I walked with the two groups of veterans in the hot sun toward the ruined building. The Volga River was visible in the background, brown and swift-running, its far shore blending with the horizon. Two strings of barges in the channel passed one another as they went in opposite directions. The nearer we came to the ruined building, the stronger it smelled–a musty odor like that of a damp basement or ancient catacombs emanated from the ruins.

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The two veteran spokesmen walked close together, as if they were bound by some invisible tether. "How long were you here?" asked the Russian man.

"I'm not sure, but long enough," replied the German. "It's like a foggy and noisy dream. I just remember it was frightful."

"I remember, too," said the Russian. "It was terrible and lasted so long."

The guide, who had regained her composure, rejoined the group, which was by now intermixed, Germans and Russians walking together. She began to rattle forth long, hollow phrases about the battle, pointing here and there and describing where the Germans had been at the finish. Her words flowed over us, waves of memorized phrases sprinkled with the usual Soviet patriotic terms–sacrifice, socialist struggle, sacred duty and motherland.

"I wish she wouldn't chatter so," said the Russian spokesman. "We knew where you were then." He still watched the German spokesman closely, as if hiding a secret smile. The large group arrived at the corner of the pockmarked building and stopped.

"Where's the plaque?" asked the German.

The two veterans began looking through the high grass near the blackened, shattered bricks, but found no memorials.

The tour guide, agitated by the lack of listeners snapped: "We should go. We're off the tour route."

"Silence," croaked the Russian. "Can't you see we're thinking together?" He turned from the guide and looked at the German. "After all, we fought each other, and now we're thinking together. Isn't that something?" he asked. He shook his cane at the guide, who was again losing her composure, the corners of her mouth beginning to twitch as if she wanted to cry.

The two men stood silently together for a few moments. A bird sang on a nearby tree. "There weren't many birds then, were there?" said the German.

"Not many, but do you remember, sometimes we heard those silly partridges? They would sit and look at us during the worst shelling. They were never frightened. I couldn't understand them," the Russian responded thoughtfully. "You're right, you didn't hear much singing." He turned just then and looked directly at the German. "How did you get out?"

"Sometimes, when the weather cleared, our planes came in for the wounded, but not often," the German answered. "I was hit several times, but I was lucky. Near the last I was in a medical center, really not much of a center, just a pattern of shell holes with a cover. An officer told us about an evacuation plane that was coming and said that whoever made it over to the flat area near the back of the Kurgan, where your big statue is, could maybe get out. They had said that before, but no one had ever made it that far."

The German paused, looking into the Russian's face, and waited to see his reaction as I translated. When I had caught up with his words, the German continued his story, looking more and more distant as he spoke.

"My friend Walther went with me. He was wounded too but could walk. We made it all the way to the field. I don't know how, but we did. He helped me into a waiting plane filled with wounded, and it took off." He paused.

"What happened to Walther?" asked the Russian veteran.

"He couldn't get in the airplane," said the German. "He fell over in the field and couldn't get up. We just rolled away."

"You were lucky," said the Russian.

They stood together for a while. The bird sang a few more notes. "Where shall I put the flowers?" asked the German.

"We can't find the plaque," the Russian responded, "so here, let's put them here in the sun. They'll be nice in the sun. Warm. It was so cold then, remember?"

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