In the Crosshairs

Prologue

September 15, 2002.

Alexander sat down in his plush chair on the second floor of his home's master bedroom. His eyes peered out of the stained window, fixating upon the well-paved streets, bustling commoners, and tall concrete buildings that populated the vibrant landscape of Volgograd.

He leaned back and rubbed his belly—it was full of his favorite dish in the whole world, a German-style cheese pasta known as Käsespätzle.

Käsespätzle had been Alexander's favorite meal ever since a young German soldier named Friedrich made it for him, 60 years ago. Since then, almost every Saturday morning, he would walked down his house on Kirov street, go to that restaurant and order it every time. And every week, with every bite of Käsespätzle Alexander took, he would hear Friedrich's voice echoing in the chambers of his mind. 

Add the flour first, then the salt, then the pasta, the cheese...

At that period of his life, he was an elite sniper for the Soviet Army at the Battle of Stalingrad. The day-to-day grueling regimen of brutal, hand-to-hand combat against the Nazis had been haunting him with grave PTSD for the past 6 decades. Every battle was different and miserable in its own way. Kursk. Warsaw. Berlin. But it was Stalingrad that both physically and emotionally crippled Alexander, forever.

Hearing Friedrich's voice in the back of his head put Alexander on edge. He got up from his chair, grabbed his cane, and walked out of his bedroom. He limbered to the end of the hallway, past his wife's art room, and pulled down the attic hatch. His weak legs and disfigured left arm barely supported him as he painstakingly pulled his withered body into the attic.

Alexander began digging through old boxes. He grazed over cherished mementos of his life: his wife's wedding dress, a worn-out box for a bandage, and countless war medals for his service as one of the Soviet Union's best snipers. He even glossed over a picture of him with Joseph Tito Stalin. All items embodied the landmarks of his extraordinary, yet regretful life.

He pulled the stained picture closer to his face, as his now-defunct eyesight greatly impeded his ability to distinguish even between colors. The 20/20 vision that had earned him his medals had long ago deteriorated after Stalingrad. Since then, it only worsened, and old age had rendered him nearly blind.

He reminisced upon the day the photo was taken. The Soviets had just declared victory over the Germans. The victory was so vital to the people's resistance that Stalin himself personally recognized the brave comrades who presided over the city's resistance. In the picture, Stalin and the 6 other soldiers, stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces engraved with pride. At the end of the line of soldiers stood a young, 28 year-old Alexander, whose face held not the radiant grin of his comrades, but rather a desolate stare. 

Alexander set the picture down and glanced at the worn-out bandage box he had tossed aside. On the box was a scribbled message that had faded so much that not even he could make out anymore. But he knew exactly what it said. It was a message in German:

I'll always be in here.

Despite his victory at Stalingrad, Alexander had lost his own war. He lost his one true love, and to remember him, had only this box—a priceless item jumbled in a pile of seemingly worthless medals.

There in the attic, Alexander continued to reminisice to a time 60 years ago, deployed to fight in the Battle of Stalingrad. There, he would experience moments of soaring heights, crippling despair, and everything in between.