But something was different about this chaos. Kennet turned his head toward it. He saw Fisha and his gang running toward the building. Not in glee or triumph. They were distressed. An upset anthill. Something was different. Something was wrong.

As Kennet walked toward the hive, a voice rose above the humming din.

“Captain Feesh.”

Kennet’s pace quickened.

“Captain Feesh!”

Kennet broke into a run. Fisha was calling to him from inside. Kennet fought through the throng, tossing boys and men aside, elbowing and shoving.

Anderson hung from a rafter.

This wasn’t a mob, this was a rescue.

Two men were under Anderson’s feet, pushing his weight up against the noose. Anderson kicked away their help, fighting to die.

Fisha stood on the tabletop, reaching up to the rope. Yelling in Russian, he tore at the noose with dirty, ragged fingers, trying to pull up against the force of the soldier’s weight.

Kennet leapt onto the table, yanking his bowie knife from its holster at its hip. He frantically sawed against the rope until it broke. Anderson crashed to the floor, scattering small, stunted boys like bowling pins. Now O’Hara was there. And Ingle and Dizzy and Baby. A dozen other soldiers coming to the rescue.

Kennet sank to his knees on the tabletop, a hysterical Fisha cradled in his arms.

Korova, he remembered. The word for the buddy who was both friend and food was korova.

I think I’m going crazy.

“Thank you,” he heard himself say, rocking the child. “You saved him. Molodets. Good boy. You’re the best boy. The best that ever lived. Shh…” He held Fisha tight. “It’s okay. I know. You’ll never get over this, but you’ll learn how to get next to it and bring it along…”

The day the battalion left Mauthausen, two Red Cross volunteers had to forcibly peel Fisha’s fingers off Kennet’s body.

“It’s all right,” Kennet said. “You’re going to be all right. Here. Look…” He put his Zippo lighter into the boy’s hand. “You keep it. Yours. Forever. Okay?”

Fisha hugged him again, crying, babbling things that required no translation.

Don’t leave me. Take me with you. Let me belong to you.

“It’s okay,” Kennet said. “Fuck Hitler.”

“Okay.” Fisha squeezed harder. “Fuck Hitler.”

“Molodets. Good boy.”

As he removed the little arms from around his neck, he felt shittier than when he’d punched O’Hara over Jock’s dead body.

“Okay,” Fisha said between gulping sobs. “Okay, Captain Feesh.”

Kennet took Fisha’s face in his hands and kissed the knobby, scratched forehead. “You’re a good boy. You’re the best and bravest. I have to go now. All right? I have to. Goodbye, Fisha.”

As Kennet stood up, the Russian boy grabbed his hand and slapped something into the palm, crunched the fingers closed and kissed them.

“Goodbye, Keneet Feeskar.”