Page 67 of White Wolf
Her roommate, another girl from Madame Vishnyak’s school with dark, serious eyes and an unsmiling mouth, Sveta, had gone in search of food, her stomach growling so loudly it had become annoying. Alone for the moment, Katya let her thoughts drift – as far as they seemed capable these days. She listened to the tangle of voices out on the lawn, a cheerful noise that had become regular in the past few weeks. She knew that if she went to the window, lifted the curtain, and looked down, she’d see the five Chekists she’d seen on the ship, along with Sasha – he was the one always running, and leaping, and laughing – and the old man with the long fur coat.
She didn’t want anything to do with them. That’s what she told herself.
Under her layers of denial, she burned with curiosity. Back Then, she would have been whispering with her roommate, speculating, standing at the window and watching the goings-on. But Now, she told herself, firmly, that she didn’t care what any of them did.
A lie she almost managed to believe.
Something thumped against her window, rattling the glass, and she had the stock of the rifle pressed flush against her shoulder before she could reason that it was probably only a bird. It wasn’t, though; through the gap in the curtains she saw a face, narrow and pale, vivid blue eyes. Sasha. He waved at her, murmured a muffled “sorry” through the window, and dropped down out of sight.
She stared at the place where he’d been, blinking. “Huh.”
The sound of footfalls in the corridor snapped her back to the task at hand; with a last swipe, she set the rag aside and stood to lay the rifle across the cot. She longed for a glossy leather scabbard, something like the cowboys used in the pictures she’d seen. Or a case with brass latches. She had only the shoulder strap she used to carry it, and so she polished the blue every day, fending off the rust that dampness, and dirt, and human fingerprints could leave behind.
She straightened when the footfalls reached her door, and then relaxed when she saw that it was only the major general’s secretary.
In the scant way that she could experience such emotion now, Katya liked her. A young woman with pinned-up dark hair and cat’s eyes, who chose to wear field boots and gaiters instead of pumps. “The major general would like a word,” she said, matter-of-fact, and stepped out in the hall to wait for Katya to follow.
When Madame Vishnyak first pulled Katya aside and told her that she’d been chosen for a special assignment in Stalingrad, Katya had felt something almost like excitement. Russia’s most acclaimed sniper was there, currently, training new recruits and preparing them for a German assault. It would be a privilege to serve under him, to learn from his expertise and use her skills in battle. She was panting for the chance to be in active combat.
But then she’d been sent up here to this compound, blank place on the map that it was, and she was in a holding pattern. Polishing her rifle, sitting, stewing, learning nothing. She wasn’t sure if the prospect of meeting with the major general was a relief, or yet another roadblock.
The secretary led her down to the main floor, to the big office in the corner with the walls that only went halfway up to the soaring, factory floor ceiling. If she was about to get a dressing down, all of the soldiers sitting in clusters at the cafeteria table would hear it.
She gulped a little and held her head high as the secretary opened the office door and waved her through.
The major general sat staring down at his paper-strewn desk, phone held to his ear, leaning heavily on one elbow. A bottle of vodka and a glass rested within easy reach. He lifted a hand and motioned for her to wait.
The door closed softly behind her.
“Uh-huh,” the major general said into the phone, voice low, rough from drinking. “Yes, sir. Yes. I will. Uh-huh.” He hung up the handset and rubbed his hand across his eyes, his movements sluggish with fatigue – and no doubt vodka. He pressed the heels of both hands to his forehead and stayed that way, breathing heavily.
Katya wondered if he’d forgotten about her. She shifted a little, boots scuffing against the floor.
His head lifted with a start, eyes filmy and strained as they raked across her. “Oh. There you are.” He cleared his throat and sat up, scraped the papers into order on his desk. “It’s Katya, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
He pulled a paper from the stack and scanned it, frowning, eyes then flicking up to meet hers. For all that they were bloodshot and tired, they were sharp, too. A man who was still wily despite his vices. “It says you were the top of your class.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve always thought women were better shots, when they practiced. Less reckless.”
She could only nod.
“I suppose you wonder why the girl at the top of her class would get sent out to the middle of nowhere,” he continued, setting her paperwork aside and folding his hands on top of the desk, looking up at her from beneath white, wooly brows. “When by all rights you should be in Stalingrad with the other snipers.”
She didn’t know if this was a trap, so she merely dipped her head once in acknowledgement that she’d heard.
“I’ve wondered, too,” he continued. “And I think it means that the project we have here is very important. Don’t you agree?”
She had no idea what project he meant, but she nodded. There had been murmurings amongst the men, snatched bits of conversation they hadn’t offered to share with her: something about the “boy” and “the old man.” She’d heard the howling of a wolf at night. Once, it had even sounded like it was coming from inside the building somewhere, though that was impossible.
“You’ve seen the officers?” the major general asked, and she knew who he meant, stomach doing an unhappy flip.
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re here on special order from theVozhdhimself, by command of my comrade Major General Rokossovsky in Moscow. They’re undertaking a mission beyond the compound tomorrow. Highly, highly classified.” He paused, brows lifted for emphasis.
