“My wife, my mother and my two daughters were captured by the SS. They raped my wife, tortured my children then packed them all off in one of those fucking trains to a Death camp. Is that enough reason for you?”
Boniak swallowed hard.
“My mother and father were killed by the SS.”
“There isn’t a man in this unit who hasn’t lost someone close to them either to the Germans or to Stalin,” said Mig. He spat angrily into the snow.
Silence descended on the little group of men for long moments then heads turned as the sound of heavy boots on snow broke the silence. It was Namarov, accompanied by the squadron commander, Rostov. Rostov was in his mid-twenties, powerfully built, the thick folds of his coat unable to disguise the bulging muscles beneath. He walked with a slight limp, Boniak noticed.
“Are all the horses all right?” asked the squadron commander.
Petrovski nodded.
Rostov squatted beside the fire and warmed his hands for a moment then he reached into a pocket and pulled out his pipe. It was already stuffed with tobacco and he picked up a burning twig to light it, puffing away contentedly on it.
Namarov sat down beside him, accepting the bottle of vodka when it was offered to him. He ran an apparaising eye over young Boniak who now wore a thick grey overcoat and fur hat. He still wore his own boots, the pieces of bearskin wrapped around his legs for extra warmth. Around his waist he wore a belt into which he had jammed his knife. Namarov also noticed the small pouch attached to it. The youth was toying with it almost unconsciously.
“Something important?” asked the major, nodding towards the small pouch.
Boniak looked across at him.
“Not really,” he said, opening it and taking out a handful of bear claws.
The other cossacks looked at the objects on his spread palm.
“Why do you keep them?” asked Namarov.
“To remind me.”
“Of what?”
“Of how much I hate the Germans, of my mother and father. Of how I was forced to live like like an animal and so that I’ll never rest until I’ve found Kleiser.”
Rostov sat up when he heard the name.
“Did Kleiser’s men kill your parents?” he asked.
Boniak nodded. “You know him?” he asked.
“We know him,” said Namarov. “I doubt that there’s a Russian soldier in this part of the Eastern Front who doesn’t know Captain Josef Kleiser.”
“Don’t live for vengeance, boy,” said Rostov. “Vengeance is a pleasure that few of us ever experience.”
“I swore I would kill Kleiser,” said the youth.
Mig laughed.
“You and ten thousand other Russians.”
“I agree with the boy,” said Voronzov, raising his bottle once more. “Here’s to revenge.” He drank deeply once more.
Namarov smiled and touched the patch which covered his left eye.
“Did you lose your eye fighting the Germans, Major?” Boniak wanted to know.
The officer shook his head.
Rostov grinned, as if the question had been amusing.
“We ran into some NKVD men last summer,” said the major. “They were interrogating two women whom they thought had been collaborating with the Germans.”
“We sliced the bastards up, good and proper,” said Voronzov, grinning, and some of the other men laughed too.
“They’re as bad as the SS,” said Namarov. “Bastards. Anyway, one of them had a knife on him, he cut me across the eye.” He shrugged resignedly and took the bottle of vodka again, draining it and tossing the empty receptacle away.
“Have you got any family?” Boniak wanted to know.
“No,” said the major flatly. “There was a girl once but I never married. My only brother was killed last year. My parents were both shot during Stalin’s purges.”
“You see boy,” said Rostov, puffing happily at his pipe. “This unit is kept together by hate. Yours is nothing new. You just have your own reasons for hating, just as we do.”
Boniak looked down at the bear claws in his hand then slowly replaced them in the pouch.
Namarov got to his feet.
“Rostov, send out two or three men before dawn tomorrow,” he said. “I want to know if there are any Germans nearby.”
The squadron commander nodded, watching as his superior wandered off in the direction of another camp fire and more of his men.
“You’d do well to listen to him, boy,” said Rostov, chewing on the stem of his pipe.
Boniak nodded and settled down, head resting on his saddle. He gazed into the flames of the fire, once more transported back in time to the blazing inferno that had been his village. The image of Kleiser seemed to grow stronger.
He was still thinking about the SS man as he drifted off to sleep.
The sabre felt heavy in his hand, the scabbard, hanging from his belt, was mere inches from the ground and when he moved it clunked against his boot. But Boniak soon learned to ignore it and, in the early morning sunlight, he stood facing Petrovski who also had his sword drawn. The blade was slightly curved, rough-sharpened with a stone and the haft was bound with leather making it easier to grip. Three feet of gleaming steel capable, in the right hands, of slicing through bone.
Both of them stood in a small clearing beyond the main body of Russians, horses tethered to nearby trees.
“Try and cut off that branch,” said Petrovski, motioning to a low bough nearby.
Boniak raised the sabre and brought it down in a wide arc, the steel slicing easily through the wood. He looked up, smiling broadly. Petrovski shook his head.
“Too much backswing,” he said. “You must use short thrusts or cuts. In close combat everything must be quick.” As if to demonstrate, he whipped round and with a measured upward stroke, hacked off a sizeable lump of tree bark. “See?” he said.
The youth nodded.
“The sabre is designed for cutting or stabbing,” Petrovski told him. “Learn how to do both.” He steadied himself and smiled at Boniak. “Come at me,” he said. “Try and kill me.”
The youngster looked baffled for a moment but then, almost reluctantly, he advanced, gripping the sabre in both hands. He swung it at his companion who parried the downward swipe, countering with one of his own which missed Boniak by inches. He actually felt the rush of air beside his cheek as the blade sliced empty space. The youngster struck out again, aiming for Petrovski’s head but the cossack smiled, ducked beneath the swing and grabbed Boniak by the belt, pressing the point of his sabre into his sternum.
“If we’d have been doing this for real,” the cossack told him. “Your guts would be all over the ground by now.”
He released the boy and pushed him away.
“Again,” he rasped.
Boniak moved more cautiously this time, feinting to right and left before striking forward, aiming for his colleague’s chest. Petrovski struck the sabre aside and put his shoulder into Boniak, knocking him to the ground. He stood over the boy, grinning, the point of his own sword pressed against the youth’s chin.
“A bit better,” he said, helping Boniak to his feet.
The boy was becoming angry by now and, as Petrovski stepped back, he swung wildly at the older cossack who narrowly avoided the wild swing. Boniak recovered his footing and drove the blade forwards again but Petrovski ducked and slapped the flat of his own sword hard across the youngster’s knuckles then, with an expert flick of the wrist, he sent the length of steel spinning from Boniak’s stinging hand.
“Never strike in anger,” the older man said as the youth retrieved his weapon. “If you let your emotions get the better of you, you’re dead.” He steadied himself for the next attack. “Now, again.”
The ritual went on for what seemed like an eternity until, at last, after what seemed like the hundredth attempt, Boniak finally succeeded in bringing Petrovski down. He stood over the fallen cossack who lay motionless beneath him, smiling.