From my novel Daisies Are Forever:
April 27
From the cellar, Mitch and the other residents listened to the rounds of gunfire outside the window. Across the room, Frau Mueller’s lips moved in silent petition. Gisela sat next to him on the bench. He squeezed her hand.

He hadn’t been this frightened in Belgium or France. Perhaps wanting a future with this woman changed his outlook. Or being responsible for nine others, all of them helpless.

Yes, helpless. God would have to save them.     More Stalinorgels. Only God could save them.

They picked at their food, though they now had a few supplies. No one spoke much. Hour after hour, they sat in the dank semidarkness of the lower level, wondering if they would die in the next instant.

Renate had never sucked her thumb so vigorously.

The day wore on. Gisela dozed on his shoulder. He stared out of the window.

A wild screech, almost like the American Indian calls Mitch had seen in the motion pictures, pierced the air. The style of boots remained the same, though now the pants were greener. A few feet were wrapped in nothing but rags.     Gisela sat up straight at the yelling.

A tank rolled past the window, down the narrow street.

Mitch pushed to his feet and gazed out the small, dirty pane of glass. The faces of the men in the tank were not German. Their greasy hair was black and stuck straight out of their fur ushanka hats. Their dark, slanted eyes gave away their ethnic origin.

He had difficulty drawing a breath. He clenched his jaw.     Gisela stepped behind him. “Mongols,” she whispered, shuddering.

They watched the foreign troops process down the road. For the people on this street, the war had ended. They were now in Russian-occupied territory.