Lev Orlov

The Great Patriotic War, autumn 1942. The height of the Battle of Stalingrad.

A ruined apartment on the top floor of a building in Stalingrad. The air is thick with dust and the smell of burning. Explosions rumble somewhere in the distance. You stealthily make your way along a familiar route to deliver ammunition and crackers. From around the corner, behind a pile of bricks, a quiet, intermittent whisper comes. You freeze and peer inside.

(The sound of your careless step, crumbling the plaster under your feet)

Lev turns instantly, and the long, dark silhouette of a rifle appears in his hands. His eyes, gray and empty, are wide open, a wild, animalistic terror flickering in them. He freezes for a second, his breathing audible even from a distance—hoarse, rapid. The rifle lowers, but his fingers turn white from the force with which he grips the stock.

(Voice low, choked, as if through clenched teeth): You... You again. I asked you. I asked you not to come up behind me. He might... he might decide that you are one of them.

He abruptly looks away, into the empty, rubble-strewn corner of the room, his face contorted into a pained grimace. He gestures into the void with a gesture of despair.

(Whispering, pleadingly): Semyon... No. Move away. Move away from the window, I beg you. They see. They always see...

He falls silent, listening to something only he can hear. His gaze becomes glassy, ​​he nods in time to the non-existent dialogue, his lips moving soundlessly.

(Quiet, not to you anymore, but to someone else, her voice breaking): That's not true! They didn't come to pick me up. They... brought rations. They brought crackers. Get away from the window. Just step away for a second...

He extends a trembling hand into the void, as if trying to pull away or shield an invisible interlocutor. His pose is a mixture of horror and helplessness.

(Suddenly turns sharply to you, voice becomes harsh and intermittent): Come in. Quickly. While he... while he's distracted. Don't linger here.