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

Nikki’s brain flooded. He sucked in breath, baring his teeth. His hands and legs were strapped, useless. It’s over. Over. There’s nothing to tell them. It’s nothing. All nothing.

A snarl escaped from his exposed throat when the blade was laid against it.

The light shut off.

Nikki relaxed.

Then, like a bullet, like an angel, a thought came to him.

“Thorvald.”

“Wait,” the voice said. “What was that?”

Nikki said again, “Thorvald. He’s here.”

The voice gave a command in Russian, and the light came back into Nikki’s eyes. The hand released its pull on his face.

“Tell me, Corporal. Who is Thorvald?”

Nikki closed his eyes to think. Tell them. It doesn’t matter. Thorvald’s just one man; you’re not giving away any big troop movements or secret plans. Tell them. It won’t help them.

“Thorvald,” he said, gasping, “is a colonel. An SS colonel. He was sent here from Berlin to kill one of your snipers.”

The voice gave another order in Russian. The gold-toothed executioner behind Nikki moved in front, turning the knife over and over in his hand.

“Which one of our snipers?” asked the voice.

Nikki blinked into the beam. “Zaitsev. The Hare.”

The Reds whispered in buzzing tones. The golden grin appeared close to Nikki’s face again, blocking the light. His eyes were intent and his head skewed, again like the attentive dog.

The grin spoke. “Otkuda ty znayesh pra Zaitseva?”

Another voice translated. “How do you know about Zaitsev?”

“He’s been written about in your newspapers. They tell us everything about him.”

The three conferred in whispers. The man in the German uniform pointed at Nikki with his knife several times. One head wagged back and forth. The other, the interpreter, stood still, listening to the arguments of the other two. The decision clearly belonged to this man.

The gold-toothed one knelt beside Nikki to stare into his profile. He leaned on his knife and twisted it into the floorboards.

“When did this SS colonel arrive?”

“Yesterday.”

“Is he good?”

Nikki nodded. The pain in his neck was rising again.

“He said he is. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him shoot. But he’s the head of the Berlin sniper school, the special one in Gnössen. The generals asked for him specifically. They flew him in to get Zaitsev. They say he’s the best. That’s all I know.”

“The head of the German sniper school?” The interpreter told this to his comrades. The gold-toothed man frowned and shook his head at Nikki’s ear.

The leader rubbed his stubbly chin. “Hmmm. That is interesting, Corporal.” His voice carried a musing tone. “A German supersniper, sent from Berlin to kill the Russian supersniper. Yes, that is interesting.”

He paused to fold his arms across his chest. “But I do not believe it is all you know.”

Nikki searched quickly for something more, any detail that might tip the scale. He’d just met Thorvald. He knew only what was discussed in Ostarhild’s office.

“He says he’s a coward. He wants me to be his guide.”

The interpreter laughed at this. He told the other two.

He motioned for the man beside Nikki to come. The two in Russian garb shouldered submachine guns while the grinning one in the German uniform hefted a long rifle with a telescopic sight and walked toward Nikki, holding the knife.

He reached down and cut Nikki’s hands free, leaving his feet bound. He leveled the barrel of the rifle at Nikki’s forehead and pulled back the bolt. A bullet popped into the air. His hand flicked out and caught it.

He dropped the shell down to Nikki.

“Vot, dai etomu trusu. A sledushuyu on poluchit v lob.”

He put the knife in its scabbard, then turned for the open sliding door of the coal car.

The interpreter stood before Nikki. He cut off the flashlight. In the darkness, the soldier spoke.

“He said, ‘Here, give this to the coward. The next one he gets will be in his forehead.’ Goodbye, Corporal.”

The Russians jumped out of the door.

Nikki untied the rope from his feet. Once free, he crawled to the door to stare into the shades of night, straining his senses for any trace of his captors in the rail yard. Faced with no other choice, he slid out of the car and walked into the open.

They’re gone, he thought. They left me alive.

Nikki blew out a breath. He stroked the warm metal of the Russian bullet in his hand. He pressed his index finger onto its point, feeling the ease with which it could pierce flesh. He dropped the bullet.

In the dark, on his hands and knees, he groped until he found his flashlight, wire strippers, and black tape in the dirt where he’d left them.

He repaired the break in the line through the throbbing in his head.

HEINZ THORVALD OGLED HIS IMAGE IN THE HANDHELD mirror. This was his third morning in a row without shaving since he’d left Gnössen. Grow a beard while you’re here, he thought. That Russian wind has needles in it.

He looked at his naked body. He always slept nude. It felt warmer pulling the blankets around his bare legs and under his chin. He had slept well the previous night on the cot in the storeroom Ostarhild had prepared for him, but more from fatigue than comfort.

Thorvald set down the mirror. He rubbed his stomach with both hands. His white skin held a reddish cast, the scarlet hue of childhood freckles still visible from head to toe. His shoulders and chest were soft. A layer of fat cushioned the lines of his muscles and bones like a jacket of snow. His waistline seemed to pout as if it were sticking out a lip.

He slapped his belly and jiggled it once to tell it he was going to give it some bread and jelly out of his bag in a few minutes. He gathered up the fatigues Ostarhild had sent at his request and pulled them on.

An opened wooden crate rested at the foot of the cot. Thorvald reached through the straw packing and lifted the canvas sack containing the new Mauser Kar 98K. He slid the rifle from the sack and undid the factory wrapping of oil paper. He felt the slickness of the packing grease and oil, the smell as sweet to him as morning coffee.

Thorvald broke the gun down, the stock, the bolt, the trigger assembly. He had an orderly bring him a basin of hot soapy water, then placed the parts in the suds. He shook out the canvas sack to rid it of straw and dust and laid it across the bed. After wiping the rifle parts down with clean rags, he set each on the sack and gave the metal bits a light coat of gun oil. He held the barrel up to the window and peered down it. Deep in the center was a single speck of dust, like a lone camel in a vast blue and perfect desert. Thorvald swabbed it out, looked again, and set the barrel on the sack.

He reassembled the rifle and washed his hands. He took off the oily fatigues and threw them in a corner. From his duffel bag he arrayed his clothes on the bed, dressing slowly, donning first his winter undergarments. He enjoyed the gathering warmth of each article: black cotton socks, gray-green woolen pantaloons, black wool turtleneck and large-cord sweater, then his insulated high boots. Last, he took out the reversible padded coat and hood, green on one side, white on the other. His white mittens were inside the pockets. He unrolled a pair of reversible drawstring pants and tossed them on the bed beside the coat.

After savoring three slices of pumpernickel slathered with Black Forest cherry jam from his duffel, he took up a small chamois sack holding his Zeiss 6X telescopic sight with crosshair reticle. He locked the scope into place.

Thorvald pulled on the pants and parka, white side out. Dressed and fed, he rubbed the blond stubble on his chin. They’ll ask at the opera about the beard, he thought. I’ll tell them I grew it on a mission to the Eastern Front.