The engagement seemed lost. The enemy tanks surged forward behind another deluge of artillery, moving very well, unbothered by any need to maintain close formations. At first, the wet terrain seemed to cooperate, accepting the weight of the Leopards as they maneuvered off the lifeline of the road. And Zirinsky accepted that he was going to die. But he was determined to fight it out. He felt himself fill with a wordless, unreasoning hatred of the enemy, with a desire not only to destroy them, but to cause them all possible pain in the process. He let his gunner and driver know beyond any doubt that they were there to fight. He coolly began to seek fresh targets, awaiting the fatal enemy round that would finish him off and give the enemy the crossroads.
But the enemy pulled back. They had been so close. Zirinsky could not understand it. The enemy’s losses had been minimal in comparison to his own.
Then they came again. Zirinsky had found a good fighting position, tucked as closely as the heat would allow behind the smoldering wreck of one of his own tanks. Again, the enemy delivered artillery in his vicinity. But this time it seemed little more than a drizzle in contrast to the earlier storm.
The enemy tanks dashed forward in bounds. Zirinsky waited, holding back his gunner until the targets were properly illuminated by the infrared searchlight. He identified three enemy tanks that could not get away if he did his work properly. They were obviously searching for him. He waited.
At the last possible moment, Zirinsky engaged the enemy tanks in quick succession, methodically destroying all three. Now it seemed as though the enemy could not even see him, as though he were a ghost. They fired in his general direction, but the rounds went wild, exploding along the treeline.
Zirinsky had already shot up half of his on-board ammunition in the series of engagements. He was especially low on high-velocity sabot now, the best tank killer. He tried his dead radio again, aching to communicate. It seemed to him that holding the crossroads was the most important thing on earth now, and he could not believe that no one had come to reinforce him.
The battlefield glowed with the light of slow-burning hulks, like random campfires. Zirinsky believed that he could count nine enemy tanks that had been put out of action.
The enemy tried a new tactic. A tank platoon raced at full speed down the road off to Zirinsky’s left flank, firing smoke grenades out into the darkness. Soon, the familiar accompaniment of artillery came back to search for Zirinsky’s lone tank. He ordered his driver to back up in order to reposition for a better range of shots.
The tank surged and heaved. But it could not break free of the earth. They were stuck.
Hurriedly, Zirinsky sought the lead tank of the enemy platoon before it reached the dead space behind the hulk that also served as Zirinsky’s protection.
His first shot missed.
Forcing himself to execute each step methodically, Zirinsky sent off another round. This one found its mark. The enemy tank began to trail flames, veering off its course.
Zirinsky hunted down the next tank in line and killed that one, too. Two trail vehicles fired madly in his direction.
Zirinsky’s universe was reduced now to the mechanics of destroying tanks. Come on, he thought. Just come on, you bastards. I’m waiting.
After the chief of staff had gone to transform the front commander’s intentions into activities, Malinsky fell into an exhausted doze. The picked-over tray of food lay before him on his desk, and a last cigarette suffocated on the edge of a plate. Malinsky remained vaguely aware that countless tasks had yet to be accomplished, even as he sensed uncomfortably that events were too big for any one man to truly control. He felt as though he were struggling to manage an endless team of wild horses, their broad backs stretching into infinity, while the reins were made of frayed bits of string. Then there were only prancing cart horses, dark against snow, snorting plumes of white steam.
Malinsky recognized the scene. The Urals. So long ago. And it was all exactly as it had been. It was remarkable how little had changed. Except for the sky. He could not understand why the sky had such a golden glow. From horizon to horizon, a gilded sky stretched overhead, making a shimmering tent over the mountain peaks and ridges, shading the snow to deep copper in the crevasses and saddles. And it was very cold. His tiny son held tightly to his gloved hand. Malinsky could feel the boy trembling. They were up so very high. The valley, the houses, all of the world’s familiarity and warmth, seemed lost. Paulina looked at him reproachfully. Paulina, as she had been in those early days, so neat and self-possessed. A treasure of great value, his Paulina. In her big fur coat that nearly hid her face with its collar.
He could not understand how Paulina could be so young now. And his son was only a child. That wasn’t right. Malinsky felt his age pressing down upon him like tons of cold stone. Every movement was slow, difficult. He was an old man. How would he ever hold Paulina, if he was an old man? How could he explain this absurdity, this unaccountable accident, to her?
All around him, formed along the steep slope in unruly crowds, dark figures awaited an unknown event. Their faces would not hold still for him to identify them, yet they were all glancingly familiar. A performance of some sort was about to take place.
Paulina called out in fright. The boy. The boy!
And Malinsky saw that Anton had escaped his grasp. The boy slid away from him, sleighing helplessly down the steep slope, falling backward, skidding out of control, looking up at the old man with reproachful eyes.
Malinsky ran, tumbling, after the child.
His son. His only son.
The dark crowds watched with no evidence of emotion.
Malinsky struggled to run, losing his balance, tripping again and again. He chased madly after the boy, who always remained just out of his grasp. They were going so fast, there was no way to stop. Momentum drew Malinsky into a headlong, out-of-control downhill run.
“I’m old. Paulina, I’m too old,” Malinsky called out. Yet he could not understand how it had come to be. He could make no sense of it.
He grabbed at the child, never quite reaching the boy’s delicate limbs. Ahead, somehow, somewhere, he knew there was a precipice. There was a great precipice, and there were only moments before they would reach it and topple into space, and still the dark crowds watched in silence, unwilling to help him save his child.
“Help me,” Malinsky shouted, half an order, half a plea. “For the love of god, help me. It’s my son.”
But the boy slithered away in silence, skating down the icy mountainside on his back, flailing his small arms as he sought to stop himself. Malinsky could see Anton’s eyes: large, dark, wounded child’s eyes. He knew that he had failed the boy, that he would always fail him. Then they were sailing through dark space, beneath a gruesome, spinning golden sky.
“Comrade Front Commander,” Chibisov’s voice called him back, insisting that he wake. “Comrade Front Commander, wake up.”
Malinsky felt Chibisov’s small, firm grasp on his forearm. Just before he opened his eyes, Malinsky stirred and clapped his own larger hand over that of the chief of staff, holding it there a moment too long, reassured by its human warmth.
“The Germans are counterattacking Trimenko,” Chibisov said. His voice was crisply urgent, but there was no trace of panic. Chibisov at his best, Malinsky thought. “The Dutch are trying to get at him from the north, as well. Dudorov has already identified a fresh German division and at least one Dutch brigade that had not been committed previously. They’re trying to pinch off Trimenko’s penetration.”
Malinsky regained his faculties. “Only one German division?”