happened,’ he said, ‘but I will get us out of here.’
‘How?’ said Weiss. ‘You’re the one who got us lost in the first place.’
Kraus paused, waiting for the affront to pass. He spread out his map, turned his compass, and pointed at the flat featureless landscape.
‘We need to head south again,’ he said. ‘It’s about ten miles back to the main road to Poltava.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Fuchs. ‘We have no bearings.’
‘We came north, and now we have to go south.’
‘Due south?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why not travel south-east, towards Poltava?’
‘We should get back to the road first.’
‘If we can find it,’ said Weiss.
‘That’s enough from you, Weiss,’ said Kraus.
‘The whole place looks the same, Sir.’
‘I realize that, Weiss.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘At least the wind will be behind us,’ said Kraft.
‘We should reach Poltava in three days,’ said Kraus. ‘Divide your rations accordingly.’
Faber had only enough food for two days.
‘We’ll manage,’ said Kraft.
‘How?’ said Weiss.
‘I don’t know. We just will.’
They set off south, the wind against their backs, a pleasant relief until it grew too strong and pressed them to their knees, over and over again, their feet unable to keep pace with its strength. They slept again in their tents and Fuchs woke with a fever, his skin translucent, his eyes elsewhere. They draped him over their shoulders and trailed the sergeant and his compass, their minds and bodies numbed by the weather, rousing only when they heard Weiss shouting.
‘Poltava.’
Faber and Faustmann surged forward, Fuchs between them, towards the light and the smoke rising from chimneys.
‘We’re there, Fuchs,’ said Faber.
‘We’re not,’ said Kraus. ‘It’s too small and too soon.’
‘But it’ll do,’ said Weiss.
They knocked the ice from their weapons, loosened the bolts and moved towards the village, a tiny enclave of one barn and ten houses, all in darkness, wisps of smoke seeping from the chimneys.
‘Move them out, Faustmann,’ said Kraus.
The people slowly emerged.
‘Tell them to give us their food,’ said the sergeant.
‘They say they don’t have any. That other Germans have alreadyraided the village. That the Jews and communists have already been taken away.’
‘I don’t give a fuck about the Jews and communists, Faustmann. Only food. That’s all we want. Tell them to hand it over.’
Kraus was agitated, hungry for his men. The villagers were still. An old woman spoke.
‘She says they have nothing left,’ said Faustmann.
‘Right then,’ said Kraus, ‘we’ll just have to find it ourselves. Let’s go.’
They crashed into the small houses, ripping up floorboards, emptying cupboards, cellars, vats and wardrobes, unearthing potatoes, sunflower seeds, bread and apples. But no meat. Kraus stormed back into the yard and the men followed, stuffing bread and apples into their mouths. He grabbed an old man by the collar of his tattered coat.
‘Where are the animals? Where’s the meat?’
Faustmann translated the sergeant’s fury.
‘We don’t have any,’ replied the old man.
Kraus pulled a warmed pistol from inside his tunic and placed it against the man’s head.
‘Where is it? My men need meat and I am going to find it.’
‘We don’t have any. It’s all gone.’
Kraus squeezed his finger against the trigger and the old man fell to the ground, a puff of body heat and a scarlet flush across the muddied snow. The villagers covered their mouths, frozen, until a young woman with long dark hair hanging from beneath her brightly coloured cotton headscarf stepped forward.
‘I will show you,’ she said.
They followed her past the emptied barn to a small orchard at the end of the village, her plump, rounded buttocks shifting thematerial of her filthy, torn coat. Faber watched her. As she knelt down. As she scraped back frozen hail and lifted a sheet of wood, her bottom towards them. The
‘How?’ said Weiss. ‘You’re the one who got us lost in the first place.’
Kraus paused, waiting for the affront to pass. He spread out his map, turned his compass, and pointed at the flat featureless landscape.
‘We need to head south again,’ he said. ‘It’s about ten miles back to the main road to Poltava.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Fuchs. ‘We have no bearings.’
‘We came north, and now we have to go south.’
‘Due south?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why not travel south-east, towards Poltava?’
‘We should get back to the road first.’
‘If we can find it,’ said Weiss.
‘That’s enough from you, Weiss,’ said Kraus.
‘The whole place looks the same, Sir.’
‘I realize that, Weiss.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘At least the wind will be behind us,’ said Kraft.
‘We should reach Poltava in three days,’ said Kraus. ‘Divide your rations accordingly.’
Faber had only enough food for two days.
‘We’ll manage,’ said Kraft.
‘How?’ said Weiss.
‘I don’t know. We just will.’
They set off south, the wind against their backs, a pleasant relief until it grew too strong and pressed them to their knees, over and over again, their feet unable to keep pace with its strength. They slept again in their tents and Fuchs woke with a fever, his skin translucent, his eyes elsewhere. They draped him over their shoulders and trailed the sergeant and his compass, their minds and bodies numbed by the weather, rousing only when they heard Weiss shouting.
‘Poltava.’
Faber and Faustmann surged forward, Fuchs between them, towards the light and the smoke rising from chimneys.
‘We’re there, Fuchs,’ said Faber.
‘We’re not,’ said Kraus. ‘It’s too small and too soon.’
‘But it’ll do,’ said Weiss.
They knocked the ice from their weapons, loosened the bolts and moved towards the village, a tiny enclave of one barn and ten houses, all in darkness, wisps of smoke seeping from the chimneys.
‘Move them out, Faustmann,’ said Kraus.
The people slowly emerged.
‘Tell them to give us their food,’ said the sergeant.
‘They say they don’t have any. That other Germans have alreadyraided the village. That the Jews and communists have already been taken away.’
‘I don’t give a fuck about the Jews and communists, Faustmann. Only food. That’s all we want. Tell them to hand it over.’
Kraus was agitated, hungry for his men. The villagers were still. An old woman spoke.
‘She says they have nothing left,’ said Faustmann.
‘Right then,’ said Kraus, ‘we’ll just have to find it ourselves. Let’s go.’
They crashed into the small houses, ripping up floorboards, emptying cupboards, cellars, vats and wardrobes, unearthing potatoes, sunflower seeds, bread and apples. But no meat. Kraus stormed back into the yard and the men followed, stuffing bread and apples into their mouths. He grabbed an old man by the collar of his tattered coat.
‘Where are the animals? Where’s the meat?’
Faustmann translated the sergeant’s fury.
‘We don’t have any,’ replied the old man.
Kraus pulled a warmed pistol from inside his tunic and placed it against the man’s head.
‘Where is it? My men need meat and I am going to find it.’
‘We don’t have any. It’s all gone.’
Kraus squeezed his finger against the trigger and the old man fell to the ground, a puff of body heat and a scarlet flush across the muddied snow. The villagers covered their mouths, frozen, until a young woman with long dark hair hanging from beneath her brightly coloured cotton headscarf stepped forward.
‘I will show you,’ she said.
They followed her past the emptied barn to a small orchard at the end of the village, her plump, rounded buttocks shifting thematerial of her filthy, torn coat. Faber watched her. As she knelt down. As she scraped back frozen hail and lifted a sheet of wood, her bottom towards them. The
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