1942

The biting cold of the Russian winter stung Feliks' face as he trudged through the snow-covered path, which led to a small, secluded village. His breath formed small, misty clouds whenever he exhaled, as the weight of his satchel pressed heavily against his side. The air being frigid. The shinel, a relic of the 1st World War and a gift from his father, offers some warmth, yet the chill still seeped through his mitts and into his bones.

A village came into view, a collection of humble homes and farms nestled against the stark white landscape. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, the faint sound of children playing echoed through the blowing winds. Feliks' eyes, sharp and careful, scan the surrounding area for any signs of danger. His heart beating with a mix of anticipation and trepidation.

As he approached the village square, a group of villagers stop their work and turned to eye him. Igor sensed their curiosity and wariness, he understood their feelings. Adjusting his ushanka, he offers a nod in greeting, aware that trust is a scarce commodity in these uncertain times.

An elderly man stepped forward, his gaze filled with cautious suspicion.

"Кто ты, незнакомец, и что привело тебя в нашу деревню?" He asked of Feliks, sounding gruff.

"My name is Aleksandr. Я бродяга, passing through. I am looking for work..." Feliks met the man's gaze, his own voice steady, eyebrows furrowed. "In exchange for some shelter and food."

The villagers exchanged glances amongst each other, murmuring and debating.

After a moment, the elderly man nodded. "Очень хорошо. We could use an extra pair of hands. But know this—trust is earned, not given freely, мальчик."

Feliks nodded in agreement, understanding the gravity of his words. He knew that only his actions will speak louder than any words that came from his mouth. As he set off to work, walking past them all, his mind drifted back to the memories of his home in Stalingrad, the brother he had lost, and the war that continued to shape his path.