Krause glanced back over his shoulder at the squad leader. “Shall I cut him loose, Herr Unteroffizier?”
“Not yet,” Oster replied. If there had been a sniper, he would have killed Krause. And there probably was no booby trap, or the dog would have set if off by jerking on the line. But it still had to be an ambush. Why else was the dog left here like that, helplessly tied to a tree?
Oster had argued against investigating the barking dog when Leutnant Schaefer ordered it, trying to appeal to Schaefer’s own sense of self-preservation. Their bivouac in the village was too poorly defended. Two of the platoon’s squads were away—one on escort duty with a supply caravan, and another sent forward on a combat patrol toward Tikhvin. Only Oster’s squad had been held back to guard the village’s strategic bridge across the Neva River. And now Leutnant Schaefer was risking that important landmark by deploying his last riflemen? With Oster’s squad gone, only the Leutnant’s tiny support staff would be available to defend the village and the bridge from a partisan raid. But Leutnant Schaefer had brushed off Oster’s concern, again citing his belief that there were no partisans. The attacks on their supply caravans had been the work of a young American spy who’d been captured.
“But if there are no partisans,” Oster now muttered to himself as he stared at Krause and the animal, “then who tied up this dog?”
“What was that, Herr Unteroffizier?” Krause said. He already had his knife ready, despite Oster’s order not to free the hound.
“I was wondering who tied up this dog,” Oster admitted loudly, effectively posing the question to the entire rifle squad.
“Perhaps no one tied him up,” proposed Pfeiffer, struggling as always under the weight of his machine gun. “It appears as if the dog tangled itself.”
Oster had to admit that that was possible. “But then how did it get a rope around its neck in the first place?” The convoy that had first encountered the dog had reported neither leash nor collar.
Krause squatted and squinted at where the rope wrapped around a tree branch. “You are correct, Herr Unteroffizier. Someone definitely tied a knot.”
Once again Oster was impressed, this time by Krause’s initiative. Perhaps the troublemaker was finally taking soldiering seriously. He even felt a pang of guilt about having used the man as sniper bait. “Very well, cut him free,” Oster announced. “But hold on to him tightly,” he added. “Don’t let him go!”
Krause’s sharp combat knife made quick work of the rope. The dog didn’t resist as the soldier carefully untangled the line from its legs. Soon the animal was back on all four paws, tugging at the rope like a hunting hound anxious for release. “He’s a handsome creature, isn’t he?” Krause said with admiration.
Oster nodded. “He resembles the Führer’s dogs.” Oster had never met the Führer, let alone his dogs, but he’d seen photographs of Hitler with his pets. Perhaps Leutnant Schaefer had been correct to send them on this mission, after all. Maybe it wasn’t such a fool’s errand.
Right then an explosion went off. It was near, but it wasn’t a particularly loud blast—certainly no louder than a howitzer shell. But the unexpected sound startled Krause, who inadvertently let go of the dog’s rope.
Oster cursed as he watched the dog bound away, disappearing once more into the forest. He was angry with Krause, of course, but he was mostly angry with himself for trusting a worthless soldier. That dog was their mission objective. He should have made Pfeiffer secure it, not Krause. Oster had been right all along. Krause was good for one thing and one thing only: sniper bait.
He was about to order the squad to chase the dog, but then he heard a gunshot. And a moment later he heard a second. Now his brain connected the dots. All three sounds—the explosion and the two gunshots—had come from the village.
The bridge was under attack!
CHAPTER 25
THE CELLIST
The explosion knocked Karen off her feet. She hit her head against a shelf and blacked out. It was only for an instant, though, because the smoke in her lungs made her cough and immediately brought her back to consciousness.
She opened her eyes and was almost blinded by bright sunlight. A hole had been blown open in the side of the house the Germans had been using for their command post. The same blast had ripped her prison door—that of the storage closet—straight from its hinges.
The slumped body of a German officer lay on the rug outside Karen’s makeshift cell. A big wooden splinter from the wall stuck out of the officer’s neck. It was Leutnant Schaefer, the man in charge of her interrogations. She tried not to focus on the blood gushing from the wound onto the rug.
She heard the stomp of boots, and the front door swung open. Standing there was Feldwebel Krieger, Schaeffer’s right-hand man—the very man who’d beaten her. He held an MP40 submachine gun and pointed it angrily at her, assuming she was somehow responsible for the Leutnant’s death. As he released the weapon’s safety, a flash and a bang pierced the billowing smoke.
Krieger fell, a red splotch spreading on his tunic. Karen watched in wide-eyed shock as a silhouette, backlit by sunlight, emerged from the smoke. It was Petr. The boy soldier reached out and helped Karen back to her feet. “We should go,” he said.
“Look out!” she screamed.
Petr spun at Karen’s warning and fired again. Another German, the medical orderly, jerked back from the impact of the bullet. Karen scrambled across to the wounded platoon sergeant. Krieger was still alive, groaning and looking at her, unable to speak, his eyes begging for help.
She grabbed his submachine gun. As she yanked its shoulder strap free of Krieger’s body, the big sergeant shuddered in pain. Petr kneeled next to the dead officer. He rolled the Leutnant over onto his stomach, revealing a holster on his right hip. Petr freed the German pistol from the bloody leather and stuck it in his waistband.
By then, Karen was beside him, grabbing his hand and pulling him through the hole blown in the wall. They didn’t bother to loot the medical orderly—as a Red Cross medic, he was forbidden to carry weapons.
“We have to get across the bridge!” Petr told Karen, and they both broke into a run.
There were no other Germans in the village, just Russian refugees captured and forced to work for their conquerors. Most hid in their homes, only a few peering out from behind newsprint window shades at the fleeing soldier and the girl. But one old man emerged from a cottage right beside the wooden bridge and stood in Karen and Petr’s way, forcing them to stop.
Petr raised his pistol at the old man, but the geezer wasn’t trying to stop them. He was holding out a book and a hard loaf of bread.
Karen grabbed the bread.
Petr eyed the book. It was a well-worn copy of War and Peace. “Thank you,” he said, “but we don’t need it.”
The old man refused to take no for an answer. He didn’t speak but kept forcing it into Petr’s hands. Finally, he gave up and took the book. “We’ll read it later,” he assured the man before retaking Karen’s hand and breaking into a sprint.
The old man smiled as he watched the boy and the girl run across the wooden planks hand in hand.
Karen and Petr ran until they were exhausted. That didn’t take long. For all her strength of will, Karen was weak of body. When they paused, she knew better than to sit, concerned she might never stand up again. So she stood with her hands on her knees, gasping for breath, feeling like she might vomit. When the nausea passed, she looked up and discovered Petr staring at her.