It’s 1943. A particularly cruel winter has swept through the occupied Soviet Union. Its rural territories are an endless landscape of frosty forests, pocked with horse-swallowing sinkholes. Making do amid the bitter freeze, two hunters float down a misty river on a makeshift raft. With them they carry their latest prize: a hefty buck, provisions for a month or so in current conditions, one would think, well rationed. Understandably skittish, they spot a soldier at the edge of the river. His voice echoes through the cold air: “Come to shore!” A rifle is brandished with gusto. As it would come to pass, their caution has been well warranted.