Russian radio is on the rampage, calling on even women and children to assault the retreating army—shoot them, beat them, all is permitted.
The cannons roaring day and night are proof that the army that bragged of conquering the world is retreating in disgrace. The communists among us rejoice and sing Russian marches, shout the names of Lenin and Stalin, confident that justice will speedily arrive.
Our patrols confirm that most of the trains are filled with soldiers; civilian transportation is suspended, and only trains carrying Jews are headed eastward. Kamil grinds his teeth: The snow keeps falling; many of the sick are burning with fever. What’s the point of going out to bring more people? How can we house and feed them?
The patrols bring ominous news: a company of well-armed soldiers is practicing drills at the train station. Kamil has no doubt that they intend to attack us. Whoever disagrees on logical grounds fails to understand the supreme goal of the Germans in this war. It’s good that it keeps snowing day and night; this will delay them. But to ignore the soldiers in training would be a terrible mistake. Kamil is getting the base ready for combat.
Joy and dread are thus mixed together. In the meantime, we monitor the daily progress of the Red Army. Felix reckons they are not far away, perhaps one hundred miles. The roar of the cannons grows louder by the hour.
Some of the recuperating survivors have asked to train for the fateful battle, but Kamil refuses. Ten or twenty people rising from their sickbeds will not make the difference. We must not put them to the test again.
The tension is high, but our routines endure. Tsila and Miriam and their support staff are cooking day and night. The fighters attached to the medical team are responsible for hygiene. Salo and Maxie dispense the medicine we have, talk to the sick, and say, “It’s good that we are able to help one another.” The raids continue, despite the many dangers.
I’m unhappy that our lives will soon change drastically. Kamil, Felix, and the squad commanders are preparing us for days of emergency. Were it not for the constant snow, we might be able to surprise the soldiers below and prevent the attack. This possibility is not lost on Kamil, but we are unfortunately too few to risk dividing our forces. Our commanders finally decided to house the survivors along the wall of the old Turkish fortress, to protect them from enemy fire.
FELIX HAS HEARD some good news: the Red Army has stepped up its advance and is now fifty miles away. But our supplies are dwindling. Tsila stands by the stove and says, “What can a cook do without staples? The soup is thin; the porridge is tasteless. God, give me ingredients and I’ll make good, nutritious dishes. It’s hard to watch the suffering of sick people.” Her voice is strong, as if not asking but demanding.
In the midst of raiding, fortifying the base, and helping the medical staff, I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of tea. In recent days I’ve felt a whiff of farewell in everything I touch. I sit next to Werner, and for a moment he looks like Paul before he walked into the woods. The way he sits, the cigarette he rolled and now holds in his fingers, his sips of tea, his tall, agile body—he could be Paul’s twin brother. It seems to me that he, too, is about to leave us, and I won’t see him again.
“Werner,” I say, but I don’t know exactly what to tell him.
“What?” He looks at me.
“Do you realize what we’re facing?” I ask, knowing the question is pointless.
“No,” he replies.
“Victory is near,” I say, knowing it’s only make-believe.
“Let’s hope so,” he says, and a warm little smile crinkles his lips. I’m sure he doesn’t want to contradict me or argue.