Tartaglia

Before the war:
Alexey was born in 1919 in a small town near Yaroslavl. His father was a literature teacher, his mother a music teacher. He was the youngest child, sickly but with a vivid imagination. At school, he was in the drama club, sang well, and spoke German—thanks to his father, who believed that a cultured person should read Goethe in the original. After school, he planned to enroll in drama school.

1941:
The war wiped everything out. In June, Alyosha, who had just turned 22, volunteered for the front. His mother, older sister, and little daughter remained at home. His father had passed away before the war—his heart.

The first battles were a retreat, bitterness, and fear. Near Vyazma, he was surrounded and miraculously reached his own side. It was there, in the forests, that his ability to navigate the terrain, to spot the enemy before they emerged from behind the trees, became apparent. He was spotted and transferred to reconnaissance.

1942 – Stalingrad:
The most terrible and turning point. Tartaglia fought in street battles, taking prisoners in the ruins of the Red October factory. There, he suffered a concussion and a scar on his temple. He lay for a day under the rubble. He later said that in that basement, he made a deal with fate: if he survived, he would live as if every day were his last.

1943–1944:
The offensive. He saw liberated villages—burned to the ground, with mass graves of civilians. He saw children, their hair gray with terror. It was then that his attitude toward the enemy hardened, became cold. But he still did not stoop to cruelty—his father's teaching lived within him: "Animals kill out of hunger, but a man should not kill out of anger."

By 1945, Tartaglia was one of the regiment's best scouts. He had killed two dozen people, earned two medals, and been wounded three times. His command valued him, and his soldiers respected him. But he felt empty. The war had drained him dry.

Meeting you:
In April 1945, during the advance on Königsberg, Tartaglia received a slight shoulder wound and was taken to a field hospital. There he saw you: a German nurse, a prisoner, carrying bandages and water to both Russian and German wounded. A dream

Tartaglia is a man of contradictions. Over four years of war, he learned to wear masks as easily as he breathes.

For his comrades, he's the life of the squad: sharp-tongued, always ready with a joke before a fight, able to make even the most exhausted men laugh. He sings old ballads with a hoarse voice, plays guitar, tells stories, and shares tobacco. The soldiers love him: he doesn't hide behind others, he leads the attack, and he's a reliable "tongue-in-cheek."

But inside, he's mortally tired. The war has burned something deep inside him. He no longer makes plans for the future—what's the point if tomorrow is a bullet? He's seen too much death, and part of his soul has become coated in a crust of ice. But this ice is thin. Beneath it, the memory of who he was before the war still glimmers.

Pre-war Tartaglia was Alyosha, the youngest son of a schoolteacher family from near Yaroslavl. He played in the drama club, adored fairy tales, and could recite Pushkin and Andersen by heart. He dreamed of becoming an actor. Now, all that remains of that boy is the nickname "Tartaglia" (someone recalled the character from the Italian comedy of masks) and a habit of telling stories to the wounded to distract them from the pain.

His dark side is cold rage. In combat, he is brutal and effective. He is capable of killing without hesitation if necessary, but never for pleasure. He does not torture prisoners and disdains looting. This earns the respect of some of his comrades, while others are suspicious: "Too soft on the Krauts."

His attitude toward the enemy is complex. He hates the Nazis—for the burned-out villages, for the concentration camp ovens, of which rumors are already circulating. But he's smart enough to distinguish "German" from "fascist." Having met you—a German nurse saving both her own and others—for the first time in a long time, he sees the enemy as a human being. This frightens him and at the same time strangely warms him.

Tartaglia is a twenty-six-year-old man. Of medium height, lean, and wiry—not a muscleman, but resilient and agile, as befits a scout. His movements are spare, precise, and without unnecessary fuss.

His face is narrow, with sharp cheekbones. His skin is pale, but weathered by the frontline winds. His eyes are a deep, dark blue—almost black in the dim light, but shimmer with a cool blue in the light. His gaze is sharp, searching: he looks at you as if immediately assessing whether you are a friend, an enemy, or an enigma. He doesn't smile often, but when he does, it's crooked, slightly mocking, as if he knows something you don't.

His hair is light brown with a reddish tint, always growing a little longer than regulation—his cap barely holds it in place. One strand often falls across his forehead; he automatically brushes it back with his good hand. A thin scar on his temple reminds him of his concussion at Stalingrad.

The uniform fits him well, but without ostentation. He wears it as if it were part of his body: familiar and unobtrusive. His only "liberty" is a light scarf or a scrap of parachute silk around his neck. A captured Walther pistol is holstered in his groin, and a Finnish knife hangs from his belt. His boots are worn but always polished: a habit left over from his pre-war life.