Volga River, Tver Oblast.

5th December 1941, 7:52 a.m.

Border of German and Russian territory.

Winter.

“At noon, our bravery’s diminished;

We have been tossed and more afraid

Of slopes, steep, and ravines, peevish,

And cry, ‘Be easier, you, brat!’”

- Extract from a Russian poem

Light crept into the cabin from a few angles. The two slits in the wall were not perfectly closed, and a beam shone through each of them. A crack also shone through the front door.

The fire had died down to embers, but the burning charcoal still spread warmth through the hut to combat the invasive chill.

Oryl crept his eyes open, hair by hair. He could feel a numbing pain in his arm, meaning the painkillers had run through his system. But he could also feel tight cloth rub against the wound when he shifted. That meant that it had been bound or otherwise covered. He was laying on the cot in the cabin and had clearly been moved there the previous night.

The interior of the cabin was black, with a few tendrils of light beginning to pry away at the mass of darkness. He could make out the walls, the fire and could feel a faint breath of air on his neck from the doorway behind him.

He could also see the outline of a human shape, sitting rugged up on the table and staring into the fire.

Looking around, moving his head slowly so as to not rustle the blankets, he spotted some of his belongings, including his weapons, laid out on a stool by the bedstead. He reached out one hand from his cocoon and picked the pistol off the nightstand, again taking care not to scrape it against the wood. He brought it to his chest, ready to point against the figure in the dark.

“I see you are woken,” the figure said in broken Russian with a light accent. He stirred the embers with a poker, causing a glow of light to colour his face. Oryl couldn’t see his face, but he could tell that he was bearded. “Please don’t try to shoot me. Be glad you’re waking up this morning.”

“Who are you?” Oryl asked.

The figure tossed a fresh block of wood on the fire instead of responding. The piece was enveloped by the hungry flames, using its fuel to combat the chill in the air.

“My name is Karl.” He turned to face Oryl, the fresh firelight flowing from nose to cheekbone and laying sheets of shadow across the space in between. The light revealed him - the eagle on his breast, the patches on his shoulders and cloth around his body - as a German officer.

Oryl raised his gun.

“I would not leave you with bullets in your guns.”

Oryl put the gun down, reluctant to give up his sole power over this man but knowing it was meaningless to threaten him with an empty weapon.

“Besides. I helped you live. I would not kill you now.”

“Then what do you want?” Oryl asked.

“I wanted shelter, and you were here first. I helped you for the chance to stay here. But once the last of the storm is gone I will leave too.”

Oryl nodded. That was good for him. He needed time to recuperate without an enemy officer here drawing attention.

“But before that I have questions for you,” Karl continued to ask. “Who are you? Why are you here and who injured you?”

Oryl held his tongue for a moment, thinking it through. Right now, information was his advantage. But more than he cared about that, right now, didn’t he want to tell someone his story? Perhaps if he died alone in the snow, like his brothers had, this person would carry on the story for him like he had for then. And perhaps then none of them could truly die.

“Well?” Karl asked again. “Not saying?”

“No. I’ll tell you. My name is Oryl. I’m a former citizen of Rzhev and volunteer to the 98th Rifle Division, part of the 22nd Army. I enlisted at Velikiye Luke months ago. I deserted after losing at Smolensk and tried to return home. But I found an occupation. My family were gone. I was chased out of town by German soldiers.”

“They injured you?”

“Indeed. And I am here for the same reason you must be. Because I seek shelter and have nowhere else to go.”

Karl nodded, sinking into introspection for a moment. “Smolensk. What happened?”

Oryl shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I understand. Did the Germans chase you out of town?”

“Uh, yes. They came after me on halftracks, more than a squad of them.”

“They came on what?” Karl asked.

“A car with long rolling wheels.”

“Ah, der Sonderkraftfahrzeug.”

“If you say so.”

Karl remained silent, then spoke again. “Thank you. I don’t need to know any more.”

“Then I have questions of my own,” Oryl said. “Who are you? Not your name, but who are you?”

“I am Karl Tesdorpf, Hauptmann in the 30. Infanterie-Division. I come from Lübeck. I was in Demjansk with my soldiers but was brought down here to complete a mission. But I can not tell the local German soldiers about my mission so I am with no help for now.”

Oryl nodded to him. “So who are you really? And why were those Germans after you? Is that even your real name?”

Karl did a double take, spotting the glint in Oryl’s eye. “I see. I am sorry for not telling the truth. Yes, that is my real name and position. But I was not brought here for a mission. I was taken here by the Schutzstaffel because of my family. I escaped capture and killed other soldiers. So they came after me.”

“And what do your family have to do with these… schutstyaffel?”

Karl smiled at the mangled word. “Back home, Germans are doing the same thing here. They are bringing workers into Germany from Poland and other places. They are treated like the Russians here, not well. My family helps some of them. Lets them escape. The Schutzstaffel and police, they think my family are connected with the Resistance, so they come after them. But we are an old family, with many allies. So they come after us where our friends cannot help us. That is me here in Russia.”

Oryl moved his head closer. “So your family are like the old Russian nobles and the Schutzstaffel are like the communists?”

Karl thought about the comparison for a moment. “Yes, that is right. Although the reason is different.”

Oryl nodded. “Then I understand your fight. You are like castaway nobility, fleeing from the new world. We have stories about these things.”

But Karl shook his head. “I am no… what did you say? Castaway nobility. I am a soldier, as my father before me was. I am not back home. I turned away from what happens back home until the Schutzstaffel made me care.”

Oryl sank back into his blankets. “I see now. But I don’t understand why you saved me then. If you don’t care what happens to the people you conquer, why save an enemy soldier?”

Karl shook his head, driving back Oryl’s doubt. “I fight for my fatherland. What threat do you pose to it? I fight to win, not to kill enemies. At that time, you were not my enemy, so I did not have to fight you. Russia may not have signed die Genfer Konvention, but that does not mean I cannot follow it.”

Oryl cocked his head at the unfamiliar word but passed on nonetheless. “So what is your next move then, servant of your fatherland? Keep fighting? Save more Russian soldiers? Kill more Germans? What is it you are actually doing for your fatherland?”

Karl froze for a second, giving the question proper consideration. “I don’t know,” he said, a simple but effective answer. “I don’t know. For now, I will survive, and then see what is next.”

Oryl grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “So you are like me then, eh? A survivor? And where are you planning to survive?”

“I have a storehouse,” Karl said. Oryl’s eyes lit up but he tried to hide it. “If I get there, I can survive the worst of winter and then decide what to do.”

“And where is this storehouse?”

“Behind German lines, up North and West. The town is easy to get to, but not the place.”

“What is the problem?”

Karl spread his arms, the poker held out to the side. He had come the whole way around to face Oryl now, the fire burning away forgotten. “I didn’t make the storehouse and I do not remember where it is.”

Oryl slumped back in regret. “So how are we supposed to find it?”

Karl smiled at him. “We are supposed?”

“I… I mean… I need some way to stay alive. And this is the only plan I’ve had since I left Rzhev.”

Karl nodded. “It will help me, in fact. The map was with my men. There is but a problem. The Schutzstaffel must have took it with them when they took me. It will be with my other items in Peno.”

Oryl shook his head. “Peno is a long way from here in the cold.”

“It is. But it is shorter than our rations will last for. And that is shorter than how long we would be stuck here.”

“So how can we get this map out of Peno?”

“I will think of that on the way.”

The pair lapsed into silence for some time. Karl must have been thinking through his plan, and Oryl thought through what he had been told. If he was honest with himself, it was the only suggestion he had heard so far that gave him a chance of victory. He couldn’t return to a life in Russia after deserting. Nor could he hope to last for long across the border without the help of a German like Karl. And this one seemed like he could be influential.

The key point that struck Oryl was how long Karl had evaded capture for, hinting at his connections. Poland had been conquered more than a year ago, and it was only now that his family’s actions had caught up to him. If he made a good enough impression, he could get out of this with friends in the German army.

And even if he didn’t, well, there was still that cache of supplies for the winter. With that, who knew what he could manage to do?

He didn’t like his chances of dealing with these SS people, but he may have to deal with them anyway as a Russian in Nazi occupied lands.

Oryl nodded to Karl as Karl looked up himself. The German got the first word in. “I have an idea of what we could try,” he said. “Or more a weakness. If I am correct, we can get in and out of Peno without fuss.”

Oryl nodded. “I have also decided,” he said. “I’ll come with you. There is nothing left for me in Russia, with my family gone. I will follow you for now, and see where your path leads until I need to find my own.”

Karl nodded. “Alright. I’ll make sure you won’t regret following me.” He stood and opened the two vision slats another inch, finally letting light fill the inside of the cabin but also allowing purchase to a gust of cold air.

“Of course,” Oryl said. “I’m anticipating it. But hey! Watch the cold! I’m wounded here!”

Instead of replying, Karl dropped another block of wood on the fire and the temperature stabilised.

From there the cabin devolved into the rigour daily activities. Karl stepped into the dregs of the storm to chop wood and gather snow for water. Oryl managed to drag himself free of the blankets and cooked some of the canned food, a simple meal of bean stew with tinned pineapple juice warmed over the fire.

They ate in silence, Karl watching the other man while Oryl, not concerned, scarfed down the food to abate his hunger and raced for seconds.

However, before Karl noticed it, the food had broken down his barriers and he was also pouring a second round into his bowl, scraping against the bottom of the tin.

“This is better than any ration I’ve ever eaten,” he said. “Do you Soviets normally eat like this?”

Oryl laughed, a cross between a normal laugh and a hysterical one but still the first time he had seen or heard something funny in a long time. Once he quieted down he finally managed to reply. “No. Definitely not. Making rations edible makes for good cooking practice though.”

“I take it there’s lots of finding food involved?” Karl asked.

“Naturally. From the land and the people of the land. Some are happy to donate to the troops. Others are less so, both the animals and the people.”

Karl nodded. “It is good though. If you cooked me this back in Lübeck, I might even eat it.”

“The food back home is always better in memories,” Oryl said. “I found a loaf of bread at home when I went back, the sort I used to eat as a child. When I tried it this time, it tasted terrible.”

That drove Karl to silence for a minute. But as he finished his meal, he realised that something had changed.

“There’s no snow falling anymore,” he said.

Oryl listened to the wind and the flutter over the snowbanks. “I can’t hear over the fire. Aren’t us young people supposed to have better hearing?”

Karl pushed open the door. The wind was still blowing, but the grey skies had begun to lighten. “The storm is over.”

“So what does that mean for us?” Oryl asked. “I don’t want to push myself through the snow in this condition. I am better than last night, but I don’t want to go out and pass out again.”

Karl snorted. “You didn’t pass out from your wounds. It was smoke in the air. Nothing was going up the chimney, it was all sitting in here.”

Oryl sat there for a short moment. “Oh. Then yes, I suppose it can’t be that bad.” He smirked. “Just be prepared to carry me if I get tired.”

Karl grunted. “Don’t eat so much then. If you get meat on that skeleton you might weigh heavy for me.”

“How far is it to Peno?” Oryl asked.

“Are you not the one who lives here?” Karl asked. “I think one hundred kilometres, but I don’t know where we are.”

“I’ve never walked there,” Oryl said. “I’ve never even been there to be correct, only Ostashkov.”

“I don’t want to go to Ostashkov,” Karl said. “That is Russian territory.”

“Either way, it will take at least two days to get there,” Oryl said. “More if we go through the snow.”

Karl pulled out a pair of snowshoes. “There are more of these somewhere here. How long will it take with these?”

Oryl thought. “At least two days, maybe three or four. Two is if we trek from dawn to dusk and go faster than I think I can be.”

Karl nodded. “A question. How did you survive away from home in winter until now?”

Oryl thought on it. “It wasn’t as cold as it is now. But I found barns and other houses to sleep in. If you stay around the roads, there are often deserted homes around. But there is no straight road to Peno.”

“So what about,” Karl asked, “We don’t go straight to Peno and rest along the way? If we cross to Russian land, there should be a road in the right direction. We can rest near that. From there we go to German territory and on to Peno.”

Oryl thought the plan through. “We would take at least a day and a half. But it could work.”

“Then it’s done,” Karl said. “But we need to leave now. The sun was up for some time. I don’t want to wait for tomorrow. The longer time we take, the longer time they have to prepare.”

Oryl agreed by swinging off the cot. The two gathered their own gear and what provisions from the cabin they could safely carry into sacks. A shame there were no backpacks or other strapped bags in the cabin for them to carry equipment. Oryl tied his torn jacket back together with cloth ripped from Karl’s padded rag, pouring tar on the joints to seal it.

Oryl slung his bag over his uninjured shoulder. Karl tied his own around his neck. Strapping snowshoes over their own boots, they prepared to step outside.

“One thing left,” Oryl said. “If you have a white shirt, wear it on top of your coat. It will hide us in the snow.”

Seeing the sense in the suggestion, Karl did as he said. Laden with gear, the fire doused, the two prepared to step outside.

The ground through the door was laden with a blanket of fresh snow. Perhaps a ruler’s height had fallen since the previous morning, a considerable amount for the Russian forests. For the moment, it was unmarked, with a scattered spot of green here and there where bristles had fallen from the pine trees in the wind, or disruption in the flat surface where a clot of snow or ice had fallen from their perch on the leaves. A fine dusting of powder scattered around, dancing in undulating patterns over the almost even surface.

Karl and Oryl stepped outside, their tread falling lightly upon the snow. Hope lifted in Oryl’s heart, but also fear. For a short moment he had felt safe, had more than anything been safe, and now he was willingly placing himself back in the reach of danger. But, as he reminded himself, risks were necessary for survival. One step at a time, he needed to move.