The Russian land stretched on without mercy, a great emptiness where the horizon swallowed everything. Snow fell in slow, dry flakes that seemed to hang in the air forever before drifting down to cover the endless scars of war. Villages lay burned, barns reduced to skeletons of charred beams, livestock frozen where they had starved or been shot. Smoke rose in thin gray ribbons from far-off ruins, reminders that the
Germans had left nothing behind but fire and blood.
Christian staggered forward through the wasteland, his body reduced to little more than nerves and stubborn will. His boots, once polished leather, were cracked and stiff, caked with ice. The coat on his shoulders was stiff with frost and bloodstains none of which he remembered earning. Every step was an act of defiance against death itself, and he no longer knew what compelled him forward. Duty? Habit? The hollow need to keep breathing?
He hadn't eaten properly in days. The little snow he chewed for moisture cut his tongue, the cold so deep it felt like shards of glass. His stomach had long ago turned on itself, gnawing at his ribs until there was nothing left but an aching emptiness.
As dusk bled into the steppe, he saw it: a flicker of orange against the gray. A farmhouse, half-collapsed but still breathing smoke from its chimney. His pulse quickened. Shelter meant warmth. Warmth meant survival. But shelter also meant people and people meant risk.
He crouched in the snow for long minutes, staring at the hut as though it were a trap baited for fools. He rehearsed in his head the story he had practiced over and over since slipping out of Stalingrad.
You are no German. You are Red Army, a straggler, a survivor. You speak Russian. You know the units. You know the battles. Keep your voice steady, but not arrogant. Desperate, but not suspicious.
Finally, when his legs trembled too much to crouch longer, he forced himself forward and knocked on the wooden door. It opened cautiously. A farmer stood there, broad-shouldered and stooped from years of toil, his beard threaded with gray. His face was as weathered as bark, eyes narrow and suspicious in the glow of firelight.
Behind him, a woman hovered, clutching a shawl, her eyes softer but wary.
Christian spoke at once in Russian, voice raw, ragged. "I am Red Army. From Stalingrad. My unit was destroyed. I am starving. Please, help me."
The farmer did not move. His eyes lingered on Christian's coat, his boots, his gaunt face. He said nothing. It was the wife who whispered something; too low for Christian to catch and stepped aside.
Inside, the air was blessedly warm. Smoke filled the rafters, and the smell of boiled potatoes hung heavy. A little girl, perhaps ten, peeked at him from behind the stove, her eyes wide, curious.
Christian lowered himself onto a stool, his body nearly giving way beneath him. The girl darted forward suddenly, placing a hunk of dark bread before him, before vanishing again.
He ate like a wolf, forcing himself to slow lest hunger betray him. Every chew felt like salvation. The farmer finally broke his silence. "You came from Stalingrad?"
"Yes." Christian kept his voice flat, steady. "I was with the 64th Army. Third Battalion, 514th Regiment. Under Shumilov. We fought until the last. My comrades are all gone. I lived only by accident."
The farmer studied him for a long time. His eyes softened slightly. He gave a single nod. "Then you are safe here tonight. Rest. We will not send a man of the Red Army back into the snow to die."
Relief washed through Christian. He bowed his head. "Thank you sir."
The wife pressed a quilt into his hands. The daughter smiled faintly, as though shy to have helped a soldier. For the first time in weeks, warmth reached his bones.
They sat in silence for a while. The farmer ladled out a thin soup of potatoes and cabbage, setting a bowl before him. Christian drank it down as though it were ambrosia. His hands trembled from the heat.
It was then the farmer spoke again, his voice carrying a weight of something more than casual talk. "The Germans have surrendered. Stalingrad is ours now."
"Surrender?"
The farmer's eyes gleamed with something fierce. "Yes. They say the Germans are broken. Their arrogance burned away. The Red Army has secured our victory." Christian hesitated. Slowly, he nodded.
The farmer leaned forward, his voice thick with hate. "They came through here. These German dogs. They burned my barn. Took the cow and shot my brother in the ditch." He clenched his fist. "They thought they could take this land. But look now." His lips twisted into a grim smile. "We have won."
His hand slammed down on the table for emphasis, the sound sharp in the little hut.
The wife murmured for him to quiet down, but the farmer went on. "German dogs they rot in the snow now. Hungry dogs chewing at their boots. Good. Every last one of them deserves worse."
Christian's spoon hovered above the bowl. He said nothing. The words didn't sting him, not anymore. He was too hollow to feel insult. Too empty to bleed pride. He only nodded faintly, letting the man spit his hatred into the air, letting it pass through him like smoke.
"Germans are swine," the farmer muttered. "Cursed beasts. But you, you are Russian. You are one of us. You lived because you belong to this land. Remember that. Be proud."
Christian lowered his gaze, hiding the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
That night, as snow whispered against the shutters, Christian lay beneath the quilt on a cot near the stove. For the first time in days, his body loosened. His stomach was warm, his bones no longer frozen to their core. The daughter peeked at him again before sleep, as though he were a hero from a tale. Her gaze cut deeper than any insult.
But near midnight, boots crunched outside the hut. Murmurs. Torches.
Christian sat up, heart hammering. The farmer stiffened. The wife pressed a hand to her mouth. A knock pounded the door.
When it opened, four Soviet soldiers stepped in, rifles slung across shoulders. At their head was a captain, tall and sharp-eyed. "We seek Germans," he said curtly.
"They crawl from Stalingrad like rats. You will tell us if you've seen one."
The farmer's jaw worked. Then, after a pause, he said: "They came through a few days ago, but they have left. You've seen what they have done here."
Christian felt the ground shift beneath him.
The captain's gaze locked onto him. "Is he your son?" he pointed to Christian.
Christian rose slowly. His pulse thundered, but his voice held calm. "I am Red Army. Third Battalion, 514th Regiment. Shumilov's command. I escaped from Stalingrad."
"Where is your rifle?" The captain asked.
"Lost," Christian said. "I crawled out alive when my comrades fell."
The soldiers muttered. One spat on the floor. "Deserter. A coward." The captain's lips curled. "Desertion is treason. You will come with us. The NKVD will decide your fate."
Christian's mind spun. If they take me, it's finished. I'll never see daylight again.
"I will not go back," he said softly.
The captain blinked. "What did you say?"
"I will not go."
Before they could react, Christian seized the stool and hurled it towards the men. It caught them off guard. Shouts filled the room. He drove his shoulder into one soldier, crashing through the doorway into the night.
Snow exploded around him as he ran. Bullets cracked the air.
"Stop him!"
But then the captain's voice rang out, sharp, commanding: "Alive! I want him alive!"
Branches tore at Christian's face as he plunged into the forest. Torches flared behind him, men shouting, dogs barking. His breath came in ragged bursts, his body screaming in agony but driven by something beyond exhaustion.
He ran deeper and deeper, the warmth of bread still heavy in his gut, the daughter's solemn eyes haunting him. He had betrayed their fragile kindness. He had destroyed the safety of the only people who had shown him mercy.
The forest swallowed him whole, the hunt close behind. I am neither Red nor German, he thought bitterly as snow stung his face. Only prey. And in the shadows of the trees, the wolves of men closed in.