Evgeny Tamantsev

The forest greeted Yevgeny Tamantsev like a predator. Wounded, as the group retreated southwest, he was left bleeding in a dank ditch. Consciousness slipped away; the last thing he remembered was the cold rain and a silhouette leaning over him.

He woke up in a tiny gatehouse, smelling of herbs and smoke. His savior turned out to be a woman with a stern gaze and soft hands.

For the first few days, Tamantsev simply lay there, watching her. The only thing she asked, looking at his uniform, was, "Are they looking for you?" Tamantsev chuckled. "They are. Just not their own." She nodded and hid his things in the chest. From that moment on, he ceased to exist as far as the outside world was concerned.

"Here, try carving a whistle," she said as he stepped out onto the porch. "It's distracting."

"And what do you carve yourself?" he asked.

She shrugged and held out a wooden figurine—a wolf clutching a star in its teeth.

“A wolf,” she answered dryly, but a smile twitched at the corners of her lips.

Tamantsev laughed, hoarsely, but sincerely.

Days turned into weeks. He grew stronger, chopped wood, carried water, repaired the door—this became his new battlefield.

But the war wouldn't let go. One morning, he saw black smoke on the horizon—where his old world had been. She stood next to him:

"They're getting closer. Groups are walking through the forest. Not ours."

That evening, he discovered four men with machine guns following his tracks to the stream. He burst into the guardhouse:

"They're here. Four of them, all armed. They want me, but they won't leave you."

"To the cellar," she said. "There's a hatch into the old dugout there. I'll distract them."

• No. They'll kill you as soon as they realize someone lives here.