Hey guys, I've fallen ill, so there may be fewer chapters in the coming days. It depends on how I'm feeling.
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"Hey you," the man said quietly, raising his lantern. "You, I can see you."
Suddenly, Mikhailiv snapped out of his trance, looking at the man before him. First at the stump of his foot, then his leg, his hands, his head.
"Are you… are you German?" Mikhailiv muttered weakly, tilting his head downward again.
"I am speaking Polish. I am wearing Polish clothes. I am Polish, friend," the man said quietly, coldly.
Although Mikhailiv was still suspicious, this was his best bet.
"Can you help me?" he asked.
"Of course," the man replied, setting down his lantern and pushing the carcass aside with his free hand.
Mikhailiv groaned under the weight, but finally managed to slip out.
He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his legs with his hands.
The mysterious man stretched out his hand, and Mikhailiv took it, already trusting him.
"Come with me," he said, looking at Mikhailiv intently.
Mikhailiv nodded, and the two walked slowly through the battlefield. Sometimes he recognized a face, sometimes he saw a friend.
"Am I the only one?" he asked quietly.
"Indeed. You were unlucky and lucky at the same time, a familiar situation," the man muttered, his voice growing colder at the end.
"Sir, may I know your name?" Mikhailiv suddenly asked, stopping.
The man stopped as well, turning. There was something deep in his eyes.
"My name is Leon."
"Leon," Mikhailiv repeated, nodding. "I am Mikhailiv. Thank you for your help."
Leon only nodded and turned, walking on once more.
The two silhouettes disappeared into the thick white curtain, only the everbearing sound of the cane remaining in this no man's land.
"Watch out," the man said as they reached the city. They could hear a truck approaching, voices carried with it. German.
The two pressed themselves against the wall of an old house as the truck passed by quickly.
"They are swarming the city right now," Leon said, clenching his jaw.
"Wait…" Mikhailiv's eyes widened. "How much time has passed since the battle?"
Leon turned and laughed dryly.
"You've been sleeping quite long, beauty. That battle was two days ago," Leon answered.
Mikhailiv's eyes widened further.
"Then what happened to the retreating forces of Poznań?"
Leon shook his head.
"They're fully encircled, at least from what I've heard."
Mikhailiv shook his head hectically.
"Did none make it out? Was it really for nothing?" he shouted, slamming his fist against the wall.
"Hey. Hey," Leon said, grabbing Mikhailiv forcefully, signaling him to calm down.
Mikhailiv froze, listening. And indeed, German voices were coming closer.
"Fuck," Leon muttered.
"Hey you," a soldier shouted, walking toward them, his submachine gun half raised. "Polish scum, what are you doing here? There's a curfew at night." He tilted his head toward another soldier approaching.
"Hey Klaus, look at these tw—" he began mockingly, then suddenly stopped, a gurgle escaping his throat.
He collapsed, a gunshot echoing through the night.
The other soldier's eyes widened as he raised his MP40, but it was too late. Another gunshot filled the deserted street.
Leon sighed, putting away his pistol with haste.
"Come on," he said coldly. "That gunshot will attract more of them."
He turned and limped away quickly.
Mikhailiv stared at him for a moment, then at the two corpses. Slowly, he began to walk, following the man.
They slipped through tight alleys and ruined buildings, whistles and shouts echoing through the city.
Finally, they arrived. Leon pulled out a heavy key and opened the door, pushing Mikhailiv inside. Leon followed, limping in, tilting his head outside one last time before shutting the door loudly. He turned the lock and walked across the wooden planks, his cane especially loud, toward the windows, closing the curtains one by one, always giving the outside a glance before doing so.
"Do you think they will find us?" Mikhailiv asked, still standing in the middle of the room.
"Unlikely," Leon muttered, having closed the last curtain. He reached into his coat.
For a second, Mikhailiv froze, fearing the worst. Then Leon pulled out not a gun, but a pack of cigarettes.
"You care for one?" he asked, opening the box.
Although Mikhailiv had never smoked in his life, he stepped forward without thinking and took one. It felt smooth to the touch as he examined it.
"Where did you get these? Even the officers in my…" Mikhailiv stopped, sighing in regret.
Leon limped through the room and sat down in a worn armchair.
"I worked on the trains, at the local station," he said quietly, his gaze lingering somewhere in the room.
"I got bribed sometimes, you know," he added, his eyes fixed on a picture standing above the cold fireplace.
Mikhailiv stepped closer, looking at the picture. It was yellowed with age, creased, but the face of a woman was still recognizable.
"Is this your wife?" Mikhailiv asked, turning around.
Leon gave him a look that sent shivers down his spine. Mikhailiv stepped back at once and carefully sat down in another armchair.
Before he could lean into it, Leon spoke again.
"Go get some firewood. I've got some in that basket over there," he said, without looking at him.
Mikhailiv sighed quietly, then rose and walked to the basket.
He returned with an armful of firewood and placed it inside the fireplace, which looked as if it had not been used for a long time.
The cigarette was still in his mouth. He took it, along with some of the hay inside the fireplace, and lit it.
Slowly, the fire caught, spreading from the hay to the wood.
Mikhailiv took a seat once again, only the sound of the crackling fire filling the room, the stillness heavy.
"She was," Leon suddenly said, his voice filled with hatred. He turned his head toward Mikhailiv, who looked at him questioningly.
"She was my wife. Not anymore," he said, clenching his jaw. "The Germans killed her."
Mikhailiv swallowed hard, sinking deeper into the chair.
"I lost a friend," Mikhailiv said, his eyes watery, his gaze heavy.
"At least, I believed I did," he added, turning toward Leon. Their eyes met.
"By the Germans," he finished, nodding.
Leon studied Mikhailiv for a moment longer, analyzing him deeply. Then he suddenly stood up.
"Come," he said, opening a door that led to the backyard.
Mikhailiv rose slowly and stepped outside. The wind felt especially cold tonight.
The garden was small, with only little greenery left. In one corner, two stones stood out, the direction Leon was heading.
Mikhailiv stopped beside him, his gaze following Leon's, fixed on the stones.
"I told you about my wife," Leon said, pointing to the left one. "Anna. That was her name."
Mikhailiv nodded, looking at the stone, which felt distant to him in that moment.
Then Leon's finger moved to the right one.
He paused, looking up at the sky.
"Her sister. Maria. She killed herself," Leon said dully, his voice devoid of emotion, which felt even more unsettling to Mikhailiv.
"I'm sorry," Mikhailiv said. It felt like the only thing he could say. He slowly turned, intending to go back inside, but Leon grabbed his shoulder.
Mikhailiv looked at him, confused.
Leon pointed toward a bush in the background.
Mikhailiv narrowed his eyes and saw another stone. Though broken into dozens of smaller pieces, it was still clearly visible.
He turned back to Leon, his eyes wide.
"Me," Leon said, without blinking.
Mikhailiv looked at him now with more than fear. It was horror.
"You see, I wished to end my life at that point. But I found a purpose. A purpose that kept driving me."
For a moment, everything was still again. Then Mikhailiv slowly opened his mouth.
"That is?" he asked hesitantly.
"Oberst Heinrich Jaeger. I will kill him," Leon said, staring into the distance. His cane was buried deep in the earth, driven there by the force of his grip.
The man in question was unaware of any of this. He was driving through the forests of southern Poland, his Panzer division following behind him like an undefeated parade.
After a few seconds, Paul spotted it in the distance. He raised his hand high, and his tank, along with those behind him, came to a halt.
Soldiers climbed out of their trucks and followed as Paul moved ahead alone, his attention fixed on the bridge before him. On the opposite side, another group of tanks was already waiting. At the center of the bridge stood an officer, hands clasped behind his back.
Paul stepped onto the wooden planks. They creaked beneath his boots. He stopped halfway and extended his hand.
"Erwin. Seems you were quicker," Paul said, allowing himself a faint smile.
"By quite a margin, Heinrich," Rommel replied with a laugh. "Though I heard you had some difficulties along the way."
"As always, Erwin. As always," Paul answered, his gaze drifting toward the river flowing quietly into the distance.
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