NOVEMBER 19, 1942 – 8:01 P.M

The assault has begun today.

We all watched it occur from the safety of the roofs that still stood amidst the ruined buildings. All I could see were tracer rounds exploding upon the horizon, explosions discharging all around, and hundreds of little dots racing across the city landscape.

Belinski happily counted the explosions he saw, scribbling down tallies on the back page of my journal. He promised all of us that he would be handing out one cigarette for every two explosions. None of the men, myself included, ever held him up to his promises, as he usually "forgot" or "never said it". But after it was over, he didn't give us the cigarettes anyway, despite the twenty explosions.

Nevski came up to the roof and called into the crowd. "Okay, everyone back to your positions. The Romanians have begun to hold their positions and have dug in pretty well against our comrades. Field Marshall Zhukov has made it so that, if the Romanians should manage to escape and flee, they will be forced to come down to us," he pointed to the road, "here. It is part of Field Marshall Zhukov's plan that we don't allow the enemy past this road. There shall be no retreat. Any man who disobeys this order shall be shot," he looked up at me. "Am I understood?"

There was a low chorus of "Yes sir!" and everyone sped down to their positions and loaded their weapons.

I crouched down amongst the debris, two feet beside the foxhole, and slipped two rounds into my coach gun. Durasov and Belinski, meanwhile, helped one another quickly load the Record Player and set it up so that it was ready to fire. We had all known this moment would come; most had done everything in their power to try and avoid it. This, an event that could be the turning point of this battle in Stalingrad, would also be a turning point in our lives. If we routed the German 6th Army and forced them into a retreat, they would be completely encircled and be forced to surrender, being cut off from the rest of their forces. I found myself with the "fighting-for-a-fallen-comrade" mindset, the images of Sokolov and Nikita's faces crossed over my visage, but so did Nevski's. In a way Nevski is a fallen comrade, corrupted by war and its atrocities.

But, unlike Sokolov and Nikita, I believe Nevski can be saved from the fiery gates of Hell. My squadmates are dancing in Heaven now, Durasov, Belinski, and I are dancing amongst the living mortals, and Nevski has been roughly dragged to the in-between. He is a shade, a wraith; holding onto delusions as a phantom hiding from the light with us men.

Durasov leaned in. "Strike hold, comrades." And he patted Belinski and me on the shoulder.

Belinski nodded and handed out the cigarettes he owed us. Durasov quickly lit one of his and began smoking it, while I took mine and tucked them into my breast pocket. I then took a winter cap with the Russian hammer-and-sickle embroidered onto it and placed it on my head.

I've recently noticed how much colder the weather has been getting. Even in the heat of battle I have found myself shivering from the cold wind and the snow surrounding me. Here, the winter snows last from October to late February, and the days become almost unbearable. I think some time, before I die, I will escape this place and visit, maybe, Spain, Morocco, or South America. Any of these places would be more desirable than Russia. I love my country but, sometimes you just have to get away.

I watched as a couple of the men Nevski had taken as his personal bodyguards ran out onto the road, carrying mines and wire. They then took the explosives and planted it amongst debris, which they pulled from the destroyed building they were taking cover in. Attaching the explosives to one end of the wire, they pulled the opposite end of the wire and tied it around a trigger. With this done, two of them began to pile up bricks and stones and blocks of wood up around the diameter of the road in an attempt to slow the German vehicles down.

As we waited for the enemy to arrive, I began to write down, in udder boredom, what my company had to throw at the Germans and their allies. The company had a total of about sixty-five men, each armed with a rifle or submachine gun, a pistol or another rifle, and six grenades. There were also men armed with machine guns and mortars, anti-tank weapons, and grenade launchers. Nevski's bodyguards were armed with German MP 18 submachine guns, which they had discovered amongst German corpses, and each were given German Panzerfausts and Tokarev pistols, which Nevski had to beg off of the supply officers.

Despite there being about only twelve men acting as his bodyguards, Nevski made sure they were the most highly equipped men in the entire army. All of them were the finest soldiers from their respective divisions, handpicked by Nevski himself to conduct "special" operations. They were elite troopers dedicated to protecting Nevski and defeating the Germans.

If Nevski died, his men were going to make sure it wasn't from a bullet, explosion, or bayonet.

The bodyguards were relatively unfriendly towards the men of the company, either shunning us or becoming upset whenever placed beside one of us instead of their own. They were all non-commissioned officers and had at least some control over us grunts. Despite being a junior sergeant, some of the bodyguards, who were Corporals, have had authority over me.

One of the bodyguards, Corporal Yuri Daletski, came to our foxhole and began passing out a couple canisters of ammo for the Record Player and a drum full of grenades. He told us, "Use the grenades wisely…there aren't any more left that you can use." and then left for the building Nevski was in. We all watched as he left, a rifle in one hand and a cigar in the other. Durasov took out a pack of cards and began to play a game with Belinski.

"From what I've heard," Belinski started. "Only a company of Romanians are coming this way…the rest have either been captured or surrounded and forced to flee in another direction."

Durasov shuffled the cards. "Well, after listening on the radio, I heard that we probably won't meet the stiff resistance we've been preparing for. I don't think we will be fighting a force bigger than a couple platoons. I heard that the Germans got cut off in the south and that half the Romanian tanks have been destroyed."

"It's not surprising," Belinski replied. "Our intelligence stated that the enemy had only about one hundred serviceable tanks and, when the attack began, only thirty of them worked. There's a big blizzard going on down there, which probably froze the tanks' traction and froze their sights. They were probably as coordinated as a hill of ants without their Queen."

"What do you think, Andrei?"

I shrugged. "War's confusing…"

I tried to play dumb. I do most of the time. In reality, I understood that the goal of the operation was to eliminate the German 6th Army's flanks by defeating the 170,000 Romanians stationed there and, with luck, encircle the remaining Germans trapped inside our lines. Zhukov's plan was to overwhelm the Romanian positions with several attack waves consisting of a large amount of Soviet troops. Earlier today, Nevski informed us that our attack on Army Group B in September had been a part of Zhukov's overall scheme to cut off the German and Romanian supply lines.

From what we have heard on the radio lines, our comrades have already made a massive wedge in the Romanian forces, making most of them run in fright, but the majority of their forces were stuck between stiff walls of resistance by both the Romanians and the Germans. Nevski keeps telling us that if any Romanians managed to escape the grasp of our comrades, they would be forced to come down this road, and yet, we still haven't seen any human being come down or around this road.

As the sun began to set, we could all still hear the distant rumble of explosions and the crackle of gunfire. Nevski ordered all fires and sources of light to be extinguished and at least one of every two men to be awake at all times, weather we work in shifts or continuously. I decided to take the first shift so that I might write this diary entry down before all light had gone out. I find myself overjoyed that I have written as neatly as I am.

After the sun had gone down, I saw Nevski take a walk down the road, coming back about half an hour later carrying something large in his hand. I hid beneath my blanket of shadows and watched as he passed my foxhole. Very briefly, I looked up towards what was in his hand, only to find the twisted faces of three Romanians who'd had their heads severed from their bodies.

I crouched down in my foxhole, apparently noisier than I had hoped, as Nevski turned towards my direction and came up to my squad's foxhole. All I could hear was the sound of gravel beneath his boots, but, when it stopped, I could hear a low, maniacal laugh.

"You like that, Toufexis?"

Then, there was a swish in the air and a thud, and very barely through the darkness, I saw the head of one of the Romanians resting a couple feet before my legs.

"You can have that one, comrade. Enjoy."

And he walked away.

I can't bear to go near the head, so that's where it shall remain until my squad awakens tomorrow. They can deal with it then, but for now I will let them sleep, for I know now that I probably won't be able to. Nevski's trying to kill me, using bullets, sleep deprivation, and fright. What have I done to deserve this? As I recall, we were friends before that incident with the prisoners.

NOVEMBER 20, 1942 – 10:31 P.M

I awoke to the earth trembling.

Snow, dirt, and blood shook all over. Explosive rounds simmered above me and blew into my company's positions. Through the haze of fatigue, I managed to see Belinski in front of me, manning the machine gun, as Durasov sat beside him, firing his rifle. I shook my head and sat up, not even noticing the grotesque head of the Romanian that had been thrown in our foxhole the night before. I crawled up on the opposite side of Belinski, taking my rifle from the edge of the hole.

"Come on, you bastards!" Belinski screamed, firing a burst from the machine gun before reloading. "Come on you—"

BAAM!

A round landed three feet before us. Belinski was cut off mid-sentence as he ducked for cover. After a few moments, he straightened back up and reloaded the Record Player, taking in a quick drag from his cigarette before continuing his fire on the enemy.

I raised my rifle and pointed it towards the direction of the gunfire. I instantly spotted dozens of enemy infantry, which I easily identified as Romanians by their brown uniforms and their curved helmets, stumbling over the debris covering the road whilst firing random shots on our positions. After a second of looking, I also noticed a pair of German tanks bursting through the rubble with great force before firing incredibly devastating shells on us. Several bodies—their blood and bowels hanging out and splattered around—lay strewn about the road. As the tanks moved, the ground shook and the pieces of shattered material bounced around.

Corporal Daletski came running across the road. One of the tanks fired. The shell landed on the man's back, blowing him apart. His chest seemed to burst open like a balloon as his intestines fell out and blood splattered all over. His body broke into three pieces, all of which ripped apart like paper and fell flat on ground, never to move again.

Bullets soared in all directions. The building where the majority of the company was holding up was nearly destroyed; dozens of nasty holes lay in its sides, leaving several men exposed and vulnerable. However, it was obvious that the men were holding their own, firing down upon the oncoming enemy with all they had. But, it seemed, was not enough. I could see the look on the men's faces, the fear in their eyes—they were on the verge of breaking and running.

Then something happened.

Nevski stood up on a pile of rubble, a revolver raised in one hand and a fist bent beside his hip. He was the American general George Washington, standing upon the prow of his ship to face the enemy head-on. His bodyguards quickly crowded around him, either stepping in front of him or attempting to pull him down. Any attempt made was met with a stiff body that shouted the word "no", as Nevski continued to fight.

Durasov patted me on the shoulder. Once he'd caught my attention, he pointed to one of the tanks, which was beginning to cower into an alley. "I think they're trying a pincer move, Andrei. What do we do?"

"Go, comrade, get to Nevski and tell him. Belinski and I will cover you."

Durasov nodded, fired a round at the Romanians, and leapt out of the foxhole as Belinski unloaded his weapon into the enemy. To my relief, he made it across the road without any problems, and the last I saw of him was his back disappearing into the ruined building. Soon, however, the second tank began pushing up through the road towards our position. So, as it began to fire towards us, I ordered Belinski to displace to the second floor window of the building behind our position. I covered him as best I could, but the tank shrugged off the bullets that snapped around its hard shell.

It did not stop. Like a train charging on its tracks. It would not stop unless its driver wanted it so. The moment Belinski was in the cover of the building, I leapt through the hole just seconds before I was crushed by the tank. The tank commander sprang out of the top of the armored vehicle armed with a submachine gun.

He saw me and I saw him.

I, however, was a bit quicker and shot him quickly…right between the eyes. He went plunk down into the tank and I sprang away just as another one of the tank crew came out and began firing on me with the same submachine gun. Snow and wood, rocks and glass were all kicked up around me, but I myself managed to get to cover without taking a graze.

Once inside, I followed Belinski as he raced upstairs and set up his machine gun in the window. The tank crew didn't seem to like this and raised their main cannon up at us, missing us only by a few yards.

The roof blew off and the walls crumbled. I felt like I was in the middle of that tornado in the American movie the Wizard of Oz, my mind swirled around and around, my eyes seeming to shake, and suddenly the ground was taken out from under me and I fell, hitting the ground below hard. When I woke, my vision was blurred.

But I saw Belinski.

He came staggering up to me, several shards of wood jutting out of his chest and back. His eyes were bloodshot and his lower lip was quivering. Belinski reached out to me with one hand, the hoarse and raspy word "Comrade…" before he fell to the ground dead.

I stayed where I was, tears rolling down my eyes and sobs escaping my lips. His head was resting on my ankle, a puddle of blood forming up around his waist and his Record Player lay split in two beside him. I don't know how long I sat there, staring at his body. But when I eventually stood up, my face red and my eyes watery, I could hear the Romanians outside, running around as my comrades fired upon them.

I walked out, trudging through the snow and debris with little consideration for my life. My rifle dragged at my side, explosions and bullets crashing down around me from every which-way. The pain in my heart, despite how extreme and real it felt, was almost numbing at the same time. I couldn't feel the force of the grenade explosions rocking around me, I couldn't feel the bullet slam through my leg, and I couldn't feel the blood pouring out of me.

I could see one of Nevski's bodyguards, Sergeant Alexei, run up to me, rest his rifle on the ground, and take me by the shoulders. He dragged me across the road and brought me to a nearby building, calling for a medic and for Durasov to come help him bandage my leg. My ears were ringing and my head was spinning. There was no roof to the building and the icy winds roared below the dim, dreary skies. Each gust felt like a thousand knives running straight through me. My leg was especially cold; stinging like the skin had been ripped from the bone. Durasov came and helped prop my leg up on a stool so Alexei could wrap a large piece of white cloth around my wound.

Durasov patted my cheek. "You are going to be alright, comrade. It is just a flesh wound…" He looked up nervously towards Alexei, who simply wiped the sweat off of my hot forehead.

"I can't stop the bleeding," Alexei said. "We need to move him to the medical base down by the cemetery."

"Alright," Durasov replied.

Alexei tied a knot in the cloth and made sure it was sturdy. There was a strained shock of pain around my wound and my vision began to blacken. With what little strength I had, I raised my arm and gripped Durasov's collar. When I started to speak, what little audible speech that came out was covered in a sob.

"Belinski's dead…" I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. "They killed him, comrade. I failed him…"

Durasov gently gripped my hand. "It is okay, comrade—"

"He is going into shock," Alexei abruptly announced. "We need to get him out of here."

I felt a hard pressure as Alexei grabbed both my shoulders and Durasov lifted both my legs. They both then proceeded to carry me outside, amidst the gunfire and explosions, and bring me far away from the sounds of war. I don't know how long they carried me for, but, after a while, I began to doze out. All I can remember after that was Alexei and Durasov meeting a medic squad about three blocks down the road from the fighting, the rumblings of cannon and small arms fire echoing in my ears.

Like the roar of a lion, it was.

It numbed my ears.

But, I was not yet taken by the grasp of death, finding myself being thrown upon a sleigh and dragged through the barren streets of Stalingrad.

I watched on, helpless, as I was pulled through the gates of a cemetery. Around me, sleds confiscated from children were pulled along, wounded and dead bodies laid down upon them. There was a makeshift hospital at one corner of the cemetery, but it seemed to be filled to the brim with both doctors and dying soldiers. Standing amongst the graves of the loved and lost, the gravediggers were weak and dying from hunger; I watched one collapse down into the hole he had dug. The coffins had all been burnt for fuel, so the bodies had been wrapped in blood-dampened cloth as a replacement.

One of the medics took a slip, scribbled on it with a pen, and slapped it down onto my chest. I then watched as two more men lifted me up from the sleigh and rested me down onto a soft stack of hay and pulled up a blanket to my chin, but left my wounded leg open from the covers. They then left me to rest for a moment while they treated other patients recently coming to the facility.

"You shouldn't be moving so much," one of the doctors told me upon seeing me write in this journal. "Finish your thoughts, but no more writing, comrade. It'll needlessly prolong your stay here."

What could I say? I had no other idea beside "O.K" at the time, but now I wish I hadn't agreed. Now, as the sunlight begins to dim outside, I see that I will need to stop soon. I don't know how I will get to sleep tonight, as all I can see when I close my eyes are Belinski's…the blood swelling up around him and the shards of wood slashed through his torso like scissors on paper…I don't wish to think about it any-more. Also, I can only think about Durasov, Alexei, and Nevski, who are still on the line, fighting the enemy, the cold, and each other while I lie here in a warm hay bed with a blanket. It doesn't seem fair that, because of a small bullet, I have been relieved of all my previous duties. Despite the brief sociability between Durasov and Alexei, I believe the latter will continue Nevski and the former will become isolated during his time without me, troubled both with the death of Belinski and my injury.

I suspect this place shall be made my home at least for a small while. They say that the bullet didn't go all the way through my leg, so I should look forward to the procedure to remove it tomorrow. They say it shall be quick and simple, with little to no pain as they just got in a new shipment of morphine.

I don't believe them.

DECEMBER 12, 1942 – 8:32 A.M

It has been a week or so since the operation on my leg, but, in all honesty, I cannot tell the difference. At some points, like before, it will be numb and I won't be able to move it. On others, the pain is so excruciating that the doctors have to give me two syrettes of morphine, which they are foolish to hand out so willingly, as the army has little to spare.

One day, when the snow had ceased to fall, a German mortar strike hit a few of the graves in the yard outside of the medical tent. The machine gunners stationed along the stone wall encompassing the perimeter of the graveyard did the best they could, but there was nothing they could do against artillery. It was at that moment in which one of the bursts of pain occurred, making me scream and shout and sputter out the worst of curses. The orderlies came at me, and I, in a blind rage, flung out at them with my fists, breaking one's nose and shoving the other aside. I found myself on the floor, floundering like a fish out of water.

The mortars dropped on the ground and splashed down in flames, like pebbles skipping across the surface of a pond. Graves were undone, men were thrown into the air, and the snow caught fire. Another orderly, a blonde woman, came to me and began to stroke my hair, singing a lovely Soviet tune.

I'm ceased to yell; I began to shiver, my teeth chattering.

"You will be alright, shh…" she whispered.

She took me in her arms, the mortars still thundering out strong. Nothing as simple as a hug would seem to be so calming, yet it was the only thing restricting me from the mayhem that engulfed my surroundings. Through the hushed tone of a whisper, she told me everything about her: her name is Ninel Putin; she is a nurse from St. Petersburg; she has luscious blonde hair she spends only minutes on, yet always is complimented on by her peers; both her parents were killed during an automobile accident; she has two daughters and a son.

When the mortar strike finally ended, she lifted me up onto my good leg and rested me down on my cot.

"I shall be right back," she told me, leaping away to help carry the wounded in from the open. It took until sunset until she returned, but by this time I was dozing in and out of slumber. Ninel stayed with me all throughout the night, and it was stopped only by the sound of distant gunfire and the call for someone with medical expertise.

So, she left me be to write this journal entry.

DECEMBER 21, 1942 – 3:57 A.M

The world I once knew is now just craters and rubble and blood. I have Ninel read to me the daily division report and the death toll of the soldiers goes up every day. I don't know I do this, as each session is made up nothing more than her tenderly reading the casualty list as I grip tightly around a knot in the sheets of my cot, close my eyes, and hope to God that I do not hear Durasov's name.

Today, the list went as follows:

• Private Gena Matveev

• Private Alec Mikhailov

• Private Anatoly Lenusy

• Sergeant Ivanhoe Pabiyan

• Corporal Jasha Moriz

• Corporal Konrad Prutsky

• Junior Sergeant Nikolai Skavaski

• Lieutenant Wasyl Oleksander

• Captain Daniil Golyubev

• Lieutenant Yegor Kozlov

• Private Mikhail Prutsky

I felt such pain for my fallen comrades, but a harsh relief for the absence of the words "Private Daniil Durasov" pushed through me as I exhaled deeply. Ninel set the report aside and held me as I wept deeply; I cried for the men lost, and I cried for the pain and suffering being inflicted on my brothers by the Germans. I didn't know what else to do. When I was done, she laid me back in my cot and spawned with me a conversation.

"I had five brothers and six sisters," she began. "Two of my brothers fought in the First Great War; one caught pneumonia in the winter and the other died of wounds he sustained during an artillery attack. My family has had a history with war. It has either killed us or made us stronger. My father was one of the Bolshevik sympathizers and, after the death of my brothers he thirsted for the blood of those who had forced his sons into war."

She stopped.

"Go on," I urged. "Please."

Ninel closed her eyes and licked her lips. "It was his and many others' idea to exile Prime Minister Alexander Kerensky and, because of his part in the rebellion, my father was given sixty acres of farmland a few miles out of Stalingrad. This made our family very rich and very politically powerful. It was during this time that my parents conceived me, my two brothers, and six sisters."

"All of you?"

"Yes, we were born only years apart; my brothers were twins and I had sisters who were quintuplets."

I said nothing, but used my eyes to gesture for her to continue.

Ninel is a wonderfully young woman, the grace she carries with her is traditional, yet unique; high cheekbones, blonde hair that is straight but curls around her shoulders, vivid green eyes and long eyelashes. She washes her smock every day before dawn and ties her hair up into a bun. Underneath this, she often wears one of two blue dresses, which she claims she had woven together before volunteering for the war effort. Due to some non-monotheistic religion Ninel follows, she wears the first dress—which is taken off of a more delicate base than the second—on the first and third day of the week and during her weekend prayer. Ninel would then wear the second dress or, as she calls it, her casual dress, on the second, fourth, and fifth day of the week.

I adore everything about her. From all of her perfection to all her imperfection; from her chiseled body to how she bit her nails. I have known her now for only about a week and a half, yet I already don't want to leave her side.

She says I'll be able to go back to the front in a couple more days.

She actually sounds happy about it.

Maybe it's because she knows I've recovered from my "wound" or because I won't have to lie in a bed any longer. Maybe she thinks that, because I am now out of a hospital, I shall be away from death and misery.

Oh, how I wish that were true.

About this, I am not happy.

"I married a couple years ago." she continued. "It was an arranged marriage to a drunkard politician, who…" Ninel sighed, "beat me…physically forced me to go to bed with him." Tears began to form at the bottoms of her eyes and her lip began to tremble. "…and then he went gambling…lost and was forced to enlist in the Red Army." She took another deep breath. "I haven't since and—I know I'm not supposed to love him but…I do—I volunteered to be a doctor's aide just so I might find him."

My heart sank.

She already had someone to love.

Ninel wiped away the tears from her eyes and forced a smile onto her face. She looked at me and hiccupped. "Enough about me, my story wasn't anything special, what about yours? What brought you here…to me, now?"

I start to cough and she gave me a glass of water. As I swallowed, I blinked and said, "The war."

My voice sounded deeper and harsher then I had attended it to.

"Stalingrad is my home," I continued. "My family has lived here for more than five generations…five. When the fascists began bombing the city, my family fled and I stayed—I stayed to fight, I stayed to defend my home. But it is this decision that I regret, Ninel. For I have seen my comrades fall before me. I have seen the light fall from their eyes and let me tell you…that. Is. Not. A sight you would want to see. These past months shall haunt me for as long as I live—if I do live long at all. But I do this for my home. I do this for my family."

I laid back and looked up at the ceiling of the tent. "Have you ever left Mother Russia, Ninel? I haven't. But I dream of it. Every night I dream of a warless world with no snow, no Germans, no death. I dream of the sun rising high in the sky without being shrouded by clouds."

I looked back at Ninel, who looked even sadder than before. "What do you dream of, Ninel? Of a better husband? Of little babies growing in your belly? What do you dream of? What? Happy things? A happy life…no sadness, no despair…no killing, no war…peace…tranquility…equality. A life where there is no limit to your freedom."

Ninel crossed her arms and leaned forward in her chair. "You speak of the United States, Andrei. You want the "American Dream", as they call it. You are acting like a single-minded fool."

"Apparently, you've never been to war. When you fight, you fight to live. There is no thinking when it comes to killing. You just do it. Sometimes, you don't even have to aim. You just shoot. You pull the trigger and watch as the bullet shoots into the air."

"I don't understand…"

Ninel looked scared now. Tears were forming up as she furrowed her brow in confusion.

I shook my head at her. "And you never will, Ninel. You never will."

"Then help me understand."

"Why should I?" I glared at her. "Women have no rightful place in war. It is a man's business. A woman's elegances should never be soiled by the impurity that is war—you deserve better."

We stared at each other for a moment, but then one of the other patients called out for Ninel's help and she left me. I waited a moment, but when it became clear that she wasn't coming back, I pushed over the covers and stood up. My knees shook as my legs tried to assimilate to my body's weight above it, but they quickly straightened and I was able to limp over to the patient in the cot beside me.

A small stand had been placed beside his cot and he had a carton of cigarettes resting on top of it. When I saw the bandages wrapped around his face and his mangled torso, I supposed he wouldn't care if I took one of his roll-ups. However, when I reached down and grabbed one of them, a hand with a grip as tight as iron clamped down my wrist and pulled me close to the patient's face. A voice cracked out through the bandages.

"Those are my cigarettes, comrade."

I was in such a state of shock that all I could say was "Okay."

I could feel his eyes staring at me through two tiny slits in the white wraps, I could feel the heated anger he suddenly felt for me. His grip loosened from my arm and he pulled his fallen blanket back up on top of him.

"What's your name, comrade?" he continued.

My bottom lip was still trembling. "Toufexis. Andrei Toufexis.

The patient sighed. "I don't remember my name. The doctors keep trying to tell me it's Dimitri, but I don't believe them. I don't feel like a Dimitri, comrade."

"Then what do you feel like?"

"I feel like a bird. I feel like I have wings…" he choked back tears. "I see a very bright light comrade and I know it is not the sun." Dimitri looked at me and despite the gauss I could see the terror in his eyes. "Do you fear death Andrei? I don't. I fear God's judgment. The fact that my sins shall follow me wherever I go, even in Hell or Heaven."

He began to choke again and his head began to shake. I didn't know what to do, so I called for a doctor. Suddenly, Dimitri's entire body began to shutter and a red stain of blood spat out from within the bandages.

His body stopped shaking.

He stopped moving almost entirely.

The doctor came over and almost immediately pronounced him dead. He looked at me with a frown and took the cigarettes. The doctor then called for two orderlies and lifted the blanket up over Dimitri's face. The orderlies arrived and lifted his body up onto a gurney, then pushed it out of the tent and towards the graveyard to be buried.

I sat down on the bed and cried for a moment.

I stayed there for the rest of the night.