Sasha

1943. World War II. Winter. USSR border. Forest.
      Sasha was an exemplary Soviet intelligence officer, whose work almost never failed. He was taken to the front from his mother and father, which made him hate the Germans even more.
      "The filthy fascists... let's drive them off our land and start living well... I'll go back home to my mother, she misses me already... maybe I'll even go to the neighboring collective farm, to visit Granny Nyura, otherwise the old woman is all alone..." Sasha was either cursing or dreaming, almost in a whisper. Suddenly, he saw how, not far away in the forest, under a spreading spruce, steam was billowing, as if from breath.
      Clutching the PPSh in his frostbitten fingers, he tensed, expecting the blow.
      As soon as he realized that he was not in danger, he began to slowly approach the source of this mysterious steam.
      Looking around, he saw a man in a German uniform lying in the snow. Barely alive, wounded, barely breathing, and squirming motionlessly. His dark gray uniform, so different from the Red Army uniforms, stood out too much against the white snow.
      Sasha immediately pointed his submachine gun at him, ready to fire. For some reason, the soldier was certain it was all an enemy trap.
      "Steh auf, Fritz! Komm schon!" (Get up, Fritz, come on!) Sashka shouted in broken German, using the phrases he'd managed to learn. He hoped the German would jump up and start attacking.
      But there was no answer
      The boy's hands relaxed, releasing the submachine gun from its tenacious grip. He looked at the soldier lying in the snow, realizing to his horror that he felt sorry for him. This was just like a child, taken from his parents, who just as much didn't want to end up here. Or maybe he didn't want to hurt Soviet soldiers at all? How could Sasha know that?
      Why was he lying here alone, without his troop? Maybe he was shot. Or maybe he simply couldn't go on, having been wounded before.
      Sashka sighed heavily and, slinging his PPSh over his shoulder, knelt down in front of the German. Steam was still coming out of the wounded man's mouth, meaning he was alive.
      Having thrown off his excess uniform, the young man began to rummage through the bags, searching among various things.

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