In the Balance полностью

The partisan pointed to his own trousers, which were covered in mud up to the knees. He dismissed Jager’s suggestion with three sardonic words: “Good fucking luck.”

Rationally, Jager knew Max was right. Still, as the whirring drone from the sky grew louder, he wanted to drop the heavy chest and run. He looked over his shoulder. The driving rain veiled the helicopter from sight. He could only hope it helped hide him from the Lizards.

Off to the south, from the middle of this big open field, shots cracked; Jager recognized the deep bark of a Gewehr-98K, the standard German infantry rifle (no way to tell now, of course, whether it was borne by a standard German infantryman or a very definitely nonstandard Russian partisan). The helicopter that had been closest to him droned off to meet the fleabite challenge.

“I think some of the decoys just drew them away from us,” Jager said.

“It might be a Jew saving your neck, Nazi. How does that make you feel?” Max said. After a moment, though, he added in wondering tones, “Or it might be a fucking Nazi saving mine. How does that make me feel? You know the word verkakte, Nazi? This is a verkakte mess, and no mistake.”

A village-maybe even a small town-loomed out of the rain ahead. In instant unspoken agreement, both men swerved wide around it. “What’s the name of that place?” Jager asked.

“Chernobyl, I think,” Max said. “The Lizards drove the people out after their ship blew up, but they might keep a little garrison there.”

“Let’s hope they don’t,” Jager said. The Jewish partisan nodded.

If the village held a garrison, it didn’t come forth to search for the raiders… or maybe it did, and simply missed Jager and Max in the downpour. Once past the clump of ugly wooden buildings and even uglier concrete ones, Jager glanced down at his compass to get back onto the proper course.

Max watched him put it back in his pocket “How are we going to find the fucking panje wagon?”

“We keep on this heading until-”

“-we walk past them in the rain,” the Jew put in.

“If you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it,” Jager said icily.

“I don’t. I was hoping you did.”

They pushed on, skirting another small patch of woods and then returning to the course the compass dictated. Jager had a piece of black bread and some sausage in his pack. Getting them out one-handed was awkward, but he managed. He broke the bread, bit the sausage in half; and passed Max his share. The Jew hesitated but ate. After a while, he pulled a little tin flask from his hip pocket. He yanked out the cork, gave the flask to Jager for the first swig. Vodka ran down his throat like fire.

“Thanks,” he said. “That’s good.” He put his thumb over the opening so the rain couldn’t get in, passed the flask back to Max.

Off to one side, somebody spoke up in Russian. Jager started, then dropped the chest that had become like an unwelcome part of him and grabbed for the rifle slung on his back. Then a German voice added, “Ja, we could use something good about now.”

“You found them,” Max said to Jager as the panje wagon came up through the muck. “That’s fucking amazing.” Instead of hatred, he looked at Jager with something like respect. Jager, who was at least as surprised as the Jewish partisan, did his best not to show it.

The horse that pulled the panje wagon had seen better days. The light wooden wagon itself rode on large wheels; it was low, wide, and flat-bottomed, so it could float almost boatlike across the surface of even the deepest mud. It looked as if its design hadn’t changed for centuries, which was probably true; no vehicle was better adapted to coping with Russia’s twice-yearly rasputitsa.

The driver and the fellow beside him both wore Red Army greatcoats, but instead of a shelm, a Russian cloth helmet rather like a balaclava, the man who wasn’t holding the reins had on the long-brimmed cap of a German tropical-weight uniform. The weather was anything but tropical, but the cap kept the rain out of his eyes.

He said, “You have the cabbages?”

“Yes, by God, we do,” Jager said. Max nodded. Together, they lifted the lead-lined chest into the wagon. Jager had grown so used to the burden that his shoulder ached when he was relieved of it. Max handed the flask of vodka to the driver, then clambered up over the side of the wagon. Jager followed him. Between them, they almost filled the wagon bed.

The fellow with the shelm spoke in Russian. Max turned it into Yiddish for Jager. “He says we won’t bother with roads. We’ll head straight across country. The Lizards aren’t likely to find us that way.”

“And if they do?” Jager asked.

“Nichevo,” the Russian answered when Max put the question to him: “It can’t be helped.” Since that was manifestly true, Jager just nodded. The driver twitched the reins, clucked to the horse. The panje wagon began to roll.