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Authors: Harry Turtledove
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bands. Not all the men in the Ukraine thought Hitler was a worse bargain than Stalin. Some wanted to break away from Russia come hell or high water, and tried to use the Germans as their tools, never seeing that the Germans were actually using them. Some saw and didn’t care. They could rob and plunder, settle scores and murder Jews, and they were happy enough doing that.
Even now, going on six years after the end of the Great Patriotic War, a few bands who’d followed nationalist Stepan Bandera still skulked across the countryside. Ihor kept his eye out for more than crows. He hadn’t seen any Banderists for a while, but you still heard stories.
These days, they had to know there would be no free Ukraine. As soon as the front started moving west again, that had become clear. But they had also known the secret police would kill them, so there wasn’t much point to giving up.
When the front came through here at the end of 1943, Ihor stopped being a partisan and joined—or was dragooned into—the Red Army. He ended the war a sergeant, laid up with a leg wound outside of Breslau. They’d done a good job fixing him up. He hardly limped at all.
He counted himself lucky that they’d let him come back to his
kolkhoz
after they mustered him out of the army. Plenty of men paid the price for seeing Europe west of Russia by going into the gulag instead. Maybe he had an innocent face. Maybe the Chekists had already filled their daily quota by the time they got to him. Who the hell knew?
He could have been messing with a tractor engine or putting up barbed-wire fencing or doing any number of other socially useful things. Nobody would use a tractor for six weeks or two months. Fences could wait. Everything on the
kolkhoz
except his and Anya’s little garden plot could wait. He didn’t see any benefit from most of the work, so he did as little as he could get away with. It wasn’t as if he were the only one.
He stumped along. After a while, he lit a
papiros.
His breath didn’t smoke much more when he exhaled than it had before. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular: just away from the other
kolkhozniks
for a while. Except for his wife, he wouldn’t shed a tear if they all went and hanged themselves. Well, it wasn’t as if they’d miss him if he lay down in the snow out here and died.
He drew on the
papiros
again. One thing he’d seen in Europe was that most countries’ machine-made cigarettes were like roll-your-owns: they were all tobacco. Russians mostly preferred a short stretch at the end of a long, useless paper holder. For the life of him, Ihor couldn’t see why.
A distant rumble made his head come up. He might have heard it sooner if he hadn’t had the earflaps of his army cap pulled down. When he did notice it, his gut twisted in fear too well remembered. “Fuck me in the mouth if those aren’t tank engines,” he said, even if no one was anywhere near close enough to hear him.
Those were diesels: Soviet tank engines. The Fritzes’ panzers burned gasoline, and sounded different. None of those still in business, but yes, the fear remained. You could still find coal-scuttle helmets around here, and
Gott mit Uns
belt buckles, and cartridges and shell cases. You could find shells that hadn’t gone off, too, buried in the ground but working their way up frost by frost. And if you messed with them, you could still blow your stupid head off.
The rumble got louder. Ihor spotted the black exhaust plumes in the distance. Plenty of Red Army tank crews had died because the Germans could do the same thing. The Germans had made better soldiers than his own countrymen. Ihor knew that. But when you took on somebody with three times your manpower and far more resources,
better
didn’t mean
good enough.
Here came the tanks. Some were dark green; others had whitewash slapped on over their paint. All were dusted with snow. They kicked up white clouds as they rattled west. About half were T-34/85s: the workhorses of
Even now, going on six years after the end of the Great Patriotic War, a few bands who’d followed nationalist Stepan Bandera still skulked across the countryside. Ihor kept his eye out for more than crows. He hadn’t seen any Banderists for a while, but you still heard stories.
These days, they had to know there would be no free Ukraine. As soon as the front started moving west again, that had become clear. But they had also known the secret police would kill them, so there wasn’t much point to giving up.
When the front came through here at the end of 1943, Ihor stopped being a partisan and joined—or was dragooned into—the Red Army. He ended the war a sergeant, laid up with a leg wound outside of Breslau. They’d done a good job fixing him up. He hardly limped at all.
He counted himself lucky that they’d let him come back to his
kolkhoz
after they mustered him out of the army. Plenty of men paid the price for seeing Europe west of Russia by going into the gulag instead. Maybe he had an innocent face. Maybe the Chekists had already filled their daily quota by the time they got to him. Who the hell knew?
He could have been messing with a tractor engine or putting up barbed-wire fencing or doing any number of other socially useful things. Nobody would use a tractor for six weeks or two months. Fences could wait. Everything on the
kolkhoz
except his and Anya’s little garden plot could wait. He didn’t see any benefit from most of the work, so he did as little as he could get away with. It wasn’t as if he were the only one.
He stumped along. After a while, he lit a
papiros.
His breath didn’t smoke much more when he exhaled than it had before. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular: just away from the other
kolkhozniks
for a while. Except for his wife, he wouldn’t shed a tear if they all went and hanged themselves. Well, it wasn’t as if they’d miss him if he lay down in the snow out here and died.
He drew on the
papiros
again. One thing he’d seen in Europe was that most countries’ machine-made cigarettes were like roll-your-owns: they were all tobacco. Russians mostly preferred a short stretch at the end of a long, useless paper holder. For the life of him, Ihor couldn’t see why.
A distant rumble made his head come up. He might have heard it sooner if he hadn’t had the earflaps of his army cap pulled down. When he did notice it, his gut twisted in fear too well remembered. “Fuck me in the mouth if those aren’t tank engines,” he said, even if no one was anywhere near close enough to hear him.
Those were diesels: Soviet tank engines. The Fritzes’ panzers burned gasoline, and sounded different. None of those still in business, but yes, the fear remained. You could still find coal-scuttle helmets around here, and
Gott mit Uns
belt buckles, and cartridges and shell cases. You could find shells that hadn’t gone off, too, buried in the ground but working their way up frost by frost. And if you messed with them, you could still blow your stupid head off.
The rumble got louder. Ihor spotted the black exhaust plumes in the distance. Plenty of Red Army tank crews had died because the Germans could do the same thing. The Germans had made better soldiers than his own countrymen. Ihor knew that. But when you took on somebody with three times your manpower and far more resources,
better
didn’t mean
good enough.
Here came the tanks. Some were dark green; others had whitewash slapped on over their paint. All were dusted with snow. They kicked up white clouds as they rattled west. About half were T-34/85s: the workhorses of
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