Rzhev, Tver Oblast.

10th January 1942, 12:14 p.m.

German territory, contested.

Winter.

“The exhausting winter road

Leads the troika, full of strength;

The light bell with one tone loaded,

Weary rings through all time’s length.”

- Extract from a Russian poem

Oryl stared at the three other occupants of the room, taking in their faces in the dim light as the rest of them all took each other’s faces in. Perched on one bed was an older man, his skin sagging off his skinny frame. Perhaps he had been overweight at one time, but time, poor nutrition and hard work had pulled the weight off his bones.

The man on the other bed was younger but still beyond Oryl’s age. His blonde hair was cut short across his head but still managed to lay unkempt. He was more fleshed out than the other former occupant of the room and his gaze was defiant to show for it. Both men were wearing uniform clothes and coats, thick enough that they could survive but not enough to leave them feeling warm.

The final person in the room was the one who had just walked in with Oryl. He had managed to get most of his clothing back on after the medical inspection and was the most rugged up in the room. Beneath his cap was a scowling face with a small nose, framed by brown hair. But beneath his scowl Oryl could see a hint of fear that the other man was trying to hide.

As he took off his cap, Oryl could see that he was young - younger than anyone else here. He guessed that the boy was a year at most over enlistment age. Boy was perhaps the incorrect word, given that he was at an age when he could enlist, but it was close to correct.

As the four finished their inspection of each other, the elder of the room opened the conversation. “So who are you all?”

While Oryl held his silence, considering asking the man to introduce himself first, the other soldier jumped in.

“My name is Nikita. I’m a member of one of the scouting units for the 153rd Guards’ Rifle Division, currently tasked with the liberation of Rzhev.” He turned to Oryl. “And you?”

Oryl didn’t bother arguing at this point. “Oryl. 98th Rifle Division. Infantryman.”

Nikita waited for him to say more, but the other two moved onto their own introductions.

“I’m Mikhail,” the younger of the two said. “I worked on spare jobs at the farms around here. I got brought in for breaking curfew something like a week ago.”

“And I am Romeo,” the elder said. “I used to preach at the church in town. And I’ve been in the camp since the very beginning.”

And in a moment Oryl recognised him. Father Guskov, the meat stripped away from his bones but his feeble gaze and brash nature the same as ever. He remembered his sermons, sitting at the back of the church on Sundays and watching his parents pray. He fought a half smile from his face for a second before it was wiped away by the reality of where he was.

“So what have they made you do since the start of this camp?” Oryl asked Romeo, the most senior there.

Romeo seemed happy to tell his story. “At first we were building the camp itself. That was worthwhile, because we were happy to move out of tents into proper buildings, as bad as these are. But then they made us work around town. Cutting down trees in the forest to be shipped out or used by their troops as firewood. Burying dead bodies, some of theirs, some of ours and some of us. Building camps and defences in the forest or town.”

He shook his head. “It’s been a hard time. But it’s good to know that the army are almost here. How far away were the rest of your troops?”

Nikita shook his head. “I’m just a junior officer. I don’t know how far behind the rest of our soldiers were. But I do know that they will be racing here to free the rest of our men as soon as they possibly can.”

Oryl gave the soldier another glance. He doubted he was telling the truth about being an officer. He pegged “liar” to the end of his list about Nikita.

“But aren’t soldiers who are taken prisoner considered traitors to the cause?” Oryl asked. “So what will our fate be if the Russians do arrive?”

Nikita paled and stuttered. Oryl could tell that he hadn’t given his words proper thought. “I have friends in the commissariat, so… I’m sure they’ll understand that we’re just trying to resist from the inside…”

As he mumbled explanations, Karl shook his head. The kid was delusional. Perhaps he did truly believe what he was saying, in which case perhaps he was dangerous too. Oryl would have to keep watch around him.

Neither did he miss the glint in Romeo’s eyes as this went on. That man would be keeping an eye on Nikita as well, perhaps for different reasons than Oryl. He made a note in his mind to watch the priest too. If they wanted to conspire together, that was their business.

A bell was tolled across the camp and lunch was distributed, conversation ceasing as the two original inmates gazed in anticipation at the door. Oryl and Nikita eyed each other, not looking forward to what the Germans had in store for them.

A trolley came around to their cell containing a pot of soup. A bite sized dollop was ladled into bowls and a pinch of bread dropped on the side, more as a garnish than an actual accompaniment. The collection was slid under the door where the two hungry inmates fought over the largest bowl. Oryl stepped in and grabbed one, anticipating that he would need his strength, while Nikita was left to choose the last.

Oryl started eating his share. They had not been provided utensils, so he imitated the other two - tipped the contents of the bowl down his throat and shovelled it down with the bread. The rest he mopped up as best he could.

He was starting to regret the comment he had made to Karl that time about food back home. This was nothing compared to the bread he used to eat, even after it had gone stale.

Looking around, Oryl was expecting more to eat, but didn’t see any forthcoming. Little wonder the priest had gotten so thin.

“So what happens now?” he asked.

“The evening shift,” Mikhail said. “They split us up and send us off to work.”

On schedule, the door shuddered open as a German soldier outside turned the lock. Nikita shovelled down the last of his food, choking on the taste, as they were all brought outside.

They were paraded down the rows of houses, more and more prisoners joining the march as their own meals were interrupted.

Down the other end of the camp, Oryl could see female prisoners being gathered for their own tasks, but the genders were segregated throughout the camp as far as he could tell.

The male crowd shuffled into rough lines along an open parade ground, forming lines of ten. They were straightened with the odd whack then counted before being split up into groups of varying sizes.

Oryl ended up in a group of ten, all of whom were given shovels. They were then led out of the camp and then to the south of town by two Germans in grey uniform with rifles. They were indicated through a mix of Russian and German words and gestures to move all the snow in an area to other places.

And that was what they did. None of them spoke to each other, the guards watching their every word and action. Oryl could feel blisters grow on his hands and the muscles in his back burning, as he grabbed the snow with his shovel, moved the snow with his shovel and flung it beyond the markers the German troops had laid out. Then he repeated it. And again. And again.

His mind dulled by the repetitive work, he didn’t even notice that their team had been joined by others cutting down trees from the area they had cleared until some of the branches started falling on his head. Wiping away sweat despite the cold, he glanced over at their activity and moved away from the trees before one of them came down on top of him.

As the sun sank towards the horizon, Oryl started to count the hours going by. He and the others in his labour team had cleared out an area of snow and ice twenty metres by a hundred, piling the excess into a bank on either side and forming a metre deep gully in the natural lay of the land. Twenty other prisoners were moving through that space now, cutting down trees and cleaning up logs to open the area up for building.

As Oryl rested on his shovel, glancing around for anywhere he could clear of snow but only seeing places they had already worked over, a whistle sounded to call the prisoners back together. Twilight had just begun to set in, and the German troops didn’t want to stay out overnight.

Back in the cell, Oryl collapsed back onto a bed, claiming it as his own. He hadn’t felt it while out on the field, but he was exhausted. More exhausted than he had been when on the run, more exhausted than when he had been snowshoeing through the worst winter he had ever experienced. It wasn’t just a physical tiredness either, it was also the weariness to the depths of his bones that came of knowing he was just a piece, cared for by neither side but used by both. He needed to see Karl again, to see his parents again, to speak to somebody who saw him as himself.

He shovelled down his dinner, now fighting over the largest of the three bowls with Mikhail and Romeo, and fell asleep straight away.

When he woke up to fight over the morning meal, he realised that Nikita was missing.

“What happened to the other rifleman?” Oryl asked the other two, who didn’t seem surprised by his absence.

“I told you yesterday,” Romeo said. “You must have been dozing on your bed. I was in a work group with him. He was caught in an accident with another worker and was injured. The guards took him to be treated.”

“When will we see him then?” Oryl asked. “How serious was it?”

“I don’t know,” Romeo said. “I’m no doctor. I just saw blood as the guards were dragging the two of them away.”

Oryl nodded. With no more information, he had to trust the priest’s word. He did wonder though who might replace Mikhail in their cell, though.

Reflecting on himself, however, Oryl realised he hadn’t done anything to find his parents. Turning to Romeo, he considered that given the man’s time here, he might have some information about them.

“Hey, Romeo. How well do you know the goings-on here?” Oryl asked.

Romeo turned half a head to him, still gulping down his soup. “That depends. What do you need to know?”

“People held here. How many of them would you know?”

Romeo put his bowl down, wiping his lips clean. “It will cost you.”

Oryl looked down at himself. “What do you think I have that I can pay with?”

Romeo gestured at Oryl’s still occupied bowl of food. “Three meals if I can give you good information. Plus one extra up front for my time.”

Oryl stared at his bowl of food, then back at Romeo. His stomach growled in protest.

“Well? Do you want to know or not?” Romeo asked.

In answer, Oryl pushed over his bowl of food to Romeo, who churned it down before he could change his mind. “Alright then, friend. Who do you want to know about?”

Oryl nodded. Now that it had come down to this, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. But at the same time, this was the reason why he was here.

“I want to hear about two people who lived in this town. Maxim and Ilya Denikin. Where are they now?”

The priest gave Oryl a second look, scanning his face beneath the layers of grime. His gaze dwelled on his chin and eyes, seeking to spot something beneath the remnants of the months of hardship Oryl had gone through. “So you’re the baker’s boy,” he said, as much in surprise as for confirmation. “You’ve changed.”

Oryl nodded. “So have you.”

Romeo glanced down at his reduced frame. “These are changing times.”

Oryl waited a few heartbeats as the priest muttered to himself, then coughed. “My question?”

“Of course.” Romeo gazed off into the distance. “Ilya I don’t know about for certain because of the segregation. I think she disappeared around the same time as your father. I stopped seeing him around the camp no more than two weeks ago.”

Oryl stood up and leaned over the priest. “What do you mean, disappeared?”

“Exactly what I say.” Romeo waved a hand. “It happens all the time. How many people do you think are in this camp? And how many of them do you think have been in it since the beginning?”

Oryl stepped back, letting the question sink in. “I don’t know. Half or more?”

Romeo shook his head. “No more than a handful. New people come in, old ones disappear. I don’t know what happens to each one. Some of them would have died. Others might be brought to other camps further away from the lines. Some might escape or be set free. I don’t keep track of each of them.”

“And you don’t know what happened to my parents?”

“No.” Romeo’s simple denial didn’t squash the hope Oryl was holding. He wasn’t naive enough to believe they had been released, with their house destroyed in town. He didn’t think they would have tried to escape either - they were too simple folk for such a plan. But it was possible that they had transferred to another camp, somewhere else. Now he just needed to find out who sent them and where.

“Then do you know what happened to them while they were here? Particularly just before they disappeared?”

Romeo waved the question away. “I already said, I don’t know. Go ask one of the guards if you really need to find out. They’re the only ones here who might be able to tell you. If you can speak German enough to convince them, that is.”

Karl snorted. He doubted he’d be able to convince the guards even if he knew German as well as Karl. But neither did he think he could get further answers out of the old priest. He had already sacrificed a few meals for it and didn’t want to waste more.

The final possibility, Romeo’s first suggestion, sat at the back of his brain, but he didn’t give it credence, as if to acknowledge it would be to cause it to happen. Any other option he would take right now.

The next day, after supplying his breakfast to Romeo, Oryl was marched out with a group of prisoners to clear snow, dig ditches in the cleared space, and fill sandbags from those ditches. None of the people he was working with were the same as those he was alongside the previous day.

Their team worked alongside a team of Germans laying the filled sandbags into an emplacement. A handful of the Germans, fresher in face than the others, looked like they wanted to burst out singing, but the rest looked like they wanted to be there as much as the Russians did. All had removed their heavy winter coats for the work.

Oryl had a thought for a moment as they were taken for a brief meal about turning on the workers next to them, using the blade of his shovel to get revenge on those who occupied his home. But the gaze of the soldiers watching over them was always too keen, their fingers always too close to their triggers.

Instead, he let himself be moved back from their meal to the work. He continued to dig and raise, scoop and pour, carry and lay, as the circular flak emplacement began to take shape.

The Germans took a break as the guards ordered the Russian prisoners to haul the anti-aircraft gun for the emplacement into position. The team of ten grouped together to drag the half-ton weapon through the snow, forcing its wheels over hidden bumps in the ground.

The only warning the group had before disaster struck was a faint whine, carrying over the grunts and swears of the team.

A hail of bullets stitched through the snow, sending up plumes of spray up metres into the air. Oryl dived clear, as did a pair of the more alert prisoners. The rust were still up against the gun when the bullets reached them.

The first to be hit, closest to the source of the fire, had his spine severed as the heavy calibre bullet passed through his midsection and out the other side. Three others off to the side escaped as the bullets passed in front of their faces.

The final three were the unluckiest. They were struck by bullets after they had broken through the casing of the weapon, bursting out on the other side in molten conflagrations of burning shrapnel. One was dealt a fatal blow with his body almost bisected by the impact, parts of his torso collapsing in on the missing space around his stomach. The other two were hit by shrapnel and collapsed back with a burned and perforated face and arm.

And then the flyover was past, and the engine noises of the aircraft roared as it passed overhead. One of the Germans was also hit in the leg during its strafe, but Oryl didn’t have a reason to care.

The Sturmovik flew off, tilting a wing in salute and eyeing the damage it had caused until a stitching of tracer fire through the air drove it off. Oryl watched it go while lying back in the snow, trying to be too small to be noticed.

He had been so close to death again, and yet again those right by him had died while he had managed to escape. Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was a curse.

The dying Russian received a bullet to end his misery. The other three injured got their turn moments after, the last survivor trying to crawl away with motionless legs as the soldiers moved up to execute him.

With the wounded survivors taken care of, the guards herded the reduced count of prisoners back to their cells for an early break before their meal. Sensing Oryl’s mood, his two cellmates didn’t bother him besides Romeo asking for his meal as payment. Oryl handed it over without argument.

And Nikita still hadn’t returned.

The next morning arrived with another lacklustre breakfast. A speckled bowl of oaty soup. At least it looked filling - which was all the filling it was going to do to Oryl as he had to pass it over to Romeo, stomach growling.

Romeo gathered his three bowls together as the food cart moved away, spooning mouthfuls from each of them in rapid succession.

Mikhail gave him an incredulous glance. “How did you get another person’s share? They can’t have delivered you Nikita’s by mistake.”

Father Guskov brushed him away. “Piss off.”

Mikhail snorted and stepped back, waving his spoon at the food. “So you’re just going to hog all that?”

And then it clicked for Oryl. The priest’s - no, Romeo’s excitement at Nikita’s introduction. Nikita going missing. The extra food.

And how Romeo had survived here for so long despite his obvious trials.

“You backstabbing hound,” Oryl said, clenching his hands into fists.

“What are you talking about?” Romeo asked, spooning another mouthful down.

“Nikita.”

At Oryl’s word, Romeo’s spoon froze between his lips. “I said, what are you talking about? Are you trying to accuse me of something?”

“Is that all a fellow Russian was worth to you? A bowl of soup or two?”

Romeo drew the spoon away again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We have no idea what happened to Nikita.”

“I bet you don’t want to know. But you’ve justified it, haven’t you? Let yourself believe your conscience is clean while your victims are dragged away and never seen again.”

“No way,” Mikhail muttered in the background, catching on to Oryl’s train of thought.

“What about my parents? Did you happen to know more about what happened to them than you told me?”

“I swear to you, I don’t know anything about…”

Oryl lashed out with his foot into Romeo’s bowls, spilling a pathetic handful of oats and their surrounding murk onto the floor. He surged to his feet, ready to take this further if Romeo pushed him.

And push him he did. The former priest rose to his feet with a shout, pointing out with his spoon at Oryl. “And so what? You said it yourself, he was a delusional traitor who believed he was a proper soldier! I just made sure he met proper judgement!”

“And caught yourself double rations in the process?”

“That’s right.” Romeo’s eyes went serious for a moment, staring straight at Oryl. “If you stay here for as long as I have, you realise that all that matters is survival. You might think yourself noble or righteous, but when you’re starving in a cell you’ll learn what your values mean to you.”

“Everything,” said Oryl, and punched him.

Unprepared for the blow, Romeo stumbled back, bleeding off the force of the blow. Undamaged as he was though, he didn’t have time to overcome the shock of the pain before Oryl laid into him with the second round.

With a few strikes Oryl had him reeling against the cell door. From there, Oryl grabbed him by the hair and forced his face against the grille of the vision slit. Blinded, Romeo flailed around with his arms to keep Oryl off him, but they barely drove him back for a moment before he continued the assault.

A pair of punches slammed Romeo into the grille, lacerating the skin on his nose and brow. His cries for help grew more frantic as Oryl started to land kicks on him, smashing against his legs and ankles.

“What do you know about my parents, you bastard?”

Then Oryl was tackled from behind, Mikhail pinning his arms and dragging him off of Romeo. The priest tried to regain his feet with an unsteady stumble before he was pushed off them again by the door opening. Colder night air poured into the room with a pair of guards and their shouts for order.

“It was him!” Romeo shouted, pointing out the restrained Oryl to the guards. “Er was es! He was a traitor - Flüchtige - like Nikita! He attacked me when he found I might tell you about him!”

The guards glanced over the pair of combatants before grabbing them both and pulling them out into the snow. They slammed the door shut on Mikhail, leaving him alone Romeo cried in pain as he put weight on one of his ankles. He must have sprained or broken it from one of Oryl’s better hits.

The guard didn’t take the time to check how serious the injury was and didn’t bother dragging him any further. He threw Romeo onto the snow, took aim with his rifle and pulled the trigger.

And now Oryl was alone with two silent guards, him and a body marched away from the prisoner cells to unknown destinations in the middle of the night. He didn’t have time to acclimatise himself to Romeo’s death before he was far away from his cell with no hope of safety.

He was lucky to not be shot once they were away from the cells. Instead he was dropped inside an only partly covered cage out in the open, a sprinkling of snow covering the bottom. The soldiers walked away after locking the gate, leaving Oryl exposed in the cold snow overnight.

While the top of the cage was clothed to keep off the snow, the wind still gusted through the gaps around the ground with no obstruction. Flurries of frozen particles were blown beneath the gap by the wind, settling in his clothes and chilling him further.

He managed to tear a piece of cloth off the cover, giving him some protection of the wind. He tried to find a warm spot before settling at last against the corner of the cage, sitting upright to keep his head away from the wind at foot level.

He stayed like that overnight, the temperature dropping off but him at least in a pocket of warm air in a flood of winter’s breath. He would have considered how stupid he had been if he had the opportunity to concentrate on anything but survival. Perhaps Romeo had been right, to some degree at least.

He was happy to wake up the next morning with all his digits, even if his joints creaked and his toes ached. He stayed wrapped in the cloth in his corner, trying to massage feeling back into himself, as the sun crept up above the horizon and bounced off the snow beneath the shades on his prison.

In the distance he could hear the guards moving around passing food to the prisoners. Yet however long he waited, as the noises died off elsewhere and the prisoners were all sent to their work for the day, nobody came for him. He was just left to his own thoughts, the cold and his own hunger.

He packed some snow into a ball and sucked on it for moisture as his lips grew dry. The angle of the sun rose, the temperature increased, and yet still nobody came to feed or even see him.

That all changed in an instant with boots stopping outside and a rattling around the key of the cage. The door swung open, leaving the rags out the front swinging in the air of its departure.

Three burly grey-coated guards stepped inside. They kept their rifles at the ready, although Oryl had no realistic thoughts of trying to resist.

“Komm mitt uns,” one said in a deep-throated voice - Come with us. He grabbed Oryl before he could comply and heaved him through the door. Oryl shivered as his cloth covering was cast aside, although the faint rays of sun did abate some of the chill.

They dragged Oryl across to the east, to a long shack mounted against the outer wall of the encampment. He was led into the building, past a long wall of dark cells with huddled shapes in the corners, before he was dropped in his own space in the row.

“Da,” one said, shoving Oryl into the cell and confusing him with the sudden Russian word.

Oryl expected them to leave but they didn’t, instead stepping into the cell with him. They backed him into a corner, looming around him like a prize pig they were about to gut.

The first blow shot out from the left but Oryl managed to slip aside, the butt of the rifle only glancing his waist before thudding into the wall. The second and third he couldn’t dodge or block however, slamming against his chest and abdomen and bending him double, coughing for air.

More blows rained down on his back and legs, slamming home with slaps of heavy wood into flesh, as Oryl curled up to protect his head and vitals.

The pain didn’t even come straight away, just discomfort as the impacts slammed into him over and over again. But as the men stepped away and he fell onto his side, the protest from his entire body began to overtake him.

As his mind slipped into blackness, he heard a few words from the doorway that made him dread the future. “Wir werden zurückkommen.” He wished he didn’t understand the words, but he had heard them before and knew their meaning too well.

“We’ll be back.”

From blackness, Oryl woke again into blackness. No light was shining in from outside, nor were the lights inside the building on. A few dots of reflected moonlight danced across the ceiling, but most of Oryl’s mind was concentrated inward.

He didn’t feel like he couldn’t survive the injuries. The men hadn’t pushed him far enough that he would die outright. He had the feeling that was intentional - if they wanted him dead, they would have just put a bullet into him like they had Romeo.

The concerning point though was that Romeo had said nobody the guards took had ever come back. So perhaps a body in the snow was his eventual destination, if Karl didn’t come for him before then.

Speaking of which, the coming day was the third day since he had arrived, although it felt both much more and much less than that. He had sunk too far into the rhythm of the place, although perhaps that was what had been intended from the camp’s design. It pulled its prisoners into a routine and dulled their thoughts through constant labour and dull food, just enough to survive. Oryl did remember reading somewhere that idle hands were the most dangerous. It had certainly worked out that way for the Russian royalty.

Trying to sit up, Oryl groaned at the pain in his back. He reached back with a nervous grip and pulled his shirt free of his wounds, groaning at the pain as scabs were dislodged. His shirt was crusted with a film of his own blood, sourced from multiple wounds across his body. Part of it was caked in vomit that he didn’t even remember spewing out.

But at least he could move his limbs and nothing was broken. His body was bruised and his skin torn, but that would heal. He had already seen what happened to the infirm or those unable to work, and he didn’t plan on ending up in the same way as Romeo had, even if it was just another half-day he had to survive.

Collapsing onto his belly to keep his injuries off the ground, he tried to fall asleep to little success. His back was afire and there was no morphine or smoke inhalation this time to keep his mind off the pain.

At last, he passed out again, distracting his mind with thoughts of freedom and family for long enough to pass the pain aside.

The next morning he tried to explore his cell, as best he could given the limited illumination. The sun had come up but it only shone through the high windows onto a narrow strip near the roof. The reflections from that strip were far from enough to light the rest of the cubicle.

Instead he felt around for anything strange with his hands, running them along the doors, the hinges and what he could reach of the walls. Besides the hole in the floor that served as the toilet, however, the cell appeared to be empty.

He did discover a cracked open peephole in one of the side walls, but there wasn’t enough light in the adjacent cell to make anything out anyway. If he put his ear to it he could hear faint breathing, enough to tell him the other occupant was alive but no more than that.

Minutes later, however, after he had moved away, he heard a whistle from the other side of the wall. He rushed, or rather stumbled, over to it and tried to listen through.

“Petya?” came a voice from the other side. “You still alive?”

“I’m not Petya,” Oryl said back after the voice didn’t continue. He kept his voice low, matching the other’s muttered tone.

“Then who are you? And do you know what happened to him? Did you see him outside in the past two days?”

Oryl shook his head then realised the other party had no way of seeing. “I’m Oryl. I only got brought to the camp a few days ago, and I didn’t meet anyone called Petya out in that time, but I didn’t meet many people.”

“Oryl, the baker’s boy? Didn’t you go off to the war? This is Kassi. From down the road. I didn’t know you were still alive.”

Oryl thought back to town, but didn’t remember a Kassi. Who lived near who was pointless now anyway. But then a thought struck him. “Hey, do you know what happened to my parents?”

There was a moment’s pause, then the reply came. “Yeah, they were here a while ago for a few days. I don’t know where they were taken after that though.”

Oryl almost leaped in joy, but grimaced in pain before he could make any large movements. “Do you know who brought them here? Or took them out?”

“I… do. One of the commanders in the base. Veber, or something. He brought them in, and they might have been taken out on his orders too.”

“When were they taken out? By whom?”

Oryl’s voice grew from a whisper to a mutter, but he didn’t care at that point. What mattered was what he had come here for, and these were the answers he was seeking.

“I need to know, Kassi. This is important.”

But his answers were delayed by approaching boots, and no matter how much he hissed, Kassi was silent except for urging Oryl to be quiet in return as the footsteps grew nearer.

“Oryl!” a German voice called out. “Gibt es hier einen Oryl? Oryl Denikin?”

“Hurry!” Oryl hissed. “It’s now or never!”

But instead of answering Oryl, Kassi shook his head on the other side of the wall. “I’m sorry,” he said, before speaking out.

“Yes! Over here!” he called to the guards in Russian. “In the cell next to my left! The one who just came in!”

“No! Tell me…” Oryl hissed, but then the door was thrown open and guards were pulling him out, heedless of his injuries.

The leading officer looked Oryl over from beneath his peaked hat. “Sehr gut,” he said, then turned to Kassi’s cell. “Thanks. We will remember you.”

Oryl was dragged away from the detention block, staring back at the cell and the answers he needed as he was taken towards freedom - and right now, the only thing he wanted was to be right back in captivity.

Oryl’s heels and his guards left tracks like a dogsled, two pairs of prints and two dragged lines between them, as they hauled him through the snow to the gatehouse of the complex. Engine noises and conversation grew louder as he came around the final building to the checkpoint.

A pair of German tanks in grey and white winter camo were parked in the gatehouse, escorting a halftrack full of soldiers. And standing waiting in front of them was the man which Oryl most and least wanted to see at that moment, dressed in an unwrinkled SS uniform and with an entitled smirk on his face.

Karl, here to escort him out.

Oryl kept his gaze against the ground and shoulders hunched, trying not to stare at the German convoy or Karl in particular. Instead, he glanced at the officer’s stained boots as he was dragged in front of him.

The officer who had brought over Oryl turned to Karl and spoke to him in German. Oryl made out “Well? Is this the one?”, but the rest of their conversation escaped him. Something about time, and records.

Oryl felt a hand against his chin, and then he was staring into Karl’s eyes. He looked away, trying to signal that he hadn’t found his answers yet.

“Wir werden es rausfinden,” Karl said, letting his hand drop away from Oryl’s face. “Bringt ihn hierher.” Then to Oryl in Russian, “So what comrades did you come here to meet?”

Oryl remained silent, letting the Germans play out their game, until he heard a struggle from behind him and glanced around.

Another vaguely familiar prisoner with a mop of dark hair and had been dragged up to him from the same direction he himself had come. The only person Oryl could think of that they might have grabbed would be Kassi - giving Oryl hope. Perhaps he would get his answers yet.

Karl stared at the surprise on Oryl’s face, then nodded. “Ich werde beide nehmen, Herr Sturmscharführer.”

The other officer held out his hand. “Und die Dienstmarke?”

Karl presented a metal disk on a chain to him, which he inspected and made a note of. The officer then nodded to his soldiers, who shoved Oryl and the other Russian towards Karl’s accompanying soldiers in an exchange of custody. From grey to black, Oryl and his unwitting companion changed hands before they could realise what had happened.

They were bundled aboard the half track before any resistance could be mustered, pinned into the centre of the seating space by black-clothed troops in thick coats. The engines on the vehicles roared as they started and the small convoy began to move out. Karl wasn’t in the halftrack with them but was instead up the front, holding onto the turret of the front tank.

Kassi nudged his elbow into Oryl’s side. “What did you get me into?”

“Nothing,” Oryl said back. “Wait and see.”

“Are you crazy? They’re going to kill us. Why couldn’t I have shut my mouth back there?”

“Ruhig sein,” one of the soldiers said to the two with a scowl, causing the Russian to catch his tongue and nod.

The convoy drove out of the centre of town, tank commanders poking their heads out of the hatches of the panzers. Buildings rolled by and grew sparser on either side as they headed out into the white fields and sparse trees to the south of the occupied areas of town.

Up the front of the convoy, Karl pulled the group over as they drew out of sight of the last occupants of town. The two prisoners were pulled out of their vehicle and, as Kassi freaked out, their bonds were cut and they were released. Oryl sagged to his knees, part in relief and partly because he wasn’t sure if he could stand straight.

Karl jumped down from the tank and stepped over, taking off his cap. “Das Eagle ist gelandet.”

Oryl looked around at the soldiers scanning the perimiter and grinned. “I don’t know how you pulled this one off.”

Karl waved to the commander of the front tank, who saluted back. The group of soldiers began to drive off, leaving the three behind. “I have friends I can ask if I need to. These are men of the 1st Panzerdivision. I helped them out after a battle. Kutno.”

He turned to Kassi. “Now who is this? Someone who knows you, that one back there said?”

“This is… Kassi,” Oryl said, trying to remember who the man had said he was. “He lived near me, I think?”

“I’m Kassian Smirnov,” Kassian said. “Thank you for saving me. I won’t forget this favour.”

“We met again in prison, and he had seen my parents,” Oryl said to Karl. “I was asking him questions about them when they came to bring me to you.”

He turned to Kassian. “Now that we’re talking about it, you still had questions to answer. What happened to my parents in the end, after that Veber person brought them in?”

Kassian hesitated, glancing between Oryl and Karl. The two gazed back at him until Oryl broke the impasse. “I need to know, Kassian. This is… the last thing left for me at home. I’m serious when I say that this is important.”

Kassian looked back at Oryl, who stared straight into his eyes without flinching. After a tense moment, Kassian looked away first. “Are you certain?”

Oryl grimaced at his expression but nodded, prepared for the worst. “I’m sure.”

Kassian stared straight at Oryl, the misery in his eyes biting into Oryl’s soul. “They’re dead. I know because they made me bury them.”