The shelling was not a sound; it was a geology. It was the sudden, violent rearrangement of the earth's crust.
When the barrage truly began, the concept of "silence" was erased from the history of the world. The air inside the nave of St. Matthias did not merely vibrate; it solidified. It became a physical hammer, a compressed wall of atmospheric pressure that slammed into the chest, the ears, and the sinuses with every detonation.
WHUMP-CRACK.
A 76mm high-explosive shell struck the upper cornice of the eastern wall. Tons of masonry—sandstone blocks quarried in the 17th century, mortar mixed by hands long since turned to dust—disintegrated in a millisecond. The debris didn't fall; it was hurled downward like shrapnel, a lethal rain of jagged stone splinters that clattered against the helmets of the men huddled below.
Peter Polemos did not flinch. The reflex to flinch had been burned out of him in the Korsun Pocket. Instead, he curled tighter into the hollow beneath the altar, his body forming a protective shell around the small, flickering flame of the match and the precious scrap of paper.
He was in the eye of the hurricane. Around him, the world was ending. He could hear Vogel screaming something unintelligible near the breach, a cry lost in the roar of the detonations. He could feel the floor heaving, the flagstones jumping inches into the air as the shockwaves traveled through the foundation.
But Peter was not in Saxony. He was forcing himself into a fugue state, a narrow tunnel of concentration where only the graphite tip of the pencil and the yellowing paper existed.
He had to finish. The logic of the battlefield was simple: the artillery was the hammer, softening the target. When the hammering stopped, the sickle would swing. The infantry would come. And when the infantry came, there would be no time for words, only for the brutal, short syntax of the bayonet.
He struck another match. His fingers were clumsy, numb from the shock and the cold. The flame flared, illuminating the dust that swirled in the air like a thick, grey fog.
He looked at the paper. There was one quadrant left. One final box on the logistical manifest to fill with the inventory of his soul.
The Third Letter: The Releasee
April 21, 1945. The End of the Line.
My Dearest Dolce,
The roof is falling now. I am writing this to the sound of the world breaking apart. It is a fitting music for a goodbye.
I have apologized for my silence. I have apologized for the future we will not share. But there is one final thing I must say, and it is the hardest thing of all. I am writing this to set you free.
There is a tradition in the stories we read, the operas we watched in the arena, that love is eternal. That it survives death. That the ghost waits for the beloved. I am telling you now: do not believe it. It is a cruelty.
I do not want you to wait for me. I do not want to haunt you. I do not want to be a shadow standing in the corner of your room, or a cold draft in your hallway. I want to be a memory, Dolce. Just a memory. Something you take out of a box once a year, smile at, and then put away so you can live in the sun.
A shell landed inside the nave. The concussion was massive. It sucked the oxygen out of the air, extinguishing Peter's match instantly.
Darkness.
For a moment, Peter couldn't breathe. His lungs were seizing, spasming against the vacuum. He gasped, sucking in air that tasted of sulfur, pulverized brick, and ancient dry rot. His ears were ringing with a high-pitched, screaming whine—tinnitus that drowned out even the rumble of the tanks.
"Sergeant!"
A hand grabbed his shoulder. It was Hanke. The corporal's face was invisible in the dark, but his grip was iron.
"Weber is hit!" Hanke screamed, though his voice sounded underwater to Peter. "The roof... a beam came down!"
Peter shook his head, clearing the static. "Is he alive?"
"His legs are pinned! We need to move him!"
"Leave him!" Peter roared back. The brutality of the order tasted like bile. "If we move him, he bleeds out! Tourniquet! Put a tourniquet on it and leave him under cover! We fight where we stand!"
Hanke hesitated, then vanished back into the gloom.
Peter's hands were shaking violently now. He fumbled for his matchbox. Only two matches left. Two sparks of light between him and the eternal dark.
He struck the penultimate match. The flame was tiny, struggling against the shockwaves.
He had to finish. He had to sign the release.
Dolce, listen to me. This is my last will. It is not for my things—I have nothing but this uniform and a stolen watch. It is for you.
You must live. You must find a man who has never seen a tank. A man who makes things—a carpenter, a baker, a teacher. A man whose hands are soft and whose sleep is quiet. You must marry him. You must have the children we named, but you will give them new names, names that belong to the peace, not to the memory of a ghost.
Do not wear black for me. Wear yellow. Wear the dress you wore at the fountain. Eat peaches in the summer. Laugh with your whole belly.
If you mourn me, I will never be at peace. If you live, if you love again, then my death is not a tragedy. It is just a departure. It is me stepping off the train so you can reach the destination.
I release you, Dolce Bella. I release you from the promise. I release you from the waiting.
I love you. That is the only thing the war could not kill.
Goodbye.
Peter.
He scribbled the signature just as the match burned his thumb. He dropped it.
It was done.
He sat in the dark, clutching the paper to his chest. He felt a sudden, bizarre lightness. The weight that had been crushing him for two years—the guilt, the secrecy, the shame—had transferred from his heart to the paper. He had distilled the poison and trapped it in graphite.
He folded the paper. Once. Twice. He folded it until it was a small, dense square, no larger than a domino.
He reached into his tunic. He bypassed the pocket where he kept his Soldbuch (paybook). He bypassed the pocket with the cigarettes. He placed the letter in the left breast pocket, directly over his heart, behind the Iron Cross Second Class that he had earned for killing men in a forest near Minsk.
He buttoned the flap.
"Amen," he whispered.
The shelling stopped.
The silence that followed was more terrifying than the noise. The noise was violence, but the silence was anticipation. It was the deep breath before the plunge.
The dust hung in the air, glowing faintly from the moonlight filtering through the shattered roof. The church was a ruin. The pews were matchwood. The statues were dust. Weber was moaning in the corner, a low, rhythmic sound of animal distress.
"Check weapons!" Peter's voice was hoarse, unrecognizable. He stood up from behind the altar. He was no longer the writer. He was the Sergeant again. The transition was instant, a survival mechanism snapping into place.
"Sound off!"
"Vogel up!" came the cry from the wall.
"Hanke up!"
"Schultz... Schultz up!" The boy's voice was a squeak.
"Muller up!"
"They are lifting the barrage," Peter announced, moving into the center of the nave. He walked with a limp; a piece of falling stone had bruised his thigh, though he hadn't felt it happen. "That means the infantry is coming. They will be on top of us in two minutes."
He looked at his men. They were grey ghosts, coated in the dust of the church. They looked like statues that had climbed down from their plinths to die.
"Grenades," Peter ordered. "Get them ready. Do not throw until you see the whites of their eyes. Do not throw until you can smell the onions on their breath."
He walked over to Schultz. The boy was pressed against a pillar, clutching his Kar98 rifle so hard his knuckles were white. He was hyperventilating.
"Schultz," Peter said, grabbing the boy's helmet and forcing him to look up. "Look at me."
Schultz's eyes were wide, the pupils dilated to black saucers. "They're coming, Sergeant. The monsters."
"They are not monsters," Peter said firmly. "They are men. They are cold, they are tired, and they want to go home, just like you. They bleed, Schultz. If you shoot them, they fall."
"I can't... my hands..."
"Your hands are fine," Peter lied. He took the rifle from the boy, worked the bolt to chamber a round, and shoved it back into his chest. "Listen to me. You are not dying tonight. Do you hear me? I wrote a letter. I made a deal with God. Nobody dies until I say so."
It was blasphemy. It was insanity. But it was what the boy needed.
"A deal?" Schultz blinked.
"Yes. A deal." Peter slapped the boy's shoulder. "Now get to the window. Watch the left flank."
Peter moved to the breach. He stood beside Vogel. The machine gunner had cleared the debris from his weapon and was feeding a fresh belt of ammunition into the receiver. The brass cartridges glinted dully in the moonlight.
"How many belts?" Peter asked.
"Three," Vogel said. "Five hundred rounds. Maybe two minutes of fire."
"Make them count. Short bursts. Don't let the barrel melt."
Peter peered out into the night. The smoke from the shell bursts was drifting across the vineyard, a low-hanging fog.
And then he saw them.
They were not running. They were walking.
The Soviet infantry was advancing behind the tanks, using the steel hulls as moving shields. They moved with a terrifying, fluid coordination. There was no shouting. No "Urrah." Not yet. They were professionals, the survivors of Stalingrad and Berlin. They moved from crater to crater, dark shapes flowing over the grey ground.
The tanks were grinding up the slope, their engines roaring. The lead T-34 was only a hundred meters away now. Peter could smell the diesel exhaust, a thick, oily stench that overpowered the smell of the dust.
He felt the letter against his chest. It was a physical presence, a talisman. He had apologized. He had said his goodbye. He was empty.
And because he was empty, he was dangerous. He had nothing left to lose. He had already given his life away on that piece of paper. What remained was just a body, a weapon to be spent as dearly as possible.
He unslung his MP40 submachine gun. He pulled back the charging handle. The mechanical clack-clack was crisp and loud in the silence.
"Wait," Peter whispered, raising his hand.
The lead tank crushed the low stone wall of the cemetery, its tracks spinning on the loose grave markers. A stone angel toppled over, crushed beneath the treads.
"Wait," Peter hissed.
He could see the faces of the Russian infantry now. He could see the quilted patterns on their Telogreika jackets. He could see the steam of their breath.
Seventy meters.
Fifty meters.
The lead tank raised its gun, aiming for the main archway.
"NOW!" Peter screamed. "FIRE!"
Vogel squeezed the trigger.
BRRRRRRT.
The MG42 ripped into life. It was a sound like canvas tearing, a continuous buzz-saw of noise that was terrifying in its intensity. The tracers lashed out into the darkness, a stream of red fire that connected the church to the tank.
The infantry riding on the back of the tank disintegrated. They didn't fall; they were swept away, knocked off the steel hull like dust.
The battle for St. Matthias had begun.
Peter didn't fire yet. He watched. He waited. He saw a squad of Russians detach from the flank, sprinting toward the blind spot near the sacristy.
"Right flank!" Peter yelled. "Grenades!"
He pulled the pin on his stick grenade. He felt the porcelain bead pop. He counted.
Twenty-one. Twenty-two.
He stepped out into the open breach, exposing himself to the fire. He hurled the grenade with a primal grunt. It tumbled through the air, end over end, disappearing into the shadows of the cemetery.
CRUMP.
A flash of orange. A scream.
Peter ducked back as bullets chipped the stone around his head. Stone splinters cut his cheek, but he didn't feel it.
He was alive. He was dead. It didn't matter.
He touched his chest pocket.
I release you.
He raised his weapon and fired into the dark.