Chapter 4 Don't shoot,we surrender

He ran recklessly across the street to a nearby cafe with a caved-in roof. The fire seemed to be coming from all sides, and they were irrevocably pinned. The enemy that faced them surely outnumbered them ten to one! Peter sat huddled beneath a window, struggling with what to do as Anatole fired his DP machine gun into the advancing enemy.

"They're everywhere! We can't hold them!"

Peter turned inward and called to the red-headed radio operator, frantically calling for the rest of the company to come save them.

"Any word from Sakharova?"

"I'm not getting anything, sir! The jamming is too strong!"

"Keep trying! We need support!"

Petya fired several rounds from his PPSh-41 into a group of three Germans that tried to force their way into the cafe. They all fell dead just as they reached the door. He called out to Peter in desperation as he scrounged his person for a new magazine.

"I'm running low on ammo here..."

"Make every shot count!" Peter yelled over the cacophonous gunfire. "Don't let any of them in!"

To lead by example, Peter quickly jumped up and got a shot off from his Mosin-Nagant, which landed right between the eyes of a German aiming down his Kar98k. He just as quickly ducked down to avoid the incoming fire from the approaching enemy, which was now fast closing in. Just then, a door to the right of him flung wide open and a gang of Germans stormed in. Peter quickly charged the group and managed to stab one German in the heart with his bayonet before clubbing the other.

He brought his rifle down on the third, assuming he would get another hit. However, such hopes were dashed when the German, a scruffy man in his twenties bundled tightly for the winter, blocked him with a single swift move of his Kar98k.

What...?

The German charged him and forced him back further into the cafe. Now the tables were turned as this German fought him tooth and nail, never ceasing in his attacks as if his life depended on killing this one soldier in a battle that was already lost. Slowly, the cafe faded away, leaving them both fighting in a black void. Anatole, Petya, the radio operator, all of them disappeared like specters dissolving into the mist. Peter called out, to anyone now, desperately seeking assistance in this enemy that was proving too strong even for him.

"Petya! Natasha! Anatole! Someone help me!"

Then a female voice responded, British in origin, and addressed him directly.

"What can a person do when he has seen such tragedy, Peter? Does he accept his fate and move on...or does he let it haunt him forever?"

Peter blocked another attack by the German and both of them struggled, as Peter looked around to ascertain where that voice was coming from.

"Jane? Where are you? Help me, please!"

"There is no one who can help you now, Daniels!" a menacing familiar voice called.

Peter's heart leapt into his throat, as he recognized that voice instantly. No, it couldn't be! It was impossible! Not him, please, dear God, not him!

He turned to face the German, only to find the German had been replaced by Ilya Pavlovich Chertov. He wore a new brown uniform with blue riding pants, and looked to bear newly acquired power, power he was all too ready to use. He brandished a gleaming sword with a brass hilt that clashed with the stock of Peter's rifle. He shook his head in denial of the sight before him as the pupils in his eyes contracted in shock. No, it could not be Chertov! Not when he had just gotten rid of him! Not when he had thrown him out of his life for good!

"You're not real...you can't be..."

"There's no escape for you this time, Daniels!"

Chertov kneed him hard in the stomach and sent him sliding onto the floor, whatever floor existed in this dark void. Peter again blocked Chertov's attack, now pinned on the ground and struggling to hold him. He looked around for something, anything, that could aid him in this fight he was on the verge of losing. There was nothing.

Then, he heard another voice, one that was so close and dear to him. But the words this voice uttered were stinging, more painful than any battle wound he ever received. They were words that had plagued him since the day he first left Stalingrad all those years ago.

"Petroshka, if you were destined to stay in Russia forever, or if I was a citizen of your country, would you and I have fallen in love?"

Peter looked back up to Chertov and saw over his shoulder, the lovely image of Tanya. The one girl in his life he would always fight for, die for, sacrifice everything for. She now stood at 15, and looked to him with the most charming and beautiful smile he had ever seen. Every inch of her visage seemed to say, "I love you."

The one instant his eyes gazed on her, Chertov broke through his defense, and slashed his wrists. Peter cried in searing pain as Chertov raised his sword up, chuckling menacingly.

"Goodbye, Peter Ivanovich Daniels."

He brought his sword down.

January 30th, 1943

Mill Valley, California, USA

Peter woke up with a short, sharp scream of terror.

Peter was alone in his living room. All the lights were out, the only illumination given was coming from the bright moon outside in the wintry night sky. He sat on his couch wrapped up in his blanket, as he had given his bed up for Tanya. Sweat covered his body, as if he had just taken a visit to the tropics, and he was panting heavily, heaving in deep breaths as if in fear of his life being snatched away.

He sat up, and immediately buried his face in his hands. This had been a nightly occurrence; ever since he left Stalingrad with her, these dreams had been plaguing him. They were always dreams involving the same things. Combat. Pain. Suffering. Death. Things he lived through in Stalingrad, and things he was trying so desperately to forget. Some memories, however, are not easily forgotten. Some wounds never heal.

He had to move on, he scolded himself. That time of his life was over now, and it was a life he would rather never again revisit. He had to be strong for Tanya, who was counting on him to help her adjust to this new way of life. He was her guide, her one anchor and protector. Peter could not afford to be marred in this pattern of nightmares, visions of torment, and feelings of immense pain. Maybe a cold glass of water would aid him in getting back to sleep. He stood up and walked around uneasily, not truly knowing which direction to go in.

His first instinct was to see if Tanya was alright. Surely his scream would have woken her up. Peter stumbled his way across the living room and into the small hallway, leaning on the walls for support and a sense of orientation. After shuffling a few rods, he felt the oak wood of a door frame, and his hand came to rest on the doorknob. He gently turned it and peered into his room, now owned by her.

Tanya lay fast asleep, turned away from him and wrapped in the white sheets of the bed. Not a sound came from her. There was only the silent glowing of moonlight that shone through the windows and onto her bed like she was a spirit of the divine, descended from Paradise and finding respite in the trappings of mortals. Peter smiled, noting how she was so beautiful and serene even in sleep. He remembered how often they took naps together as children, back before the war tore them apart and turned the world upside down. Dear Tanya. So much had changed between them since then.

As he quietly shut the door and made his way towards the kitchen for a glass of water, he recounted how their relationship stood. Much like she was, their relationship seemed sleeping. Dormant. Awaiting the right time to reveal itself. Still, he struggled with just what he felt toward her. Surely they were more than simply friends now. To continue that facade would be laughable. But the question remained: what was between them, keeping them back?

Even in times of consolation and loss, he felt walled off from her, perhaps by his own volition. He felt confused and conflicted with just what he felt towards her. As his feet shuffled across the marble floor of the kitchen, he searched the cupboards for a glass while he searched through his consciousness of all the things he felt about Tanya.

His best friend.

His one confidante.

His raison d'être for all his endurance of battle.

And now, his fellow housemate.

Thinking back over it, he brought her here on impulse, because she requested him to do so. What else could he do? Her home was practically destroyed, her family was starving, and she practically lived a prisoner's life. What kind of person would he have been to refuse her sincere, heartfelt plea of assistance in her greatest hour of need? So he took her with him, without any regard of the consequences or the repercussions that would follow. He did it out of a sense of duty to her. As her friend. As one human to another.

As a lover?

He had no answer to that. And it drove him insane coming up with an answer as he turned on the water faucet. That was one last battle in this long campaign he had to eventually fight, and win. No matter the answer he came to, it had to be confronted and dealt with, lest he torture himself with not knowing what is in his own heart.

Peter threw his head back as he downed the cold water. It parched his dry throat and instantly gave him the drowsiness he needed to get back to sleep. He set the glass down on the counter and turned around to go back to his couch when he was confronted with a familiar figure.

Tanya.

She wore her white frilled nightgown with long sleeves. Her dark brown hair flowed over her shoulders like a waterfall and her snowy grey eyes shined in the night like fireflies. The eyes betrayed her concern and fear for her friend, the closest and only one she had in this world.

"Peter?" she said quietly, not wanting to wake up anyone else in the house.

"Tanya, what are you doing up?" Peter asked, despite the answer being obvious. "It's late."

"I heard a scream. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Tanya," he equivocated, trying not to worry her. "Nothing to worry about."

He moved to go back to his couch but Tanya caught him by the wrist.

"I know something is bothering you."

"It's nothing, Tanya. I swear."

He tried to go, but Tanya refused to let him leave her. She pulled him gently to her, trying her best to reach out to her reserved, solitary friend. He always did this. He always acted like he hid something from her, something he wanted no one to see or know. Why couldn't he just be honest with her for once?

"Don't shut me out, Petroshka," she entreated, in a gentle plea. "Let me help you."

Peter sighed, knowing that it would not do him any good to hide what was weighing so heavily on him.

"I had a nightmare. About Stalingrad..."

"A nightmare?"

Peter nodded and began to explain to her what had come to pass in his subconscious. It was a painful and arduous vision to divulge, but it was one that he needed off his chest, regardless. Perhaps Tanya had a comforting word or a piece of advice to give him and help him move on more quickly from this.

"We were surrounded. The Germans were coming from all sides, and we didn't have any chance for relief. They broke through, and I started fighting one of them."

"What happened then?" Tanya asked, as she moved her hand to gently grip his arm.

"Suddenly, I wasn't in Stalingrad anymore. I was just fighting this German. I was all alone, calling for help from anyone. But then, I looked and saw that I wasn't fighting a German anymore..."

Peter looked away, not wanting to burden Tanya with a bad memory from the past. She shouldn't know what he saw, lest it infect her with the fear he felt now.

"Peter," Tanya begged, "please tell me what happened."

"I'm just scared..."

"Don't be," she cooed, gently caressing his cheek. "I'm your friend. You can tell me anything that's bothering you; you know that."

Peter took her hand in his, smiling. He had absolute certainty she was an angel transplanted in the callous mortal world. Surely, she must be, if she was so unafraid of any evil that might come from this dreadful nightmare. She had the courage of a soldier to face this so resolutely.

"...I was suddenly fighting Chertov," he finished.

At that, he felt her hand slip. To hear that name, the name of the man who had almost stopped them in their tracks, who had been responsible for the harrowing nature of their escape, came as a shock to her. Why wouldn't it? They both thought Chertov was gone, and out of their lives forever. Yet this man that was always Peter's ire and Tanya's misery still lingered, even in his dreams? The thought was simply unreal to even contemplate.

"I-Ilya Chertov?" she breathed.

"The same. The one I thought was gone forever."

There was a pause, and Peter could almost smell the fear on her, as he watched the color drain from her face and her grey eyes quiver with trepidation. Surely, this could not be. Chertov was gone. He was left behind, with no chance of ever seeing his revenge fulfilled. Destined to be forgotten and burdened with his failure.

"How did the fight end?" she asked.

Peter hesitated to tell her, but he feared leaving her in the dark would only cause her more anxiety.

"He knocked me down. He was about to kill me."

"But something happened?"

Peter breathed heavily, resting his head against hers, trying to find some sense of comfort and knowing that this was not the reality to come. It couldn't be, not so soon after they had finally found peace and joy with being reunited at last. Surely this was merely the effects of combat, the visions that haunt a soldier and not a vision of the future. Surely there was reason to hope that they could live in peace together unmolested by the likes of Chertov.

"I saw you..." he whispered to her, fearfully. "I saw you behind him, smiling at me. Then just before he killed me, I woke up."

Tanya withheld words for a moment, as if in a loss of what to say. What could she say to someone who was struggling to move on? What words could help Peter put the past behind him? How could she help him shut away all the horrors he had seen in trying to save her? Her hands joined his, beckoning him to stay and to be consoled.

"It was just a dream..." she attempted to say.

Sadly such visions don't fly by carelessly like a paper bag before the strong autumn breeze.

"I don't want it to become real!" Peter countered, his voice cracking with anxiety. "I don't want to think about Stalingrad or Chertov anymore! All I want is to move on..."

"But you can, Petroshka. You just have to try."

"Then tell me what I have to do."

Tanya nuzzled him gently, nose to nose. She smiled brightly as if to impart some sense of hope in the forlorn and tortured soul that stood before him. She whispered kind and hopeful words to him.

"Live on. Go about your life. Go to school and to work. Go out with your friends. And if you ever feel lost, need a word of comfort, or just a shoulder to lean on...come to me."

Tanya rested her head on his shoulder as she brought her arms around him, holding him in a tender, loving embrace. Like so many young boys who skipped merrily off to war, he never once thought he would have to witness what he did on the battlefield. But the fact he cast aside all, his home, his safety, his comfort, just so he could find her and know what he could do for her, made her love him all the more. His road to recovery would be a long, arduous and painful one, but as long as she was in his world, he had no reason to fear. Why should he? He had done everything he had in his power to achieve, and more. He accomplished far much more than any normal person would hope to in a short span of time. He had much to be proud of. What he endeavored and suffered was for a greater cause, a cause that stood before him and held him tightly.

Slowly, he released his hands from hers and brought them to rest on her light, delicate shoulders, pulling her close to him ever so gently. Surely, he thought to himself, there had to be a God in this world, to have created a human so loving and so kindly as her. The fact she still held him close, still called him friend, still could bear a smile in the face of all this horror was proof there was some divine machination behind this mortal world.

"You're a true friend, Tanyusha. Thank you."

"I'll always be here for you, Peter. Don't ever forget that."

Tanya planted a quick kiss on him, and whispered, her words hot in his ear.

"Come to bed with me."

Peter looked to her with surprise in his eyes. How could she be so comfortable with that prospect?

"Tanya..."

"It'll help you get through the night."

"Are you-?"

She stopped him midsentence by placing one finger on his lips.

"Just trust me."

Peter smiled, and Tanya led him into his bedroom and gently pushed him onto the mattress. She lay down next to him, looking at him with sincere and glimmering grey eyes. It didn't take long for them to fall back to sleep, and the only dreams that filled Peter's head were of the girl lying next to him.

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February 2nd, 1943

Northern Stalingrad, USSR

The Germans were finished. The 6th Army under Field Marshal Paulus had collapsed from starvation, the cold and disease. Operation Ring had begun on January 10th by the Soviets, with the intent of destroying all German resistance in Stalingrad once and for all. The offensives had crushed the German positions to an area fifteen miles long and nine miles wide. On January 22nd, the Russian forces from the west linked up with the survivors of Lieutenant General Vasili Chuikov's 62nd Army still fighting in Stalingrad, thus splitting the German 6th Army in two. With no hope of relief or resupply, Friedrich Paulus and his 6th Army could do no more.

Word had been received from units in the south that Paulus and all troops in the southern sector had surrendered. There was much rejoice among the men and women of First Company but no word had come from the northern sector of the line, on which they now occupied. If the northern sector did not surrender, it would mean more fighting. But most soldiers knew that it was too late for the fascists trapped in the city. If they did indeed continue to fight on, the result would be the same.

Much had changed since Peter left. Vladimir somehow managed to find an officer willing to take on the role of commander of First Company, the men and women Peter led in his valiant five day stint. He found it in Nikolai Fyodorev, the bright and skilled platoon leader who had been Peter's right hand man during his short stay. Petya Sokolov had been promoted to Junior Lieutenant and took over command of his old platoon, with Natasha Badanova bumped up to Junior Sergeant to cover for Petya's squad.

They still received letters from Peter. He talked often of his internal battles day after day, which sounded as fierce as the fighting he partook in alongside them in the frozen streets. He recounted in myriad words what was going on in his heart now, and turned to all of them for desperately needed advice.

Petya and Natasha chose to write him with this in mind, seeing how they knew already what he was experiencing; it was love for another, a feeling they had been acquainted with for more than three years now. They had to make him understand that now, if things were to progress between him and Tanya.

Today however, it was the least of their concerns as they along with the rest of First Company sat in their foxholes, dug on an open stretch of field that was once a large park before the war tore it down. Petya tried to get some much needed sleep while Natasha peered through her sniper scope, continuously watching the line for any German fool enough to waltz out into the open. Most of the squad was spread out on their left and right, while Anatole, their kind friend and joking machine gunner, manned a position further up front from the others. However he was asleep at the trigger as well, unequivocally tired from months of fighting and desperately looking for some rest, confident the battle was at its end.

Her rifle scanned the horizon time after time like a comb weeding out dirt and grime from matted hair. There was not a living thing to be found in her field of vision and there was not much to look at in terms of landscape. Most she could see were buildings on the other side of the park ruined to their foundations and little more than mountains of debris and rubble. The home she and her Petya along with everyone else close to them had lived for all their lives was practically wiped off the map. So much had been lost in this battle, and it was clear that whenever the Germans did give in, it would be a long time in coming before the city would regain its former face. This battle would not be the end of their struggles to drive out the fascist invaders. She reasoned it would be years before they could finally return home proud of victory.

She looked to Petya, sleeping on the other side of their foxhole, clutching his Mosin-Nagant rifle tightly like a lover. His steel helmet was gone, replaced instead with a fur hat typical of the winter uniform. His sandy blonde hair had grown longer with no chance to trim it or even comb it. He looked peaceful as he slept, as if the end of the war had come already.

"Petya?"

He stirred slightly, receptive to his fiancée calling for his name. She sighed, wishing that he was awake so she could pour out her feelings to him. One of the reasons she always asked him to go with her on sniping missions was not just for more time to be intimate but time to open up and share problems facing them that particular day. Petya always had a kind word and a helpful piece of advice for her, and always provided enough support for her to get through the long and arduous missions.

She went back to scouring the horizon for targets, but no German would dare enter the open and exposed space. Anyone who did must have a death wish.

She spied one, walking along the opposite side of the open field, looking to be in a daze. He had not shaven in a while and his uniform was ragged and dirty, evidence that this particular German had not felt clean clothes or even a refreshing bath in a long time. She spied a ring on the German's finger, exposed by his glove. He was a married man, at the destination of life that she and Petya were heading towards. She couldn't help but feel sorry for this man who might not ever see his family in this cold and desolate place where the only guarantee was death.

She looked at the rank indicated on his shoulder strap: a mere foot soldier, not even worth her bullets. His life had a meaning to it, and loved ones awaiting him at war's end. She let him move on quietly.

"You're a long way from home, Fritz."

Another German wandered into her vision, this time an officer, as evidenced by his peaked cap and the rank on his shoulder straps. His uniform was not in any better condition than the German before him, and he seemed frazzled and beyond all hope. His uneasy steps betrayed his lack of purpose and loss of will. His eyes seemed to beg for an end to his life.

Natasha was quick in putting a premature end to his misery.

The rifle spoke with a crack, and put a bullet through the officer's temple. He fell to the ground face first as his peaked cap was knocked off. The snow around him turned blood red as the essential liquid of life slowly drained out of his lifeless corpse.

"Sweet dreams, fascist," she said quietly as she retracted the bolt and brought a new round into the chamber.

The gunshot had woken up Petya with a jolt, but it did not elicit any notice from Natasha. Petya covered his mouth as he yawned tiredly, and eyed his fiancée from behind. She was absorbed in her sniper's work, tending to the grim business of dealing out death to any fool who entered her field of vision. He smirked, seeing as an opportune time to play a joke on her, as he so often liked to do. He probably would get a scolding from Natasha afterward, but she knew as well as he that there was no attack or significant enemy movement to their front. Rumor told that they might even surrender today.

She took no notice to him as he slinked up behind her, eyeing her lower extremities as the target for his prank. He realized, through looking at her, she had quite the womanly figure for a girl of almost 17. Her shoulders had grown out broader, and her hips had grown in width while her waist remained slender and trim. He had had ample opportunity to explore every inch of her body many a night when passion overtook them, and his experiences with her confirmed she had matured, not just in mind but in body.

His smirk widened as he reached his thumb and forefinger to her plump and round buttocks and promptly pinched there, eliciting a yelp of surprise from Natasha.

"OOH!"

She turned and found her culprit in this act of mischief, falling back laughing.

"You cheeky devil," Natasha said with a seductive look in her eyes.

"Your fault you were open to a surprise attack," Petya retorted.

Natasha laughed and looked back to her front, refocusing her scope. Once again, nothing to look at. Petya sat up next to her and scanned the front with his field glasses. Not a soul in sight. Perhaps the Germans had all died from the cold and the battle was already over. It would be wonderful if it really was the case, but both of them knew it wasn't, and it may still be weeks before the last German turns in. However both realized they could not last out much longer.

What happened here in their old home was not the first thing on their minds, but rather what would come in the wake of this battle. They would have to leave their city so soon after reuniting with it and all the people closest to their hearts. There would be more battles in faraway places that might take them as far as Germany itself. It would be many years before they could set foot in this place again, and it would be many more years before this city was rebuilt.

"Anything out there?" Petya asked.

"No," Natasha returned with a exasperated sigh. "What about you?"

"Nothing."

"What time is it?"

Petya looked at his wristwatch.

"About 8:30. Why?"

"Sometimes I wonder why Nikolai bothers waking us up every morning like there's going to be an attack. He knows as well as anyone the Germans are finished here."

"Peter would never dare wake us up so early."

"I think that's more because he hates disturbing us..." Natasha countered, smirking.

Petya laughed, recounting a moment when Peter walked in on them while they were in bed together. He saw nothing of value but the sight of them in the same bed must have left him red in the face; his demeanor that day seemed agitated enough.

"Speaking of which," Petya mused, turning over to Natasha who was still peering through her scope, "Did Peter write anything today?"

"He was talking about the question Tanya asked him that day. You know the one."

"Oh that one," Petya said knowingly. "He never could come up with an answer to that one, could he?"

"He's really in pain over that, Petya," Natasha replied, obviously feeling the pain of her faraway friend. "He couldn't come up with an answer then and it's been driving him crazy ever since."

"That's a question he has to answer by himself, though," Petya returned, "he has to decide for himself what he feels to Tanya."

"Still, it doesn't mean he can't get some help in the right direction."

Petya sighed and slid back to the bottom of their foxhole wondering what they could say to their pining friend. He remembered back to when he came out to Natasha, all those years ago when they were still children at play. He found her crying on the foot of the large hill that overlooked this city, finding she felt abandoned by Peter as he spent his final days in Russia with Tanya, and lamenting how she could never find someone who loves her. Petya took the opportunity and said to her that there was one person in the world who loved her more than anyone: him.

From that day on, they were all but inseparable, and Natasha found that she genuinely loved Petya as well, not just because he took Peter's place. He paid her all the attention a boy could give to a girl, he treated her kinder than anyone she knew, and was always the first to her defense if someone spoke an ill word or threatened her in deed.

They deeply cared for each other, much like how Peter and Tanya did. The difference between them was Natasha and Petya had acknowledged it long ago. Peter and Tanya had yet to come to such an understanding; theirs was a sleeping love, unknown to both of them and waiting to be awakened. They had to make Peter see somehow just what it was he felt...or at least lead him in the right direction.

"I think I have something..."

He found a scrap of paper and wrote some of his thoughts down.

Dear Peter,

Your recent letter has clued me in to what is troubling you. I was once in your position and I know exactly what it feels like. The truth is I was in love and just didn't know it. I had much thinking and reflecting to do as you do every day, and what I had to consider was how being around Natasha made me feel. I felt my best days were ahead of me when I was with her. I felt the rest of the world didn't matter and only she did. She made me feel comfortable with myself and with life. If I felt I needed comfort and a caring word, I would turn to her. I can only tell you that those are all clear signs that you're in love.

At 8:40 in the morning, February 3rd, 1943, two wires on the hands of a clock touched.

"I see something!" Natasha said looking through her sniper scope.

Petya immediately set aside his work and sat up next to Natasha, grabbing his Mosin-Nagant and cocking it, ready for an impending attack.

"What is it?" Petya asked.

"It's..."

She almost couldn't believe her eyes. Out of foxholes, apartments, office buildings, and small trenches, there came out German soldiers. They didn't look like they were coming out for a fight. In fact, she spotted one waving a tattered white flag.

"I can't believe it..." Natasha whispered, astonished and confounded by what she saw through her scope.

"What is it? What do you see?" Petya asked anxiously, his grip on the rifle tightening.

"It's...the fascists...they have a white flag..."

"You can't mean that...!"

Then they heard a call from the Germans approaching.

"Nicht schiße! Nicht schiße! Wir ergeben uns!1"

Petya and Natasha's eyes widened. They uttered the words they had been wanting to hear for so long now, the words that would mean the end of this battle and the assurance of victory.

"They...they want to surrender..."

"COMRADE CAPTAIN!" Petya called.

Out came Nikolai dressed in a winter uniform to see what was wrong.

"What is it, Lieutenant Sokolov?" Nikolai inquired.

Petya pointed out to the oncoming droves of German soldiers. Nikolai's jaw dropped. They seemed to come on in the hundreds, no, in the thousands. Myriads upon myriads of weak, starving, and nearly dead Germans. It was almost unreal to him, to all of them. They had been fighting all these months, for more than half a year, and they thought they were facing an enemy that would fight to the death. But this? They looked to be dead already. These were not the faces of war. These were the faces of utter misery and privation.

"How should we proceed, comrade Captain?" Petya inquired.

"We accept their surrender. What else?"

Petya followed Nikolai out into the open field to receive the surrender of the German 6th Army, to end the Battle of Stalingrad.

Nikolai and the German commanding officer worked out the details as Petya eyed the men of the shattered 6th Army. It was a heart-wrenching sight to behold; the Germans looked terrible. They had no winter uniforms to speak of, never prepared for the harshness of the Russian winter. They were wearing all sorts of different mismatched clothing, making use out of what they could find or scavenge. Some even had ridiculous-looking straw shoes to keep warm. They were wrapped in tattered blankets and rags, and were unshaven, dirty, and louse-ridden. No matter who they were or where they came from, the faces on all of them were the same, all asking the same questions: how could it have come to this? Why did this happen? What could have happened that caused us to end up like this? How could we have been completely and totally crushed, and by our own methods? How could we have been so stupid not to realize what was going to happen?

He offered no answer to any of them, but only the damning silence that comes from a captor to his captives, from a victor to the defeated.

The details were laid out, the terms set, and the deal done. Nikolai ordered Petya to escort the Germans back to Battalion headquarters to sort out the full nature of the surrender with the Major, and Petya silently obliged with a sharp salute.

He motioned for the Germans to follow him and they all did in an endless stream down the road, the road to capitulation. The road to the turning point.

Natasha soon joined him in escorting the large detail of prisoners, and as they left the line, they heard the cry from their machine gunner and dear friend Anatole, calling to the others of his company in one clear resolute and boisterous voice:

"The Germans have surrendered! WE'VE WON THE BATTLE, COMRADES!"

At that revelation, the entire front line erupted in a cheerful uproar, as men and women emerged from their foxholes and rifle pits, tossing their hats in the air, grabbing each other and dancing in the snow. At last, at long last, a win had been scored for Motherland! Finally, a victory had been achieved over the fascists! Honor-filled and glorious victory! Victory! Victory! Victory!

Petya smiled as he continued to lead the Germans on and looked up to see the last clouds of winter begin to part allowing a ray of sun to burst through and shine down upon Natasha and him. God was smiling on them and the rest of the Russian people this day, as at last the myth of German invincibility had been shattered utterly. This was not the end by any means, and much harder battles would lie ahead. But Petya was not afraid and neither was Natasha; if they had each other to count on, they would survive and return home to the embrace of friends, family, and loved ones.

1 Don't shoot! We surrender!