The Eastern sky was a smear of ash and blood when Christian was called forward for a mission. He had not yet slept; the thunder of artillery had been unbroken for two nights, a ceaseless pounding that rattled his bones as if the earth itself resisted the invasion. He lit a cigarette with a trembling hand and watched the pale smoke coil upward, vanishing into the gray morning.
A lieutenant strode toward him with a folded paper. "Abwehr officer," the man said, snapping it into Christian's hand. "Your orders. Intelligence reports a Soviet radio operator in the forests west of here. He is sending troop movements back to the Red Army. Find him. Take him alive if possible. The brass might want to know what he knows, after you can eliminate him."
Christian tucked the orders into his coat, his heart sinking. He thought of Paris, of Kristina's warm breath on his cheek, and her whisper of hope in a city torn by shadows. That world felt a thousand years away. Here, on the edges of Russia, there was no hope left, only frost, smoke, and silence broken by distant screams.
He was given a team to help him with his mission. The patrol was small: seven Wehrmacht soldiers, mud-stained and exhausted, their eyes sunken with fatigue. They marched without words, rifles at the ready. Christian walked behind them, listening to the crunch of boots against the damp soil, the soft hiss of their breath. He had never felt so far from humanity.
The forest grew denser as they pressed forward. Trees arched overhead, skeletal fingers clutching at the dim light. Insects buzzed, the only sound of life in a landscape drained of color. Christian thought of his sister Katia, her laughter in their childhood garden. He wondered if she still laughed or if laughter itself had been extinguished from the world.
Hours passed before they found the shack; a crude structure of rotting timber, almost invisible among the pines. A thin wire ran from its roof into the treetops, and from inside came the faint murmur of static.
The soldiers fanned out, rifles raised. Christian gestured for silence and moved to the door. He pushed it open slowly.
Inside, an old man sat hunched over a battered radio set, his fingers working the dials with care. His beard was white, his shoulders stooped, yet his voice carried steady into the receiver. Christian understood no Russian, but he did not need to. The rhythm was unmistakable; coordinates, troop counts, bearings.
The man turned, startled. His eyes were bright, sharp and unafraid. He looked at Christian not as an intruder, but as an inevitability.
"Alive," Christian ordered. His voice was low, tight. "We need what he knows."
The soldiers surged forward, dragging the old man from his chair. He did not fight, did not cry out. He simply closed his mouth and lifted his chin as though daring them to break him.
Torture
Back at the makeshift camp, the soldiers wasted no time. They beat him with rifle butts, pressed bayonet tips against his ribs and tore at his shirt, demanding he speak. To their shock, the old man answered in broken but clear German.
"You think I will beg? You think I will betray my sons? My country?" His lips curled in a faint smile. Blood trickled from his mouth, but his voice carried steady.
The soldiers struck him again, furious at his calmness. The soldiers laughed, though uneasily, and struck him harder. One pressed a bayonet tip against his throat.
"Speak, old dog! Tell us what you know."
Christian's hand shot up. "Enough!" The word cracked through the room. Reluctantly, they stepped back. He crouched in front of the man, his handkerchief wiping at the blood on his chin.
"You know our tongue," Christian said softly, almost kindly. "Tell me what you know. Spare yourself more pain. Where is the Red Army? Where do they hide?"
The old man's lips curled into something like a smile. His voice was quiet, but steady, as if he were already beyond this place, beyond pain.
"You Germans are blind. You think this land is yours. But Russia does not kneel. The Red Army will rise from the forests, from the rivers, from the frozen ground itself. It will burn you all; every camp, every village you steal, every man who dares wear that uniform. Winter will swallow you whole. Your bones will feed the soil you claim to own."
A chill slithered down Christian's spine. Around him, the soldiers muttered uneasily, some spitting to ward off the omen. Christian stared into the old man's eyes, there was no madness there, only conviction. "Take him away. Take everything useful out of here and burn the shack." Christian ordered his men.
For hours they questioned the old man. They tortured him and yet he said nothing. He did not break. He kept muttering curses at them through his broken teeth and spat blood at the interrogators. "He will not break, he's a tough old bastard." A major remarked. Christian wanted it to end and when a bright eyed private handed him a note from a commander, it seemed his wish had been granted.
Evidence gathered from the shack is useful to us.
He folded the paper and nodded to the major and quietly left the room. He paused and looked back at the old man. When their eyes met, the old man smiled at him. Christian only looked away when a soldier struck him across the face.
When the sun dipped, the old man was dragged outside. The soldiers wanted to make an example. A line of villagers was forced to watch. Christian stood apart, silent, his hands behind his back. He should have stopped it, perhaps, but he did not.
The crack of the rifle echoed across the fields. The old man slumped into the dirt, lifeless. His blood seeped into the earth. The villagers did not cry; they only bowed their heads, as though mourning in silence was their last act of defiance.
Christian turned away, his jaw clenched. His men celebrated their efficiency, reporting the village "secured." But Christian could not banish the old man's words.
"The Red Army will rise from the forests, from the rivers, from the frozen ground itself. It will burn you all; every camp, every village you steal, every man who dares wear that uniform. Winter will swallow you whole. Your bones will feed the soil you claim to own.
That night, as the flames from the torched huts lit up the horizon, Christian sat alone at the edge of the camp, pen scratching across the paper of his report. His hand trembled. He wrote the facts intelligence had gathered, suspects neutralized, successful missions but between the lines, the old man's prophecy lingered, like a shadow over everything.
For the first time since the war began, Christian wondered not whether Germany could win, but whether this land itself, this vast, cruel land would allow it.