Chapter 21

Young Vassili Nikolayvich Koulikov turned out to be a remarkably affable and pleasant child. He was good-tempered and easy-going as long as he was fed, clean and got plenty of rest, and the only time he became cranky was when he was hungry. And, as Rivka was at pains to point out, in that respect Vasha was not unlike his papa, who was also known to enjoy his food.

A week after Vasha's birth Nikolai returned to his teaching of young recruits for their job of shooting unwary Germans. Rivka recovered from her ordeal with no further discomfort, and was soon back to keeping her husband - and now her young son - clean, tidy and well cared-for.

Two weeks later Nikolai came out of the huge old warehouse used for the purposes of training would-be snipers to find Rivka sitting in her accustomed place on a pile of rubble, her hair gleaming in the August sunshine and Vasha contained in a shawl at her breast. Nikolai's students followed him out of the warehouse, intent on returning to their billets ... until they saw Rivka with Vasha in her arms. Within moments she was surrounded by uniformed youngsters, all chattering, grinning and cooing to both Rivka and 'little Vashenka'. He soon became the darling of the sniping school.

As Rivka and Nikolai walked home in the long, warm evenings they often stopped by the motor pool for Vasha to say hello to his grimy 'uncles', and the lad was duly passed around and scrutinised with great intensity by the grubby bunch of mechanics.

For Nikolai Koulikov it was heavenly. He was loved and cared for, he was a family man, and he revelled in it. For unlike most of the married soldiers and officers with whom he worked, he had his wife and son with him, a situation almost unique in Stalingrad. And there was something else ... something he had not expected.

Wherever they went, whether it was to visit Igor Danilov in his dingy little office at Red Army Headquarters, or to see Oleg and Anna at the hospital, young Vasha was instantly the centre of attention. Nikolai was disconcerted to begin with, but soon realised why.

Stalingrad had suffered, and the people, whether civilian or military, had witnessed one of the bloodiest and destructive battles of this huge, desperate conflict. For almost a year they had seen nothing but death and horror ... their world had consisted of bombs and gunfire, shelling and explosions and fires. The city was in ruins. But every time they saw Vasha they saw the future. Perhaps ... perhaps the terrible times were over in Stalingrad, perhaps this tiny baby was the promise of what could be glimpsed in the future. In Vasha Koulikov they saw something they had despaired of ever seeing again ... hope.

And so Rivka and Nikolai coped with the secretaries at headquarters descending on them en masse, and chattering and babbling on about diapers and teething. A bunch of hardy veterans resting in billets on the way to the front grinned like idiots as Vasha burped noisily, clasped as he was against a worn and tatty uniform. Luckily he was a quiet, easy-going child, happy to be held or carried, so he became used to being cuddled and fussed over by a bewildering variety of people.

But it wasn't only their own people that appreciated the boy.

As they walked home through the bombed-out streets every evening, they would see a small, ragged group of twelve German prisoners-of-war. Desperately thin, ill-clad in uniforms that were nothing more than rags, they spent their days shifting rubble and trying to clear away some of the destruction caused by the Luftwaffe. Rivka's heart broke every time she saw them. Walking ghosts, she called them, as they tried to move huge chunks of rubble with nothing but their bare hands, scrabbling weakly with bloodied fingers and bruised feet amongst the destruction. Guarded by two dour veterans of the Moscow defense armed with PPD-43 sub-machine guns, the German soldiers were pitifully undernourished and riddled with vermin.

But one of them caught Rivka's eye. In good health he would have been handsome in a Germanic way, blond, green-eyed and fair. But now … now he was a scarecrow in his tattered uniform. Nikolai had told her he was a member of the elite 4th Panzer Division, and Rivka heard the respect in her husband's voice. 'Poor buggers', he called them, sorrowed by their situation but unable to do anything about it. But every time they passed the ragged group the young man turned and gazed at her as she carried Vasha, and the yearning in his eyes made Rivka's heart break. But it was forbidden to speak to the enemy soldiers, beaten and humbled as they were, so they passed them by, albeit reluctantly.

But one evening, six weeks after Vasha's birth, as they passed once more the frail, unsteady soldiers, the young tank officer's dull green eyes lit up and he stumbled towards Rivka and Vasha, his hand reaching into the pocket of his shredded jacket.

The guards immediately unslung their guns and shouted in alarm, and Nikolai caught Rivka by her sleeve and pulled her behind him, his hand straying to his own rifle. One of the guards ran towards the young German, gun raised, ready to use the butt to batter the soldier back.

But Rivka cried out.

"No! No, don't do that! He means no harm!" And before Nikolai could stop her, she tightened her hold on a sleepy Vasha and stepped out from behind Nikolai's broad frame. Walking hesitantly towards the soldier she held out a hand, trying to calm the guards.

"Rivka, what the hell are you doing?? Are you crazy, woman??" Nikolai tried to catch hold of his wife and pull her out of the way of the ragged prisoner, now stumbling weakly in his eagerness to reach her.

"Nein!! Nein!" The young officer's voice was rough and hoarse with lack of food, but his hands were now held high showing his captors he meant no threat. "Nicht scheissen, bitte! Ich … ich heisse Hans! Hans Werner! Bitte …" He dropped one of his hands slightly and offered it, closed palm upwards, to Rivka. Nikolai could see something in his hand and gestured at the guards, who seeing the insignia on Nikolai's epaulettes, stiffened into a salute.

Nikolai waved them away and the two guards dropped back a little as the German prisoner straightened as well as he could, although it was obvious his joints were stiff and his body sore. Ignoring the outstretched hand for a moment, Nikolai gazed into the sunken eyes, seeing nothing but pain and despair. Relenting a little when he saw the compassion in Rivka's face, he spoke to the ragged soldier.

"Ich heisse Oberstleutnant Nikolai Koulikov. Welchen Rang haben Sie?"

The officer made a valiant attempt to straighten to attention, and Nikolai waited as the man saluted shakily.

"Hauptmann. Hauptmann Hans Werner, Oberstleutnant … I speak Russian … a little."

Nikolai nodded, his mouth tight with concern at the condition of the young German.

"Well, Captain Werner, what do you want?"

"Your wife … baby … something … something for them … a gift." Captain Hans Werner looked at Rivka and Vasha with such a look of longing that Nikolai had to look away. Reaching out to clasp Rivka's hand, Werner dropped something into her palm. That done, he stepped back, his wasted face trying to break into a smile.

Rivka looked down at the small object in her hand. It was a spoon. A small, hand-carved bone spoon, lovingly and carefully made. Nikolai guessed it was probably made from the rib-bone of a dead horse or something similar. God knows there were enough horse carcasses still lying around, and he knew many German POWs had fallen on the rotting corpses during the last months of the bitter winter and eaten the rancid flesh raw. They had died in their hundreds, their shrunken stomachs unable to process the high protein, rank though it was. The bleached bones of the dead animals were commonplace. Rivka was well aware of its origin, yet she was still enchanted with the gift, realising what effort had been put into making it. She smiled reassuringly at the officer.

"Thank you Captain! It's beautiful …"

Werner's gaunt face broke into the semblance of a grin, his gaze alive with pleasure. He wiped his grimy, scraped hands on his uniform jacket as though suddenly ashamed of his tattered appearance. He nodded to himself in satisfaction and began to turn away.

"Captain …" Nikolai's voice stopped Werner as he turned back to his compatriots, now standing watching in dull curiosity. "Why did you give my wife this gift?"

Werner smiled through sudden tears. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

"My … my wife, my Kathe … she lives in Bremen … we … we have a daughter." He thought for a moment. "Please … may I ask … what date is it, Frau Koulikov?"

Rivka's heart was aching for this young man standing before her.

"Today is September 18th."

Werner closed his eyes in relief, the smile softening on his ravaged features.

"Gut, gut … ja, … yes, it is today. Today is my daughter's birthday. I wanted …" Nikolai heard the German's voice hitch slightly, "I wanted to … how do you say … remember. Yes, remember the day if I could. When I saw your baby I decided this was a way to remember … to celebrate her day." He gazed at Vasha, sleeping quietly in his mother's arms. "It just seemed right …"

"How old is your daughter, Captain?" Rivka asked, compassion glowing from her lean face.

"Zweijährig," Werner said, his desperate situation forgotten for a moment. "My little Emilie will be two years today." He smiled. She is …" he struggled for the words, "her mother's … liebstes Mädel …"

"Best girl," Nikolai murmured, forgetting for a moment that the man before him was supposed to be his despised and hated enemy, a man of the loathed Third Reich and all it stood for. But they were interrupted by one of the guards, now uneasy with the situation in which he found himself.

"S'cuse me, Comrade Colonel sir, but you're not supposed to talk to the prisoners - it's orders, y'see, and it's more than my job's worth …" The stocky soldier was almost apologetic. "They've to work until the sun sets, then we take 'em back to the camp."

Werner, realising the moment had passed, straightened again and bowed slightly, his heels clicking together as smartly as he could manage.

"Danke, Frau Koulikov …" He turned to Nikolai, saluting. "Oberstleutnant," and he turned back to his ragged group. He did not look back.

Rivka looked up at Nikolai, and he knew then and there that she had no intentions of letting the situation continue. Rivka could no more let those battered, beaten soldiers suffer any longer, than deny her love for her husband.

"Niko … please, we have to help them …" Her voice was a whisper, but the urgency was unmistakable.

He frowned thoughtfully.

"I don't think I can do much, Rivka, you know that! They're prisoners of war and beyond any small influence I might have."

"But Niko, you're a Lieutenant-Colonel - "

"Just one of many, woman! Lord knows, Rivka, I want to help these poor sods, but - "

"So do it! Please, love! Please …"

"Rivka!" Nikolai said, louder than he intended, and regretted the look of hurt in her eyes. He relented a little, but was firm. "Listen, I'm a mere Lieutenant-Colonel - " He saw Rivka's mouth open to protest but continued, cutting her off. "Yes, yes, woman, I know - I'm 'The Bear' and I can do anything if I put my mind to it, but all that 'legendary sniper' rubbish doesn't wash with everyone, especially those hard bastards in charge of prisoners." He bent down and kissed her cheek. "And don't forget, my lady, that if the Germans had taken Stalingrad, you would have been in a concentration camp and then a gas chamber in an instant, pregnant or no. Or maybe they would have just taken you out and shot you in the head and chucked both you and Vasha in a ditch - think about that, hey?"

Rivka was in an agony of indecision. Her good heart won out.

"But Niko … treating them like this doesn't make us any better, now does it? Please Nikolai, I beg you … try!"

Nikolai took a deep, wrenching sigh.

"Oh, for pity's sake, woman!" he turned to the stocky veteran soldier who had spoken to him earlier. "Private!" The soldier straightened respectfully. "Who's your commanding officer - and don't look like that! You're not in any trouble!" He saw the fleeting look of panic on the soldier's flat, Mongolian face.

"Oh, that'd be Major Andreyev, Comrade Colonel. You'll find him at headquarters most days."

Nikolai pondered the name.

"Don't know him. What's he like?"

The private thought for a moment, and Nikolai knew he was thinking how to describe this Major Andreyev tactfully yet accurately, without giving this big, steel-toothed Lieutenant-Colonel any ammunition to blame him for anything.

"Well … I'd say … I'd say the Major is very … capable. Yes, capable, that's him."

Nikolai nodded. Capable. That meant he could be a tough customer.

"Thank you, Private. That'll be all."

He waved away the guard, the soldier glad to be dismissed. He linked Rivka's free arm through his.

"Righto Missus, let's go home. There's nothing to be done here and Vasha's wanting his dinner, so I suggest we go home and feed him, all right?"

"But -" Rivka tried to protest, but Nikolai interrupted.

"No buts, my lady. We'll discuss this later, but right now our son comes first." Nikolai gently led Rivka away, leaving the starved soldiers to carry on with their task of trying to clear away the mountainous pile of rubble.

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

Supper that night was a subdued affair.

After Vasha had been fed and changed, Rivka sat at the table with her husband as they ate their meal. Nikolai was uncharacteristically quiet. When they had finished eating, Nikolai cleared the table and helped Rivka wash dishes and put them away. Vasha had woken in his crib and was grizzling a little, so Nikolai lifted the child and sat down in his big chair, Vasha draped over his papa's chest, face nuzzled against Nikolai's shoulder.

Rivka watched her husband as she made him a mug of tea. Nikolai was obviously deep in thought, even as he murmured to his baby son and rubbed the boy's back, soothing him until Vasha settled happily against his father, as he always did. Rivka smiled to herself as she saw the big soldier drop a tender kiss on his son's curly head. She had known right from the start that he would be a good and attentive father, and he had proven her to be more than right. Nikolai spent a great deal of his spare time with his son, and did what he could to help his wife. A family man, through and through, she thought.

But she also knew he was deeply troubled about her request to help the starving German prisoners, but she let him be. He would talk to her about it when he was ready and not before, as was his way, and Rivka had no intentions of pushing him to do otherwise.

So, she set his mug of tea beside his chair and settled down on the sofa to do a little sewing. Already the nights were drawing in and becoming cooler, and mornings often brought a wraith-like mist that sometimes didn't lift throughout the day. Vasha was growing at a pace, and was already out of his first, tiny baby clothes and Rivka was busy trying make enough warm clothing for him to last the oncoming winter.

She glanced back at Nikolai and their tiny son. How alike they are, she mused. Vasha had his papa's long limbs and he already carried the promise of height and breadth. But his dark hair was her legacy. Thick and soft, she knew he would have a mop of it as he grew up if it wasn't kept neat and tidy, especially as it was all springy curls, again just like Nikolai's. But it was his eyes that enchanted everyone who came into contact with him. They were azure blue, the same arresting, fathomless blue that had so beguiled her when she first met Nikolai. She smiled to herself. She remembered how astounded Nikolai had been when he realised Vasha's eyes were the same shade as his own - he had been convinced they would turn brown like his mother's until Rivka had explained that her own father had had beautiful china blue eyes. Vasha Koulikov would be an eye-catching man when he grew up. Not handsome in the classical sense, his face would be too angular and expressive for that, she guessed. But he would certainly be a big, attractive man, and her smile widened into a grin as she sewed. Ach, perhaps that's just a mother's pride … but then a mother always knew these things, she was sure.

She finished the hem of the little jacket she was making and snipped the thread.

"Niko, love … drink your tea before it gets cold. Would you like to listen to some music?" She said. She watched her husband as he sat preoccupied by his thoughts.

"Hmm? I suppose … yes, that would be nice …" Nikolai took a deep breath and peered down at his son. Vasha shifted in his sleep but didn't awaken as Rivka wound up the phonograph and put on Nikolai's favourite, Strauss' 'Emperor Waltz'. The big sniper relaxed deeper into his chair and stretched out long legs, and taking a sip of his cooling tea rested his head on the chair back and closed his eyes. Rivka knew the music soothed him, so returned to the sofa and continued her sewing.

They sat quietly for the rest of the evening and it was nearly bedtime when Vasha awoke, still sprawled on his father's chest, crotchety with hunger. Nikolai roused himself from his musings and cuddled the boy while Rivka changed into her nightgown. Slipping into her dressing gown she waited as Nikolai stood and came to sit on the sofa beside her. He handed the hungry child to his mother and Rivka bared a breast, Vasha quickly latching onto the nipple and suckling greedily. Rivka shifted around until she was resting against Nikolai's chest and he wrapped his arms around his wife and peered down at his son. It had become a little ritual since Vasha's birth, one that meant a great deal to Nikolai. He loved the feel of his family held within the protective cradle of his arms, and he found it profoundly moving. Feeling Rivka relax back against the breadth of his chest he kissed the top of her head and let slip a small sound of contentment.

Nikolai sat cradling his wife as Vasha had his supper, but finally the problem that had preoccupied him for most of the evening would not be contained any longer. Rivka felt his chest expand against her back as he took a deep intake of breath.

Here it comes, she thought. It's time …

"Rivka, I've been thinking …"

"About the prisoners? Yes love, I guessed." Rivka changed Vasha over to her other breast and settled him in the crook of her arm.

"Well … I know you think I can do something about it, but I honestly have my doubts." Nikolai's voice was halting.

Rivka's heart plummeted. She had hoped he would come up with some plan to help them, something, anything that would help alleviate their suffering.

"Niko, we have to do something! We can't let them starve to death … it's not right, and you know it!" Rivka couldn't keep the desperation from her voice even though she pitched it low so as to not disturb Vasha.

Nikolai nuzzled the heavy fall of ebony hair that lay against his chest and cleared his throat.

"Listen to me, Rivka. I have my reasons and let me explain first before you decide to chop my head off, please."

Rivka, hearing the pain in his voice, realised that there was far more to Nikolai's concerns than army protocol - he was deeply worried about something, so she nodded silently. Nikolai took another shaky breath and continued, hoping fervently that she would understand his reasons.

"You, ah … you know when I was imprisoned just before war broke out … you know why, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I do! Politics! The Party imprisoned their own soldiers, soldiers they had themselves sent to Germany, and then accused them of treason because they needed scapegoats! Hitler and Stalin had a falling-out and they took it out on you … terrible, just terrible! I'll never forgive them for what they did to you, my love - "

"Be that as it may, my lady, I was still labeled a traitor. Just because I wouldn't confess and they couldn't pin anything on me doesn't mean that they've forgotten about me. It's all in my records woman, and I have no doubt at all that any move on my part to be sympathetic towards our enemies could put me in a very dangerous position - and if that happens, you and Vasha would also be regarded as enemies of the state. I can't take that chance, Rivka, I just can't. Much as I would like to help those poor bastards - and I know what they're going through more than most - my family comes first above all else. Do you understand me?"

And as he spoke he thought with a shudder of revulsion of Major Anton Krylov of the NKVD, smiling in the shadows of a makeshift morgue, holding a thick file - the file of Lieutenant Colonel Nikolai Koulikov, Noble Sniper, Hero of the Soviet Union and one-time detainee of a labour camp in Kiev.

Rivka knew then that Nikolai would do anything … anything … to protect her and Vasha, even if it meant the lives of countless German POWs. She didn't realise it, but she had been holding her breath and she let it out slowly, now fully aware of what she had been asking Nikolai to do.

"Yes love - I understand." She lifted his hand from where it lay on her arm and kissed the big, gentle palm. "But thank you for thinking about it, and I know how difficult it is for you to do nothing. I just wish …" Her face brightened. "Perhaps I could - "

"No!" Nikolai's voice was firm. "No Rivka, you will not. I know you think you're safe because you're a woman, but you're not, believe me." His voice softened. "There were women in the camp, Rivka … I had a bloody enough time of it, but the women … well, let's just say it wasn't pretty."

He felt Rivka's shoulders slump in defeat and he stroked the side of her face, trying to ease her sadness. But she could not be soothed. He heard the first soft sobs come from her, and he tightened his arms, seeking to lend comfort to her pain.

"Those poor men, Niko … those poor, poor men …"

Nikolai's heart broke, but he could not see any way around the problem without putting both himself and his wife and son at risk, and he knew Rivka would not blame him for it. But it still hurt.

"I know, my lady, I know … I'm sorry …"

But for a long time she could not be consoled.

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

The next day turned out cool and drizzly, and Nikolai spent a hapless afternoon trying to drum field tactics into a particularly lethargic group of recruits. Perhaps it was just the depressing day that was the reason for it, but both teacher and pupils were tetchy and dull, although his guilt at refusing to help Captain Hans Werner and his starving compatriots was niggling at his conscience. As it was, dusk was beginning to fall when he finally had enough and called a halt for the day. Shrugging into his greatcoat he slung his rifle over his shoulder and set off along the street towards home.

On wet days Rivka didn't come to meet him, so he was still deep in thought about the German soldiers when he wearily trudged past Red Army headquarters. He had walked nearly a hundred metres past the entrance when he stopped in his tracks and stood stock still, his mobile face set grimly, muscles jumping along his jawline. Wiping a big hand over his features he thought for long moments, then shaking his head in disbelief at his own stupidity, he swore softly.

"Oh … bugger it!"

And turning on his heel he strode back to headquarters and took the steps at the entrance two at a time, finally disappearing into the warm glow of the battered building's interior.

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

Major Sergei Ilyushin Andreyev's office was on the second floor, right at the end of a long, dimly-lit corridor that had seen far better days. Faded red flock wallpaper clung in patches to the distempered wall, the plaster crumbling with neglect as it crept along a chipped and battered dado rail.

Nikolai followed a young female corporal along the corridor, but she stopped him before they reached the closed door.

"Comrade Colonel … Major Andreyev can be … how shall I put it … an awkward person to deal with sometimes." She looked up at Nikolai, studying this big man whose name had almost become a household word.

Nikolai grinned at her, treating her to the full force of his steely teeth, and she blinked in surprise.

"Don't worry lass, I can deal with 'awkward'. Just let the major know I'm here to see him, will you?"

The sturdy little corporal nodded, eyes lowered, suddenly bashful.

"Of course, comrade Colonel - and can I say what about?"

"Just a social call, girl, that's all." Nikolai charmed her with a wink.

Blushing, the little corporal told him to wait and knocked on Major Andreyev's door. On hearing a muffled voice telling her to enter, she opened the door, popped her head around and spoke for a few moments with the unseen occupant. The voice seemed precise and a little impatient, Nikolai thought. The corporal pulled back and turned a doubtful face to Nikolai.

"The Major is quite busy, comrade Colonel, but he can give you a few minutes."

Nikolai was ushered into the office and the corporal shut the door behind him.

The office was small, cluttered and stuffy. Filing cabinets stood in the corner jammed so tightly with files that the drawers wouldn't shut properly, and an old lamp sat on a huge desk that took up most of the remaining space in the room. Behind the desk, perusing some rather faded files, was Major Sergei Ilyushin Andreyev.

Dark, almost black eyes raised blearily from the files and gazed at the big, broad-shouldered sniper that seemed to fill the room with his presence.

"Comrade Colonel ... what can I do for you? I'm a busy man, as you can see, so if you could get to the point ..."

He sat and waited expectantly for Nikolai's reply, but Nikolai took his time, studying the man sitting before him.

Andreyev was in his mid-fifties, and the first impression Nikolai had of the man was one of weariness. A lean, lined face graced with short-cropped hair only lightly ticked with grey gazed back at him, the expressive mouth tight with tiredness. Everything about Andreyev shouted ‘career soldier’, but there was something wrong ... something ... Nikolai struggled to find the word to describe him. Then it came to him. Melancholy. There was a sense of profound melancholy about the man, and it seeped from him in invisible waves that saturated the small room.

Without saying a word, Nikolai pulled up the only other chair in the room, a battered metal framed monstrosity with a frayed canvas seat. It groaned in protest as Nikolai relaxed his brawny body into its narrow embrace. He sat looking at Andreyev for a moment or two, and the soldier began to beetle expressive eyebrows in puzzlement which then became impatience.

"Comrade Colonel, I have no idea what you want, and quite frankly, I don't care, so if you've come here merely to stare at me then - "

"I wanted to see what you were like." Nikolai interrupted, tilting his head slightly, his eyes mild with curiosity.

Andreyev frowned. What on earth was this rough-looking Lieutenant Colonel with the mouthful of glittering steel teeth doing?

"I'm sorry … you ah … you seem to have me at a disadvantage, comrade - "

Nikolai grinned as he heard the confusion in Andreyev's voice.

"My wife, Major. My wife's been looking at some Fritz POWs now for weeks y'see, and she wanted to know what kind of man would allow prisoners of war to starve to death, worked until they're nothing but skin and bone and riddled with lice. She was curious to find out what made a man do such a thing. 'He can't be an honourable man', she said to me. So I thought I would come and have a look at you and see if she was right."

Sergei Ilyushin Andreyev sat as still as a stone. His face was taut, skin drawn white over high cheekbones, his dark eyes bottomless with anger.

"Who are you?" His voice was no more than a whisper, but the menace in it was almost palpable. The tension in the room made the air itself seem thick with danger.

Nikolai gazed back into those dark hateful eyes, unafraid, his face suddenly sombre.

"My name is Nikolai Koulikov."

Andreyev paled. Lieutenant Colonel Nikolai Koulikov, Hero of the Soviet Union, Noble Sniper, with over two hundred verified 'kills' to his name was sitting in his office, demanding to know about the treatment of a few German POWs. No, he was more than that - he was the 'Bear'. He was a legend. Andreyev's eyes narrowed.

"Comrade, it is hardly your place to question me about how I treat prisoners. I do as I see fit, according to the regulations set down by the - "

"Bollocks." Nikolai leaned back in the flimsy chair and picked at his teeth for a moment. Then he cocked an eyebrow at Andreyev. "Think again, Major."

Now Andreyev was fuming. What the hell was this boor doing in his office, telling him how to do his job and - what was worse - questioning his motives!

"I think you should leave now, comrade Colonel … before I call my superiors and have you thrown out! "

Nikolai grinned, knowing he had the man rattled.

"Nah. I don't think so, Major. You could, I'm sure, but you won't."

Andreyev was trembling now.

"And why would I not do that, Lieutenant Colonel Koulikov? I'm not the kind of man who threatens and then does not carry out that threat. I couldn't do my job if I did. What's to stop me - "

"Who did you lose, Major Andreyev?" Nikolai cut Andreyev's words off in a second.

Andreyev balked in astonishment, then he swallowed noisily.

"W … what?" What did you say?"

Nikolai sighed quietly. He had seen it in those dark eyes, seen the pain and bitterness that the bluster couldn't quite hide.

"I said … who did you lose? Who died and turned you into what you are?"

The dark-eyed Major blenched and suddenly seemed to turn in upon himself as he sat behind his huge desk, long, able fingers resting on the now-forgotten files.

"Get out." Andreyev's voice was a soft breath of hatred.

Nikolai didn't move. He just sat and studied Andreyev with calm blue eyes.

Andreyev's chair scraped back as the man stood, hands clenched on the edge of his desk. His knuckles shone bone-white in the lamp-light.

"I said - get out!!"

Nikolai looked up at Andreyev's lean form. The man was shaking not just with anger he thought, but with something else. Grief. He was grieving, Nikolai realised. Grief hung on him in a pall, a miasma of sorrow that permeated the very air around him.

He had known as soon as he walked into the room that attempting to talk to the man gently would not have succeeded. Andreyev had built a wall of pain around him that would only fall if it was breached sharply and swiftly, and Nikolai's twenty-seven years in the army stood him in good stead - he knew how to handle men, and Andreyev had reacted exactly as Nikolai had wanted. He had breached the defenses, and only now could he reach out and talk to the man.

"Sit down, Major. You and I both know I'm not going anywhere, so sit, will you? And while you're at it why don't you bring out that bottle of vodka or whatever it is you drink and we'll have a snifter. I've no doubt you have something hidden somewhere about the place - I know I would." Nikolai smiled softly.

Major Sergei Ilyushin Andreyev stood motionless for long moments. He was trembling, he knew, but he could not control it, not now. In the space of a few minutes this big, soft-spoken soldier sitting calmly in front of him had ripped away his carefully constructed defenses … the defenses that kept him going, that helped him focus through the long days and the endless nights. He submerged himself in paperwork, signing orders and invoices, and stayed in his office burying himself in statistics and memos.

Then the breath came from him in a gusty sigh and he sank back into his chair, his body still trembling but the tension easing, and he ran a hand over his face. Nikolai could see unshed tears in Andreyev's eyes. He waited patiently for Andreyev to make the next move - if there was one thing Nikolai Koulikov had in abundance it was patience, and he sat quietly, arms crossed, and waited. He did not have to wait long.

"Do you have any children, comrade Colonel Koulikov?" Andreyev slumped in his chair, staring at his hands.

Nikolai nodded.

"Yes - a son. He's nearly seven weeks old." He smiled, the pride obvious in his voice. "His name is Vasha."

Andreyev raised his head and looked at Nikolai Koulikov.

"A son. You are proud of him, I can tell. Have you had a chance to see him yet?"

Nikolai grinned.

"I'm lucky, Major - I met my wife, my Rivka, here in Stalingrad and our son was born here, so I spend as much time as I can with him." He became wistful for a moment. "He brings me great joy."

Andreyev pondered on Nikolai's words, then reached down, and pulling out a drawer in his desk delved about and brought out a half-full bottle of pepper vodka and two glasses. Setting the glasses on his desk he poured a generous measure into each one and pushed one towards Nikolai, who took it silently. The two soldiers lifted their glasses and toasted each other wordlessly, then tossed back the vodka in one gulp and set the glasses back on the table. Andreyev refilled them.

"I had two sons, comrade Colonel. Two wonderful sons."

Ah, thought Nikolai. So that's it. He lost his boys.

And he thought with a twinge of fear of how he would feel if anything happened to Vasha. He knew he was taking a terrible risk interfering in this matter of German POWs, and all Andreyev had to do was report Nikolai's comments to his superiors and the big sniper could be investigated by the NKVD for pro-fascist sympathies. And that, he knew, could be fatal not only for himself but also for his wife and baby son. He took a deep breath. He couldn't go back now - he was committed.

"You had sons? Soldiers, I take it?" His words were soft, sympathetic.

Andreyev swallowed painfully and threw back another measure of vodka, the alcohol burning his throat.

"Yes ... had. My eldest, Vladimir Sergeyvich ... a good boy, so like his mother. My Ekaterina ... she doted upon them both, you know ... she tried to stop him joining up but he wouldn't listen. He joined the tank regiment, was the youngest Lieutenant in the battalion. Burned alive on the road to Leningrad. The blast from the anti-tank missile jammed the hatch, you see ... he couldn't get out." Andreyev couldn't conceal a small sob, and the muscles worked along his lean jaw.

Nikolai lifted his glass and swallowed the vodka it contained. He suddenly became aware that his hand was shaking. Putting the now empty glass back on the desk he wiped his moustache with the back of his hand and steadied his thoughts. He couldn't afford to back off; he had gone too far.

"You said you had two sons, Major." His voice was nothing but a low, gentle rumble, knowing Andreyev was close to breaking. He had not expected such an intense reaction, but he pressed on.

Andreyev gave him a mirthless smile, his haggard face almost handsome in the pool of lamplight.

"My youngest ... my Gregorin ... he was barely nineteen. He was too young to see the things he saw, Koulikov ... too young to be killing ... he hadn't even kissed a girl ..."

Nikolai leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes alive with compassion for this desperately hurt man sitting before him, the prisoners momentarily forgotten.

"What happened?" he asked, knowing now that Andreyev needed to talk and let the pain go at last.

Andreyev straightened in his chair.

"Gregorin died in a ditch near Kursk four months ago. Some Fritz soldier shot him in the leg then three of them bayoneted him to death. Gutted him like a sturgeon. When he was found he was unrecognisable." He gazed at Nikolai, his face twisted with grief. "Three weeks later my wife ... my Katya ... hung herself."

Nikolai sat, rigid with shock. Andreyev gave him another of his bitter, melancholic smiles.

"Yes, comrade Colonel. I lost everything. Everything that you, as the family man I can plainly see you are, hold dear. And you wonder why I hate Germans. They took everything I ever wanted ... everything that made me who I was. I have nothing left, only my duty. The prisoners get everything that regulations say they are entitled to, no more, no less. I may not like it, but I do my duty."

Nikolai thought for long, long moments, then leaned forward and poured a generous measure of vodka into the glasses. This time he was the one who pushed the glass towards Andreyev.

"But sometimes, Major Andreyev, you have to do more than your duty."

Andreyev sipped the vodka this time and snorted.

"Why, Koulikov? Why should I? Do you think my boys would have been treated any better if they had been captured rather than butchered? Your wife's name is Rivka - she's Jewish, I presume?" Seeing Nikolai's nod, he continued. "If the Germans had taken Stalingrad, you know very well what would have happened to both your wife and your son."

Nikolai turned the glass in long fingers, letting the clear fluid catch the facets of light from the lamp.

"Yes, I know. But my wife is a kindly, good-hearted woman, just as your wife surely was, Andreyev. Do you think she would have condoned your neglect? Do you think she would have allowed these men to starve to death or die of typhus or dysentery? I doubt it."

Andreyev's face was set as he listened to Nikolai's soft words.

"My wife was a good woman, Koulikov - sweet-natured and generous. But when her boys died ... when her little ones were taken from her she became a ghost, a shadow of the beautiful Katya I fell in love with all those years ago. I'm sure she would understand."

"So, Andreyev, you'll happily allow these men to die slowly and painfully and not lift a hand to help - and become the very thing that your sons died trying to prevent happening here in Russia. Is that what you want? To sully their memory with these men's deaths? Because that's what you're doing, man, whether you can see it or not. And that, Major Andreyev, is not only a bloody shame but downright bloody cruel. The poor bastards can't harm you or the Motherland, so for your sons and your wife, show them a little compassion!"

Andreyev leaned on his desk, pushing his face close to Nikolai's.

"I do my duty, comrade Colonel! I just follow the rules!!" he hissed.

Nikolai held Andreyev's dark gaze with his own.

"Sometimes, Major Andreyev, rules are meant to be bent a little."

They sat, both leaning on the desk, eyes fixed on one another. Andreyev looked away first. Satisfied, Nikolai levered himself to his feet. He could do no more, and he wasn't willing to push the man - he had already compromised his position by talking to Andreyev, and he didn't want to endanger his family any further.

"Righto, Major - I must be off, my wife will be wondering where I've got to. Think about what I'm asking you to do, Andreyev. That's all I ask." Turning, he opened the door but was stopped by Andreyev's voice, now shaky with emotion.

"Comrade Colonel ..."

Nikolai turned back to see Andreyev looking at him with such naked pain on his face that he winced inwardly. Andreyev continued.

"I'll see what I can do. I can't promise anything, you understand ... but I'll try."

Nikolai heaved a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Major. It's the right thing to do, you know that."

Andreyev poured himself another vodka, and Nikolai knew the man would slowly but surely get drunk this night. He had faced his demons, and that shook a man to the core.

"Oh, and Koulikov - we never had this conversation. I don't want any of it going beyond this room, do you hear? My family is my affair and I don't want it spread around headquarters - I'm sure you'll understand."

Nikolai smiled.

"Yes, Major, I understand. And I'm happy to forget the lot, believe me. Good night."

He left the room, closing the door behind him, and left Major Sergei Ilyushin Andreyev alone with his vodka and his ghosts.

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

Nikolai didn't mention his conversation with Andreyev to Rivka. He had no idea if he had been successful and he didn't want to get her hopes up, but they were both surprised when they didn't see Captain Hans Werner and his fellow prisoners for nearly three weeks.

But on a cool October evening as Rivka and Nikolai walked home from the warehouse, they spotted some familiar figures working on the same pile of rubble that never seemed to get any smaller. As they walked closer, Rivka gave a small cry of delight.

Hans Werner turned and straightened, then raised a hand slightly in greeting. Then he turned back to his compatriots and pointed out Nikolai and Rivka, little Vasha wrapped in his shawl, sound asleep.

All twelve of the POWs shuffled into a line and saluted as smartly as they could, the two Russian guards looking away discreetly.

All of them were dressed in old but warm clothes and each of them had on heavy leather boots. They all had wool coats - obviously army discards - but each had on their German army caps. Werner's face was fuller with a healthier pink tinge to it, and all of them seemed more energetic.

Rivka's face was a picture, Nikolai thought. Joy shone from it as she looked up at him, suddenly realising what he had done and knowing the risks he had taken - and she loved him for it. Without saying a word, she reached up with a hand and caught his face, pulling him down for a kiss. He heard but one word as she brushed his lips with hers.

"Thank you ..."

Nikolai grinned at her.

"Any time, Missus ... any time."

He turned to Werner and nodded in acknowledgement, then linked his wife's arm in his and headed off home to a hot supper.

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

Ten days later Nikolai was at army headquarters finishing off some assessments, and on the spur of the moment headed off up the stairs to see Major Andreyev. The man had done what he could, that was obvious, and no doubt had saved the lives of the starving POWs. For that, Nikolai thought, he deserved sincere thanks.

But as he reached the top of the stairs he ran into the sturdy little corporal who had originally guided him to Andreyev's poky little office.

"Oh! Oh, comrade Colonel, I hope you're not going to see Major Andreyev!"

Nikolai nodded.

"Why, yes I am, lass. Just thought I'd call in for a chat -"

The corporal was shocked.

"You don't know, do you??"

"Don't know what?" Nikolai was curious now.

"About the Major. He's dead, you know!"

Nikolai blinked in shock. Dead?? The buxom little corporal continued, taking in Nikolai's look of horror.

"I found him at his desk yesterday morning, comrade! Poor soul! He was just sitting there at his desk, not a mark on him. A seizure or something the doctors think, but do you know what?" She became conspiratorial, and leaned into Nikolai's arm, her voice low. "I think he died of a broken heart. Yes! A broken heart! He was holding a picture of his wife and sons y'see, and we didn't know but he'd lost his sons in the war and his wife ... well, she killed herself! Awful, isn't it! Still, the poor man must have missed them dreadfully." She took a step back. "Right, I'll be off. Goodnight, comrade!" And with that she trotted off down the stairs to the administration desk.

Nikolai stood in the corridor, somewhat at a loss. Major Andreyev ... dead! He thought back to the melancholy in the man, and shook his head. Such a tragedy. A fine soldier and his beautiful family, all gone because of this bastard of a war. Settling his rifle more firmly on his shoulder he glanced back at the closed door at the end of the corridor, and thought of the man that had lived and died behind its welcoming confines.

With heavy steps he began to trudge down the stairs, and hoped in his heart that wherever Major Sergei Ilyushin Andreyev was, that he was finally at peace.

To Chapter 22

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