Russians weren’t much for building houses, Felbwebel Sierich thought, but they damn sure knew how to build ovens. With winters like this, that was a good thing. Even better that they had found this one while it was still in one piece, a village where the retreating Russians had neglected to burn down every last building and their allies had not taken the opportunity to drive out the local populace in much the same way. Sometimes, Sierich felt as though he had travelled back in time into a world of bloodfeuds and lawlessness. No war was kind to civilians – he himself rarely enough felt disposed to nicely consider the feelings of the muzhiks whose homes he was quartered in – but the way the Lithuanian Legion went about pursuing vengeance was Montague-and-Capulet stuff. The East Prussian front had been tame by comparison.
With a grunt of pain and satisfaction, the feldwebel pulled off his boots. Schirrmacher was cramming in more firewood, big, resiny logs of fast-burning pine that crackled, hissed and spat. The whitewashed clay oven heated so efficiently that the men were already sweating, taking off coats and tunics. For many, it was the first time in days. They had sent the farmer and his boy out to the stables while they made themselves comfortable, but Sierich had insisted on paying for the hospitality. Paper it might be, but it was money. Come spring, it might make a difference. He knew what being a poor farmer was like.
“Vodka!” The shout went up around the rickerty table by the window as Nadia came in. Sierich wasn’t sure if that was her name, but it was what everyone called her. Right now, the old farmer’s daughter was the only Russian allowed inside the house, but if you were going to do business with the locals, you had to pick someone to do business with, and you’d be nuts to let a Russian man near you while getting a drink. Too many stories were already making the rounds.
Nadia came in slowly, carrying a heavy stoneware bottle. Immediately, Signewski and Hübecker stepped up to help, weighing the content and shouting with glee. Sierich fumbled for his wallet. He did not understand Russian – nobody in his platoon did – but sometimes, you could get along without it. A two-mark bill changed hands, quickly disappearing into the girl’s apron pocket. She did not meet his eyes. Impulsively, the feldwebel dug out a silver 50-pfennig piece and held it out to her. Uncertain, she reached out to take it and he smiled encouragingly. The briefest of smiles lit up her face, but she stepped back from him almost immediately. What must she think of him?
Glasses and metal cups clinked as the men distributed the unexpected bounty. The girl busied herself over the pot of gruel that she had put on the stove, wary, but efficiently and competently. Sierich returned to his seat – appropriating one of the two stools was a perquisite of reank – and stretched out his aching legs. Hübecker started playing his harmonica, and a ragged choris of voices rose in celebration.
“Morgen marschieren wir,
Zu dem Bauern ins Feldquartier,
Eine Tasse Tee,
Zucker und Kaffee,
Eine Tasse Tee,
Zucker und Kaffee,
Und ein Gläschen Wein,
Und ein Gläschen Wein!”
The scream caught him unprepared. Sierich jumped to his feet, his heart beating in his ears. Reflexes honed in long months at the front took over as he tried to understand what was happening. Nadia was struggling, pointlessly, against Hübecker and Greiner who were – trying to stop her running away, he presumed. Signewski stood mute, looking like an idiot. Surely he had to have started this. Sierich opened his mouth, but before he could so much as begin chewing him out, the door flew open and a figure swaddled in layers of thick winter clothing barrelled into the back of Grenadier Greiner, sending him tumbling. The girl tore loose and fell immediately, shouting out in anger. The stranger – it had to be her brother, the damn kid – was holding something, swinging it. The axe connected heavily with Hübecker’s head, the crunch audible over the din. Sierich’s hand went to his sidearm, not the only or even the quickest. The boy swivelled, facing him, eyes burning with hatred. He was defending his sister’s honour, damn him, and they were not going to get out of this without killing him. With a shout in Russian, he advanced on the feldwebel. He was brave, you had to give him that.
The shot from Sieboth’s rifle was deafening at close quarters, and the bullet went straight through the boy’s chest and the wooden wall into the gathering dusk. He collapsed, gasping and coughing. Sierich stared incredulously. Holy Shit!
“Stand down!” he shouted, his ears still ringing. Several men had drawn, others were scrabbling for their rifles. Across the farmyard, a door slammed open and the farmer came running, a pitchfork in his right. Another shot took him in the stomach.
“I said stand down, dammit!” Sierich was furious. He stepped out, straining to see what was going on. The cold air hit him in the face with unexpected force. Silence spread over the platoon, the men staring dumbfounded at the scene. The boy was lying on his back now, his weakening breath rattling. His father was rolled up on the ground, a keening moan escaping his lips. There was no trace of the girl. The feldwebel strained to hear if anything was happening, but no sounds betrayed anything other that wind in the trees. Well, fuck!
“Sieboth!” he ordered, breaking the spell. “Put the poor man out of his misery. Nothing we can do for him.”
The soldier drew breath to protest, but blanched at the look his sergeant gave him.
“Greiner, Müller Zwo, fetch something we can use to carry poor Hübecker back to regimental command post. And put on your coats, everybody!”
They would burn the house, he decided. The incident would be recorded as a franc-tireur attack. There was no point going through the paperwork of charging Signewski for being an idiot. He’d have to take care of that himself. Shrugging into his coat, forcing his swollen feet into the boots, Feldwebel Sierich wondered momentarily what would become of the girl. She had taken the opportunity to run out into the forest. Most likely, she’d freeze to death before the morning, And it was all so fucking unnecessary!
“Hebing, Klawohn, prepare to fire the buildings! Everybody else, gear up! We’re marching back to HQ.”
