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

Zaitsev had used all his powers of persuasion to talk the commissar out of bringing the loudspeaker. Maybe tomorrow, he’d said. Let’s lie low a while longer, get a better idea of whom we’re dealing with. Behind the commissar’s head, Kulikov had made childish, hilarious faces.

Zaitsev looked at the rear of Pavlov’s House. Dormant for the past two days, it was smoking and threatened this morning. Tania was right. Danilov is an event in human form.

The commissar closed his pad with a clap of paper and rammed the book into his pack. He rolled onto his knees with a grunt to put his belly against the wall. He whispered to Zaitsev, “Have you found him yet?”

Zaitsev sighed. “I have absolutely no idea where the Headmaster is. I just know he’s out there somewhere across the park. Before I can find him, he has to either make a mistake, which he will not do, or make the first move, which I must force him to do. The bad news is, when Thorvald moves, people get their heads blown off.”

Danilov reached again for his notepad to record the Hare’s statement.

Kulikov lowered his periscope and laid his arm lightly on Danilov’s wrist.

“Commissar, please. Stop scribbling. It drives me crazy.”

Zaitsev added, “He’s right. It’s distracting.” He grabbed a spare periscope. “Would you like to help us scan the front?”

Danilov rocked to his toes, ready for action.

“Yes. Of course. Where should I look?”

“You patrol the wall on the other side while Nikolay and I watch the terrain.”

Danilov snatched the periscope. Quickly, almost greedily, the commissar turned and brought the lens to his eye. Zaitsev watched him. The commissar is safe so long as the sun is at our backs and he stays low. The air is hazy. He won’t see anything. Let him look. Zaitsev took off his own steel helmet and crawled behind Danilov.

“Sit still,” he said. He took off Danilov’s fur hat and put his helmet in its place. Danilov kept his gaze in the eyepiece, facing the park. The helmet sat higher on his head than it should. Damn, thought Zaitsev, the man has a head like a bucket.

Zaitsev patted the helmet on top to push it down. It didn’t move.

“Stop that,” Danilov whispered. He’s all business now, Zaitsev thought. He plays the sniper fighter like a child.

“Good hunting, Commissar.”

“Thank you. Go back to your post.”

Zaitsev shook his head. Give him an hour with his eye at that periscope and he’ll be out of wind. Maybe he’ll go back and write an article about someone else and Nikolay and I can concentrate on taking care of the Headmaster.

Zaitsev slid back to his periscope. He raised it slowly above the wall and hurled his vision across the park. Nothing had moved in the three days he’d been watching. Not a stone, not a brick. Wherever the Headmaster was when he shot Morozov and Shaikin, he’s still there. He’s had no reason to move; we haven’t given him one. He hasn’t fired a shot since we got here.

Minutes passed, touching Zaitsev no more than the morning breeze. All of his senses had climbed into his eyes and hands to blend in the periscope. His voice, his sense of smell, his touch, his thoughts—all were magnified and cast over the pitted landscape. He had no idea what to search for other than some unknown clue he trusted would be revealed to him, some sign of life in the rubble and mist in front of him.

Don’t worry, he mused, that’s Stalingrad out there; it’s the perfect backdrop for a waiting, seeking sniper. It will betray life inevitably.

Where is he? Where is the snake? So many crevices, windows, shadows, craters, debris, the sun, the haze, the wind, the cold, fuck! It’s huge and dead all around me. And out there, like the point of a needle sticking up out of a rug, is that one invisible, deadly thing looking for me, knowing me, waiting for me. Waiting for my head with a bullet and a splattered ending, a sad story tonight beneath the lantern in my bunker and a sled ride along the riverbank to the cool storage of the caves. Maybe Tania will say goodbye to me beside the Volga this afternoon, then tomorrow at dawn sit at this spot behind the wall to avenge me. Will it snow and cover my blood mark before she can swear revenge over it, before my ghost can hover here and keep her safe?

Nothing in the rubble. Nothing in the buildings, the shadows, the snowy patches, the trenches, the tanks, the craters.

Nothing. Where?

A rustling movement beside him snagged his concentration, sucking it out of his eyes. He pulled his head from the lens. His thoughts, flung so far outward across the park, were slapped by the moment at hand, the rough, cold feel of now. The abruptness of the change left him dizzy.

He turned to Kulikov, kneeling next to him. Nikolay stared intently into his own periscope, unmoving. Zaitsev leaned back to see around Kulikov. There, Danilov was slowly straightening his knees, sliding his belly up the wall. He clutched the periscope tightly in his mitts, ramming it against his face. The commissar’s cheeks bulged beneath his hidden eyes, squeezing them outward like dough under the eyepiece.

“Commissar, get down,” Zaitsev ordered. How long has he been standing up so straight? he wondered. Damn it, I should’ve kept an eye on him.

Danilov answered in a voice taut as a bowstring. “I see the bastard.”

Before Zaitsev could speak, Danilov leaped fully to his feet. His helmeted head and the shoulders of his greatcoat were above the parapet.

“There he is!” Danilov took one hand off the periscope. “I’ll point him out!”

“Get down!”

Kulikov dropped his scope and slid to his right. He grabbed the commissar’s legs to yank him down behind the wall.

In that instant, Danilov was propelled backward from the wall as if by a shove. His hands flew from his sides, flinging the periscope into the dirt. His legs kicked up and struck Kulikov in the chin, he fell so hard. The helmet tumbled from his head.

Danilov’s head was intact. An upper chest shot. Even while the commissar fell, Zaitsev found the hole ripped in his greatcoat below the right collarbone.

Danilov lay for several seconds. Zaitsev and Kulikov were stunned, jolted by the rashness of the commissar’s action and the suddenness of the bullet. He’d been above the wall for no more than two seconds. In that thin slice of time, Thorvald hit him.

Danilov began to thrash, squirming like a grounded salmon fighting to flop itself back into the river. The mound of his stomach jerked and his back arced off the ground. He started to roll over, flailing his arms.

Zaitsev lunged to hold the commissar down. Kulikov laid his weight over the commissar’s legs, struggling to keep him still.

He’s in shock from the wound, Zaitsev thought. We’ve got to hold him until he regains his senses or faints.

Danilov grunted, straining to rise off the ground.

“Lie still!” Kulikov shouted in Danilov’s ear. “The pain will pass!”

Danilov heaved mightily against the two men on top of him.

“Get off me, damn it!” the commissar screamed. “Get off me!”

Zaitsev looked into Danilov’s eyes. They were wide open and clear.

“Let me go! I’ll kill the son of a bitch. I’ll kill him myself! He shot me, the fucking bastard son of a bitch! Let me up! I’ll kill him!”

Zaitsev and Kulikov released their grips. Danilov sat up, his face as red as Zaitsev had ever seen a face not covered in blood. The veins in the man’s temples and neck strained against the skin. Danilov had spasmed in shock not from the wound but from fury. He was livid beyond expression. The tough little bastard.

Danilov looked at the hole in his right shoulder. Gray wool threads stuck up from the tear in the fabric as if air were escaping from the opening in his body. Zaitsev saw no blood, but he knew that beneath the coat and uniform, the commissar must be bleeding badly.