Sabres in the Snow

Chapter Eleven

As he brought his horse to a halt at the top of the slope, Kuragin could see that the village of Ridanski had been untouched by Kleiser and his men. The small houses still stood, no smoking ruins in sight and no sign of bodies. He shuddered slightly, wondering if, perhaps, the SS had already killed the villagers and stacked their bodies in one of the deserted houses. He tried to force the thought from his mind but it refused to budge. All looked still in the gathering of huts and he could not even see sentries moving about in the darkness. Muttering words of encouragement to his horse, he headed down the slope, steadying the animal twice when it looked as though it would fall. However, they reached the firm ground safely and Kuragin allowed one hand to drop to the hilt of his sabre. If there were sentries about he would need to be quick. There would be no second chance. He dug spurs into the horse’s flanks and it moved forward at a walk. The wind whipped flakes of snow into the cossack’s face and he hurriedly brushed them away.

Something moved ahead of him.

He leapt from the horse and rolled over in the snow, grateful to find a hollow in the ground. He lay still, murmuring something to the horse which kept walking towards the sentry who had emerged from between two houses close by. Kuragin saw the man approach the horse, sub-gun levelled at it and, for fleeting moments, he feared that the SS man might well open fire on the animal but, instead he took its reins in one hand and patted its neck.

Kuragin scrambled to his feet and scuttled the last few yards to the closest house, pressing himself against the wooden wall.

He was mere feet from the sentry, who had his back to him. Moving as carefully as he could, Kuragin edged towards the unsuspecting German then, in a movement of lightning speed, he pulled his sabre from its scabbard and pressed the cutting edge to the German’s throat, grabbing the other end with his free hand, almost yanking the man off the ground.

“Kleiser,” the cossack hissed between clenched teeth.

The sentry croaked something and Kuragin pulled harder, drawing blood.

“Kleiser,” he rasped again and the SS man dropped his sub-gun, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. The cossack kicked him hard in the small of the back and he went sprawling in the snow. As he turned, the cossack stepped forward and pressed the point of the sabre beneath the man’s chin.

“Take me to Kleiser,” he said.

The sentries who stood on either side of the hut door raised their sub-guns as Kuragin and his captive approached. The big cossack looked to his right and left and saw that the village was, indeed, occupied by the SS. A half-track stood empty a few yards away. Parked close to it was a lorry, two more sentries leaning against it smoking. They both swung their weapons around to point at him and he felt like a mouse walking into the middle of an open field, the predators just waiting to pounce. He kept his sabre point pressed firmly against his captive’s back, ensuring that he had at least some protection should the two men at the door decide to open fire.

“Kleiser,” the big cossack shouted and his call echoed on the still air.

All around him, black-coated SS men seemed to appear. It was as if the night had taken on physical form.

“Kleiser,” Kuragin yelled once more. “I have to speak with you.”

Again his voice echoed in the stillness but, after a moment or two, the door to the hut before him opened and a black-clad officer bearing the scar from forehead to chin appeared. Kuragin swallowed hard. He felt the blood chill in his veins almost as if he were speaking to something supernatural. Some kind of monster in a German uniform. Which, he reasoned, was not far from the truth.

“You are Kleiser?” he said, and it sounded more like a statement than a question.

The SS officer nodded.

“Who are you?’ he said, his voice as cold as the night air. “What does an untermensch want with me?” He smiled thinly.

“I want to talk to you,” Kuragin said.

“What could you know that would interest me?” the German said, scornfully.

“Can we speak inside?” the Russian said, motioning towards the hut.

Kleiser ran an appraising eye over the cossack.

“You must think little of your life to walk into the middle of an SS encampment, Russian. Whatever you have to say must be important.” He stepped back and motioned for the cossack to enter the hut which he did, keeping the sabre firmly in his fist. Kleiser shut the door behind him and wandered over to the small fire which was burning in the middle of the room, the smoke turning it into a kind of choking sauna.

“How did you find me?” the German wanted to know.

Kuragin told him about the battle of the previous day.

“Then why did you find me?” the officer asked.

“Where are the villagers?” the Russian wanted to know.

“What has that to do with you?” Kleiser rasped.

“My wife and daughters are amongst them,” he said, swallowing hard.

“And you wanted to see how they were,” the SS man grinned. “How touching.”

“Have you killed any of them?”

“Not yet.”

Kuragin exhaled deeply.

“You still haven’t told me why you are here?” snapped Kleiser, impatiently.

Kuragin eyed the German warily, hesitated a moment then spoke.

“I want to make a deal.”

Kleiser laughed.

“You are scarcely in a position to do that, you idiot,” he sneered. “If I do not kill you one of my men will. You and your family.”

“And you and all your men could be killed tomorrow if you do not listen to me,” Kuragin rasped.

“What do you mean?” Kleiser wanted to know.

“Half-a-mile from here there are nearly two hundred cossacks waiting to attack this village. To attack you and your men. How many men have you here? Fifty. Sixty?”

Kleiser stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“Sixty-three,” he said.

“Then you are outnumbered three to one. Not even the precious SS can withstand odds like that. Not against cossacks.”

“Why are you telling me this?” the German wanted to know.

“Because I want to see my family,” said Kuragin.

Kleiser smiled.

“Ah, your deal,” he said, warming his hands over the fire. “Very well, Russian, I will make you a deal. You tell me when and where this attack is to take place and you can see your family.”

“I want your assurance…”

Kleiser cut him short.

“Think yourself lucky you are not dead. You or your family. Do not speak to me of assurances, Russian. As long as you supply me with information concerning the movement of your unit, your family will remain unharmed. Any attempt at doublecross and I will personally kill them. Understood?”

Kuragin held the German’s piercing gaze.

“Understood?” rasped Kleiser.

“Yes,” said the Russian.

Kleiser sneered.

“The Fuhrer was right to call you Russians scum. You would betray your fellow cossacks for the sake of your family?”

Kuragin suddenly swung the sabre upward, pressing the point against his enemy’s chest.

“I should cut out your heart,” he snarled.

Kleiser smiled.

“If I die, then so do you,” he said. “But first, you watch your wife and children hung.” He pushed the blade away contemptuously. “Now get out of here. One of the sentries will take you to your family. You will also tell him the time of the attack and its details.”

Kuragin turned to leave.

“Remember, Russian,” Kleiser called after him. “Doublecross me and you will find your family dangling from trees as crow-bait.”

Kuragin took one last look at the SS officer then the door was slammed behind him. He sheathed his sword and walked back into the cold night, following two sentries who led him across a square towards a large building which had once been a church. There were more Germans outside, one of whom knocked hard on the thick doors as Kuragin and his two escorts approached. The door was opened and the cossack ushered in, his two black-clad guards following him.

The smell inside the church was almost unbearable. A rank odour of excrement, dried sweat and, in places, vomit. The entire population of Ridanski, about 150 people, had been crowded into the building. On either side of them stood more SS men, one of whom was constantly spitting at the cowering Russians. Three-quarters seemed to be women or children and many of the women carried their children in their arms. Those few men that Kuragin could see amidst the throng looked weak, and a number had obviously been beaten judging by their appearance. The place was silent but for the odd moan, the crying of children and some coughing.

The cossack recognised men he had known all his life but they stared at him as if in a trance. Reining back his revulsion, he scanned the pitiful assembly for his family. He finally caught sight of his wife, Olga, and he called her name.

She turned, a smile forming, but with it came tears and, as she pushed her way towards him, he could see that his two daughters were there too.

“Olga,” he called as they drew closer but, when they were within reach of him, two SS men stepped between them, the barrels of the MP40s levelled at the three females.

“When is the attack to be launched?” asked Dietz, prodding the cossack with his sub-gun.

Kuragin looked first at his wife and then at the German.

“Eight tomorrow morning,” he rasped, through clenched teeth.

“How many men?” Dietz demanded.

“Just under two hundred,” the cossack told him.

The sergeant smiled and stepped aside.

“Let them through,” he told the guards who moved away, allowing Kuragin to reach his family. They embraced beneath the contemptuous gaze of the Germans and Kuragin kissed his wife, noticing how lank and dirty her hair was. It usually shone like spun-gold but now it was heavy with grease and it smelt, as did her clothes. He bent to embrace his daughter, Ludmilla, just six years old. She was crying softly as he held her, and it was all the big cossack could do to fight back a tear. He held out his arms to his second-younger-daughter, Nadia, and she almost fell into his arms. He squeezed her in his huge arms until it seemed he would break her in two then, very gently, he put her down again.

“Have they hurt you?” he asked his wife, brushing a single tear from her cheek.

She shook her head.

“How did you know we were here?” she sobbed.

“That doesn’t matter now,” he said and held her close once more. He could feel her body shaking as they embraced.

Dietz thrust his gun barrel between them and two of the SS men pulled Olga away.

“That’s enough,” said the sergeant, smiling.

“One more minute,” Kuragin begged.

“Enough,” snarled Dietz.

Kuragin met his stare.

“I’m going to cut your fucking head off you German bastard,” growled the cossack, his hand falling to the hilt of his sabre, but Hadel swiftly pressed the barrel of his sub-gun to Ludmilla’s head.

“Try it,” said Dietz, challengingly.

The cossack released his grip on the haft. He kissed his family once more and then watched helplessly as they were pushed back into the mass of villagers who had watched the little tableau in silence. Kuragin was ushered from the church and the door slammed. He shuddered in the chill wind and glared at Dietz.

“I swear to God, I’ll have your fucking head before the end of the war,” he snarled.

“Get back to the rest of your scum,” said Dietz and pointed to the Russian’s horse, which had been led up to the church. He swung himself into the saddle and, with one last look at the church, he rode out of Ridanski.

Kuragin returned to the cossack camp a mere ten minutes later, slipping past the sentries once more. Returning, as he had left. Unseen.

It was almost 5.19 a.m.