ancestor. But I remembered that I had also wanted to stress the importance of the use of fire to our species, and that was well before that time. But it turned out that Homo erectus used fire too, so it was not a distinguishing trait. So then why and how did modern man diverge from his highly successful ancestral species? I pondered, and came up with a different answer. Thus the setting of the Great Rift mountains, and their special effect on that offshoot of Erectus that was driven there.
But I had always wanted to explore the reason for the development of extreme longevity in the human species, so had to add in another chapter. Thus my starting chapter was bumped to number three. I also wanted to address the start of farming. However there was also the story line to consider; I couldn't have just a series of essays. I had had this independent idea, really a daydream notion, of a young man coming to a fork in the path, and seeing down one side a pretty girl, and down the other an old hag, and taking the second one. What did this have to do with farming? Well, I struggled, and did manage to merge them, but the result was not quite what my prior fancy and foreseen. I had also wondered what would happen if a young, beautiful, strong-willed woman set out to seduce a man she knew was not allowed to touch her. So that, too, got merged, and changed in the process.
So it went, each historical notion merging imperfectly with each story notion, making a different novel than expected. I was also trying to unify it by addressing a number of the arts, because in my view it is the arts that truly define mankind and set it apart from all other species on Earth. But I had already done dancing, and painting, and music, and weaving, and other arts, so I looked for less obvious ones. These, too, meshed with my settings and stories in rather the way oil meshes with water; it was a continuing struggle.
Except when it came to Drama. For that I had the perfect example. One of my readers had sent me the Egyptian story of Osiris. Then when it came time to use it, I couldn't find the material she had sent, or her name. Evidently I had lost a folder, and I suspect it will reappear only after this novel is published. So the art that worked best nevertheless gave me the frustration of being unable to credit the one who put me on to it. Oh, I got the Osiris story itself; my researcher researched it in full in the library. Just not the credit. Gives an imperfect row of frowny faces.
I wanted to explore the Olmec society, as that was the source of central American civilization. I thought there would be a good mass of political and economic detail through which I could thread my notion of a princess determined to subvert her guardian. No such luck; little turned out to be known of the Olmecs. Even the huge head statues that had intrigued me didn't work out; I couldn't find the article where I had read about them—all my other archaeological magazines were there except that one, so I must have put it elsewhere for safekeeping—and in any event, what kind of story could be told about the slow carving of a stone head? It would be like watching pigment parch. So I had little historical basis for my story. So what happened? It became a 45,000-word intense extended seduction that will probably be denatured by the editor.
Then there were the Celts, or Kelts. I wanted to explore this early European culture. But little of its actual history turned out to be known. The most definitive was in its interaction with the Romans. Thus this became a Roman story. Oh, I liked it; it just wasn't what I had been looking for. And Attila the Hun, a figure long maligned by irresponsible historians. But again, he was known mainly through his interaction with Rome. Another Roman story. Still, it's a historical interaction that deserves clarification, and I hope that my presentation helps my readers to better understand the real story, rather than the false one so widely propagated.
I felt it was time to explore the ancient civilization of Cambodia. But again, there turned out to be little actual historical information. One aspect was interesting, however: the settlement of disputes by confinement in towers. Those towers may have been rebuilt several times, and later the litigants were confined to covered platforms on the upper sections, but for my purpose small hollow towers worked best. I assume that the towers started simple, then got fancier as the process of celestial justice was refined. And the problem of longitude: perhaps one of the subtlest contributors to empire. Oh, I had my notions, and I wedged them in, but it was a constant challenge to make this collection into a unified novel.
I read that Napoleon encountered a Vietnam-like situation in southern Italy, presaging guerrilla warfare. Good enough; I sent my researcher into that recess of history. And he discovered that the case had been misrepresented. He does that; last novel, he found that the Great Wall of China didn't exist as a continuous whole, ruining my original notion. Before that, he found that a volcano I had depended on for excitement was inactive. Still, the backwaters of history are grist for my mill too; it is my contention that history is vastly larger and deeper than those lists of kings or the dates of significant events. Even if Napoleon didn't accomplish much in southern Italy, it was devastating for the local inhabitants. And so, in this desolate hinterland, three of my major characters died. That's the way it is, in real life. Great numbers of people expire not in glory, but in pointless incidental strife.
Then Stalingrad. That one proved out. Americans tend to think that World War Two consisted of two fronts: US vs. Japan in the Pacific, and US and some chance allies vs. Germany in Europe. It was more complicated than that, and much of the most brutal action didn't concern America at all. North America has never seen a campaign like that of the siege of Stalingrad, with its abundant ironies. Now you know.
I avoided World War Three in the prior novels of this series. I decided it was time to bring it onstage. But even that wasn't straightforward. What would quickly wipe out most of the human population of the world? My researcher and I discussed it, getting frequently balked. Nuclear detonations didn't seem sufficient, partly because whoever started it would surely want to survive the action. Selectively destroying the world, even in theory, turned out to be no easy task. So biological warfare seemed more promising. That could be selective, because of targeted inoculation, sparing the self-appointed Chosen while eradicating the vermin that are the rest of us. But how to spread it throughout the world before others caught on, researched to ascertain the true culprit, and struck back? That was tricky. We hashed it over, and concluded that a two-stage disease was best, one mild, the other deadly. How could my main characters survive it? Well, a doctor doing research in biological agents could catch on in time. So that's the way it was, but it wasn't very dramatic, because anyone out among the dying people is apt soon to be dead himself; they had to be protectively isolated. Not much excitement there. Thus it ended somewhat on a whimper rather than a bang. Realism makes for bad plotting. So I had to rework it to make the conclusion more chancy. After all, I'm writing a novel here, rather than actually destroying the world. The two endeavors have different objectives, whatever critics may say.
So writing this novel was like kayaking through the Grand Canyon, and I did get dumped often enough. But the essence remains: human global history is endlessly fascinating, and we could do much worse than study it. Not just for the lessons it has for the future, but for the insights into the nature of our species. I hope my readers found it worthwhile regardless.
There are a couple of credits. I notice unusual first names, having one myself, and it seems to be the ladies who have the greatest variety. When I think of something that would make a good name, I make a note, and this was the case with Avalanche and Melee. But sometimes I borrow from the names of my readers. One was Talena Klypak, who I think would have preferred to be named in Xanth, but GEODYSSEY was where I happened to need a name at the time. She was the same age as my character in Chapter 3, though both are older now. Talena the character had seven daughters, and perhaps more beyond this novel; she started young, and was very fertile, and her children were all healthy. Why? Because she is my characterization of the paleontological Eve, the mother of all present human beings. The evidence of her existence is present in the mitochondrial chromosomes of all of us, which are transmitted only by the woman. Similar evidence in the Y chromosome, transmitted by men, confirms the common ancestry we have. With each pairing, the mitochondria of only the woman are present in the child, and eventually those of one female ancestor spread throughout the species. Other traits of other people would have been passed along, so they were by no means extinct; it was just that this particular aspect stemmed from this one woman. It seemed to me more likely to have happened if she bore many daughters, because in this respect sons were wasted effort. I couldn't have the Talena of 250,000 years ago be that fertile, and not have the Talena of later years be less so, so she was always a prolific mother. What the Talena who contributed the name thinks of this I'm not sure. I dread receiving an un-fan letter fifteen years hence: "I was going to be the first female president, but thanks to you I had seven daughters instead."
Another reader name is Jilana, the eldest freewoman, from Jilana Conaway. She did not become a major character. It's a crapshoot, and most names go to incidental characters.
Normally in these novels, characters from prior volumes show up in the supporting cast. This has been the case here, too; those who watch closely will find several. But in one case some explanation is needed. Tourette was introduced in Hope of Earth, where her mother was not named. But there Tourette was named by Faience, as a private convention. Rather than have confusion, I had her keep the name here, though it is anachronistic, as this novel's first scene with her is earlier in time. However, each novel represents a different take on the larger history of the species, and one novel is not firmly bound by the portrayal in another. Details may differ, as they do between chapters in individual novels. All my characters are Everyman, Everywoman, and Everychild, appearing throughout time and geography in similar guises; that's part of the art of the series. So Tourette can be called that here. She will be called the same in the next novel, from the beginning, despite anachronism, where she and her family will be major characters.
I set up my characters to represent certain distinctive human traits, planning to illustrate these through the novel. But this too went wrong. Od represented Curiosity, and in time he was to become a scientist. But in prehistory science as such didn't exist, so he had to fill other roles. The later settings did not offer jobs for a scientist either. What do you do when you have a degree in science, and there are no positions open? You take what you can get. So my ambition for Od was frustrated, and he had to fill in whatever slots were available. The closest he came to science was in Chapter 10, when he explained the problem of Longitude to King George. In Stalingrad he had to be a political officer. Even in the final chapter, Heath pre-empted the laboratory science, so Od was still a political officer. Heath did get to be a doctor, in time. Talena was to be the creative story teller, and she did tell a couple of stories, but then the requirements of motherhood confined her mostly to the home. Avalanche was to illustrate the art of sex, and be a temple prostitute. But in my Egyptian setting they did not have temple prostitutes. She became more of a hostess, and later more of a call girl. Pul was to be a chronic bully, and he fit in well in the military life. Melee was to cover the domestic and culinary arts. But she was too wild and beautiful, and Talena had the children, therefore the home-making. So Melee finally got to indulge her appetite for violence, in Stalingrad. And Dillon was to be the arts of hunting and fighting—but Pul had taken the military life. So it all got garbled, just as things do in real life. Characters as Archetypes just didn't work out, but I couldn't scrap them once they had come alive. Then, after I had hammered it all out, my researcher read the novel and made notes, pointing out fallacies of history or logic, and I had to rework scenes. For instance, I had the families bringing food to the litigants in the Chapter 9 Tower Justice sequence; he pointed out that decisions were apt to come much more rapidly if food were denied, and that did make sense, and was probably the way they did it. So I had to rework that aspect. Thus I learned what not to do in the next novel, by struggling through unworkable notions in this one. Writing is a continuing education.
There are some deviations from the pattern set by the first three novels. Each of those was crafted for twenty chapters, with major settings at the quarter, half, and three quarter marks. This one is thirteen chapters, because I went for fewer and larger ones, and the major settings fell where they would. The next novel may have more; I'm freeing myself of the fixed framework. This makes for a less patterned effort, perhaps less artistic in form, but I hope still effective as a novel. In the prior novels, there were forenotes and endnotes for each chapter; in Chapter 8 of this one there were also some midnotes, to clarify the historical perspective. I thought about doing it in Chapter 12, but managed to avoid it. Of course Chapter 12, about the Siege of Stalingrad, was like a short novel in itself, 50,000 words long, with eight subsections as each character had two turns being the viewpoint person. The last one, Melee, was 15,000 words in itself, longer than many whole chapters elsewhere in the novel. But that wasn't the only difference. In the prior novels my characters have interacted with historical figures, as they do here, as Od does with Nikita Khrushchev (yes, the later Soviet premier was there, historically, as represented, except that he never had the pleasure of a peek into Melee's blouse) and Heath with Dr. Kohler, but never pre-empted them. This time Melee at one point takes over the role of a historical figure. She was Tania Chernova, age twenty. She was the one who caught the raft to Stalingrad, and traversed the sewer, and stank in the German mess hall. She was the one who broke eighty "sticks" before getting almost killed by a mine. She helped bomb the German HQ and shot the Germans in the street, drawing the return fire from the artillery that killed her companions. But the superimposition was not complete, for in real life Heath did not exist. Thus Tania did become super-sniper Zaitsev's lover. I wanted to show the Siege as it was, and Tania's adventures adapted readily. Od, too, pre-empted one person for one sequence: Lieutenant Khoyzyanov of the marines, at the grain elevator. But the real man did not escape after being captured. I pondered hard before allowing these character takeovers, not wanting to toy unfairly with history. But it seemed the best way to handle this particular situation. I felt that my readers would relate better if they knew the characters, and in any event, there was no other woman in the sewer with Tania, so Melee could not have been there as a separate character. But I do feel that the historical figures should be credited. They were the ones who were in that hell of war.
One of the differences between ambitious writing and unambitious writing is the artistry that exists apart from the story itself. The kind of thing that teachers of literature notice. This novel is not special in that regard, but there are spot aspects. The two longest chapters, 6 and 12, concern sieges: one of the emotion of a man, the other of a city. In each case, by the time the siege is won, it is reversed, and the besieger is besieged. Thus Melee wins Dillon, but he also wins her, while the Germans do take Stalingrad, but then are trapped within it. There is also a minor parallel between chapters 9 and 13, wherein understanding or salvation is found within towers. The last three chapters focus on the destruction of war, of increasing significance, as mankind plunges carelessly ahead and finally comes close to destroying himself. But I have to say that I didn't plan on these; they just happened. The things I planned on did not work out well, as already mentioned. Of course I don't place much stock in such things. GEODYSSEY is the most ambitious series of my career, as I try to learn about our species, and to fathom its interesting recesses, its delights and its follies.
So how did this come to be the second longest novel I've written? (Tarot was my longest, but it was broken into three volumes for initial publication.) Again, it just happened. I thought it was going to be 50,000 words shorter. Well, maybe next time.
But the overall series message remains: if we as a species don't change course, soon and significantly, we are going to pay an awesomely awful price. I show such prices in these novels, hoping that they will never actually come to pass.
Copyright © 1999 by Piers Anthony Jacob
Cover art by Tristan Elwell
Maps by Ellisa H. Mitchell
ISBN 0-312-86896-0