David Robbins - War of the Rats - A Novel of Stalingrad

Midway through their plates, an officer approached. He held a kerchief daintily over his nose and spoke to them through the cloth. His voice became shrill. Tania and Fedya got up slowly.

They did not seem to move fast enough for the officer. The man lowered the kerchief and pulled a leather crop from his belt. He swung the crop across Fedya’s back. Soldiers at neighboring tables applauded and laughed.

The German, his face growing crimson, struck Fedya again, then leaned across the table and hit Tania on top of her head.

Fedya leaped to his feet and shoved him back. “Leave her alone, prostitute!”

The officer regained his balance and looked deep into Fedya’s eyes. He slid the crop slowly into his belt. He unbuttoned the holster for his pistol.

“Ah.” He smiled thinly.

The officer stepped back and drew his sidearm with a dramatic, sweeping motion. He glanced around the silent tent. He raised the pistol to Fedya’s heart and looked around the room again. The hundred faces were still.

The grinning Nazi interpreted the silence of his fellows as their tacit permission. He was justified in the execution of these two incredibly odious Russians.

Tania stepped to stand beside Fedya.

“Da svidanya, Russ,” the German said.

A commotion erupted in the kitchen. The din of pots and pans banging on the floor spilled into the mess tent. The officer turned from Fedya.

A short, chubby man in a greasy apron burst into the mess hall. “Halt! Halten Sie, bitte!” he shouted. The man rumbled through the seated soldiers to jump in front of Fedya and Tania, his arms outstretched. In one hand he held high a wooden serving spoon.

The cook pleaded with the officer in stammering German. He pointed to Fedya and Tania, then to himself, and hung his head. The Nazi lowered the pistol and shouted at the cook. The round little man cringed, wrinkling his dirty apron. Then he snapped upright and clubbed Fedya’s chest with the spoon. With his other hand he twisted Tania’s ear, turning her around. He kicked her in the rear and shoved Fedya in the chest again with the spoon to herd them toward the kitchen, hollering in Russian. Over his shoulder, the cook called in an appeasing tone, “Danke. Danke schön, mein Herr. Danke.”

The cook shoved Fedya through the kitchen door and pushed Tania behind him. Still shouting and cursing, he marched them out of the kitchen to a small, garbage-filled courtyard.

Once outside, the cook quieted. He whispered urgently in Russian, “Who are you? What are you doing in my mess hall?”

Tania shoved the cook in his meaty chest. “What are you doing serving food to Nazis? You’re a fucking hiwi!”

Fedya stepped between them. “Tania! The man just saved your life. And mine, too. Be quiet, show some gratitude.”

“Gratitude? This pig cooks for those bastards. He’s worse than they are! He’s a traitor, Fedya! A collaborator!”

“Tania.” Fedya put his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll take the lead now. You will follow me. Understand? I’ll get us out of here. You’ll get us killed. Now be quiet.”

Tania inhaled to say more, to tell Fedya about the hiwis her partisans had caught and shot, about the placards they’d nailed to the traitors’ heads to warn others not to cooperate with the invaders. Fedya shook her shoulders hard. Tania jammed her fists into her pockets, glowering at the fat traitor.

Fedya reached his hand to the cook. “Thank you. You saved our lives. What did you say to that German?”

“That you are two Russian peasants working for me. I told him I sent you to clean out the shithouse and you must have fallen in.”

“Really? Just like that?” Fedya turned to Tania. “A good story. A quick thinker, isn’t he?”

Tania spat. “Fucking hiwi.”

Fedya turned back to the cook. “Right. Let’s just keep this between you and me, shall we? Can you get us some clean clothes?”

“No,” said the cook. “Who are you? How did you get here?”

“We’re with the 284th Division. Our transport was sunk. Once we got ashore, this girl led us through the sewer.”

“You followed her?” The cook pointed with his spoon.

Tania leaned forward. Fedya kept her back with his girth.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he warned the man quietly.

The cook lowered the spoon.

Fedya continued, his manner still friendly. “Can you give us more food?”

“Of course.” The cook went back to the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway. “I’ll bring it out.”

Fedya spun on Tania. “What’s wrong with you? How can you treat a man that way who’s saved your life?”

“He’s helping the Germans!”

“He’s a nothing little cook. How do you know his story? He might have a wife and children they’re holding. He might be just a simple scared fat man who got caught up in all this and only wants to live through it.”

Tania leaned against the top of a metal trash can. “If he’s a coward,” she said, “then he should be shot.”

Fedya folded his arms. She looked into his blue eyes and took in his powerful figure. I want to live through it, too, she thought. She felt the sadness overtaking her, prodded by Fedya’s scolding. So badly I want to live. But I’m already dead. The Germans took my life, they took my homeland and my good grandparents. All I have left is this soulless body. And I’ve sworn on blood to hurl myself against them until my body breaks, or my life and my tears return one day when the sticks are gone. But I, Fedya, Yuri, this cook, Russia—we are all of us dead right now. And to live again we can only fight. We must not, cannot, do anything else.

Fedya unfolded his arms. “We are not all so brave as you.”

He reached for Tania and held her lightly. She laid her head on his chest, then pulled away.

“You stink.”

The cook returned with steaming plates of kraut and a thick brown hash. He set them on top of a garbage can.

“The fighting comes mostly from that direction,” he said, pointing to a horizon of devastation. “The front line is three kilometers away. The other way is the Volga. Don’t go there. It’s patrolled.”

The cook looked at Fedya and nodded. Fedya returned the courtesy. The little man’s eyes shifted quickly to Tania, unsure of what they would meet there.

The cook spread his palms to her. His flabby chest shook under the splattered apron. He seemed about to cry.

“You can’t understand,” he said.

Fedya answered for her. “Who can?”

The cook wiped his nose on his sleeve and turned to the kitchen. Fedya and Tania emptied their plates. They climbed out of the courtyard and entered the ruins to find the Russian lines. There was little movement in the streets. Nazi squads patrolled the shadows; sandbagged machine gun emplacements glared from the gaping wounds in the walls. Small packs of homeless, ragged citizens wandered trancelike through the charred, pocked, and eerily placid ruins. They dug into the debris to pocket bits of clothing and utensils to help them survive the holocaust of their city. The Germans left these mortal phantoms alone. Tania and Fedya hoped to be similarly ignored, counted among the forsaken.

If they did encounter a suspicious patrol, she’d told Fedya to act retarded, drool, and mumble. She would use hand signals to somehow tell the soldiers that the city asylum had been blown up and the large boy was just a harmless inmate. She’d found him in the streets and was leading him to the Russian rear for evacuation. They were covered in shit because they’d fallen into a ruptured sewer, latrine, whatever. If Fedya could act the fool, the Germans ought to buy it—at least until she could concoct a better plan.