The hunger was no longer hunger.
It had passed beyond the stomach, beyond the groan of an empty gut, into something colder, deeper like an ache in the bones, a trembling in the muscles, a fog behind the eyes. Christian no longer thought of meals, of bread, of meat. He thought only of filling the void with anything.
And so he went out, day after day, with the scavenging parties.
They were no longer soldiers, not really. The gray uniforms hung from their shoulders like rags. Their boots were cracked, patched with wire, bound with string. Rifles were slung not as weapons but as burdens, and their eyes darted like scavenger birds across the snow.
They prowled the ruins, digging through rubble, prying at corpses, breaking frozen doors with rifle butts. Christian went with them because he had to. A man alone would be torn apart; by Soviets, by hunger, by his own comrades.
On the second day of scavenging, they found a horse. It lay stiff in the snow, eyes glazed, its ribs sharp under the skin. Perhaps it had been a messenger's mount, or perhaps it had staggered into the city and starved like the rest of them.
The scavengers fell on it like wolves.
Knives scraped against frozen flesh. Boots kicked at one another. Men growled, cursed, clawed. Someone shouted for order, but no one listened. Hands reached, pulled, tore, until the smell of blood and rot filled the air.
Christian stood among them, his breath ragged, his knife shaking in his hand. For a moment he could not bring himself to strike. This was not hunting, not soldiering. The man had become animals in order to survive. Some ripped at the meat with their hands and teeth.
Then another soldier elbowed him aside, ripping a strip of meat free. The sight broke something in him. Christian dropped to his knees, dug the blade into the carcass, and carved with the rest.
Blood smeared his hands, warm for only a heartbeat before freezing on his skin. He pressed the meat to his lips, chewing though it was raw, though it was sour with rot.
He gagged but forced it down. Around him, men stuffed their mouths, snarling, tearing. The scene might have been a pack of dogs fighting over carrion.
And he was one of them.
On the way back, they passed a row of frozen bodies lined against a wall. Soldiers who had collapsed, too weak to rise again. Snow had drifted over their faces, but their shapes were unmistakable.
One of the scavengers stopped, prying at a corpse's boots. "Good leather still," he muttered, tugging hard until the foot snapped free inside. He cursed but pocketed the boots anyway.
Another man laughed hoarsely. "I would have fought you for those shoes if I had smaller feet." Christian could not look away. The dead seemed at peace, eyes closed, faces smooth, as though sleep had finally claimed them. He felt something sharp twist in his chest; envy.
At least their war was over.
At least their hunger was done.
At least they would never wake to another day of gnawing emptiness.
His legs buckled, and for a heartbeat he wanted nothing more than to sink into the snow beside them, to let the frost creep over him, to be still. But his body betrayed him. His stomach snarled, his heart hammered, his breath fought to draw air. Even as he wished for death, he clawed at life.
That night, huddled in the dugout, Christian gnawed at a strip of horseflesh. It was tough, rancid, filled with splinters of bone. He chewed until his jaw ached, forcing it down with gulps of half-frozen water.
He stared into the darkness, his thoughts cutting sharper than any knife.
What am I but a dog chasing masters? He had chased Stalin's shadow, a knife in his hand. He had chased Hitler's will, through fire and rubble. He had obeyed Canaris, endured Müller, bent under every chain offered to him.
Now here he was, crawling in the ruins, feeding on carrion.
A dog, he told himself. No more, no less. A dog chasing masters, never choosing, never free.
The thought dug deep, festering. He remembered Kristina's face warm, alive, untouched by frost. He thought of his family, of home, of bread fresh from an oven. They were phantoms now, flickers of a world that had no place in Stalingrad.
Would Kristina even know me if she saw me now? Or would she turn away, as one turns from a stray in the street?
He pressed his forehead to the frozen wall, whispering to himself, voice raw:
"If this is loyalty, then what is treason? If this is honor, then what is shame?"
No answer came, only the groan of wind through shattered beams.
The next morning, Christian felt eyes on him again. He turned and saw Müller at the edge of the trench, coat buttoned, gloves spotless despite the filth all around.
Müller's face bore no hunger, no frostbite, no madness. He was untouched, as though the winter itself dared not lay a hand on him. Their eyes met.
Müller did not speak. He only watched. Christian looked away first, bile rising in his throat. He wondered if Müller knew of the thoughts that gnawed at him, the envy of corpses, the wish for death. Perhaps Müller was waiting. Waiting for him to fall, to fail, to turn and perhaps Müller was right to wait.
That night, Christian dreamed once more.
This time he was running through snow, on all fours, panting, muzzle stained red. He chased shadows. Stalin's face, Hitler's voice, Müller's smile but every time he neared them, they dissolved into smoke.
Behind him came laughter, cruel and distant. He turned to see a pack of dogs tearing at one another, teeth flashing, eyes hollow. He recognized their faces. Soldiers, officers, men he had marched beside.
He tried to cry out, but only a howl left his throat. When he woke, his mouth was dry, his body shivering. Around him, men slept in silence, their breath shallow.
Christian pressed a fist against his chest, but the ache did not fade.
Dog, he thought. That is all I am. A dog that will die in the snow.
The days blurred. Hunger deepened. More scavenging parties went out, fewer returned. Those who did brought back bones, scraps, sometimes nothing at all.
Christian kept going. Not because he believed, not because he hoped, but because the body refuses death until the last.
He chewed leather, gnawed frozen meat, sucked marrow from broken bones. Each act stripped him further of the man he had once been.
But still he lived.
Still he endured and still Müller watched.