into an exhausted doze. The picked-over tray of food lay before him on his desk, and a last cigarette suffocated on the edge of a plate. Malinsky remained vaguely aware that countless tasks had yet to be accomplished, even as he sensed uncomfortably that events were too big for any one man to truly control. He felt as though he were struggling to manage an endless team of wild horses, their broad backs stretching into infinity, while the reins were made of frayed bits of string. Then there were only prancing cart horses, dark against snow, snorting plumes of white steam.
Malinsky recognized the scene. The Urals. So long ago. And it was all exactly as it had been. It was remarkable how little had changed. Except for the sky. He could not understand why the sky had such a golden glow. From horizon to horizon, a gilded sky stretched overhead, making a shimmering tent over the mountain peaks and ridges, shading the snow to deep copper in the crevasses and saddles. And it was very cold. His tiny son held tightly to his gloved hand. Malinsky could feel the boy trembling. They were up so very high. The valley, the houses, all of the world’s familiarity and warmth, seemed lost. Paulina looked at him reproachfully. Paulina, as she had been in those early days, so neat and self-possessed. A treasure of great value, his Paulina. In her big fur coat that nearly hid her face with its collar.
He could not understand how Paulina could be so young now. And his son was only a child. That wasn’t right. Malinsky felt his age pressing down upon him like tons of cold stone. Every movement was slow, difficult. He was an old man. How would he ever hold Paulina, if he was an old man? How could he explain this absurdity, this unaccountable accident, to her?
All around him, formed along the steep slope in unruly crowds, dark figures awaited an unknown event. Their faces would not hold still for him to identify them, yet they were all glancingly familiar. A performance of some sort was about to take place.
Paulina called out in fright. The boy.
And Malinsky saw that Anton had escaped his grasp. The boy slid away from him, sleighing helplessly down the steep slope, falling backward, skidding out of control, looking up at the old man with reproachful eyes.
Malinsky ran, tumbling, after the child.
His son. His only son.
The dark crowds watched with no evidence of emotion.
Malinsky struggled to run, losing his balance, tripping again and again. He chased madly after the boy, who always remained just out of his grasp. They were going so fast, there was no way to stop. Momentum drew Malinsky into a headlong, out-of-control downhill run.
“I’m old. Paulina, I’m too old,” Malinsky called out. Yet he could not understand how it had come to be. He could make no sense of it.
He grabbed at the child, never quite reaching the boy’s delicate limbs. Ahead, somehow, somewhere, he knew there was a precipice. There was a great precipice, and there were only moments before they would reach it and topple into space, and still the dark crowds watched in silence, unwilling to help him save his child.
But the boy slithered away in silence, skating down the icy mountainside on his back, flailing his small arms as he sought to stop himself. Malinsky could see Anton’s eyes: large, dark, wounded child’s eyes. He knew that he had failed the boy, that he would always fail him. Then they were sailing through dark space, beneath a gruesome, spinning golden sky.
Malinsky felt Chibisov’s small, firm grasp on his forearm. Just before he opened his eyes, Malinsky stirred and clapped his own larger hand over that of the chief of staff, holding it there a moment too long, reassured by its human warmth.
“The Germans are counterattacking Trimenko,” Chibisov said. His voice was crisply urgent, but there was no trace of panic. Chibisov at his best, Malinsky thought. “The Dutch are trying to get at him from the north, as well. Dudorov has already identified a fresh German division and at least one Dutch brigade that had not been committed previously. They’re trying to pinch off Trimenko’s penetration.”
Malinsky regained his faculties. “Only one German division?”
“So far.”
Malinsky shook his head. “They think small. They’ve lost their vision, Pavel Pavlovitch. Did the Sixteenth Tank make it in?”
“The lead regiments are well beyond the counterattack sector. We’re in behind the Germans. But Trimenko had to turn the trail regiments to fight.”
Malinsky thought about that. “I don’t like to see a division split up. Can Trimenko manage the command and control?”
“The Sixteenth Tank Division staff is controlling the lead regiments. The trail regiments are temporarily under the control of Khrenov’s division.”
“Good.” Malinsky wanted a cup of tea to clear his head. He pressed the buzzer to summon an aide.
“The Germans were right on time,” Chibisov went on. “And exactly where expected. The roads dictated the tactical axes. Dudorov has them dead on. You need to see his map. The detail is amazing.”
Following a discreet knock on the door, a young officer appeared.
“Bring us tea,” Malinsky said.
The officer disappeared again.
“Well,” Malinsky told Chibisov, “it’s up to Trimenko now. What about Starukhin’s sector?”
“He’s hitting the British with everything he’s got.”
Malinsky surveyed the spotlit map. But all of the details were already inside his head. “All right,” he said, donning the voice of command. “Trimenko’s on his own. Weight the front’s support to Starukhin. It sounds like the enemy has taken the bait.”
Thirteen
Lieutenant Colonel Shilko had been waiting patiently for over an hour, but the column remained stationary. He still had two of his self-propelled batteries, his target acquisition gear, and the battalion control and fire-direction elements tucked in behind him. He had no idea where his third battery was now. All attempts at radio contact or courier linkup at former locations had resulted only in wasted breath and missing couriers. And he had been ordered to send several officers, including one battery commander, forward to fill out depleted units and to act as forward observers. It sounded as though the toll among officer cadres was very high. But Shilko accepted fate. He was pleased enough to have most of his battalion herded together and reasonably under control. He would have liked to move faster, to reach the next locations designated for his fine guns, to run them back into action. But he saw no point in joining the inevitable shouting match up ahead on the road, wherever the holdup was focused. The column would move when it was ready.
The sounds of battle were so constant that he hardly heard them anymore. The thunder of the guns had long since worn down his already-poor hearing, and he contented himself with another cigarette. The night had grown wonderfully fresh since the rain stopped, and his peasant’s sense told him there would be a fine morning in a few more hours. Pleasant weather to be out of doors.
Shilko had insured that his soldiers were fed with a bit of warm gruel from the old cooking trailers and that they had a sip or two of hot tea before pulling off of their positions. Shilko had never understood why some officers insisted on making life as miserable as possible for themselves and their men. The gaunt, baggy-pants types. Well, Shilko thought, a soldier’s life was hard enough. If you had to meet your fate, why not on a full stomach? In the end, the slight delay had made no difference that Shilko could see. The march schedules and overall organization of traffic were little more than some staff officer’s fantasies now.
An officer dashed down the line of vehicles. He hastened past Shilko’s command car, and Shilko thought nothing more of it until the officer suddenly reappeared, slapping at the side of the vehicle to get Shilko’s attention.
