Tatiana and Alexander by Paullina Simons Read Free Book Online Page B

NKVD men. No one to risk or sacrifice except them and himself. Now what?
    One of the NKVD men grabbed his ruck. Alexander yanked it away. The man did not let go. “It looks as if it’s hard for you to carry it,” he said, struggling. “I’ll take it and give it back to you on the other side.”
    Shaking his head, Alexander said, “No, I’ll keep it.” He wrenched it from the man.
    “Belov—”
    “Sergeant!” said Alexander loudly. “You’re talking to an officer. Major Belov to you. Leave my belongings alone. Now, let’s start driving. We’ve got a long way ahead of us.” Smiling to himself, he turned away, dismissing the man. His back didn’t hurt as badly as he had imagined: he was able to walk, jump up, talk, bend, sit down on the floor of the truck. But his weakness upset him.
    The truck’s idling motor revved up and they began driving away—from the hospital, from Morozovo, from Tatiana. Alexander took a deep breath and turned to the two men sitting in front of him.
    “Who the fuck are you?” he said. The words were gruff but the tone was resigned. He looked them over briefly. It was dark, he could barely make out their features. They were huddled against the wall of the truck, the smaller one wore glasses, the larger one sat, body wrapped in his coat, head wrapped in a bandage, and only his eyes, nose, and mouth showed. His eyes were bright and alert, discernible even in the dark, even at night. Bright perhaps wasn’t quite the right word. Mischievous. You couldn’t say the same about the smaller man’s eyes. They were lackluster.
    “Who are you?” Alexander repeated.
    “Lieutenant Nikolai Ouspensky. This is Corporal Boris Maikov. We were wounded in Operation Spark, on January fifteenth, over on the Volkhov side—we were housed in a field tent until we—”
    “Stop,” Alexander said, putting his hand out. Before he continued with them he wanted to shake their hands. He wanted to feel what they were made of. Ouspensky was all right—his handshake was steady and friendly and unafraid. His hand was strong. Not frail Maikov’s.
    Alexander sat back against the truck and felt for the grenade in his boots. Damn it. He could hear Ouspensky’s rattling breathing. Ouspensky was the one Tania had moved next to Alexander and put a tent around, the one with only one lung, the one who could not hear or speak. Yet here he was sitting, breathing on his own, hearing, speaking.
    “Listen, both of you,” said Alexander. “Summon your strength. You’re going to need it.”
    “For getting a medal?” Maikov said suspiciously.
    “You’re going to be getting a posthumous medal if you don’t get hold of yourself and stop shaking,” said Alexander.
    “How do you know I’m shaking?”
    “I can hear your boots knocking together,” Alexander replied. “Quiet, soldier.”
    Maikov turned to Ouspensky. “I told you, Lieutenant, this didn’t seem right, to be woken in the middle of the night—”
    “And I told you to shut up,” said Alexander.
    There was a bit of dull blue light coming in from the narrow window in the front of the truck.
    “Lieutenant,” Alexander said to Ouspensky, “can you stand up? I need you to stand up and block the view from the window.”
    “Last time I heard that, my quartermate was getting some blow,” said Ouspensky with a smile.
    “Well, rest assured, no one is getting blow here,” Alexander said. “Stand up.”
    Ouspensky obeyed. “Tell us the truth. Are we getting promoted?”
    “How should I know?” Once Nikolai blocked the small window, Alexander took off his boot and pulled out one of the grenades. It was dark enough that neither Maikov nor Ouspensky saw what he was doing.
    He crawled to the back of the truck and sat with his back against the doors. There were only two NKVD men in the front cabin. They were young, they had no experience, and no one wanted to cross the lake: the danger of German fire was ever-present and unwelcome. The driver’s lack of