Thirty yards and he would be safe.
Kleiser squinted down the sight of the rifle and rested his finger gently on the trigger.
Boniak whispered encouragement to the animal, not daring to look round.
He was fifteen yards from the trees.
Kleiser drew a bead on the young Russian, the foresight fixed squarely on his head. He squeezed the trigger.
The cinder which drifted across his eyeline startled him and his finger jerked on the trigger, just enough to disrupt his aim. There was a harsh crack as the Mauser went off but Kleiser cursed.
The horse must have been travelling at around twenty-five miles an hour when the single bullet hit it. The heavy grain slug caught the animal in the neck and Boniak yelped in surprise as a fountain of blood sprayed from the wound. The grey reeled uncertainly for a second then its forelegs buckled and, with a despairing whinney, it cartwheeled in the snow. Boniak was hurled from its back and he rolled over hurriedly to avoid being crushed beneath the carcass. The snow seemed to bite into his hands and face as, for precious seconds, he lay still then, another shot struck the ground near him, sending up a small geyser of snow. He scrambled to his feet, looked back at the horse, its body still twitching spasmodically as the blood continued to spout from its neck with the force of a high-pressure hose, then he ran for the trees which were closer than he had first thought.
He crashed into the undergrowth, ignoring the low branches which snatched at his face. A bullet struck a tree nearby, blasting a chunk of wood as big as his fist away. Boniak threw himself down, glancing over his shoulder to see that two SS men were pursuing him. They were struggling through the snow, weapons held at the ready and one had his bayonet fixed. Boniak got to his feet, his breath coming in gasps. He fumbled inside his jacket pulling the double-edged blade free; it was his only weapon and he realised just how useless it would be against rifles. Nevertheless, it was all he had. Using the low branches as supports, he dragged himself up the shallow incline which led up from the outskirts of Prokev. A glance behind told him that the two Germans were still on his tail. They passed the dead horse, one of them prodding it with his rifle as he did so. They they too came crashing into the undergrowth, cursing and yelling abuse after the fleeing Russian.
Boniak realised that they were gaining on him. The trees and bushes grew thickly so he decided that his best chance was to hide. There was an outcrop of rock to his left, masked, to some degree, by bushes and a fallen tree which had collapsed under the weight of so much snow. Boniak threw himself down behind it and closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing. His heart was hammering against his ribs, so powerfully he feared his pursuers may hear it. He swallowed hard and gripped the handle of the knife, listening as they blundered through the trees and bushes after him. He could hear them babbling away to each other as they kicked at the snow-covered undergrowth, driving bayonets into places they thought he might be hiding.
Boniak chanced a look from his hiding place and saw that the two men had split up. One was making his way further up the ridge. The other was heading straight for the Russian’s hiding place.
The youth was frantic. He tried to squeeze himself further beneath the fallen tree trunk, gripping the icy bark with one frozen hand. The other grimly holding the knife. He knew that he would have to kill the German if he got too close or if he discovered the hiding place but Boniak felt sick even at the thought. Horseman he may be, killer he wasn’t but, as the German drew closer, he had the horrible feeling that he was about to experience the dubious honour of killing his first man.
The SS man poked around in the bushes with his bayonet for a second then he seemed to tire of the hunt and sat down on the tree trunk, waiting for his companion to return. Anatole tried desperately to control his own breathing as he studied the man’s legs, noticing with revulsion and anger that there was blood on the black-clad soldier’s boots. The Russian youth gripped the knife more tightly, readying himself for the moment when he must strike.
“Find anything?”
He heard the voice close to him.
“No,” said the first SS man. “The bastard must be hiding somewhere.”
“What are we going to?” his companion wanted to know. “Kleiser will cut our balls off if we go back and say we couldn’t find the boy.”
Kleiser. Kleiser. The name struck Anatole like a thunderbolt. Kleiser. So that was the name of the man who had killed his parents? The black-clad bastard with the scar from forehead to chin. Kleiser.
The rifle shot sounded deafening in the relative solitude of the woods and Anatole almost yelped aloud at the suddenness of it.
“There,” he heard the first man say. “As far as the captain’s concerned, we caught him and shot him. He can’t see us from here, he’ll be none the wiser and I’m too fucking cold to be hunting around in the snow for some bloody peasant. Come on, let’s go back.”
The two SS men muttered between themselves for a moment then, from his hiding place, Anatole saw them make their way back through the woods towards the smoking wreck of Prokev. The youth remained still for what seemed like an eternity, shivering uncontrollably. Not certain whether or not it was the cold or a product of his fear. Finally, when he was sure that they had gone, he eased himself from beneath the fallen tree trunk, his joints cracking as he straightened up. He brushed snow from his clothes and slid the double-edged blade back into its leather sheath then, moving as cautiously as he could, he made his way up to the top of the ridge. Still mercifully hidden from view by the trees which grew so thickly along the crest of the ridge, he looked down into the valley beneath him.
Prokev still burned, the houses now collapsing in on themselves. Showers of sparks mingling with the drifting cinders and snow flakes, all combining to form a kind of macabre confetti. He could see Kleiser striding amongst the carnage, watching as his men dragged the lifeless bodies of the villagers to one central spot, piling them up like so many discarded mannequins. They left crimson trails in the snow where they were pulled unceremoniously along by the feet or arms. Some of the women even by the hair.
Anatole watched as the solemn task was completed. They were piled six-deep in places then, at a command from Kleiser, two engineers advanced towards the heap of corpses. Anatole could see the strange twin cylinders strapped to their backs, a thick hose running from the cylinders to funnel-shaped muzzle at the end of the pipe.
Flamethrowers.
Even from so far away he could hear the high-pitched whoosh as two enormous tongues of flame erupted from the nozzles of the portable incinerators. The two engineers played the dancing flames over the mound of bodies until the entire collection of corpses disappeared beneath a raging torrent of fire. A thick black spiral of smoke rose from the bodies bringing with it the choking stench of burning flesh.
Anatole crouched down, shivering, watching as the Germans climbed into their lorries and half-tracks, those without a place forming up in a ragged column behind the rear-most krupp. He felt sick and, no matter how he tried, he could not stop himself trembling. He thought of his mother and father and of how their bodies were probably on that makeshift funeral pyre now burning in the centre of the village. He watched as Kleiser walked to the front of the column and hauled himself into the jeep, raising one hand to signal their advance. The Germans rolled through what was left of Prokev on their way West and Anatole watched them, his eyes fixed to the jeep which led the way and to the man who sat in its passenger seat. The man who had killed his parents.
“Kleiser,” he whispered, angrily.