Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

Kuragin nodded and walked off. Namarov watched him until he was swallowed up by the gloom, then the major looked down once more at the makeshift diagram and, frowning, he scrubbed it out with the toe of his boot.

It was 3.16 a.m. when Kuragin slipped out of the cossack camp, eluding the patrolling sentries with ease, walking his horse into the trees until they had passed, then mounting up. He was heading towards the German camp and he soon disappeared into the darkness.

But, this time, other eyes had seen him go.

Kuragin was shown to Kleiser’s tent by Sergeant Dietz who smiled mockingly at the big cossack as he led him through the German camp.

“What did you think of our handywork in Ridanski?” said the sergeant.

“Are my family still alive?” Kuragin asked, trying to ignore the jibe.

Dietz laughed.

“Even some pigs escape the slaughterhouse,” the sergeant grinned.

Kuragin grabbed him by the throat with one powerful hand and almost lifted him off his feet.

“I said I’d cut your fucking heart out,” he rasped. “And by God I will.” He threw the German to one side and pulled back the flap of Kleiser’s tent.

The SS man was standing in front of a portable stove warming his hands and he looked up briefly as Kuragin entered.

“I’ve been expecting you,” said the officer, smiling.

“Where are my family?” Kurgain asked.

“You took a chance coming here. How were you to know that they were not already dead? You really are a man of faith or immense stupidity.” Kleiser laughed.

“Are they alive, Kleiser?” Kuragin growled.

“What would you say if I said no?” said the captain, grinning. “Would you try to kill me?”

“Are they alive?” He almost screamed the words.

“The information first,” said Kleiser, his smile fading. “There is to be another attack, yes?”

Kuragin nodded.

“Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. The same as before,” he said, wearily.

The German smiled.

“Betrayal comes easily to you untermenschen doesn’t it?” he said, mockingly.

Kuragin was shaking with suppressed rage.

“I would like to see my family now,” he said through clenched teeth. “I want to know if they are still alive.”

“You doubt my word?” said Kleiser, smiling even more broadly. “Betrayal is easy, but trust a little harder to come by, yes?” He crossed to the flap of the tent and called something to a couple of nearby sentries and, moments later, Kuragin’s family were pushed into the SS officer’s tent.

“Unharmed,” said Kleiser. Then he watched as the Russians embraced, tears trickling down the cheeks of both Kuragin and his wife.

“How touching,” the black-clad officer said, moving forward to pull them apart. “I never realised until now just how valuable family-ties could be.” He smiled again, that crooked smile which seemed all the worse because of the scar which parted the flesh down the middle of his face.

“Have they hurt you?” Kuragin asked his wife.

She shook her head.

“They are valueable prizes, Russian, my men take good care of them,” said Kleiser, cryptically.

Kuragin caught the inference and glared at the German.

“If one of them touches her…”

“Yes,” the officer asked.

Kuragin swallowed his words.

“You are in no position to make threats,” rasped Kleiser. “Now, get out of here, back to the rest of your scum.”

The cossack moved towards his wife once more but the German stepped between them and Kuragin could only touch her cheek briefly with his fingers. He felt warm tears moisten his probing digits.

“Get out!” snapped the SS man.

Kuragin turned to leave, the cries of his youngest daughter ringing in his ears and, as he walked to his horse, he wondered how much more of this he could take. As he walked the animal slowly away, he could hear sobs coming from inside the tent and Kleiser’s harsh voice like a whiplash in the night. Kuragin could not bring himself to look back and he rode, head down, until he had left the German camp.

Should he tell Namarov what was happening? He shook his head, a silent answer to his own unspoken question.

It was almost 4.00 by the time he reached the trees which masked the approaches to the cossack camp. He scanned the open ground for sentries and saw none.

The voice came from behind him.

“How is your family, Kuragin?”

He spun round to see Namarov standing there.

The major emerged from the darkness like some kind of booted spectre, the sabre bumping noisily against his leg as he walked.

Kuragin tugged on his reins and brought the horse to a halt, sliding down from the saddle.

“How did you know, Andrei?” he asked, wearily.

“I would have to have been a fool not to know.”

Kuragin smiled humourlessly.

“You spoke with Kleiser?” asked the major.

The big man nodded.

“He has my family,” he said. “We made a… deal.”

“Their lives for ours,” said the one-eyed officer.

Kuragin nodded.

“Andrei, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you attack them now. My family will be killed for sure.”

“So how long did you plan to let this go on? What did you think the end result would be? Did you expect him to release them?” Namarov asked, a note of pity in his voice for his colleague.

“I don’t think I knew. I still don’t. All I know is I cannot allow you to attack Kleiser and his men. You know nothing of family-ties, Andrei, you cannot know what I am feeling.” The big cossack swallowed hard. “Torn between my love for them and my loyalty to you.” He laughed again, a hollow empty laugh. “You told young Boniak that revenge could eat away at a man’s insides, tear him apart. Well, so can loyalty. But my family come first.” There was a loud hiss as he drew his sabre. “If I have to, I’ll kill you.”

“Then kill me,” said Namarov and drew his own sword.

The two men faced each other, friends for so many years now transformed into deadly enemies. They moved across the snow, each watching the other intently, waiting for the first movement.

When it finally came it was from Kuragin.

The big man ran at Namarov, bringing his sabre down with a force so great, blue sparks glittered briefly in the air as the blow was parried. The clash of steel on steel echoed through the night and, as his opponent ran past, carried by his own momentum, Namarov kicked him hard in the small of the back. Kuragin fell forward, hastily rolling onto his back in time to avoid the lethal downward lunge aimed at his chest. He himself struck upwards and caught Namarov on the forearm but the blow was not powerful enough to draw blood and the major jumped back.

Kuragin hauled himself upright, using a tree as support, holding his sabre at arm’s length to fend the one-eyed officer off. But, taking advantage of his opponent’s momentary lapse, Namarov swung his sabre upward, catching the big man across the fingers in a blow which opened all four of the thick digits to the bone. Kuragin shrieked in rage and backed off, dropping to one knee as Namarov swung the sword over his head and lopped off a tree branch by mistake. Unbalanced by the force of his swipe, Namarov was unable to parry the thrust which came next. The point of the sabre tore through his clothes and nicked his side and he felt the coldness of the steel against his flesh.

He jumped back, his own backhand swipe slicing open Kuragin’s cheek, exposing part of the gum.

The big man grunted and staggered upright, glaring at the one-eyed officer through a haze of pain. He could feel the cold wind hissing though the flap of skin and the blood spilling warmly down his neck.