“Tank! Tank!” Seidel shouted frantically.
The two grenadiers broke away to face an even greater showdown.
Seidel ran and shouted as the tank barreled toward the hamlet from the east, a heavy plume of dust trailing behind. The rattle of its tracks and the rasp of the diesel engine could be distinctly heard. Schroeder came out of the house and watched alongside Wilms, Richter, and the girl. “It’s the same one from last night,” Wilms said.
“You better pray it isn’t,” the corporal responded.
Angst would have to agree with the signalman that it was the same tank from the night before, the one that killed Sergeant Lustig and the others. Viewed in the light of day, the T-34 was like some unwholesome organic creature. Folds of camouflage netting hung down from the turret and draped over the cannon barrel. Like an animal’s mane, the netting swayed with the vehicle’s movements. Barbed wire spiraled along the track mudguards and continued in thick coils over the rear hull deck, covering the grillwork right above the engine plant. The tank traveled in a wide arc around to the north end of the hamlet and came to a complete stop once it neared the balka. Schroeder shouted out orders. Stick grenades, of which they possessed few, were to be bundled into clusters. He shouted for Braun to bring out the old man. Freitag, one of the escort grenadiers, gathered up the two boys in his arms before they had a chance to run away.
“Find some rope, somebody,” Schroeder yelled in a high-pitched voice, “and all of you take cover in the ravine. Except you, Angst.”
“What do you have in mind?”
With a twisted smile, Schroeder said, “I don’t know yet, but God help us if it doesn’t work.”
Ganz was able to find only a loose roll of twine. Thin but strong, it would have to serve the purpose. Schroeder helped to cut several lengths so the second gunner could tie the grenade bundles. Next, he proceeded to loop the remainder of the twine around the throats and wrists of the three children and Oleksander and held the end like a leash. “Shoot anyone who tries to make a run for it,” he said to Angst.
Angst shook his head. “Not me.”
“Do it, Angst, or I’ll shoot you!”
When the last of the squad ran to the safety of the ravine, the captives watched as the tank retreated a short distance to the east of the hamlet. Angst sensed the collective shudder of the group, even Schroeder. He trembled with them and prayed no one got it into his or her head to try and bolt. He really doubted if he could fire upon the kids if they tried to run. A Russian tank crew could easily be immune to any threats the peasants faced. Being Ukrainian, in territory that until recently had been under occupation, Oleksander and the children might be considered more as collaborators rather than as fellow Soviet citizens. While the minutes passed, the tank took no action as Schroeder and Angst remained poised behind their human shield. Should a decision be made to level the hamlet, the tank would not need to expend a single shell. The tonnage alone could accomplish this deed with little effort. The pathetic collection of shanties could be plowed over, along with anyone who stood in its path.
The diesel engine revved, and the T-34 swung about a full 180 degrees and retired further out on the steppe. It continued for three or four hundred meters, stopped, and then traversed completely around to face the hamlet. Several minutes passed, and still no action was taken. Schroeder seemed to relax. “Let’s get into the house,” he said, and pulled everyone along slowly as he retreated backward.
Once inside the cramped quarters, the boys wasted no time freeing themselves of the bindings. The girl helped to unwind the cord and uttered sounds that indicated her disgust of the situation and the treatment by her captors. She crawled onto the bed and sat with her knees up, facing the wall, her back to the room and its unwelcome occupants. The boys huddled in a corner and tried to gain some kind of protection from each other. Unsure of what to do, Oleksander started to sit down at the table, then thought better of it and remained standing. Schroeder gestured for the old man to sit. He obeyed. Schroeder then opened a shuttered window and kept watch on the tank with binoculars. Angst unhooked his gear and placed it on the floor by the table and sat down. His feet ached terribly, and he would have removed his boots, only Schroeder would never allow it. “Do we stick to the same plan? Wait for a while and try to slip out?”
Schroeder gestured incomprehensibly, eyes glued to the binoculars.
“What if the tank radios for infantry support?” Angst asked.
“Its transmitter might not have the range for a call like that.”
“There could be a unit close by. There’s bound to be a follow-up to the Russian advance.”
Schroeder did not respond. Despite the logic, Angst sensed his remarks were eating away at the corporal’s nerves. He realized there was no plan left to follow. Their lives were held in the balance by the whims of fate and what little luck remained. “All I wanted was a place to rest,” Schroeder said, “and to get out from under the sun for a little while. I didn’t want this.”
“Maybe we still can. These brats aren’t a threat, and the old man can hardly move. One of us can keep an eye on the tank while the other goes to sleep. We can take turns. You can go first if you want.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Angst. We’ve got to try for that ravine and get the hell out of here.” Schroeder lowered the binoculars. He looked at each person in turn and then took in his surroundings, the trap he had unwittingly led them into. The heat of the enclosure was stifling. At any moment the newspaper-lined walls could burst into flame. Then his face twisted into a grimace. “How I hate this fucking backward country. Take a good look around, Angst; this is the Soviet worker’s paradise. A tawdry dream peddled by half-baked ideologists as hopeless as they are idiotic. Look at the filth and squalor. We could be back in the Middle Ages, for all this is worth. And these helots.” He gestured angrily. The boys had crawled under the bed. The older of the two toyed with the tin of fish and sought to find some new way to open it, which he had so far failed to discover. The other youngster watched attentively. “Look at them,” Schroeder continued, “By-products of inbreeding. They all should have been miscarried rather than born.”
The girl had turned around on the bed, her arms still locked tightly around her up-drawn legs. Several small pink toes poked through the frayed cloth of her shoes. Despite the foreign language, both she and Oleksander understood the tone all too plainly. They felt the hatred that seethed within the words.
“I will give meaning to their miserable lives by using them to save our own,” Schroeder said. He removed the assault pack and equipment and let it fall nosily to the floor. As he stepped away from the window, the submachine gun dangling by the strap from around his neck, he gave the binoculars to Angst. He stood by the bed, in front of the girl. She did not look up at Schroeder; her large brown eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking. “Kra seevi dyevoosh ka,” he said, badly, in Russian. It meant “pretty girl.” Schroeder took hold of her wrist, and she did not try to struggle free. Instead, she remained frozen. “I can see why Detwiler fancied you in a hurry,” he said. He pulled her off the bed, but not roughly. The girl stood, straight and tense, and waited for Schroeder’s next move. He lay down on the bed and placed an arm across his eyes. “Give me some time, Angst. Then I will relieve you. I’ve got to think.”
Angst carried a chair over to the window, sat down, lit a cigarette, and began his watch. The smell of tobacco roused the old man. Angst offered one from the pack, and Oleksander accepted gratefully. “Dyah koo yoo,” he said, and gestured with the cigarette contentedly as he sat back down at the table.