November 18th, 1940

The shock of an explosion rocked the crowded shelter, causing a stream of dirt and cement to trickle down from the ceiling. The dim light bulb that was suspended from the ceiling flashed and flickered for a moment. Outside, the pounding reports of anti-aircraft guns started up once again. A baby started wailing, its young mother hurriedly hushing it to quieten down.

"Sergei," Ilya whispered to the boy huddled up against the wall beside him. "Sergei, are you alright?"

"Mm-hm," came the muffled reply. This was clearly not the time or place for idle small-talk, but Ilya couldn't help it. He was uneasy. And it wasn't just because they were being bombed. He wasn't feeling well; his head was hurting again, he felt like there was a wasp buzzing around in his skull. From outside the metal door of the bomb shelter, he was beginning to hear the panicked shouts of the soldiers.

"…it's coming back this way, turn it around!"

"Fire, damn it!"

"Oh, Hell!"

Then it started again. Ilya's face turned bone-white. Shit, not again. First came the ringing, like someone had stuck an alarm clock inside his head. Then, a split-second after, came the pain. The blinding pain that overtook his consciousness. The sight in front of Ilya's eyes suddenly dematerialised, his legs collapsed from beneath him. But he didn't feel the fall. Instead, he felt as if somebody was slicing a blade through the middle of his brain.

The mass of scared bodies in the dimly lit bunker had faded into the grey skies above. He could see the entire town, like he was watching down like a hawk. Then, he saw the cherniy. Four of them, screaming across the skies. He made out every detail of them; the tar black, fly-like bodies, the sharp, swept back wings, and the gaping maws that spat fire and metal. They darted around the black clouds of smoke and shrapnel that the cannons on the ground fired at them. One of them suddenly dived, not smoothly and gracefully like a bird, but suddenly, quickly like an insect. It dropped a pair of bottle shaped objects before pulling up again. The bombs glided into a group of army trucks situated in the main street, causing a blast of flame and black smoke to belch skyward.

Then, he saw the bodies. They dotted the street, limbs splayed and contorted at impossible angles. Somewhere in the distance, the wail of an ambulance siren started up.

The cherniy pitched up and sped off in the direction of the Black Sea. The AA guns ceased firing as they exited their effective range.

"..ya? Ilya? Ilya, what's wrong?" He made out Sergei's voice. It was pitch black. He realised that his eyes were actually squinted shut. He gradually opened them, and saw Sergei's face take form in front of him.

"I…ah…" His head was throbbing. The skull splitting pain had resided, but his head still felt like it was filled with lead.

"You've gone real pale. Do you think you need to see the doctor?"

"Wha…I…no, I, I'll be fine." Will I really? He looked towards the entrance of the shelter.

"I think they're gone now."

"Huh?" Sergei looked at the entrance, then back at Ilya. "How can you be so sure?"

Ilya stood himself up. The air stank of sweat and dirt. He needed to get out, into the open. He heard the hatch of the steel door guarding the entrance to the shelter turning, before it was pushed open. A pair of soldiers gestured the people out. Ilya and Sergei piled out with the crowd. A light drizzle sprayed itself on Ilya's face. He took a deep breath of the cold air. It helped to clear his head out a bit. He then took in his surroundings. His heart sank. To the south end of town, numerous pillars of smoke rose into the clouds. Just down the street lay the shattered remains of an AA gun battery. The gun was a warped wreck of twisted metal, while the crew was… the crew wasn't there. Instead, there were crimson smears on the pavement and walls of nearby buildings. Ilya averted his gaze quickly. The east end, however didn't seem like it had been attacked.

"Come on, we'd better get home already, it's almost evening time," Sergei urged.

"Yeah," Ilya sighed. "Oh Christ, what are we gonna do about that essay we got from Mr. Kadinski? There's no way I'm going to be able to get it finished in time."

"Just say your bag got destroyed in the last raid," Sergei answered as they began walking down the street, to where they had left their bikes.

"That what you gonna do?"

"Yep."

"Ya know he's still going to give you a bollocking regardless, right?"

"Eh, it's worth a shot. God, you'd wish the bloody cherniy would bomb something like the school and not people's houses or the barracks."

A faint droning buzzed overhead. The pair looked up to see a trio of biplanes flying west, towards where the raiders had come from.

"I-15s," Ilya noted, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "Chaikas."

"Typical bloody air force. Always arriving after the damage is done. How'd you tell what exactly what they are from this distance anyway?"

"Oh, that's easy, you can tell by their retractable undercarriage. Also both decks of the wings are connected to the fuselage as opposed to-"

"That's…quite enough, thanks." They arrived at the street corner they left their bikes at.

"Ah shit!" Ilya exclaimed out loud. His bike lay in pieces on the foot path; the frame was snapped in two, the chain was gone and the front wheel was nowhere to be seen. Sergei's bike, on the other hand, had escaped relatively unscathed.

"Why me? Papa's going to kill me," he moaned.

"That is some luck you've got there, mate," Sergei remarked.

"I'll gladly swap with you," Ilya muttered. "You go on home, I'll just hoof it back to my place."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Sergei paused. "You sure you're okay? You looked like you were possessed back in the shelter."

"I said I'm fine!" He snapped.

"Okay, just being a concerned friend," he muttered, mounting his bike. "Take care," he said before pedalling off.

The sky was already darkening. The harsh Caucasian wind howled through the emptying streets, causing Ilya's overcoat to flap as he started on his way home. He didn't mind the wind. He didn't mind the cold, actually. The fresh air was already freeing up his senses, he was feeling much better now than when he had left the bunker. Still, he wanted to get home and let Papa know he was alright as soon as he could. The fastest way would be to go through an alley between a café and a tailor's, then by cutting across main street and following the path east.

Within ten minutes he found himself on the main street.

It was a bad decision to come this way. Soldiers and citizens were at work clearing the charred corpses off the road. He tried not to look, and broke into a run as he made across the street, towards the corner, where a jeweller's lay. His heart sank as he saw that the previously finely decorated shop front now lay in a mess of rubble and broken glass. He stood there a minute, gazing at it. The roof had been caved in. He had never been inside, but he knew the owner, Mister Sadak, was a friend of Papa's. He also knew he had three children; his daughter, Ludmila, went to Ilya's school. He sighed. That's one more family without a livelihood now.

He turned heel, but stopped. He heard ragged breathing behind him, then spluttering. His blood chilled, it was coming from the remains of the shop.

"H-help…me." Ilya spun back around and dashed into what was left of the shop.

"Mr. Sadak, are you there?" He was. Trapped under what looked like half of the ceiling. A large fragment of a marble pillar had him pinned to the floor at the waist and he looked like he had cut himself badly on some glass.

"Oh god, hold on. Somebody help!" He called out. It was no use. There was nobody else around and he doubted that anyone else could hear him. There was also a gathering pool of blood by Mr. Sadak's side; he wouldn't make it if he had to wait any longer. He had to act.

He hesitated. Papa had warned him so many times not to show it. But, damn it, somebody's life was in danger here, and he wasn't going to stand idle.

"Hang on," he grunted, gripping the large pillar with both hands. He didn't know how much it weighed, but he knew marble was heavy. He braced his legs, and lifted. He lifted it off of the jeweller's waist, and flung it off to the side. Sadak gasped in relief, as Ilya set to work removing the rest of the debris from his legs.

"Here sir, can you stand," He asked, offering his hand.

"Bless you, you're a godsend," came the wheezy reply, as Ilya hauled the forty-seven year old up by himself. He dragged him outside.

"Can I get some help over here, this man is bleeding badly!" He shouted into the street. A pair of soldiers trotted up with a stretcher.

"Who is this anyway?" Sadak coughed, turning his head. "Young Litvyak, is that you?" He gasped in disbelief.

"He's looking bad, we've got to get him to hospital as soon as possible," one of the troops said.

"You did a good job, little man," the other said, tussling Ilya's hair. He hated when people other than Papa did that, but he let it slide this time.

"You head on home, we'll take care of him."

"Okay, thank you!" Ilya said as he headed home. He made it to the top of the street again, where the jeweller's was.

He was suddenly struck with the feeling of eyes boring into his back. He twisted his head around. His instinct proved correct. Right across from the jeweller's, he glimpsed a pair of young soldiers in officer's uniform, a man and a woman, staring at him.

Dammit! He thought. They must have been watching the whole thing. He kept walking at a brisk pace, but the uneasiness wouldn't go away. When he rounded the street corner, out of their view, he broke into a full run. He didn't know why, but he was scared, more scared than he had ever felt in his life.

He didn't stop until he arrived in the street where his flat was.