Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

'Brandy,' he shouted, triumphantly raising into the air a bottle containing a heel of brown liquid. 'I've saved this for more than three months. Help yourself.'

Gudbrand had crawled up on to his knees and smiled at Daniel.

'You first,' Gudbrand shouted.

'Sure?'

'Absolutely sure, old friend. You saved it up. But don't drink it all!' Daniel hit the side of the cork until it came out and raised the bottle.

'To Leningrad. In spring we'll be toasting each other in the Winter Palace,' he proclaimed and took off his Russian cap. And by summer we'll be home, hailed as heroes in our beloved Norway'

He put the bottle to his lips and threw back his head. The brown liquid gurgled and danced in the neck of the bottle. It twinkled as the glass reflected the light from the sinking flares, and in the years to come Gudbrand would ponder whether it was that the Russian sniper saw: the gleam from the bottle. The next moment Gudbrand heard a high-pitched popping noise and saw the bottle explode in Daniel's hands. There was a shower of glass and brandy and Gudbrand closed his eyes. He could feel his face was wet; it ran down his cheeks and instinctively he stuck out his tongue to catch a couple of drops. It tasted of almost nothing, just alcohol and something else-something sweet and metallic. The consistency was thick, probably because of the cold, Gudbrand thought, and he opened his eyes again. He couldn't see Daniel from the trench. He must have dived behind the machine gun when he knew that he had been seen, Gudbrand guessed, but he could feel his heart racing.

'Daniel?' No answer. 'Daniel?'

Gudbrand got to his feet and crawled out of the trench. Daniel was on his back with his cartridge belt under his head and the Russian cap over his face. The snow was spattered with brandy and blood. Gudbrand took the cap in his hand. Daniel was staring with wide eyes up at the starry sky. He had a large, black, gaping hole in the middle of his forehead. Gudbrand still had the sweet metallic taste in his mouth and felt nauseous. 'Daniel.'

It was barely a whisper between his dry lips. Gudbrand thought Daniel looked like a little boy who wanted to draw angels in the snow but had fallen asleep. With a sob he lurched towards the siren and pulled the crank handle. As the flares sank into their hiding places, the piercing wail of the siren rose towards the heavens.

'That wasn't how it was supposed to be,' was all Gudbrand managed to say. oooooooo-OOOOOOOO…!

Edvard and the others had come out and stood behind him. Someone shouted Gudbrand's name, but he didn't hear. He just wound the handle round and round. In the end Edvard went over and held the handle. Gudbrand let go, but didn't turn round; he remained where he was, staring at the trench and the sky as the tears froze solid on his cheeks. The lament of the siren subsided.

'That wasn't how it was supposed to be,' he whispered.

Leningrad. 1 January 1943.

Daniel already had ice crystals under his nose and in the corners of his eyes and mouth when they carried him away. Often they used to leave them until they went stiff so they would be easier to carry, but Daniel was in the way of the machine gun. So two men had dragged him to a branch off the main trench where they laid him on two ammunition boxes kept for burning. Hallgrim Dale had tied sacking around his head so they didn't have to see the death mask with its ugly grin. Edvard had rung the mass grave in the Northern Sector and explained where Daniel was. They had promised to send two corpse-bearers at some point during the night. Then Mosken had ordered Sindre out of his sick bed to take the rest of the watch with Gudbrand. The first thing they had to do was clean the spattered machine gun.

"They've bombed Cologne to smithereens,' Sindre said.

They lay side by side on the edge of the trench, in the narrow hollow where they had a view over no man's land. Gudbrand didn't like being so close to Sindre.

'And Stalingrad is going down the drain.'

Gudbrand couldn't feel the cold; it was as if his head and body were filled with cotton and nothing bothered him any longer. All he felt was the ice-cold metal burning against his skin and the numb fingers which would not obey. He tried again. The stock and the trigger mechanism already lay on the woollen rug beside him in the snow, but it was harder undoing the final piece. In Sennheim they had been trained to dismantle and reassemble a machine gun blindfold. Sennheim, in beautiful, warm, German Elsass. It was different when you couldn't feel what your fingers were doing.

'Haven't you heard?' Sindre said. 'The Russians will get us. Just as they got Gudeson.'

Gudbrand remembered the German Wehrmacht captain who had been so amused when Sindre said he came from a farm on the outskirts of a place called Toten.

'Toten. Wie im Totenreich?' the captain had laughed.

He lost his grip on the bolt.

'Fuck it!' Gudbrand's voice quivered. 'It's all the blood sticking the parts together.'

He placed the top of the little tube of gun oil against the bolt and squeezed. The cold had made the yellowish liquid thick and sluggish-he knew that oil dissolved blood. He had used gun oil when his ear had been inflamed.

Sindre leaned over and fiddled with one of the cartridges.

'Jesus Christ,' he said. He looked up and grinned, showing the brown stains between his teeth. His pale, unshaven face was so close that Gudbrand could smell the foul breath they all had here after a while. Sindre held up a finger.

"Who'd have thought Daniel had so much brain, eh?'

Gudbrand turned away.

Sindre studied the tip of his finger. 'But he didn't use it much. Otherwise he wouldn't have come back from no man's land that night. I heard you talking about going over. Well, you were certainly… good friends, you two, weren't you?'

Gudbrand didn't hear at first; the words were too distant. Then the echo of them reached him, and he felt the warmth surge back into his body.

'The Germans are never going to let us retreat,' Sindre said. 'We're going to die here, every man jack of them. You should have hopped it. The Bolsheviks aren't supposed to be as brutal as Hitler to people like you and Daniel. Such good friends, I mean.'

Gudbrand didn't answer. He could feel the heat in his fingertips now.

'We thought of nipping over there tonight,' Sindre said. 'Hallgrim Dale and I. Before it was too late.'

He twisted in the snow and eyed Gudbrand.

'Don't look so shocked, Johansen,' he grinned. 'Why do you think we said we were ill?'

Gudbrand curled his toes in his boots. He could feel them now. They felt warm and good. There was something else too.

'Do you want to join us, Johansen?' Sindre asked.

The lice! He was warm, but he couldn't feel the lice. Even the whistling sound under his helmet had stopped.

'So it was you who spread the rumours,' Gudbrand said.

'Which rumours?'

'Daniel and I talked about going to America, not over to the Russians. And not now, but after the war.'

Sindre shrugged, looked at his watch and got on to his knees. 'I'll shoot you if you try,' Gudbrand said.

'With what?' Sindre asked, gesturing towards the gun parts on the rug. Their rifles were in the bunker and they both knew that Gudbrand wouldn't be able to get there and back before Sindre had gone.

'Stay here and die if you want, Johansen. All the best to Dale, and tell him to follow.'

Gudbrand reached inside his uniform and pulled out his bayonet. The moonlight shone on the matt steel blade. Sindre shook his head.

'People like you and Gudeson are dreamers. Put the blade away and join me. The Russians are getting new provisions across Lake Ladoga now. Fresh meat.'

'I'm no traitor,' Gudbrand said.

Sindre stood up.