Chapter Text
January 3, 1942.
Operation Barbarossa.
Train on the Baikal–Amur Mainline.
Cla-clang.
A shaky breath condensed.
Cla-clang.
Another one.
Cla-clang. Cla-clang.
The train was picking up speed. Swallowing hurt.
He didn't dare look up; the screams of his companions rang in his ears, masking the dead silence in the wagon.
« Herbert. »
He opened his eyes wide, but closed them immediately due to the cold. His hand touched the splintered wooden floor. It was humid.
« Herbert. » Neumann, a soldier from his unit, repeated.
He looked up and around himself, as if he didn’t already know what he would see.
He hoped it was a dream, a nightmare, a hallucination.
Anything but real.
Please let it not be real.
His gaze met the other's only eye.
They were on opposite sides of the wagon, but that human gaze alone brought warmth straight to his chest.
« It's not your fault. You were the only medic left in the unit. And we... »
Neumann looked around, as if to apologize for what he was about to say.
« There were too many of us. Too many, at least for you. »
'Too many people' had died since the operation began; there were just over a dozen in that wagon. They weren't too many for him, and Herbert knew it.
Yet, when he turned, he saw the others' faces fixed on him — eyes the only thing visible under heavy jackets and thick hoods — whispering silent messages of comfort, regret, and resignation.
Cla-clang.
Herbert allowed himself to smile.
Only God knew where the Soviets were taking them. But he knew it wouldn't be pleasant. Everybody knew.
Since childhood, Herbert Ludwig had demonstrated a superhuman memory and a keen interest in anatomy. At just ten years old, he had knowledge enviable for a medical student. Could he be defined as a genius? Who knows.
His intellect had been employed solely to treat wounded comrades and find ways to send home as few soldiers as possible, in recent years. The orders were clear: even if they were more dead than alive, as long as they could walk, they were useful to the cause. Herbert had always tried to heal them to a state better than "barely alive", but the last few months had been hell. Operation Barbarossa had started off swimmingly, but now the tide had turned completely. Nobody expected it. Least of all him and his unit, who in less than a month had found themselves hiding under snowdrifts like cowards, while Russian tanks sped past and the cries of their allies echoed among buildings and trees.
Herbert had always been good at recognizing voices.
At times, he could perfectly match the cries he heard to the face of someone he knew.
Someone he had bandaged the day before, a colleague who had shared soup with him when he missed his ration, a companion who had been standing next to him just five minutes earlier.
He immediately felt the urge to vomit, but all he managed to release were tears. A loud sob burst out, louder than any grenade blast.
Herbert was only 21. The youngest in his unit.
« Come on, son. If you cry, all of us will follow suit. »
But he couldn't help it.
He cried.
___________________________
Eastern Khabarovsk Krai.
Somewhere at the foothills of Dzhugdzhur mountains.
« I want to play with Polina now! »
« No, it's my turn! »
« Yana! Bronislava! Stop it. You can play with the doll together. »
Mrs. Ivanov was setting up the long wooden table in the center of the room, with the cheerful chatter of the two young girls running around as background.
She couldn't help but smile tiredly at the sight, even though she knew how risky it was to let them play freely.
She grabbed a chair by the back, placed it beside them and sat down slowly, enduring the fatigue in her knees.
« Girls... » she almost whispered, with a sweeter — and more melancholy — tone than before. « We cannot allow ourselves to make too much noise, understand? We... » and she looked up at the window overlooking the front of the cabin.
The girls' gaze followed hers. Snow covered everything outside, making sky and ground indistinguishable.
« We understand, mommy. » the older, Yana, murmured.
« Yeah. » the other added, then coughed.
As the woman returned the chair to its place, she sighed — either from the effort or the worry. She wasn’t sure.
« Oh dear, are you getting sick? »
« No! »
The girl replied quickly, then stormed into another room with a giggling Yana and their doll.
The woman peeked inside and leaned against the doorframe. It was her room, shared with her two youngest daughters. They had chosen this arrangement the day they found the shelter, by sheer luck, less than a month before while fleeing a gulag. It was the best option to optimize space. The two older siblings had taken the room furthest from the fireplace, insisting the three of them needed to stay warmer. Even though the entire house had only two old, slightly rusty double beds, everyone had adapted quickly. After all, there was no longer any need for a space for her husband.
She sighed. Mrs. Ivanov felt like a lucky woman. She truly did. But at the same time, a sense of doom lingered. The people at her side — by then, only her children — convinced her that all this was worth it. Without them, she might have surrendered to the snow just a few days after leaving that gulag without her lover by her side. But like this, she couldn’t afford to.
The war had only recently become a "world war"; she had heard it from some Soviet guards. Japan had attacked America. No one in the world was safe anymore.
So why worry about being in a risky place, when there was no safe place at all?
___________________________
Cla-clang.
Cla-clang.
He was slowly dozing off. Or fainting.
Exhaustion blurred his senses, the cold numbing even the feeling of hot tears on his cheeks or the tips of his fingers, despite the two pairs of gloves.
The others sat motionless against one another, trembling; had he not known better, Herbert might have thought they were simply asleep.
« Herbert? »
He jerked.
« Neumann. » His voice was hoarser than usual — a surprise to them both, as he hadn’t spoken in hours.
The other tapped on the floor beside him, careful not to stray from the source of warmth.
Herbert stood on trembling legs, crossed the wagon with a few uncertain steps, and sat next to him, pressing against the older man.
« You're clearly freezing. Don't worry, son. Warm yourself up. »
He rested his head on the man’s shoulder.
« Do you still have your medikit? »
Neumann felt him shake his head.
« I only managed to hide some tools and medicine under my coat when we heard the Soviets approaching. »
Herbert raised his head to look at him better. Only the man’s eyes and a few disordered mustache tufts peeked out from his jacket, but he could sense the exhaustion in his face.
« Do you need something? I have— »
But the other stopped him with a hand.
« No, Herbert. Keep them hidden for later. They’ll be... more useful. »
Indeed they would.
Herbert inhaled sharply.
Cla-clang.
They said nothing more.
Slowly, his strength faded. Perhaps he would finally fall asleep.
He closed his eyes.
___________________________
The woman wanted to check on her third daughter as well.
The door was closed.
She knocked.
« Zhanna, dearest. » and opened it.
The young woman, older than her sisters, was seated on the windowsill of the closed window, her head against the glass behind the heavy curtain.
She was looking outward, but seemed lost in thought.
« Are you okay? »
Zhanna looked down, then at her mother.
« A snowstorm is approaching. I can sense it in the air. »
Mrs. Ivanov approached the window and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
« Our Misha will return soon. And we'll eat together at the table, just like we used to. » She paused. « Me at the head of the table, you and Misha on my left, Yana and Bronislava on my right. »
« Dad used to sit on the other side. »
« I remember. »
They heard two pairs of light footsteps creaking on the floorboards.
« Polina can sit there... » Yana proposed.
Zhanna glanced at the doll, sighed, and looked back at the snow.
« Of course she can. » Mrs. Ivanov smiled, and led the girls out of the room.
Before leaving, she turned back. « Close the curtains now, Zhanna. »
___________________________
His half-sleep was so clouded by thoughts and worries that, when Herbert suddenly opened his eyes, he wasn’t sure whether he had just closed them or had been asleep for hours.
Something felt wrong. Someone on the train was shouting in Russian, a few wagons ahead, struggling to be heard over a snowstorm growing fiercer.
The other Germans glanced at one another, confused. Herbert stood instinctively.
There were no windows in the wagon; trying to see outside was useless.
Everyone stayed quiet. Listening was the only way to understand what was happening.
They waited, still, for several seconds.
The train suddenly accelerated. Herbert nearly fell backwards.
« Fuck— »
Time slowed so much it felt frozen.
Cla-clang.
Cla-clang.
Cla-clang.
« Herb— »
Cla-clink!
With a bone-rattling jolt, the wheels lost grip on the rails, and the once-steady motion of the wagon collapsed into chaos. For a fleeting moment, time froze; the world blurred into silence until the wheels hit ground again. Simultaneously, the impact hurled everyone to the left, and Herbert was catapulted into a hard surface.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning rubber and the metallic tang of fear. He heard voices, but this time he couldn’t match them to faces.
A warm, dense liquid ran down his forehead and nose. He reached out for anything, but touched only flat surfaces. His movements slowed. His eyes began to close.