captive

World War II. After a long and grueling battle, Soviet troops emerged victorious. They watched the Germans retreat, but that did not seem like enough—especially after everything they had endured. Returning to the small camp in the forest, two soldiers found a young German soldier and dragged him back to the camp.

Karl, a young boy who had become separated from the retreating troops and was trying to hide from Soviet soldiers, first heard Russian voices, and then two men appeared. They laughed, grabbed Karl by the legs, and dragged him away, hauling him across the wet autumn earth and rotting leaves.He had scratched his palms and face; his skin, hair, and uniform were all caked in mud. He clawed in vain at whatever came within reach—branches, fallen trees, the bare earth—but met only with kicks and blows from rifle butts from the soldiers. Finally, he was dragged out into the light. Karl lay on the ground not far from the campfire, trying to regain his senses. As his vision cleared, he saw that he was lying before Soviet soldiers resting by the fire. Some simply sat and stared at him with indifference; others were drinking vodka, eyeing him like a prize, or smiling. Someone stood up—a heavy-set man with small, pig-like eyes—and leaned over him. "Ну что, попался, фриц?" And the man spat in Karl's face. And kicked him in the ribs with his boot.

Karl doubled over, but it did no good. As he fell to the ground, soldiers surrounded him; blows from fists and boots rained down on him from every side. At first, there were few of them—as if the attackers were hesitating—but soon the beating grew more savage. The blows came faster and heavier, and any attempt to break free—however feeble—was instantly suppressed. Blood streamed from his broken nose; his temple and lip were split, and one eye was already swelling shut. Pain shot through his body; Karl tried to curl into a ball to shield his chest, stomach, and groin—or at least to soften the blows. He was terrified that his internal organs might be damaged or his ribs broken. But then, a voice was heard from behind—Russian speech—and the blows began to subside. The commander had arrived to break up the fight. Karl remembered nothing after that; it seems he had blacked out.

Karl came to in a dugout; there was no one nearby. His head was crudely bandaged, and a mug of water sat beside him. Now he was... an official captive. Karl was now living in a dugout. He was given food and drink—albeit sparingly—and a doctor even came by a couple of times to check how his injuries were healing. No one bothered him. Sometimes Karl would even step outside and sit nearby, warming himself in the sun. No one stopped him, provided he didn't try to escape.Captain Egorov, who had broken up the fight, watched from a distance; he observed the German’s recovery—saw the bruises turn yellow and the skin lose its deathly pallor. He felt a twinge of pity for him; the German was, after all, just a boy. That was why he had given orders for no one to disturb him, letting him recover in peace. However... Someone did have their eye on him after all.

Officer Matveyev—that same heavyset man with beady, pig-like eyes who had spat in Karl’s face. He, too, was watching the German—also from a distance—but certainly not out of paternal pity, the way Egorov was. There was something different in his gaze...

One evening, as the autumn sun was already sinking toward the horizon, Matveyev approached Karl, who was already recovering. "Пойдем"* — Мотнул головой куда-то в сторону Матвеев. — *"Дров наколоть поможешь." There was no threat in his voice, so Karl stood up; although he did not know what he was being told, he understood that it likely involved some sort of help or work—which was hardly surprising, given that he was a prisoner. So, without a second thought, he followed Matveyev toward the edge of the forest, where an abandoned, nearly collapsed dugout stood. That night, only stifled, tear-filled moans and heavy, satisfied, rhythmic breathing drifted from the dugout.

The next day, during his rounds of the camp, Egorov noticed a change in the German. He had grown even paler. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been pale before—but that had been the living pallor of a recovering man, whereas now it was a deathly, ghostly whiteness. His eyes—once animated, however filled with fear—now seemed empty; they were fixed on nothingness or turned inward. The bruises were fading, yet that pallor troubled Egorov. Still, he attributed it to a touch of sadness or fatigue. But the pattern repeated day after day, and it seemed to Egorov that with each passing day, the German grew paler still, looking more and more like a dead man. Matveyev noticed Egorov’s intent gaze. He saw how the captain would stare at the German for long periods. Yet, he did not want the captain paying too much attention to his... toy. "Смотрите, капитан" — Matveyev said this with a smile on her face and her eyes narrowed as he approached the captain during one of his rounds, just as Egorov had once again paused for a long time to watch the German. — "Поправляется на наших харчах, вражина, скоро и работать будет."

But Egorov sensed it. Something was wrong with the captive...