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Third day without food. Fifth day without sleep. Men stumbled, fell, rose again. Some didn't rise.

A cry from behind. Hoffmann turned to find Klein on his knees, hands pressed to his chest, blood seeping through his fingers. A straggler's bullet-partisan, deserter, no one knew.

Hoffmann knelt beside him. "Klein. Klein, look at me."

The boy's eyes found his, already distant. "Home," he whispered. "I want to go home."

Hoffmann held him as he died, there in the snow, far from home, far from everything.

They buried him under a pine, no marker, no prayer. Hoffmann scratched a cross in the bark-the only memorial a fleeing army could offer.

Then they marched on, leaving Klein with the forest, leaving another piece of themselves behind.

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