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  • 1941 Ch. 01

1941 Ch. 01

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They came on a crisp fall morning.

Lesya was in her garden at the time, fingers buried in the dark loam. She was checking for frost. It was getting colder every day, and she still had one last harvest of potatoes and beets to dig up before winter weather set in. Standing, Lesya brushed clumps of earth from her hands and shielded her eyes to watch the Wehrmacht roll in. Tartaki was a tiny town, essentially a single strip of dirt road lined with thatch- or tin-roofed huts. A lucky few had fired clay shingles. It wasn't even a kolkhoz, one of the collective farms that produced bulk food for distribution to the people. Here, everyone just grew whatever they could on the patch of land attached to their property. Each family usually produced enough to feed itself, and that was about it. Extra was canned and sealed for hard winters or emergencies, such as when the Reds rolled through and "taxed" everyone. There was no real economy beyond a basic barter system. Stepping into the little village was much like stepping back in time.

At first, Leysa imagined that the Germans were on their way to Baranovich, the nearest city of any importance. Tanks, covered trucks, and clumps of men with guns slung under their arms rolled slowly down the pitted and potholed lane, chatting in their guttural tongue. People watched with cold eyes from their yards and houses, marking every booted step. Not afraid so much as drained. The occupation weighed heavily on them all, though some found it in themselves to at least be grateful that the Red Army was gone. Honestly, Leysa suspected that most of them didn't even care who won, as long as the war ended. It was easier to be impassioned about 'the cause' when you were living in the city. Out here, no one had time to do much but scratch around in the dirt and try not to starve. The ration deliveries hardly ever made it to backwoods places like Tartaki, and the rare times the government stipends actually made it into the hands of those they were meant for...Well, there wasn't exactly much to buy out here. The only store had closed two years ago, so if you actually wanted to spend your useless money you'd have to go two towns over. The illuminating glory of communism didn't shine too bright on coarse peasant populace of the USSR.

To Leysa's surprise, the vehicles and men didn't merely pass through. Instead, they parked their vehicles in the grazing meadow, sending cows lazily ambling away with their tramping and loudly barked orders. Tents were pitched and fires lit. It was strange. Tartaki had nothing of any importance in it, as far as Leysa knew. Perhaps the road it lay along was of some strategic value. In seemingly no time at all, a little forest of green tents had emerged. There really was something to be said for German efficiency. A weak shiver of music drifted over the abandoned streets as some idle soldier played his harmonica.

Suddenly disinterested in being outside any longer, Leysa strode back into her house and firmly shut the door, bolting it behind her. She lived in a fairly modest little abode, one of the few with a tile roof. Leysa had come a long way to be here, bundled off by her parents. The patch of land had been in her fathers' family for ages, but no one had actually lived here for decades. Originally, Leysa and her folks were from Minsk. They were professors in the university there, both mathematicians. A mere 8 months after Leysa finished her own schooling (she studied biology and medicine, intending to become a doctor) her parents uprooted them all and came out to this tiny little nowhere town. For her own part, Leysa wasn't very political. She kept up with the news as best she could, but her thoughts were mostly focused on her education. Her parents, however, were a bit wiser. Leysa had been barely 2 years old when the Great War ended, and she didn't remember any of it, but her mother and father did. The international tension between Germany and the rest of Europe was a blaring siren to them. Sure enough, a short few months after they left, the second war broke out. Leysa's parents left to return to Minsk, intending to recover certain personal belongings and request transfer out deeper into Russia for their family, as far away from the front as possible. Everything in the USSR was so bureaucratic that such a petition could take years to process. They were smart to get a head start on it. In the meantime, Leysa adjusted to the quiet life of a backwater kolkhoznik.

Less than half a year ago, Minsk was razed to the ground by Nazi bombs. Death came whistling out of the sky one terrible day, and of course, the Reds were (as usual) to unprepared and disorganized to do anything about it. Orders didn't get delivered, antiaircraft guns were left unmanned, and Minsk was demolished. Her home, gone. Reduced to lumps of ugly concrete rubble. Hundreds of people were dead, though Leysa did not believe her parents among them. Getting letters out here was next to impossible already, even before the country was bisected by occupation. One had to go to the post office three towns over to pick up or send anything, and that was assuming it didn't get lost on the way or was simply incapable of making it over the front. Phone calls? Hah. There wasn't a single phone in the entire town, and in fact, most of the houses didn't have electricity. None had hot water.

Being from an academic family, Leysa was considered rich...by Soviet standards. Which just meant she was slightly less poor than most. Her own home did indeed have working lights, and was reasonably well furnished (if cramped). There were only two rooms -- a kitchen, where Leysa also slept, and a sitting room. The kitchen was dominated by a large, white-tiled oven. It heated the house, and had several layers of thick carpet and a padded cotton roll mattress atop it for Leysa to sleep on. The sitting room had a small couch that unfolded into a serviceable cot that could, under pressure, fit two. It also had a bookshelf, a glass cabinet that rattled whenever you walked past it, and a tiny, gleaming wooden radio sitting on a table by the window. Everything was clean and neat, decorated in a simplistic but fetching way. Most things were handmade -- the lacy floral blue curtains, the embroidered cushions and pillows, the throw blankets. Even the framed pressed flowers had been picked by Leysa's grandmother.

Stepping into a sort of antechamber, Leysa shed her mud-covered boots before proceeding further in. In truth, she had much more to do today, but the presence of the Germans was making her nervous. She'd lock up the shed and barn under cover of night, and make sure the fence was locked too. Shura, her dog, would patrol the yard. Shura was some kind of ovcharka mix, huge and hulking, with wickedly impressive teeth. Leysa thanked her stars she had put in the winter windows. They were made up of six small panes of thick glass, set into solid wooden bars. Only a single, teeny panel opened, way up in the top right corner. Nowhere near large enough to squeeze through, even if one smashed every pane.

Making herself a cup of strong, sweet tea, Leysa seated herself in the sitting room and switched on the radio. Every once in a while, she'd tug the curtain aside to eye the street. Through the fuzz, Leysa listened to a somber Russian voice describe the depth of advancement of the German forces. Naturally, every bit of news was sandwiched between propaganda about such-and-such a battle won, or heroic comrade so-and-so who singlehandedly diced up a dozen krauts. Leysa had long ago gotten good at plucking out the useful information.

Night came on slowly, and the subdued woman set about making herself something to eat. The last two and a half years of steady labor had put bulk on her frail scholar's frame and given her a healthy appetite. Leysa had always been quite tall for a woman, almost 5'8", and now that she had filled out she cut a rather imposing figure. Corded sinew banded her arms, shoulders, and back. Summers hauling hay and year-round digging in the fields gave her thick legs and calloused palms. Leysa was robust and compact, the image of useful muscle. Not the distinctly lumpy silhouette of a bodybuilder, but the dense and evenly distributed mass of a hard-working peasant. It was funny to think that once, she had been concerned about using coarse soap on her skin lest it become rough.

Leysa had only begun to gut a chicken when there was a banging at her door. She jumped, almost upending the cutting board, and turned to the entryway. A narrow, warped glass pane set in the wall next to the door let her get a glimpse of who was outside. Black uniforms, stern faces. SS. Leysa swallowed, her mouth dry. She had heard all sorts of things about such officers, none of them good. Fetching a well-honed kitchen knife and tucking it into the front pocket of her apron, Leysa cleared her throat and cracked open the door.

"Yes?"

Two officers stood there, head to toe in black, carrying bags. Silver eagles gleamed on their caps. The taller one stepped forward, evidently the leader. Or perhaps merely more confident. He spoke Russian with a thick accent, though his grammar was impeccable.

"Evening, ma'am. May we come in?"

The polite request was belied by the insistent hand he put on the door, pushing it open. Leysa stepped back with a sigh. There was no arguing.

"Boots off, please, gentlemen."

Amused, but compliant, the Germans shed their footwear and ducked inside.

"You don't sound like you're from around here."

"You mean I don't sound like a hick? No, I am from Minsk. Or was, until you took the liberty of dismantling it."

The shorter officer laughed, elbowing his friend, and said something in German. Leysa crossed her arms, her mouth a tight line.

"What do you want?"

"So brusque! We'll be bunking with you for the near future. Rank does have some privileges after all, and the officers are quartering with the lovely townsfolk instead of in tents."

Making a noise of disgust, Leysa shook her head. Of course. Bloodthirsty krauts under her own roof. Fantastic. Gesturing at the other room, Leysa pointed to the couch.

"I don't exactly have much space, so I hope you two are very good friends."

Shrugging, the officer removed his cap and hung it on a peg by the door. He didn't seem too concerned by Leysa's cold attitude, nor the living arrangements.

"Beats sleeping with a bunch of stinking cows."

Leysa didn't respond, returning to the kitchen. She diced with great fervor, working out some of her anger on the hapless lump of poultry. Potatoes, a bit of carrot, and some salt and pepper made for a simple and filling stew. She wondered if she was expected to feed the German swine as well as house them. No doubt yes. The officers, in the meantime, made themselves comfortable. Shedding heavy overcoats, the two strolled around her little home, picking up trinkets and chattering amongst themselves.

When the food was done, Leysa rinsed her hands in the sink in the corner. It was little more than a glorified bucket, basically a metal basin that could be filled with water on top that would drain into a tub underneath. There was no way to get hot water except to boil it, either on a special arm over a panel of the oven or out in the banya, a sort of crude bathhouse. Setting out the dish of chicken stew, Leysa laid out plates and cutlery. She didn't bother calling the soldiers over, hoping perhaps they wouldn't join her after all, but no such luck.

Peeking into the room, the two fell on the food with relish, talking mostly to each other. Leysa suspected the second soldier did not speak Russian, for only the first ever addressed her. She found out that he was called Alric, and his friend, Kolten. Apparently, Baranovich was rather packed at the moment. Surrounding towns were being used to house battalions of soldiers while they waited to advance the front. Leysa received this information in stoic silence, limiting her responses to monosyllables when pressed. Her nerves hummed like guitar strings, for all that these two were putting up such an affable air. Leysa had seen KGB before, and these two reeked of that kind of monster. Someone who could skin you with a smile and a gentle joke. Kolten in particular had wolfish eyes, and he watched Leysa in a way that made her skin crawl.

When the meal was done, Alric praised Leysa's cooking, and asked after someplace to wash. She barked a laugh, informing the two that if they wanted hot water, they'd have to make it themselves. Leysa showed the two where to pump cold water from outside, how to pile up wood in the banya oven, and how the top half of it was meant to be filled with buckets of water for heating. A tin tub of cold water could be mixed with the scalding liquid produced to achieve a tolerable temperature. The banya itself was just a tiny, insulated little hut split into two rooms. One with benches and hooks for towels and clothes, and the other with raised wooden slats over the floor, so that the water could drain when one sluiced off. A cake of soap stood on a rickety stool in the corner.

With that done, Leysa left the two to their own devices, using this opportunity to change into nightclothes in privacy. She tucked the knife under her pillow and crawled into bed after banking the coals in the oven below. When Alric and Kolten returned, Leysa faked sleep. The two took their time settling down, unfolding the couch and rifling through cabinets for sheets and blankets. They seemed as comfortable invading her home as they did her country. By the time they were content, Leysa had passed out in truth. She had uneasy dreams, tossing and turning restlessly until morning.

Over the next week, the three of them settled into an uneasy rhythm. Kolten and Alric disappeared for the better portion of each day, doing whatever it is they did for the SS. They never volunteered anything, and Leysa never asked. Alric always returned first, usually early enough to help with various chores around the farm and wash before Kolten even stepped through the door. Then they would dine together. Kolten almost exclusively communicated through Alric, whose Russian was much more advanced. Their conversation centered largely on various minutia and meaningless small talk. Weather, music, local sights, amusing but harmless stories. It all felt very...scripted. Leysa wasn't sure if they had been assigned to ingratiate themselves with the locals in the hopes of acquiring information, or maybe defectors, but they were unlikely to find either out here. The people of Tartaki were, as a rule, bitter and ignorant.

Sometimes, Kolten would say something, and Leysa knew that Alric was translating incorrectly. His face would tighten in anger, and he'd offer some banal tidbit or non-sequitur, but when Alric thought Leysa asleep he'd whisper furiously with Kolten until they both retreated to bed in a huff. The longer the trio boarded together, the more often this happened. Kolten's tone became increasingly menacing, and sometimes he'd smile at Leysa in a knowing, predatory way. Alric began to just cut him off whenever he did this, which clearly infuriated him, but it seemed that of the two Kolten was the subordinate. Once, Leysa stepped into the house mere moments after Alric had clearly just struck the lower-ranking officer. Face stinging and red from the slap, Kolten fixed Leysa with such a look of murderous shame that she knew he would have killed her right then if he could to conceal his humiliation.

One grey morning, Leysa was awakened by a creak. Eyes snapping open, her hand darted under her pillow to close around the handle of the knife. She ripped it out, wild, and pointed it at the intruder. It was Kolten, in a wifebeater and black woolen pants. He held his hands up in a placating gesture, though his smile was strange and sickly. For a moment, the two were still. Then, Kolten darted forward. Leysa slashed at him, opening a gash on his forearm, and he snarled. He grabbed Leysa's wrist, smashing her hand against the wall once, twice, until the knife sprang from her grip and clattered to the floor. She shrieked in anger, baring her teeth, and kicked out without success. It was unfortunate that she was in such an uncomfortable position, still half-laying down. Kolten dragged her forward and bore her down to the floor, wrestling all the way. Leysa wasn't exactly a waif, but Kolten was taller and heavier. He pinned one leg with his knee, his weight making Leysa's femur creak in complaint. Thrashing, she clawed at his face, unable to pull her arm back for a solid punch. Instead, she settled for headbutting him in the nose. Her assailant jerked back with a muffled wail.

"Scheisse! Blöde Fotze!"

Swearing thickly, Kolten reached behind his back and produced a gun. The cold metal of the barrel dug into Leysa's jaw, and she stilled. The man laughed, a trickle of blood dripping down over his lip.

"You kraut pig, you stupid, ugly sheepfucker, you piss-swilling shit sucker, you-"

With a crack, Kolten struck Leysa across the face with the gun, and her head rang like a bell. Kolten leaned down close, breathing heavily. Speaking slowly, he made sure to enunciate each guttural syllable.

"Little Russian whore, shut your mouth before I kill you."

Instead, Leysa spat in his face, earning herself another blow. Already, she could feel her cheek swelling. The bruises were going to be spectacular. Grabbing the neckline of her nightgown, Kolten ripped down. There was something to be said about the fact that Leysa was almost more angry about the ruined clothes. It was hard to find such things in Tartaki. The SS officer used the barrel of his gun to flip the flaps of cotton aside, exposing Leysa's breasts. He ran the cold metal over her skin, and Leysa felt it prickle uncomfortably.

"Cold?"

Pointing the gun at the ceiling, Kolten fired it twice. In the cramped kitchen, the sound was deafening. Leysa winced, ears buzzing painfully. Kolten then took the gun and pressed the hot, smoking barrel to Leysa's skin, right in the middle of her sternum. She howled as the metal seared her like a brand. Kolten laughed, the sound strained and ugly.

At that moment, the front door banged open. Alric, gun in hand, flew in. His hair was wet and he looked anxious, but when he saw Kolten atop Leysa, his expression changed to one of disgusted rage. With a heave, he threw the other man bodily across the room. Kolten sprawled on the floor, gun skittering away. Alric shouted something in German, his tone utterly furious. Kolten responded in kind, first yelling, then wheedling. Alric only shook his head, contempt written all over his features. Leysa, in the meanwhile, retrieved her knife. With Alric and Kolten distracted, she managed to get it with ease. Darting forward, Leysa shrieked triumphantly and stabbed Kolten right in the thigh, twisting viciously. He screamed, thrashing and grabbing for her, but Leysa danced away with victory in her eyes. Alric shouted something, pointing his gun at Leysa, but she paid no mind. Instead, she waved the bloody knife tauntingly in front of Kolten, who was struggling to get up.

"You are a pig after all! You definitely squeal like one, you fucking skopets."

Alric tore her weapon away, chucking it against the far wall, but Leysa was content. It seemed that both she and Alric knew the severity of the injury she had dealt Kolten. He muttered something, and Kolten pulled the shirt from his back to press it to the freely bleeding wound. It was soaked in moments, and after a bit, Alric removed a shoelace from one of Kolten's boots and tied it above the wound. Bleeding staunched as much as possible, Alric heaved Kolten to his feet and the two hobbled out into the street.

Leysa took this opportunity to change and clean the blood off her floor. Despite the fact that she was like as not going to be shot, she was in a great mood. There had been something fantastically satisfying about driving her knife into that pathetic krauts flesh. Maybe he'd die. At least then it might be worth it when she got dragged into the street.

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