He looked over at Kupinsky, who said nothing. He went OH. "I have organized and commanded a sailor's army for all of this time, when our ships were of little value to the homeland. We do not call ourselves Marines because we expect to be back to our ships so quickly. We were back to them once, after Odessa, when we were part of the Azov Flotilla. Then came Sebastopol. And I fought again with my men there, through the winter." He paused, separating his hands to pick up the tea. "We fought their tanks in the streets. My men threw themselves under those tanks, with their last grenades, so that they would save one city block. And yet, I never came face to face with the men who wanted to kill me. And today, if you had not been behind me, I would have seen him do it." He looked over at the other man. "When this is over, I shall go back to my ships, perhaps. But I want very much to do something for you. I feel inside that I must."
Neither man spoke, nor did they look at each other. Finally, Kupinsky reached over, placing his hand on the other's arm. "My friend, there is almost nothing we can do for each other in this hellhole, except try to survive. If we make it, then we are indeed lucky. What you can do for me can only be done if I die, and I think I have as good a chance as anyone else to die.
"I have a family in Leninsk. Perhaps you have never heard of it?"
Gorenko shook his head.
"It's only about forty kilometers to the east of here on the railroad. I have a small house, if the Germans have not bombed it. And I have a wife and a son, if they have not been killed in the air raids. If they have tried to write me, I have no idea. Mail hardly ever Gome's to Stalingrad, and they will not risk soldiers to carry mail. I have tried to write to them whenever possible to let them know the husband and father is still alive. Perhaps they have gotten some of the letters, perhaps not. As you know, there has been no mail for two weeks, because of the planning for the offensive."
He stopped for a second to light another evil-smelling cigarette, then continued. "My boy, Alex, is ten years old." He looked at Gorenko and smiled. "He is a good boy. Very smart. Perhaps he will grow up to be a sailor like you, instead of an infantryman like me. Then, he won't have to look into the eyes of the people he kills, if there are more people who invade our homeland," he added as an afterthought. "If I am killed, will you go to Leninsk? Find my family, if they are alive? See what you can do for them. I think if we are successful in our offensive, then we won't have to worry about the Germans again. If they take this city and cross the river, then we are lost. I will then try to get to them. But, if something happens to me, will you go to them? Tell my son we fought together against the Germans and that you and his father were friends. I don't want him to forget his father. Tell him why we are ready to fight to the last man. His mother understands only that we have been invaded, but not why we have to stand together." He smiled at Gorenko. "Would you do that for me?"
"We will stay together, my friend, the soldier and the sailor, and we will talk about this on cold nights during the winter when we are old men at our dachas. But, yes, I will go to your family if something happens to you, if that will make you happy."
The following morning, November 19, Georgi Kupinsky was one of the first to die leading his men at Mamai Hill. Pietr Gorenko buried the body under a pile of bricks and mortar himself, so that it wouldn't be added to the growing stacks of dead, frozen in horribly grotesque positions.
Admiral Gorenko turned from the window. So long ago, he thought. I haven't seen death staring at me since then, yet now I'm sending Georgi's son, my son, in that direction. And there are no longer invaders in the homeland as we feared then. Now, they are thousands of miles away, yet only minutes from invasion if they desire.
He became aware of what had jarred his thoughts. "Come," he called in the direction of the door, caring little how long this next intruder had been patiently waiting.
This time it was not an aide, but one of the many Captains First Rank on his staff. The man was still in his bridge coat, which carried water droplets of melted snow from the outside. He inclined his head slightly in greeting, removing his hat. "Admiral, I have just come from the American Embassy. Admiral Collier came out when he saw me. He wishes to speak with you immediately. As you know, they have no outside communications."
"Did he say that?"
"No, sir. There was no need. Admiral Collier understands the situation."
"Did he say anything else?"
"Just that the ambassador would accompany him. They request the normal courtesies of a meeting. He asked you to name a time."
Gorenko smiled inwardly. There was no change in his facial expression before the younger man. "Thank you for coming to me. There is no message to return. I shall contact him when I am ready." He silently dismissed the other by turning his back and walking slowly to the window. The snow was starting again.
Gorenko had returned to Moscow before the end of the war. His first office wasn't far from the one he now occupied. After Stalingrad, he had gone back to sea and had been promoted to flotilla commander before they sent him to the staff position in the Kremlin.
He had been able to bring Alex with him. The boy's mother said anything was better than the hunger they faced in that May of 1945. The boy was then two years older than the first time they had met. He was taller at twelve but had probably not put on a pound since their first meeting.
It had been mid-January, and the icy winds sweeping down from the steppes brought unending misery to the hard-pressed peasants. Somehow Gorenko had survived the counteroffensive. Chuikov had attacked on each of the three fronts around the city and had surrounded Paulus. The Germans would not surrender, convinced that von Mannstein would come to their aid. They chose slow annihilation until Paulus could no longer accept the slaughter. When it became apparent that the worst was over, Gorenko had been released to the Navy. Medals were awarded to the leader of the sailor army and his men. There was even a celebration. Somehow the remnants of the 62nd Army had found the vodka, and they stole enough pigs from the peasants to honor the sailors in proper army style.
And then he had kept his promise to Georgi. Rather than go back toward the Black Sea with his men, he had first crossed the frozen Volga and gone east — to Leninsk. There were no trains. He had ridden partway with the army and then managed the rest of the way in the various wagons that carried what little the people still had.
Leninsk had been a poor town, but when he arrived it was a nothing town. The planes had bombed it often, for no reason he could ever determine. The major buildings were destroyed. The people lived in hovels thrown together from the remains of their homes. But he had found the Kupinsky family, still with half a house. It had suffered a near miss, and its survival justified some of the neighbors moving in with them. If it had been his home, he would have gone back to the front, he thought.
He had first seen the boy sitting on top of a dirty pile of snow. The child was dirtier than the snow and dressed in rags, but saw the military man coming and had stared at him. When the boy saw that the uniform was not quite the same as the regular infantry he had stood up, eyeing the stranger more closely. He watched the man come up directly in front of him and then saluted gravely in a little-boy manner. Gorenko returned the salute.
The child said nothing, and the man finally asked, "Could you tell me if this is the Kupinsky home?"
A shy nod was his only answer.
"Is your mother at home?" Another nod. "Are you young Alexander Kupinsky?"