Zoya lay at the crumbling edge of the house. Damaged by shellfire, the entire front had collapsed. Flat on her stomach, with the rifle stretched out before her, Zoya’s eye was pressed up against the scope. There were two tanks at the mouth of the Kossuth-hid, the bridge near Parliament, no doubt waiting for orders to advance into the city as Leo had predicted.
She’d never expected to see Leo again. She couldn’t concentrate, seeing his face. Restless, she needed to pee. Checking on the tanks, seeing no movement, she left her rifle and examined the remains of the bedroom. Since the entire front of the house had fallen down the room was exposed. The wardrobe offered the only privacy without going too far from her post. She slipped inside and shut the doors, squatting. She felt guilty about dabbing dry with the sleeve of a coat, an odd kind of guilt considering she was about to shoot a man. She’d fired her gun on numerous occasions and it was possible she’d already killed, although she hadn’t seen anyone die or fall down. Without warning, grabbing a nearby shoe, she threw up, filling the shoe to the toe.
Unsteady, she stepped out of the wardrobe, shutting the doors. The rifle was as she’d left it, lying across the bricks. Shaking, she slowly returned to her position. A Soviet soldier was staggering toward the two tanks. Zoya lined up the injured officer in her crosshairs. She couldn’t see his face, only his back-his brown hair. The other officers might come to his aid. Fraera had taught her that these were the officers to shoot, the real prize, before finishing off the injured man.
The wounded soldier fell ten paces from the tank, unable to walk any farther. Zoya moved the crosshairs toward the hatch, waiting to see if they’d take the bait. The tank came to life, edging forward, moving as close to the wounded man as possible. They were going to save him. The hatch opened. A soldier cautiously lifted the steel lid, peering out, waiting to see if he’d be shot, ready to duck back down. After a pause, he climbed out, hurrying to the aid of his injured comrade. Zoya had the man in her sights. If she didn’t pull the trigger he would help his comrade back into the tank, then they would advance into the city and kill more innocent families and what good would her guilt be then? She was here to fight. They were the enemy. They’d killed children and mothers and fathers.
As she was about to pull the trigger, a hand pushed the gun down. It was Malysh. He lay beside her, their faces close together. She was trembling. He took hold of her rifle, checking on the tanks. She peered over the rubble. The tanks were moving again. But they weren’t advancing into the city: they were heading in the opposite direction, back across the bridge. Zoya asked:
– Where are they going?
Malysh shook his head:
– I don’t know.