Red Sniper

The knot of frightened people hiding in the dark included a mother, her eighteen-year-old daughter, and thirteen-year-old son—the last they had heard from the father was two weeks ago when he was being rushed to defend Seelow Heights, and they did not know if they would ever hear from him again. There was an elderly neighbor and his wife, both of them frail old people. There was also a woman whose husband had died serving in the Luftwaffe, and she had managed her grief by eating—even in these lean times she looked fat as a sausage. In comparison to the other three women, the girl stood out like a diamond among lumps of coal. The girl’s mother was acutely aware of this fact, which was why they had gone into hiding.

The cellar hideaway had been spared so far, but the men of Barkov’s squad were more enterprising than most. Snipers were used to ferreting out hiding places; it was how their minds worked. Under Barkov’s direction, they had also become skilled looters since crossing over into Germany.

One of the men, whose name was Murushko, entered the house and made a quick circuit of the rooms. Clearly, the place had been picked over. He did, however, notice a door in the kitchen that appeared to lead to a cellar. When he tried the door, it was locked. Ah. Who bothered to lock the cellar door and left the front door open? He took a step back and kicked it open with a muddy boot.

He stood at the top of the stairs and sniffed. The smell alone told him that Germans were hiding down there. He caught the smell of boiled potatoes and cabbage, along with a whiff of the bucket in the corner that served as a makeshift latrine.

Someone, probably several someones, was hiding in the cellar.

Keeping his gun ready, he descended several steps and flicked on a flashlight. Playing the beam over the floor, he picked out several Germans, all huddled together, as if hoping he wouldn’t see them.

One of the Germans looked up. His flashlight beam fell upon a pretty young face. The first one he had seen in weeks.

He turned on his heel to fetch Barkov.

• • •

Barkov was smoking another cigarette when Murushko came running up. Before he could explain the situation to Barkov, an old German man materialized out of nowhere and began berating the Russians. He seemed very excited and angry, to the point that he waved his arms about. He looked silly, like a mad babbling puppet. Barkov was not sure what the old man was yelling about, so with a sigh he drew his Nagant M1895 Revolver and shot the old man. A lead bullet weighing 9.5 grams and traveling at just over 1,000 feet per second entered the skull and tunneled through the gray matter, then almost instantaneously exploded out the back of the brain pan, immediately putting an end to the old man’s protest. Barkov watched with half-hearted interest as the body collapsed into the mud. Now the old man was a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He turned to Murushko. “What?”

“I found something in that cellar over there.”

“Booze?”

“Better.”

“Show me.” Barkov tossed away his cigarette. The Mink wobbled nearby in an alcoholic haze, so Barkov grabbed him by the shirtfront and dragged him along like a bewildered child.

It wasn’t far. This time, it was Barkov who went down the stairs with the flashlight, keeping his pistol ready. A cornered animal was a dangerous one. Murushko and the Mink were right behind him, the later having sobered up quickly enough. Barkov always felt better with the Mink watching his back—drunk or not.

In the flashlight beam, the people huddled in the corner stared with frightened eyes in the direction of the light. They were a pathetic, harmless bunch. An old man who would break like a stick. Three ugly women dry as an old boot. The boy might be trouble if he showed a little bravery. Barkov’s light picked out the face of the girl.

“What have we here?” he growled.

He approached the group. Barkov’s German was limited, but in this case it was enough. Only an imbecile would not understand what the men wanted.

“Fräulein,” he said. “Lestnitsa.” Upstairs. He pointed at the girl, and then pointed at the steps.

When the girl did not move, Barkov waded into the little group, kicking them aside like dogs, and grabbed the girl by the arm. “Poyekhali!”

The mother had the good sense to know that there was no point in protesting, considering that they were staring down the barrels of three Russian rifles. Cooperation was the only hope they had of survival.

The brother couldn’t know that, or didn’t care. He decided to be brave. He launched himself at Barkov, shouting something in German and swinging bony fists. Barkov simply reversed his rifle and smashed the boy’s face. He went down on the dirt floor and curled up into a ball. The girl tried to help him, but Barkov dragged her away and shoved her toward the stairs.