"The Winter War" Deleted Scenes
How the story could have started...
Snow crunched under Jakob's boots as he stepped onto the platform from the train. He'd been on the overnight from Sweden and the bitter cold of the early morning bit through his coat and his boots. Around him, Finnish soldiers and civilians moved with purpose, their white winter uniforms contrasting with the dark coats and bright scarves and knitted mittens of the civilians.
A cluster of officers at the station were rounding up soldiers, barking orders in Finnish - the soft, rolling consonants still foreign to his ears. He caught fragments enough to piece together directions to the assembly point. His fingers traced the worn leather strap of his pack. The weight felt right, each item meticulously checked and rechecked before departure. The rifle slung across his back marked him as a volunteer rather than a local conscript.
"Svenska?" A gruff voice called out.
Jakob turned to face a weathered sergeant, his beard crusted with ice. The man's eyes narrowed as he assessed Jakob's civilian clothes.
"Ja. Volunteer for the 16th Infantry Battalion." Jakob kept his voice steady, shoulders squared. He'd practiced the response in Finnish until his tongue could shape the words properly. He was provided with directions out the door and around the corner to a barracks and admission point.
Opening the door, he was hit with a wave of warmth and the sent of unwashed soldiers. He walked up to the counter, where the sergeant waved over a junior officer who clutched a clipboard, frost coating the edges of the papers. The officer's brows rose as he flipped through Jakob's enlistment documents, confusion evident in the tightening around his eyes.
"Eliasberg, is it?" The officer's accent wrapped awkwardly around his surname. "Alright, we'll get you set up."
Jakob shifted his weight, maintaining his composure despite the officers' uncertain glances between themselves. Their whispered Finnish carried traces of bewilderment - clearly volunteers from neutral Sweden weren't yet a common occurrence.
The junior officer scratched something on his papers. "Barracks three, bunk seventeen. Mess hall is the long building with the red door." He pointed vaguely northeast. "Report back here tomorrow at 0800. We'll figure out where to put you then."
It was barely 0800 now and Jakob had no idea how to spend the rest of the day, but the dismissal was clear in his tone. Jakob hefted his pack, the familiar weight settling around his shoulders as he trudged through the snow toward the indicated building. The barracks loomed ahead, a stark wooden structure that looked like it had been hastily constructed. Inside, the air hung heavy with the smell of wet wool and unwashed bodies. A few men lounged on their bunks, speaking rapid Estonian. They fell silent as Jakob entered, their eyes following his movement to bunk seventeen.
The thin mattress crackled with frost as he set his pack down. He'd slept on worse, though the cold here had a different quality than Swedish winters - sharper, more hostile. The Estonian volunteers resumed their conversation, pointedly excluding him. Jakob began methodically unpacking his gear, each item finding its designated spot with practiced efficiency. Tomorrow would sort itself out. For now, he had shelter, a bunk, and a purpose. It was enough.
The Estonian voices faded to background noise as Jakob pulled his pack closer. His fingers brushed against the inner pocket where he'd tucked his writing materials. The paper was already worn at the edges from the journey, but still smooth enough to write on.
His chest tightened at the thought of Hal reading his words. The familiar ache settled deep in his bones, different from the bite of Finnish winter. He'd known leaving would hurt, but the reality cut deeper than expected.
Jakob scanned the barracks. A small alcove near the back caught his eye - just enough space to wedge himself in, partially hidden by stacked supply crates. The wooden floor creaked under his boots as he made his way over.
He settled cross-legged in the corner, using his thigh as a makeshift desk. The pencil felt strange after days of gripping rifle stocks and equipment. His hands remembered other moments like this - stolen minutes in library corners, hasty notes passed between classes at Riddarhuset.
The coat still carried traces of Hal's scent, mixed now with wood smoke and travel dust. Jakob pulled it tighter, letting the familiar weight ground him as he pressed pencil to paper. The words came easier than he'd expected, flowing from some quiet place inside him that belonged only to Hal.
"Min käraste..." he began, then stopped. The Swedish endearment felt too intimate for prying eyes. He crossed it out, starting again more formally. But his heart remained in those first crossed-out words, a private message hidden beneath proper greetings.
Jakob's hand shook as he gripped the pencil. The barracks' dim light cast long shadows across the paper, and the wood grain of the crate pressed patterns into his thigh. He closed his eyes, steadying himself with a deep breath that tasted of pine smoke and frost.
The words spilled out, messy and raw. He wrote of the strange beauty of the Finnish winter, how the northern light painted everything in shades of blue and silver. How the cold here felt different - sharper, more absolute than Swedish winters. He didn't mention his fears about the coming battles or the weight of uncertainty that pressed against his chest. He knew Hal would worry, but he didn't want him to do it unnecessarily. He was still in Helsinki, and safe as houses.
Instead, he wrote about training in the north, about the other volunteers and the train journey. Quotidian things, things only Hal would want to hear, to know that he was thinking. His writing grew smaller toward the bottom of the page, cramming in one last thought, one final veiled declaration of love. The pencil nearly tore through the paper.
Jakob folded the letter with precise movements, tucking it into the envelope he'd been saving. His lips brushed against the sealed edge - a habit he'd developed over countless letters, each one carrying a piece of his heart across the distance between them.
The cold hit him like a wall as he stepped outside. Snow had started falling again, fat flakes catching in his dark hair. Jakob pulled his coat tighter and set off through the camp, boots crunching in the fresh powder. The post box had to be near the command center - he'd spotted it earlier during orientation.
It was creeping close to the solstice, so despite the clock pushing toward ten, the light outside was wan and the sun was struggling to push above the horizon. His breath fogged in front of him as he walked, the letter a warm weight in his pocket. Each step took him further from the barracks but somehow closer to home, to Hal, as if the mere act of sending his words could bridge the growing distance between them.
Jakob's fingers brushed the edge of the letterbox, the paper rough against his skin. A low rumble echoed across the snow-covered base. His hand froze. The sound wasn't right - too mechanical, too rhythmic. Not thunder.
His gaze snapped skyward. Dark shapes cut through the heavy cloud cover, their drone growing louder. The winter air carried the distinctive whine of Tupolev bombers - Soviet.
The letter nearly slipped from his grip as training kicked in. "Ilmahälytys!" The Finnish warning cry tore from his throat before he could think. His boots slid on the icy ground as he spun toward the nearest shelter.
The first explosion hit somewhere behind the train station. The concussion knocked him forward, snow and dirt raining down. His ears rang. The acrid smell of cordite filled his nose.
More planes emerged from the clouds, their dark silhouettes stark against the pale sky. The anti-aircraft guns opened up, their staccato bursts mixing with the growing thunder of bombs.
Jakob scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. The ground shook. Someone screamed. Through the smoke and snow, Jakob watched Finnish soldiers running to their positions, their white uniforms blending with the winter landscape. The air raid sirens finally began their mournful wail, far too late to serve as proper warning.
His back pressed against the cold stone, Jakob fought to control his breathing. His rifle was back in the barracks - he was completely unarmed. Helpless. All his training, his preparation, meant nothing in this moment. He could only wait as the bombs continued to fall.
The explosion nearly lifted Jakob off his feet. His shoulder slammed into the wall as debris pelted his back. His ears rang, the world muffled and distant. Blood trickled down his neck - his own or someone else's, he couldn't tell.
Through the smoke, shapes emerged. A woman clutched a child to her chest. An elderly man stumbled, his cane forgotten in the snow. Their mouths moved but he couldn't hear their screams over the ringing.
His vision snapped into focus, muscle memory from training taking over. High ground. Cover. Escape routes. The assessment came automatically as his eyes swept the chaos. The train station offered the best shelter - thick stone walls, multiple exits, basement storage areas. But the crowd surging toward it would create a bottleneck.
A series of smaller explosions rippled through the market square. Shrapnel whizzed past his head. The crowd scattered, breaking into smaller groups. Better. Easier to move, harder to target.
"This way!" His voice cracked as hearing returned. He grabbed the elderly man's arm, steering him toward a side alley. "Stay against the buildings!"
The woman with the child followed. Others joined their group, drawn to his apparent certainty. Jakob's mind raced through the base layout he'd memorized on arrival. Three blocks to the public shelter. The bombers would make another pass soon.
The child's crying pierced through the cacophony. Jakob stripped off his coat, draping it over the woman's shoulders. "Keep his face covered," he ordered, already moving to support another stumbling civilian. "The smoke will make it worse."
His shirt offered little protection against the cold, but adrenaline kept him warm as he herded the growing group of civilians toward safety. The muscles in his back tensed with each distant explosion, anticipating the next hit.
Jakob pressed against the brick wall, counting seconds between explosions. The pattern was erratic - these weren't experienced bomber pilots. That made them more dangerous. His shoulder throbbed where it had hit the wall, but he forced the pain aside.
"Stay close to the buildings," he called to the group. "If you hear engines, drop and cover."
The elderly man stumbled again.Jakob caught his arm, taking more of his weight. The child's crying had quieted to hiccups under his coat. Good. Less chance of drawing attention.
They reached an intersection. Jakob peered around the corner, scanning for threats. The main street was exposed, but crossing it was their only option. The shelter entrance lay just two blocks ahead.
Another explosion rocked the ground. Closer this time. Debris rained down, forcing them back against the wall. A woman screamed as shrapnel peppered the street.
"When I say run, go straight across," Jakob ordered. "Don't stop, don't look up."
He counted the seconds, timing the bombs' fall pattern. The planes would circle back soon. They needed to move now.
"Run!"
He half-carried the old man across the open street, heart pounding with each exposed step. The others followed, their boots crunching in the snow. The mother clutched her child tighter, his coat still wrapped around them both.
The shelter entrance loomed ahead - a concrete bunker set into the ground. Finnish soldiers waved them forward, urging them to hurry. The distinctive drone of engines grew louder overhead.
Jakob ushered the last of his group through the heavy metal door of the shelter. The elderly man's grip on his arm loosened as a Finnish soldier took over, helping him down the concrete steps. The mother and child followed, his coat still wrapped around their shoulders.
"Good work," one of the soldiers clapped Jakob's shoulder. "Quick thinking out there."
Jakob nodded, his throat too tight for words. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him shaky and cold in just his shirt. The shelter's dim lighting cast everything in murky shadows. Somewhere above, another explosion rattled the ceiling, sending down a fine shower of dust.
He found a spot against the wall near the mother and child. The boy had stopped crying, his face buried in her neck as she whispered soothing words in Finnish. Jakob's hand went to his pocket, fingers closing around the letter. The paper was crumpled now, edges torn from their mad dash through the streets.
His thumb traced the sealed edge where his lips had touched earlier. The gesture felt like a lifetime ago, though barely an hour had passed. A prayer rose unbidden to his lips - not the Hebrew his mother had taught him, but something rawer, more desperate. Keep him safe. Let me see him again.
Another bomb fell. The child whimpered. Jakob clutched the letter tighter, feeling the words pressed between the pages. Everything else felt distant and unreal - the cold concrete at his back, the acrid smell of smoke that had followed them down, the taste of copper in his mouth. But the letter grounded him. Each carefully chosen word connected him to Hal, to quiet moments in library corners and stolen kisses in empty corridors.
In the dim light, Jakob could just make out Hal's name on the envelope. He pressed it against his chest, close to his heart, and closed his eyes.