The next morning, Krause opened a ration can of Fleischkonserv, an unidentifiable minced, brownish-gray meat. Krause didn’t bother spooning it into his mess tin but just set the open can onto the fire’s ashes, hoping the embers were still warm enough to make the concoction somewhat more appetizing. Several minutes later he spooned it into his mouth, but the meat was still chilled throughout. He slopped it onto his Hartkek, a hard, crackerlike bread, to help camouflage its gooey coldness.
Krause threw the empty can on the ashes and was about to kick snow over it when the dog nosed its way in front of his foot and began licking at the can. Krause fed it another tablet of Erbswurst and bent over to pack up his few belongings. He secured his mess kit, Zeltbahn, gas mask, canteen, and bread bag to the rear of his combat webbing. Then, slinging his rifle, he untied the dog and started marching back toward the village.
Or, rather, he tried to start marching back. The dog sat down on its haunches and dug its front paws into the snow. Krause yanked at the cord and pulled, dragging the big dog a few feet. Then the hound lay down, trying to resist Krause with its full strength and weight.
Even as big as the dog was, Krause was still bigger, and he could drag it. But the cord dug uncomfortably into the palms of his hands, and he began to wonder whether he would be forced to drag the animal all the way back to the village. Krause gave up for a moment and crouched beside the dog. He scratched its head and encouraged it with kind words. He broke a stick off a tree and wove it in front of the dog’s face.
Sure enough, the dog leaped to its feet and started bounding around, trying to bite the stick. “Come on, boy, that’s it, come after the stick,” Krause encouraged the animal, and then he ran forward with the cord still wound around his hand.
The dog fell for the trick and bounded after Krause, thinking he would throw the stick. But when Krause didn’t, the dog stopped. Krause jerked on his end of the line. The animal once again dropped to its stomach.
Krause squatted down, catching his breath. Clearly the dog didn’t want to go back. Something up ahead was luring the animal, had drawn it across the river, and was drawing it still. Krause wondered what that thing was and then realized it would be easy enough for him to find out. All he had to do was slacken the cord, let the dog go where it wished, and follow.
Oster would want him to do that, no doubt. Everyone, even Krause himself, wanted to discover the mystery behind the dog—where it had come from and to whom it belonged. But if it were trying to move forward, toward Tikhvin and the front line and away from the German rear, didn’t that tell Krause what he already suspected—that, despite its German breeding, it was, in fact, Russian? Following the dog would likely lead Krause straight into a Russian unit, alone, armed only with a single rifle. The last place Krause wanted to be.
That left him with a new dilemma. Coaxing the dog all the way back to the village was more troublesome than it was worth. Following the dog to its handlers would prove too dangerous. And simply letting the dog go meant it would again be free to help kill more German officers like Leutnant Schaefer.
But, Krause suddenly thought, was that such a bad thing? He hated Unteroffizier Oster. He wanted Oster dead, too. Maybe this dog truly was some sort of magical devil creature capable of causing officers’ deaths?
Krause smiled and let go of the cord. The dog just stayed where it was, lying on its stomach, watching Krause warily.
“Good-bye,” Krause said. And then he added, “Good luck.”
He turned his back and started marching back toward the village. A few minutes later, when he looked over his shoulder, the dog was gone.
CHAPTER 29
THE CELLIST AND THE ORGAN-GRINDER
Their relationship had changed. Suddenly they trusted each other.
Petr could have left Karen to hang. He could have taken Duck, found another way across the Neva, and traveled on his own to the Russian lines and Tikhvin. But he hadn’t. He’d come back for her. And Karen, too, could have left Petr to starve. But, instead, she’d given him the macaroni. And, perhaps more important, she’d left him a train ticket, her most valuable possession. She could have traded that ticket for anything. The two packets of pasta ensured that Petr didn’t starve during the week that he hunted her down and planned her rescue. But he had little left, and the Germans had taken Karen’s food. So now they had to share what remained and the old man’s hard loaf of bread, rationing once again.
Petr didn’t mind; he was growing confident that the Russian lines were near. Karen, too, had lost her map, but Petr remembered the important landmarks. The most daunting had been the Neva. Now that they were across that barrier, all they needed to do was follow the road and continue east.
They saw fewer German convoys but more barricades. Though snow still blanketed the ground, the weather had finally warmed enough to allow the Germans to dig. They’d learned that the T-34s handled Russia’s snow and ice better than their panzers, so they crisscrossed the roads with antitank ditches.
Petr was slightly surprised by the fortifications; he’d assumed the Germans would use the spring to renew their relentless advance, not dig in. But clearly they were satisfied with their initial gains in stabilizing the front. Despite the absence of convoys moving down the roads, Karen and Petr still traveled inside the woods, just out of sight. The forest was much thicker here, birch trees growing in a latticework that Petr and Karen had to push through at times.
And then there was the razor wire. Tanks and vehicles could never drive through the thick vegetation, so the Germans didn’t bother with antitank ditches anywhere but the roads. That didn’t mean Russian infantry couldn’t slip through, however. Knowing better than to risk getting surprised and outflanked, the Germans strung thick coils of razor wire from the road into the forest as far as the eye could see. This would slow down any Russian infantry offensive long enough for the Germans to organize a counterattack.
The barbed coils were pierced with wooden stakes tightly wound with more razor wire, an intimidating obstacle looking like a solid mass of spikes. Any attempt to climb over or through the dangerous morass would result in deep lacerations or, even worse, getting tangled in the barbs.
Karen and Petr found a deer that was caught in the wire and eventually died after bloodying itself trying to escape. Karen suggested eating the dead deer, but the crows were already feasting on it, and Petr worried the meat was spoiled. He didn’t want to risk getting sick. So they ignored the deer, put their heads together, and tried to figure out a safe way through the barbed wire. But they didn’t concentrate long. They were enjoying each other’s company too much to solve even a problem like this.
For the first time in months, Karen was happy. The sun was out, high in the blue sky, and it warmed the crisp forest air. Bright light cut through the thick branches of birch and fir, dancing across the forest trunks and floor in dappled shadow patterns. The woods were coming alive all around them with the cawing of the nearby crows and the percussive drumming of a distant woodpecker.
Karen allowed herself, finally, to imagine a future. And so she told Petr about the past.
She told him about New York, about her father, about her concerts, what the city was like, and what it was like to grow up among artists and musicians.