sleep.
He tried again, but nothing came out save for that rattling sound in his chest. So I leaned down and placed my ear near his mouth. His breath had the metallic odor of blood on it, the stink of the grave.
This time he said something. It sounded like a name: “Senta.”
“What?” I asked.
He said it again, staring up at me, his eyes pleading. “Senta.”
I knew only a few German expressions, so I decided to try the little English I possessed. “Your wife?” I asked.
But I could see the humanness rapidly ebbing from his eyes, thepupils seeming to relax, to widen, as if to allow his soul room to exit through them. He repeated the word a third time, staring up at me imploringly. “Senta.”
“What do you want?” I cried.
He stared at me silently. I brought the bayonet to his throat, unsure whether it was to put him out of his misery or to end my own discomfort. But his eyes glazed over and his end on this earth came.
Only then did I realize that his hand was still locked on my wrist. I had to pry his fingers off. Freed of them, I could see their imprint still in my flesh. I stood then, staring down at my dead foe. I didn’t exactly feel remorse, but something closer to anger, a sudden, inexplicable anger. Don’t blame me, I felt like saying to him. You brought this on yourself. But he merely continued to stare up at me with his dead, accusatory eyes, like the stony eyes of a statue.
It was getting dark, and I didn’t want to be mistakenly shot by my own sentries, so I collected his rifle and the other spoils of the victor, and trotted quickly back toward where Zoya was waiting.
“It’s me,” I called as I approached.
“Mother of Jesus,” Zoya replied, crossing herself. She threw her arms around me and hugged so hard my bruised ribs hurt.
“Easy,” I said.
“What is it?”
“I injured my side when I fell.”
“For a while there I thought you…”
“That’s what he thought too,” I said with a nod of my head back toward where the German lay.
“Did you get him?”
By way of answer I handed her the Mauser.
“Wait till they hear back at camp!” she exclaimed. “You killed the King of Death, Tat’yana! You got him.”
“Yes,” I replied. “I got him.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, little mother, I’m fine.”
As we headed back to our lines, though, something didn’t sit right with me. Though I should have been exalted and proud of what I’dpulled off, that I was still alive, I couldn’t get the image of the German out of my mind. The way he’d stared at me, how he’d insisted on telling me the name of his wife or sweetheart or whoever the hell it was. I could still feel the pressure of his hand locked on my wrist, a cruel reminder that even the Germans were human.
2
T hat night when we got back to our lines, word quickly spread that I’d gotten the King of Death. The news buoyed our company’s spirits immeasurably, so little had we to celebrate over the past several months. Many of my comrades came by to offer their congratulations. Kolyshkin, the radioman, thanked me for the Iron Cross I’d brought him as a memento, and some looked at the German’s Mauser, touching the rifle reverently, as if it were a religious relic. Our company commander, Captain Petrenko, even broke out a bottle of vodka he’d been saving and toasted the two of us.
“To Levchenko and Kovshova,” he said. “For getting the son of a bitch.”
The troops whooped and hollered, and gave us a cheer, which embarrassed me a little but also made me feel quite proud. I bathed in the sweet afterglow of victory.
Zoya delighted in relating the story of how I’d managed to pull it off. The way I’d fallen from the tree, how I’d tricked the King of Death into believing he’d shot me, then lured him into my trap and sprung it when he got close enough.
“You should have seen the look on that Fritz’s face,” she said, mimicking the surprised expression of the German. A
He tried again, but nothing came out save for that rattling sound in his chest. So I leaned down and placed my ear near his mouth. His breath had the metallic odor of blood on it, the stink of the grave.
This time he said something. It sounded like a name: “Senta.”
“What?” I asked.
He said it again, staring up at me, his eyes pleading. “Senta.”
I knew only a few German expressions, so I decided to try the little English I possessed. “Your wife?” I asked.
But I could see the humanness rapidly ebbing from his eyes, thepupils seeming to relax, to widen, as if to allow his soul room to exit through them. He repeated the word a third time, staring up at me imploringly. “Senta.”
“What do you want?” I cried.
He stared at me silently. I brought the bayonet to his throat, unsure whether it was to put him out of his misery or to end my own discomfort. But his eyes glazed over and his end on this earth came.
Only then did I realize that his hand was still locked on my wrist. I had to pry his fingers off. Freed of them, I could see their imprint still in my flesh. I stood then, staring down at my dead foe. I didn’t exactly feel remorse, but something closer to anger, a sudden, inexplicable anger. Don’t blame me, I felt like saying to him. You brought this on yourself. But he merely continued to stare up at me with his dead, accusatory eyes, like the stony eyes of a statue.
It was getting dark, and I didn’t want to be mistakenly shot by my own sentries, so I collected his rifle and the other spoils of the victor, and trotted quickly back toward where Zoya was waiting.
“It’s me,” I called as I approached.
“Mother of Jesus,” Zoya replied, crossing herself. She threw her arms around me and hugged so hard my bruised ribs hurt.
“Easy,” I said.
“What is it?”
“I injured my side when I fell.”
“For a while there I thought you…”
“That’s what he thought too,” I said with a nod of my head back toward where the German lay.
“Did you get him?”
By way of answer I handed her the Mauser.
“Wait till they hear back at camp!” she exclaimed. “You killed the King of Death, Tat’yana! You got him.”
“Yes,” I replied. “I got him.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, little mother, I’m fine.”
As we headed back to our lines, though, something didn’t sit right with me. Though I should have been exalted and proud of what I’dpulled off, that I was still alive, I couldn’t get the image of the German out of my mind. The way he’d stared at me, how he’d insisted on telling me the name of his wife or sweetheart or whoever the hell it was. I could still feel the pressure of his hand locked on my wrist, a cruel reminder that even the Germans were human.
2
T hat night when we got back to our lines, word quickly spread that I’d gotten the King of Death. The news buoyed our company’s spirits immeasurably, so little had we to celebrate over the past several months. Many of my comrades came by to offer their congratulations. Kolyshkin, the radioman, thanked me for the Iron Cross I’d brought him as a memento, and some looked at the German’s Mauser, touching the rifle reverently, as if it were a religious relic. Our company commander, Captain Petrenko, even broke out a bottle of vodka he’d been saving and toasted the two of us.
“To Levchenko and Kovshova,” he said. “For getting the son of a bitch.”
The troops whooped and hollered, and gave us a cheer, which embarrassed me a little but also made me feel quite proud. I bathed in the sweet afterglow of victory.
Zoya delighted in relating the story of how I’d managed to pull it off. The way I’d fallen from the tree, how I’d tricked the King of Death into believing he’d shot me, then lured him into my trap and sprung it when he got close enough.
“You should have seen the look on that Fritz’s face,” she said, mimicking the surprised expression of the German. A
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