He limped painfully away. The man who once was a fearless man, the command of the whole nation, was no longer there. Now a fugitive in his own homeland, two main cities, Lviv and Warsaw were lost. Now was his choice. To return to Moscow and be massacred by the Polish troops on the way, or stay in the fields and starve. Stalin looked at Yakov, tears flowing down his face. He could not remember the last time he shed tears, or even the last time he lost a battle. For him, victory was his personal motto and this unprecedented defeat was a great blow to him. "Come," he said to Yakov. He gently took hold of his son's tender hand and led him away from the muddy fields, mingled with blood. He turned his head and looked to the distant horizon, only to see his beloved country in ruins. He sighed. He should have listened to his advisor. Now, it was too late. All too soon, the country would be overwhelmed by the French, who had allied with the Polish. The two figures, one burly and one small, disappeared into the forest maze, never to be seen again.
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