November-December, 1941
The Pripet Marsh
Stephen had felt a sea change in the air days before he reached the vast marsh, so he had been tempted to drive his exhausted horse, called Koz in honor of the Colonel, harder than ever into the watery breeze that blew north from the wetlands. But Koz had kept his own pace, a bit faster than a slow walk. As he drew closer the air thickened. The flat plain turned to dark moist soil and a stand of pine that took him a day to get through ended when he faced what could have been the ocean except it was grass. Flat, seemingly without depth, the waist-high needles stretched to infinity, their smooth surface interrupted by watery splinters that were black, not blue. He had ridden through days of snow, but now it was clear and sunny, the air crisp. He wondered if the marshland somehow warmed the air.
Stephen let loose a yell of joy and relief. His war was over. He skirted the edge of the grass, observing that the water was ankle deep. From his geography class he remembered that the Pripet Marshes occupied tens of thousands of square miles. On the map, it had been a huge black hole south of Minsk and north of Kiev. He had reached it by riding due south from Vyazma, keeping within the Russian lines, moving slowly east once he passed Bryansk. Amazingly, the Russian troops he had encountered had believed his story—that he was Illya Radek, a high school student from Leningrad on his way to Odessa where he hoped to find his sister, a nurse who worked in a hospital there. The troops had provided him with food and places to sleep and filled saddle bags with food and supplies. They had even given him a knife and a rifle. The worst moment had come a few days ago when he had crossed the Russian line near Bryansk. But he hadn’t encountered any German troops; they had evidently circled around the marshes and were operating north and south of it, but not directly west.
Now that he faced it, its size struck him as truly monumental. The flat watery wetlands extended as far as he could see to the east. Whether he could find in the grassy miasma a refuge wasn’t a concern. All the death and destruction in the world nipped at his heels; compared to that, the marsh was paradise found.
He walked Koz gently into the grassland. The water was cool, but felt warmer than the early December air. The needles slapped impotently against his boots and gave way to the slogging momentum of the horse. Within seconds he was beset by mosquitoes and black flies, but he ignored them, determined to put as much distance between himself and the war as he could before nightfall.
Overhead, flocks of geese flew by in noisy formation, and from his lofty perch he saw rabbits skitter through the grass and stop instantaneously, curious about the intruder. In ponds that were like shiny coins, ducks glided, and it soon dawned on him that the marsh was alive, in constant motion, and that the original impression of absolute stillness was an illusion.
Islands appeared like clouds in the empty expanse, small hammocks anchored by a few twisted pines. He let them drift past, spurred ever deeper into the green folds by a recklessness born of fear and frustration. He thought only of moving forward and Koz seemed to share his desire to escape the conflagration that raged behind them.
They arrived at one of the black splinters, a creek somewhat wider than a footpath. He dismounted to fill his canteen and let Koz drink. He had thought the marshes were freshwater, but couldn’t remember for sure. Now he drank deeply, glorying in the fact that the marshes would provide him with all the water he would need.
He entered the creek, hoping to move more easily through the grass; Koz quickly found the smooth bottom to his liking and they stayed close to the bank, meandering through the grassy plain. The mud was teeming with tiny crabs and minnows flitted through the shallows. Further out, schools of fish broke the surface, splashed and submerged, their movement like a shadow beneath the surface.
The creek curved for miles through the high grass before he saw, to his left, a hammock that was large enough to provide a dry refuge. Koz saw it too and went for it on his own.
The incline was much steeper than he expected and he had to dismount and lead Koz up the muddy rise to the trees. He made camp there, fifteen feet above the grass. Among the supplies he found matches and as the afternoon deepened he built a fire. The wood burned smoky and he sat downwind, engulfed by the thick plumes. At last the hum of the mosquitoes was reduced to a slight buzz and he fell asleep.
The wind awakened him. It wasn’t yet dark, and moving toward him from out over the marsh were dark lines of clouds. The rushes were bent and the wind gusts swept across the grass, each one more violent than the last. Above him the tree branches were whipped back and lightning split the darkening sky. He trembled before the onslaught of black clouds, swollen with menace. Thunder rumbled like a thousand artillery guns and a deluge of hail and rain came down upon him.
He sought cover against the trees as the squalls beat against them one after the other. Koz stayed close to him, using the trees for cover.
The wind was now at a frenzy and he was stabbed by a sharp point, then a second, Suddenly the air was thick with needle grass, uprooted and shot like missiles on the wind. To protect his eyes, he put his face in the mud while the needles struck harmlessly against his back, his buttocks, and his legs.
Then it died. The lightning and thunder passed over with the clouds; the air, heavy with ozone, lightened and the sun came out. Stephen pulled his face out of the mud and marveled at the calm ocean of grass. Exhausted, still trembling, he lay in the sunlight and slept.