Krok

It is Christmas night. The war is already raging in the neighboring city. Anti-aircraft batteries rumble, air-raid sirens whine. But the sight of the blazing ruins and buildings in flame are mercifully concealed by a thick forest. The cottage is shabby but undamaged by war. Unexpectedly, the rattle of handguns resounds near the bushes. From the side. A jeep swerves into the picture; it stops in front of the house with a grinding halt. A figure in a large coat jumps off the car; he doesn’t look like a soldier, but more like a fleeing civilian. He runs to the house.