ON THE MARCHTHEY HAD BEEN marching for two days now. They had been marching for two days now through unstable weather. Brief periods of thaw interspersed with blasts of icy air from the north froze the slush into a slippery mudflat. At least they were lucky it did not snow, even though a snowstorm could bring warmer air in its wake. But they needed visibility.On the way they found several burnt villages. They were so thoroughly ransacked that not even a trace of the Enemy-hidden food remained. Nor was there an Enemy to be seen. They had all joined the Wulfstan troops.The gaunt-faced soldiers had instantly accepted Andrei as one of their own. They shared hand-rolled makhorka cigarettes, and easy banter, and a swallow of homemade throat-burning spirits from a milk bottle in the evening. They did not quite know what to make of Svetlana and treated her with an almost ridiculous courtesy. It suited her just fine because it kept them at a distance. She did not feel like talking to

THE AUDIENCESHE BARELY NOTICED the open metalwork, as sturdy as any factory joists and as delicate as rime. She paid little attention to the marvel of the huge but silent mechanisms that gently rotated the structures within the Tower, each hanging sphere big as an average apartment block. Of the POP operatives who accompanied them through the mirror-lined corridors and into a glittering elevator, like a hollowed-out diamond, she retained only the general impression of young stern faces and long leather overcoats. All Svetlana remembered afterwards was the abundance of Light. It spilled from every giant window and skylight, gleamed on the polished marble floors and ceilings, reflected from mirrors and gilded cornices, twinkled in the garlands of tiny bulbs draped over arched doorways and blazed from the giant electric chandeliers. Light was everywhere, filling Svetlana with its promise of the bright future and washing away the grief and despair that had clogged her mind like layers of

SHADOWS“Your son, unit commander Senior Sergeant Kurchenko Andrei Andreevich was wounded in the battle for the socialist Motherland. He was loyal to his military oath and showed heroism and bravery. He died of his wounds and was buried in the county cemetery of Helmsted near Magdeburg (Germany) on March 15, 1945. This letter serves as the official document for opening a pension request’s proceedings (as per Order no 220 of NKO USSR)”.***Svetlana touched Alex’ hand shyly as the two of them stood on the bank of the creek, looking down into the swift water speckled with white and pink petals. Spring came early this year, and the cherry and apple trees were already in bloom. Drowning in the billows of fragrant blossoms, Little Wells looked lovely and peaceful.She was dispatched here after the decisive rout of Wulfstan troops on the Western front. After the years of blood, mud, screams of the wounded and cursing of the dying, the post of a rural nurse, responsible for the new clinic