Collaboration with @silmarilz1701
Svetlana knew how to play the game. She'd been caught in the political drama of Stalin's inner circle since birth. The only child of one of Stalin's closest friends, she grew up in the limelight, scrutinized by frie...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
After Easy had settled into their positions, the world and the line had fallen silent. For several days there was little to no movement, the trees swaying and only a few shots fired. The only thing that dared stir was the snow, brushing across the ground in drifts. Zhanna could stare out her foxhole for hours and see nothing but the faint outline of a helmet in the white haze. She didn't leave her foxhole, at first, but once the boredom had set in and there had been no shipments of supplies to the front, she had decided to take matters into her own hand. Three bullets wouldn't see her through the war.
The woods were still around her, the snow only softly crunching under her boots and the whisper of the wind were the only sounds. There hadn't been much movement between CP and the line.
All the jokes from the Airborne about the weather in Russia had been forgotten in the woods of Bastogne, where one could only cower in fear against the frost, praying for mercy against the cold. Zhanna hadn't been ready for the chill. The thin coat she had been given did little to protect her from the frigid air. Easy shivered in their foxholes, like creatures in hibernation.
They didn't see each other often, not daring to leave the safety and the relative shelter that was provided by the dugouts. It wasn't like the streets of Stalingrad that provided alleys and cover for slinking shadows. Zhanna was out in the open in this pale white forest and even the trees seemed to have eyes. CP was a hike from Zhanna and Buck's foxhole but her friend had declined to accompany her, instead curled up in his blankets, trying to get Guarnere or Muck's attention in the neighboring foxhole. Buck, the Buck that Zhanna had known and loved before his stint in the hospital, had been buried in the snow. Once again, he was replaced by a frozen replica of his former self. Shattered like ice, he was restless and frightened. Not the bright and warming sun he had been. Zhanna had pretended as if she didn't notice and so did the other soldiers but they all saw it. There was nothing to be said, however, and nothing to be done. They remained silent, as if they were oblivious to the whole thing.
Stalingrad might have prepared her for the cold, no matter how miserable that past and this present experience was, but that didn't mean Zhanna enjoyed the cold. It turned your body against you, numbing and stiffening muscles and joints. Movement was difficult and that meant that survival was slowed. Cold could mean death and Zhanna had spent so much of her life surviving that it became second nature to fear the cold. Here, in this snowy forest, the shadows of tree limbs stretching their claws over her head, Zhanna couldn't afford to entertain any thought but survival. Not that there was much to keep surviving for.
One danger of Bastogne was the nightly snowfall that covered all tracks with a fresh blanket, removing all traces of familiarity and causing more than a few turned ankles when a foxhole suddenly appeared when you could have sworn it hadn't been there the day before. Zhanna almost tumbled into Winters's foxhole, knocking the tin of ice out of his hand and onto the snow.
"Sorry," Zhanna said, her jaw struggling to unhinge and allow the words to pass through her lips. Frost had coated her joints like rust, scraping and creaking into motion with the hours of disuse.
