thigh and one of his arms at the bicep. With his one remaining hand, he steered the chair by gripping one of the wheels.
‘Return to your room, Captain Dombrowsky,’ commanded the nurse. ‘Leave this man alone. He needs his rest.’
Grinning but obedient, the man manoeuvred himself back into the hallway and creaked away back to his bed.
‘Don’t pay any attention to him,’ said the nurse. ‘His limbs aren’t the only things he’s lost. The Captain was transferred here from another hospital right after the Germans pulled out. He made such a nuisance of himself at the other place that they passed him over to us. And now we’re stuck with him.’
‘How did I get here?’ asked Kirov.
‘Some soldiers brought you in. They found you in a bunker after the air raid. They said you had been in a gunfight, but against whom they didn’t know.’
‘I don’t know, either,’ said Kirov. ‘Someone just started shooting. How are the others?’
‘You are the only survivor,’ replied the nurse. ‘When the soldiers carried you in, you were covered in so much blood that I thought they’d wasted their time. Turns out, it wasn’t all yours. The soldiers told me that, apart from you, they found three men, all of them dead. Two were obviously partisans. The third man had a Soviet identity book, but was wearing civilian clothes. They didn’t tell me his name.’
‘That must be Colonel Andrich,’ said Kirov, ‘but there was also a Red Army officer in the bunker with us. Did they find him, too?’
The nurse shook her head. ‘Whoever he was, it sounds like that’s the man who shot you and your friends.’
‘And there was a driver. He waited outside during the meeting. How is he?’
‘No one mentioned anything about a driver. He might have been killed in the air raid.’
At that moment, the doctor walked in. It was the same man who had dosed Kirov with ether when he tried to get down off the gurney. The doctor’s apron had been cleaned, but still showed the marks of blood stains in the cloth. Without any smile or greeting, the man unclipped a chart from the foot of Kirov’s bed. Still glancing at the chart, the doctor reached into the pocket of his white hospital coat, removed something about the size of a cherry stone and tossed it on to the bed. ‘Major, you’re a lucky man,’ he said.
Kirov squinted at the object, which had landed on the blanket just above his chest. It was a bullet, or what was left of one. Kirov stared at the gnarled mushroom of lead and copper.
‘The bullet must have ricocheted,’ explained the doctor, ‘which explains its deformed shape. By the time it hit you, the force was almost spent. We removed it from under your collar bone. If the round had been going any faster, it would have torn away your shoulder blade.’
A shudder passed through Kirov as he thought of the bullet ripping through his skin.
Seeing Kirov’s discomfort, the nurse picked up the piece of lead and tucked it into the pocket of his tunic, which was now draped over a chair in the corner of the room. ‘I really don’t know why you hand those things out,’ she told the doctor.
The doctor smiled. ‘A reminder to be more careful next time.’
‘I really should be going,’ said Kirov. ‘You see, I came here from Moscow to find someone.’ As he struggled to sit up, he felt a dull, tearing sensation across his chest and slumped back with a groan.
‘Be patient,’ warned the doctor. ‘Even for a commissar, willpower alone is not a cure. You’ll be back on the street soon enough. In the meantime, allow my nurse to make your life miserable for a few days. It’s the least you can do after punching her lights out yesterday.’
‘I have already apologised.’
‘Knowing her,’ said the doctor, as he replaced the chart, ‘I think it might take more than that to earn forgiveness.’
When the doctor had gone, the nurse finished tucking in the bed. ‘Don’t pay any attention to him,’ she told Kirov.
‘Return to your room, Captain Dombrowsky,’ commanded the nurse. ‘Leave this man alone. He needs his rest.’
Grinning but obedient, the man manoeuvred himself back into the hallway and creaked away back to his bed.
‘Don’t pay any attention to him,’ said the nurse. ‘His limbs aren’t the only things he’s lost. The Captain was transferred here from another hospital right after the Germans pulled out. He made such a nuisance of himself at the other place that they passed him over to us. And now we’re stuck with him.’
‘How did I get here?’ asked Kirov.
‘Some soldiers brought you in. They found you in a bunker after the air raid. They said you had been in a gunfight, but against whom they didn’t know.’
‘I don’t know, either,’ said Kirov. ‘Someone just started shooting. How are the others?’
‘You are the only survivor,’ replied the nurse. ‘When the soldiers carried you in, you were covered in so much blood that I thought they’d wasted their time. Turns out, it wasn’t all yours. The soldiers told me that, apart from you, they found three men, all of them dead. Two were obviously partisans. The third man had a Soviet identity book, but was wearing civilian clothes. They didn’t tell me his name.’
‘That must be Colonel Andrich,’ said Kirov, ‘but there was also a Red Army officer in the bunker with us. Did they find him, too?’
The nurse shook her head. ‘Whoever he was, it sounds like that’s the man who shot you and your friends.’
‘And there was a driver. He waited outside during the meeting. How is he?’
‘No one mentioned anything about a driver. He might have been killed in the air raid.’
At that moment, the doctor walked in. It was the same man who had dosed Kirov with ether when he tried to get down off the gurney. The doctor’s apron had been cleaned, but still showed the marks of blood stains in the cloth. Without any smile or greeting, the man unclipped a chart from the foot of Kirov’s bed. Still glancing at the chart, the doctor reached into the pocket of his white hospital coat, removed something about the size of a cherry stone and tossed it on to the bed. ‘Major, you’re a lucky man,’ he said.
Kirov squinted at the object, which had landed on the blanket just above his chest. It was a bullet, or what was left of one. Kirov stared at the gnarled mushroom of lead and copper.
‘The bullet must have ricocheted,’ explained the doctor, ‘which explains its deformed shape. By the time it hit you, the force was almost spent. We removed it from under your collar bone. If the round had been going any faster, it would have torn away your shoulder blade.’
A shudder passed through Kirov as he thought of the bullet ripping through his skin.
Seeing Kirov’s discomfort, the nurse picked up the piece of lead and tucked it into the pocket of his tunic, which was now draped over a chair in the corner of the room. ‘I really don’t know why you hand those things out,’ she told the doctor.
The doctor smiled. ‘A reminder to be more careful next time.’
‘I really should be going,’ said Kirov. ‘You see, I came here from Moscow to find someone.’ As he struggled to sit up, he felt a dull, tearing sensation across his chest and slumped back with a groan.
‘Be patient,’ warned the doctor. ‘Even for a commissar, willpower alone is not a cure. You’ll be back on the street soon enough. In the meantime, allow my nurse to make your life miserable for a few days. It’s the least you can do after punching her lights out yesterday.’
‘I have already apologised.’
‘Knowing her,’ said the doctor, as he replaced the chart, ‘I think it might take more than that to earn forgiveness.’
When the doctor had gone, the nurse finished tucking in the bed. ‘Don’t pay any attention to him,’ she told Kirov.
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