A Solitary Man

Helen Chavez

This story is unfortunately unfinished. I'm not sure it ever will be finished, but it's really worth reading anyway. ~Lynn

 Author’s note: This story is based upon the characters portrayed in Jean-Jacques Annaud’s film ‘Enemy at the Gates’, in its turn based on the book of the same name by William Craig. Vassili Zaitsev, Danilov and, of course, Nikolai Koulikov all existed. The so-called ‘duel’ Zaitsev and Koulikov had with the great German sniper Koenig is reputed to have occurred in October 1942, but it remains more legend than fact.

In the film Koulikov is shot dead by Koenig, but in reality he survived the battle for Stalingrad, unlike the enigmatic Koenig. I have so far failed to unearth anything else about this mysterious and clever Russian sniper who helped defend his country in a battle that left tens of thousands dead and the great city of Stalingrad a battle-scarred ruin. So I have combined a small amount of fact and a huge dollop of fiction in the writing of this little tale, and any resemblance to anyone – living or dead – is purely coincidental.

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Chapter One

Stalingrad, 22nd October, 1942

He had come to Stalingrad in the burgeoning night.

Stepping on board the small launch from Zaitsevski Island, he had sat alone, apart from a young, fresh-faced soldier with a rifle and a cut forehead, as the launch made its way across the Volga under cover of darkness.

He was heading for Red Army Headquarters, where he would meet up with a young man who had taken the country by storm with stories of hunting Germans in the ruins of this great and ancient city now under attack from Hitler’s mighty Sixth Army.

The tall soldier had come to meet Vassili Zaitsev, the shepherd’s boy from the Urals whose unerring aim and wraith-like haunting of the dark places spelled death to any unwary German unlucky enough to become a target in the cross-hairs of his PU scope.

For the Germans had decided Ziatsev had done enough damage, and had sent their own deadly hunter into the fray – Major Koenig, legendary sniper, had been called from Berlin to hunt down Vassili Zaitsev and kill him.

The man sighed. He looked out of the small window opposite, where he saw the skyline of Mamaev hill silhouetted against the night sky. Somewhere between the entrenched German divisions on the hill and the Red October Plant in the industrial section, he knew Koenig would be waiting. There, deep in no-man’s land, he would be ready to snuff out Zaitsev’s life like a candle.

The big soldier understood Koenig, understood his methods and the way he thought. He knew all this because his name was Nikolai Koulikov, and he too was a sniper … a killer from the shadows. He knew, because Major Koenig of the German army had trained him to kill; he was the only man in the Soviet Army who had any chance of keeping Zaitsev alive by imparting that knowledge, and he would do it by watching Zaitsev’s back … or die trying.

Koulikov watched the young soldier opposite, noticing the lad take out a cigarette butt and study it, then thoughtfully light it. Just a kid, he thought. But the youngster had a rifle beside him, and not just any rifle. It was a weapon Koulikov knew very well, because he had one just like it. His was battered and well-worn, and the young soldier’s was a little newer. But he knew then, the lad was more than he appeared to be. The rifle was a Moisin-Nagant 1891/30, and it had a sniper’s PU scope, ideal for the close work of killing Germans in a ruined city. The boy must be a good shot to get one of the few rifles of the hundreds of thousands on the production line found to be of such good quality as to be worthy of a sniper in Stalin’s army, he pondered.

Koulikov’s rugged face showed no surprise. A war such as this one made seasoned soldiers from young innocents very quickly … or else they died. He thought about speaking to the boy, but dismissed the thought in a moment. A man didn’t make friends or start relationships in a war, let alone one as bloody and desperate as this, so he held his tongue.

He returned to his study of the darkened city through the window as he felt the launch slow and finally stop, voices calling softly as the launch was moored. Watching the young soldier rise and exit the launch, he let his feet drop to the floor from their resting-place on the table, and he stood, stretching to ease the kinks from his long body. Then he lifted his rifle, slung it carefully by its strap over his shoulder, and ambled out into the cool night.

Then he got his second surprise of the evening. Talking to the young soldier on the wharf-side was a figure he recognised, a young Political Officer called Danilov. He thought for a moment. Danilov was the man who had ordered him to Stalingrad to protect Zaitsev, and so it was reasonable to hazard a guess that the young soldier was Zaitsev himself.

Koulikov grinned as Danilov turned and acknowledged him, then he watched as the two young soldiers headed off up the hill through the ruins towards army headquarters. The big sniper followed on behind at a discreet distance, through the camouflaged camp full of chatter and soft laughs and the smell of soup. He turned once, acknowledging the bawdy call of a woman attracted by the easy movement of his broad, long-limbed frame under the heavy greatcoat, his forage cap set at a jaunty angle on the short-cropped greying curls. Koulikov gave her a half-smile that softened his long features and deep-set eyes, but then he returned to grimmer matters as he followed Danilov and Zaitsev into the bullet-and-shell pummelled building that housed the Red Army Headquarters in this battered city of Stalingrad.

**************

An hour later he decided he liked young Zaitsev. The boy had a quiet, self-effacing way about him, and Koulikov appreciated that. They would work well together. He took a back seat when Zaitsev was introduced to Nikita Khrushchev, the bulldog of a man flaunting the lad to the assembled Party press like a pimp parading one of his whores in front a client. Koulikov watched as they asked him question after question about the German sniper Koenig, and tried to fill his head with praise and empty promises of fame.

Nah. The boy’s just interested in killing Fritz, he thought to himself. Don’t be taken in by all this communist clap-trap, laddie …

Filling napkins with cold meat and fruit from the banquet set up to impress Party members and slipping the booty into his capacious coat pockets, Koulikov absently wondered where he would lay his head for the night. Ah well. He seemed to have spent half his life sleeping on rubble in bombed-out buildings, and he didn’t suppose one more night would make much difference. And then tomorrow Nikolai Koulikov and Vassili Zaitsev would go hunting a shadow …

“Major Koulikov?”

He turned at the soft voice. A girl. A wee slip of a thing that had been talking to both Zaitsev and Danilov, outside in the corridor before Zaitsev’s uncomfortable grand entrance into the meeting with Khrushchev. He tried to remember her name … ah, yes, Tatyana Chernova. Yet both Danilov and Zaitsev called her by a more personal name. Tania. Pretty little wench, she was. Koulikov decided he wouldn’t be surprised if one or the other of the two young men bedded her before long, if they hadn’t already done so.

Koulikov smiled at the girl, who blinked as she saw the gleam of steel teeth in the mobile mouth.

Yes, you may well be shocked, my girl – that’s what comes of being a loyal servant to Mother Russia  – you get your teeth knocked out by Comrade-bloody-Stalin’s secret-bloody-police who accuse you of being a traitor when you come back from doing their dirty work in Germany for ‘em.

Koulikov’s toothy grin widened to see what her reaction would be, but Tania suddenly saw the mischievous good humour in the blue-on-blue gaze of this big bear of a man. Blushing slightly, she grinned back, and Nikolai Koulikov decided he liked her as well.

“What is it you want, little Tatyana Chernova?” Koulikov hitched a curious eyebrow in gentle amusement as Tania’s blush deepened.

“Comrade Commissar Danilov asked me to find a billet for you tonight, so if you follow Vassili he’ll take you there. She’s a friend of a friend, really, but she said if you didn’t mind sleeping on the floor at least you would be warm and dry …”

 Vassili. The little lady calls him Vassili. Yes, he’s the one, not Danilov …

Pleased with his deductions, Koulikov nodded.

“Well, little Tania, I think ‘warm and dry’ will suit old Papa Koulikov just nicely, thank you very much.”

Tania Chernova looked up at him and was delighted when he winked at her. Not so old, she thought. Younger than he looks. War will do that to a man, and make him old before his time.

Zaitsev touched Koulikov’s shoulder, diverting his attention with a smile.

“You ready, comrade?”

Koulikov frowned semi-seriously.

“Not ‘comrade’, lad. ‘Koulikov’, or ‘Nikolai’, or ‘mad old bastard’ if you like, but not ‘comrade’, if you don’t mind. ‘Comrade’ Stalin and I don’t see eye-to-eye much … but don’t let your friend Danilov hear me say that, hey? Might have me hanging from a telegraph pole before you know it!”

Vassili Ziatsev grinned.

“He’s all right really. Just a bit keen.” Vassili looked up at this earthy, humorous man who had been brought to this dreadful place to protect him. “Well, er … Koulikov,” Vassili couldn’t quite bring himself to call an officer by his first name. “I suppose we ought to be going. I have to come back later and … and …” He looked at Tania.

“Sort out some paperwork, maybe?” Koulikov helped him out. Damn, the boy was smitten …

Vassili nodded, a little disconcerted at Koulikov’s astuteness, but pleased the man understood. Koulikov let loose a rumbling chuckle and clapped Vassili on the shoulder.

“Well then, my young shepherd, why don’t you lead the way? The sooner I find somewhere to sleep the sooner you can get back to your, er, paperwork.”

Giving Koulikov an abashed smile, Vassili headed toward the exit into the battle-scarred street. Koulikov watched the slightly-built young man, then turned for a moment back to the banquet. He surreptitiously slipped a hunk of creamy cheese into his jacket and followed Vassili out into the night.

*****************

The night was cold, breath pluming in the crystal-chill air as Koulikov followed Vassili along the remains of what had been a row of shops. They edged their way along a rubble-strewn alley and then Vassili suddenly bent over and lifted a wooden trapdoor set into the ruined sidewalk. Koulikov was ushered down a steep flight of wooden steps, Vassili shutting the heavy trapdoor behind him and following the big sniper down into a cellar, the entrance blocked by another door, this one ancient in its solidity.

He lifted a hand and banged on the old door, the sudden noise loud in the enclosed space. There was no reply. Vassili tried again … no answer. He glanced up at Koulikov, a shy smile on his youthful features, then he tried the door latch. The door swung sluggishly open, and a warm glow came from within, making Koulikov eager to sit and rest after a difficult day making his way to this beleaguered city.

“Mrs Velonina? Mrs Velonina, it’s Vassili Zaitsev – Tania sent me …” Vassili peered into the room.

“Well, come on in, boy – I won’t bite!”

Vassili edged into the room, followed by a bemused Nikolai Koulikov. The woman’s voice had been rich and decisive, not at all what he expected, and now he was curious to see the woman behind the voice.

The cellar was enormous. Obviously designed to hold shop stock, it was now filled with odd bits of furniture. In one corner was a huge, Victorian bed surrounded by old damask curtains to shield it at night and to keep in the heat. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with a bewildering number of oddments, from pots and pans to paraffin lamps, boot lasts to books, and old crockery that had obviously seen far better days. A wood-burning stove sat in the corner, the smoke drawn through an enormous pipe to disappear through the brick wall. Where the smoke came out Nikolai couldn’t begin to guess, and he was intrigued to find out how this mysterious Mrs Velonina hid the smoke from enemy eyes.

Soup bubbled on the stove, and a brazier glowed dully in the other corner of the huge cellar. The room was fascinating, but it was also warm. Koulikov hadn’t been truly warm for weeks. He noticed a stack of wood in another corner, clearly consisting of purloined beams and scraps from bombed-out buildings. The woman was a survivor, that much was clear.

“Major Koulikov.”

The woman’s voice was clearly making a statement, not asking a question.

The two soldiers turned at the voice, and Koulikov couldn’t contain his surprise, his eyebrows hitching at the sight of her. For some unknown reason he had expected a withered old crone, but he was pleasantly surprised to see a younger woman watching him with enormous, wary brown eyes. Her dark hair was scraped back and hidden beneath a scarf, but he could see it was full and thick, complimenting her slender arched eyebrows.

But her face fascinated him instantly. By no stretch of the imagination could she be called a beauty, but her features were arresting – angular and high-cheekboned, with a wide mobile mouth that set off the lean sweep of her jawbone and nose. A sharp intellect stared back at him through those dark eyes, an intelligence tempered by … what? Koulikov fleetingly wondered what could have put the defiance and guarded wariness in her gaze. Something that had scarred her, he knew instinctively.

“Major Koulikov – I’m Rivka Velonina”.

She walked towards him, hand extended, Koulikov admiring her easy, spare way of moving that spoke of a body used to long hours of hard work. He was quietly amused that she had sat in the shadows so she could get a look at her guests before they noticed her. He shook her hand, noting the long fingers and palms were callused by her labours. She owned a strong grip.

“Major Nikolai Koulikov.” He frowned. “Rivka. That’s a Jewish name.” Koulikov was now decidedly fascinated by this lone woman in whose makeshift home he would be staying during his sojourn in Stalingrad.

A fire came to Rivka Velonina’s lean face, eyes sparking like tinder.

“Yes Major – a Jewish name. Do you have a problem with that?” Her voice carried an edge that would blunt a razor.

“Not in the least, Missus. Just making an observation. In fact it’s quite a pretty name, really.” Koulikov grinned, treating her to the full impact of his steely teeth.

She never turned a hair. One eyebrow arched at his teasing tone, and she tilted her chin at him in defiance. His grin widened with ill-concealed delight.

 She has fire in her. I like a woman with fire …

Vassili Zaitsev stood watching the two of them, one a bony, dark-eyed harridan, the other a big, brawny, rough-looking soldier with a week’s growth of stubble and a set of gleaming metal teeth. A strange pair, a pair he had absolutely no intentions of interrupting if he valued his life. Rivka Velonina had a reputation as an unforgiving enemy, and she didn’t suffer fools lightly. But then, Major Nikolai Koulikov was certainly no fool.

“I … I, er, think I’ll be off then.” Neither of them acknowledged Vassili’s hesitant voice. They just carried on glaring at each other, Koulikov’s mobile face creasing with wry humour. He tried again. “Mrs Popova will be waiting for me and I have to go and see Tania, so I’d better get going …”

Mrs Popova was Tania’s friend who had arranged for Koulikov’s billet. She lived not too far away in the basement of her once-magnificent house, trying to raise her son Sacha alone in this battered city.

Koulikov stirred finally, as though waking from a deep sleep.

“So … you’re going, lad. All right – I’ll see you in the morning.” His blue eyes suddenly caught Vassili’s, the young soldier flinching inwardly at the intensity of that azure gaze. “You’ll be ready?”

Vassili nodded.

“I’ll be ready.”

“Good.” Koulikov turned to the young man. “We’ll go hunting, then, and find ourselves a Nazi pain-in-the-arse who thinks killing Vassili Zaitsev is going to be easy.”

Vassili saw for a short moment the shock in Rivka Velonina’s lean face, but then it was gone. The barriers were raised and she turned back to her stove, face stoic as she tended her food.

Koulikov slapped Vassili companionably on the shoulder once more, and then watched as the young man left quietly, shutting the door silently behind him. He stood for a moment in thought, then he remembered the food in his pockets.

Delving deep in the capacious coat, he hauled out the napkins filled with ham and fresh fruit, and then he dropped the hunk of cheese on the table with a thud. Rivka watched out of the corner of her eye as he lifted a plate from the shelf, loaded the food onto it and pushed it into the middle of her rough table.

“Here.”

Rivka stopped stirring the rich soup full of lentils and dried vegetables. Studying the food, she looked up at Koulikov’s face, expecting to see a smug expression on the long features, as though he had produced the food by some sort of magic just for her. But she was pleasantly surprised to see a look of expectancy on his face.

Koulikov obviously thought he needed to give her some sort of explanation.

“My share of the meal.”

She watched him silently. He sighed in exasperation.

“I stole it.”

He was astounded to see a glimmer of humour in the angular face, Rivka’s wide, full lips twitching in the beginnings of a smile.

“I take it that the people you stole it from can afford to lose it?” Her voice was stern.

“They won’t even miss it.” Koulikov smiled, his face transformed as it lit up with delight.

Rivka nodded soberly.

“Well, then, Major – the food is most welcome. Sit. I’ll get you some soup …”

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An hour later, Major Nikolai Koulikov sat comfortably at the table, his belly full and his long body warm for the first time in weeks. The soup had been good, and the illicit gleanings from the banquet had been a rare treat. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten an apple. Rivka cleared the plates away and dumped them beside a bowl ready to be washed.

“I’ll do them in the morning after I fetch some water – there’s a pump still working two doors down, but it’s not safe to get it at night.”

She rummaged around in the old chest at the foot of her bed and brought out a couple of ancient feather pillows, then indicated a rolled-up mattress on the floor beside the stove.

“That’s for you. You can sleep beside the fire if you like. I have a couple of spare blankets too, so you should be comfortable.”

Koulikov thought he had died and gone to heaven – if there was such a place. After spending most of the war so far sleeping in tents at best and water-filled ditches at worst, a mattress was positively luxurious. He yawned dramatically, then hauled himself upright and unrolled the mattress. He took the pillows and laid them down reverently, then unfolded the two worn blankets Rivka found for him and draped them over his new bed.

Rivka watched him as he prepared to go to sleep, then she lifted the single paraffin lamp and turned to go to her own bed for the night.

Koulikov was on the point of taking off his greatcoat when she spoke to him softly.

“Major …”

He turned to see her standing, ramrod straight, a cool, detached look on her angular features.

“Major, I’ll warn you now. I keep a knife under my pillow, and I’m not afraid to use it if you come anywhere near me.” Her brown eyes were calm, but determined.

Koulikov nodded slightly.

“All right. I understand what you’re saying, Missus Velonina. But let me say something in return.”

Rivka’s eyes widened in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to be so accepting, so she decided to grant him the courtesy of waiting to hear what he had to say.

“Look, I know you’re only having me here so you can get extra food rations, and I wouldn’t expect otherwise, knowing what the situation can be like for you, being alone as you are. I may not be the best looking fella you’ve ever seen, or the cleanest. I’ve been sleeping in my clothes for nearly two months, I stink, and I really could do with a shave. I look rough and ready, and believe me, woman, I can be a right bastard even at the best of times.” Koulikov took a deep breath as he continued. “ But one thing I’m not is a rapist. I may kill for a living and not turn a hair, but one thing I have never done is force myself on a woman. Do you understand me?”

Rivka studied this big, broad-shouldered man standing before her, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and red-rimmed with lack of sleep. She nodded.

“Yes, Major Koulikov, I think I do.” She raised the lamp slightly, as though to get a better look at him. “Besides,” she added, “I don’t think you would have the strength to do anything about it even if you wanted to.”

Koulikov stared at her for a moment in true astonishment, then snorted loudly in amusement.

“I think you could well be right there …” He admitted ruefully, the strain of the moment broken. She was right. He was worn out, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

Smiling to himself, he took off the heavy greatcoat as she disappeared behind the curtains surrounding her bed, and then he shrugged out of his moth-eaten shirt. He removed his boots, groaning with pleasure as he rotated his feet, muscles protesting at the movement. Then he finally slipped out of his pants, leaving him in an old pair of thermal combination underwear, faded and torn with use. He eased himself under the blankets of his makeshift bed and draped the greatcoat over his tired body for added warmth. Lying back on the pillows, he allowed his tired body to relax, wincing as muscles and tendons complained at the lessening of tension.

He listened as he caught the deep, rhythmic sound of German bombers overhead as they flew through the night to bomb the hell out of some unsuspecting bastard, then he heard the whisper of clothing being removed. Turning sleepy eyes to the curtained bed, he was surprised to see the faint but clear outline of Rivka’s body as she undressed by the dim light of the lamp.

He felt a jolt at his groin as he saw the sweep of a full breast, and his manhood began to stiffen at the shadow of the swell of her hips. Underneath all of that clothing was a desirable, well-rounded body, even though she was probably thin due to her way of life. He liked her, he realised. She was hard, unforgiving and fiery. But she was honest, and he admired that. Sighing, he turned on his side, and put his back to the sight of her body behind the curtain.

Now, now, Nikolai old son, get a grip. All you’ll do is give yourself an uncomfortable night if you start thinking about a woman like that, and you need your sleep. You have to go and find that son of a whore Koenig tomorrow, and he’s not an easy man to find. Hell’s teeth, the shifty bastard might just shoot you for your troubles! So pay attention, get some sleep, and be alert and rested in the morning – when you’ve killed the poxy little shit you can start thinking about women – but not this one. Not my lady Rivka. She’s proud, and she’s a good woman. Not the kind of woman for a silly big bugger like you …

With his thoughts drifting quietly towards oblivion, Major Nikolai Koulikov bunched his feather pillow beneath his weary head and fell silently into a deep and dreamless sleep.

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