The farmhouse appeared through the snow like a miracle. Obergefreiter Fischer's squad collapsed against its walls, too exhausted to go further.
Inside, they found an old woman—alone, unafraid. She looked at their uniforms, their hollow eyes, their frozen hands. Then she pointed to the stove.
"Warm yourselves," she said in German, heavily accented. "There's soup."
They stared at her, this enemy who offered kindness.
"My son," she said quietly. "He was your age. He didn't come home from Stalingrad."
Fischer bowed his head. "I'm sorry."
"He wouldn't want me to let you freeze."