The Scarlet Generation

by Christopher Nicole

  “Please, sir,” Natasha ventured. “May we leave now?”

  Every head turned to stare at her, even if presumably the rest of the German officers did not understand what she had said. The major grinned at her. “Where would you like to go, little girl?” because Natasha, even naked and bruised, still looked like a little girl. She bit her lip.

  “You stay here,” the major said. “There’ll be other friends wanting to have a chat with you. Like me!” He gave a guffaw. “You haven’t serviced me, yet. I’ll be back later. A couple of hours. Then I’ll have you all to myself.”

  He gave more orders in German, while Tatiana tensed her mind while forcing her body to remained relaxed. She was as bruised and battered and humiliated as the other two. Her vagina felt as if it had been attacked with red hot pokers; her breasts and buttocks ached. So did her scalp, from the number of times a man in the throws of orgasm had twined his fingers in her hair. Her lip was cut, but she did not know when that had happened.

  More important than any of these, however, was the damage done to her brain, her personality. Or was it damage? Might it not be an awakening, a realisation that she had reached a watershed in her life. Whatever had happened to her before today, she had never doubted that she would emerge unscathed, and in triumph. Because she was Jennie Gosykinya’s daughter, because she was a Bolugayevska, because Uncle Josef had dandled her on his knee. Now it was up to her to survive. Which meant, first of all, escaping from this sexual hell. And if they were going to be left alone...

  The officers were dressed and filing out. But one was staying. He had put on his pants but not his tunic, and now sat in a chair by the door. He had also put on his outer belt, from which there hung a revolver holster. “Fritz will keep an eye on you,” the major said. “Until I come back. I have told him, should you misbehave, to shoot one of you in the belly. That is a very painful way to die, so I would advise you not to misbehave, I shall return later.” He stood above Tatiana, fingered her nipple. “Then I will have you all to myself, Tatiana Gosykinya.”

  The door closed. Tatiana remained lying on the bed. Sophie was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees. She had stopped crying; perhaps there were only so many tears any one person could shed. Natasha lay on her stomach across the bed; for all that she had suffered, she still could not bring herself to face any man while she had no clothes on. She was close enough to touch. But not to speak to; the German officer was watching them, or, rather, watching Natasha’s buttocks — he seemed to find them fascinating. But that was surely to their advantage.

  Tatiana tried to make herself think, plan. The thought of a bullet ripping her stomach apart was paralysing. Nor could she risk inflicting such a fate upon either of the others. Yet they would never have a better opportunity. Three against one. So he had the gun. The odds were still better than at the railway station. And here, she was sure, Natasha and Sophie would follow her lead. She got off the bed. Instantly, Fritz asked her a question. “Bathroom. Oh...Badezimmer?” she said.

  He nodded. Tatiana went into the bathroom. For these few moments she was out of his sight. She opened the cupboard above the basin, found a razor, not, unfortunately, the sort used by her stepfather and stepbrother — appropriately known as a cut throat — but one of the new-fashioned “safety” types, where the razor itself was a small rectangular piece of thin steel, held in a cartridge case. The blade itself was still a lethal weapon, obviously very sharp on each side. But it would require getting to very close quarters — and there was no way she could conceal it about her naked body. Except...there was also a little tin of plaster dressings.

  Tongue between her teeth, stomach rolling at the thought she might cut herself in such a place, she placed the blade on the inside of her thigh, as high as possible, and then added a strip of plaster to hold it in place. If Fritz were actually to fuck her with the blade there he would probably not only ruin her prospects for life, but his own as well.

  She went back into the bedroom. Nothing had changed. She looked at the window. Whatever happened in here, they could not risk attempting to escape until dark. But that was only an hour off. As was the major’s return. The whole thing had to be worked out very carefully, because the chance would be gone if the major came back before the guard was dealt with. The plan would also fail if the major were to return with friends. But he had suggested that he wanted her all to himself.

  She lay on the bed again. Neither of the other girls moved. Tatiana suspected they had both received such shocks to their system they were in almost catatonic states. But she would need them, when the time came. The evening drifted by. The noise outside hardly abated. Guns and machine-guns still boomed and rattled from the fortress. Rifles still cracked as the Germans shot somebody they did not like the look of. Planes still flew overhead, even if there were no more dogfights. Trucks, tanks and guns still rumbled in the distance as the German war machine continued to roll into Russia. She almost dosed off.

  Fritz stirred, went to the table and poured himself a glass of vodka. Tatiana looked at the window. It still glowed with light, but now the sun was definitely drooping into the west. She got up, went to the table as well. Fritz turned aggressively, and his hand dropped to his revolver butt. “Food,” Tatiana said. “We wish to eat.” She touched the leftovers from lunch. He shrugged, and sat down again. No doubt he was looking forward to a solid dinner once he was relieved. Tatiana shook Natasha. “Natasha, wake up. We must eat.”

  “I am not hungry,” Natasha muttered.

  “You must eat.” Tatiana virtually dragged her off the bed, jerking her upright so violently that she came into her arms, their heads banging together. “Wake up,” she whispered “And do what I tell you, without hesitation.” Natasha goggled at her. Tatiana pushed her towards the table, went round the bed, and pulled Sophie to her feet.

  “Leave me alone,” Sophie moaned. “I want to die!”

  “Then die in a good cause,” Tatiana told her. “Go and eat. And do what I tell you.” She dragged Sophie to the table. All three of the girls took something to eat, while Fritz sat down again, with his glass of vodka. Tatiana left the table and stood in front of him. He stared at her naked pubes as she said: “Would you like me to suck your cock?” In the same sentence, and without altering her tone, she added, “Both of you come here.” Fritz looked from one to the other, his hand as ever dropping to the pistol butt. But then he relaxed as Tatiana knelt between his legs and unbuttoned his breeches. “Get his belt,” she said.

  Natasha obeyed. Again there was an initial resistance, but then he again relaxed although, as she slipped the buckle free, he drew the revolver and left it lying on his thigh, holding it there as Tatiana eased his breeches down around his ankles, and then his drawers. He was staring at her all the time, and she had to make him look away. “Kiss him,” she told Sophie.

  Sophie hesitated, then put her arms round Fritz’s neck. He tried to push her away with his free hand, but with no great determination, as Tatiana now had him in her mouth. While she sucked, and while his face was hidden in Sophie’s curls, Tatiana reached between her legs and pulled the razor free. Still without moving her lips, she brought it up. Natasha saw what she was doing, and her eyes widened. But she was now fully prepared to play her part. She slid her hand up Fritz’s right arm and then down again in a caressing gesture, but as she came down she turned the hand holding the gun over. The fingers slightly tensed, and Tatiana sank the razor blade into the underside of his wrist, at the same time biting his penis as hard as she could. She felt pain as the upper edge of the blade cut into her finger, and her mouth filled with blood as she was hurled backwards by his knees. But even as he did that, Natasha, still holding the heavy belt, had crashed the buckle down on his hand with all her force. The grip, already loosened by the shock of the bleeding artery, relaxed entirely and the gun fell to the floor.

  Sophie stopped kissing him, but she still had her arms round his neck, and now she threw all her strength against him. The chair teetere
d for a moment and then fell over. Tatiana thought the crash would have been heard throughout the building, but there could be no stopping now. Fritz’s head had struck the floor. He was not unconscious, but definitely dazed, and blood was pumping from both his cut wrist and his half-severed penis. Natasha picked up the gun and levelled it, but Tatiana shook her head violently. They seemed to have gotten away with the falling chair — no doubt interpreted as Fritz amusing himself — but a shot would definitely bring somebody up the stairs.

  The two girls watched her as she pulled the covers from the bed and put them over Fritz’s face. Then they joined her in pressing the material down across his mouth and nose. He made a feeble effort to resist them as he regained his senses, but blood continued to pour from the wounds and he very rapidly subsided. They held the cloth in place until all movement beneath them ceased. By then the floor and carpet were soaked with blood, and they were covered in it themselves. “Shower,” Tatiana said. “Quickly.”

  It was growing quite dark and she had no idea how much time they had. In fact, they were drying themselves when they heard feet on the stairs. “Shit!” Natasha gasped.

  Tatiana darted across the room, beckoning them to follow her. She picked up the chair and stood against the wall, pointing at Natasha to stand facing the door. Her heart was pounding. This was it. If there was more than one....The door swung inwards. As the light was not on the room was quite gloomy, but the major could see Natasha facing him, and grinned as he stepped inside. He was alone. But he was already pausing, and frowning, as he smelt the blood, and felt the damp beneath his feet.

  Tatiana cast a hasty glance at the landing, saw that it was empty, and swung the chair with all her force. It crashed into the back of the major’s head, sent him stumbling to his knees and then on his face. Fortunately, by then he had reached Natasha, and she went down under him with a little shriek, breaking the noise of his fall. Tatiana had closed the door in the same movement as she had swung the chair, and now she stepped above the major, and as he sought to rise, reaching for his pistol as he did so, she struck him again. The chair splintered, and she struck him again. This time it entirely disintegrated, but the major was almost out, lying on top of the panting Natasha and groaning.

  Tatiana drew his pistol, reversed it, and struck him as hard as she could on the back of the head with the butt. He gave no sound and his head dropped as blood flew. Tatiana pushed him on to his back, and fetched the clothes from Fritz’s face. The girls joined her to suffocate the major. “What are we going to do?” Natasha asked.

  “Have another shower to get rid of the blood,” Tatiana told her. “Then we’ll get dressed, and when it’s dark we’ll drop out of the window.”

  “If they catch us, now—” Sophie muttered.

  “They will skin us alive, at the very least,” Tatiana told her. “So we had better make sure they don’t catch us, eh? There are no Germans in the Marshes.”

  Chapter 3 – The Swamp

  “What do you reckon?” Joseph Cromb asked his wife. Priscilla studied the newspaper. “I would say that bastard Stalin is getting just what he deserves.”

  “The British have said they will help the Soviets in every possible way,” Joseph ventured.

  “Churchill said that? He hates the Communists.”

  “Not, apparently, worse than he hates the Nazis. Roosevelt has also offered all possible help.”

  Priscilla looked at him. “I don’t understand. Wouldn’t it be for the benefit of everyone if we just let Hitler and Stalin slug it out? Obliterate each other?”

  “If that were going to happen, yes,” Joseph said. “Unfortunately, according to these reports, the Germans have utterly shattered the Russian frontier defences. They claim to have taken nearly 300,000 prisoners, 2,000 tanks, and nearly 2,000 guns. The Soviet air force has apparently been shot out of the sky. If all that is true, it has to be one of the greatest victories ever recorded. Another one like that, and the Soviet State could disintegrate.”

  “And good riddance.”

  “Emotionally, yes,” Joseph agreed. “Realistically, it would be a disaster of the first magnitude. It would leave Hitler master of the entire old world save Africa, and the way things are going there’s every prospect of him getting that too. Certainly India would fall. He would have won the war, even if Britain managed to hold out. She’d become merely an offshore island, slowly starving. Whereas, if Russia can be encouraged to fight and fight and fight, to hold on until the winter anyway, Mr Hitler might find that it is he who has over reached himself.”

  “Now, whose point of view is that, really?” Priscilla asked.

  “Well...the State Department.”

  Priscilla gazed at him for several seconds. “The answer is no,” she said at last. “No, no, no! I cannot see how you could even want to.”

  Joseph sat beside her, held her hand. “Just listen for a moment, dearest girl. The State Department, this country, is going to help Russia even Bolshevik Russia for the reasons I have just given you. That is a fact, and nothing you or I can do will change it. The object of helping the Soviets is the defeat of Hitler. To do that, to help Russia properly, they need to send people there who speak and read fluent Russian and who will therefore be able accurately both to understand what they are saying and any written documents that may be presented. If any member of the mission also has first-hand knowledge of both the country and the regime, so much the better. Now, I am probably the best qualified person in America on both those counts.”

  “Joseph, you are wanted in Soviet Russia as an escaped political prisoner!”

  “The State Department is making it absolutely clear that all charges against me have to be dropped.”

  “Can they protect you against Stalin’s hit men?”

  “They can hold him responsible for my safety. And they are going to do that. Anyway, right this minute Stalin wants our help more than he wants any personal revenge against me for having bust his system open.”

  “And you are willing to forget the fact that he had his goons torture you and mistreat you for ten years? You have the least Jewish point of view of any Jew I have ever met.”

  “I believe there is a time and a place for everything. Right now our business is to fight against Hitler. He is a far more serious enemy of the Jews than Stalin is. Let me give you an idea of how important this mission is: it’s being headed by Hopkins himself.” Harry Hopkins was perhaps Franklin Roosevelt’s closest political associate, even if he held no department or cabinet post, was not even a member of the Senate or the House of Representatives.

  “And of course, you are hoping to see Jennie again. Do you suppose you will recognise her, after all of these years?”

  “I have every intention of seeing Jennie again,” Joseph said. “This is the chance of a lifetime.”

  Priscilla sighed. But she knew that behind her husband’s quiet demeanour there was a mind of immense resolution; had there not been, he would not have had the strength to survive those ten years in the gulag archipelago. She played her last trump. “And what will you tell Sonia?”

  “I will ask Sonia to forgive me,” Joseph said.

  “I know it’s asking a great deal,” said the President of the Foundation. “But I believe this appeal is being circulated throughout the medical fraternity. They’re pretty desperate over there, so anyone who is both qualified and can speak good Russian is worth his weight in gold. And I want you to be absolutely sure of one thing, Dr Bolugayevski: your work in Russia will count towards seniority here in Boston. Every day of it.”

  He paused, a trifle anxiously, as Alex Bolugayevski appeared to be considering. But Alex’s mind had been made up almost the moment the President had begun to speak. He had been brought up to hate the Bolshevik regime, which had killed his father, murdered his half-brother, and, so far as he knew, his half-sister, raped his mother, sequestered his lands and his inheritance, and made him a fugitive. But he had not been brought up to hate Russia. That would have been impossib
le, even if he remembered very little of it — he had been born there. He had always intended to return, one day, without quite knowing when that would be possible. To be given the opportunity to return now, and in total safety...and to help in the fight against Hitler! Alex had no Jewish blood, but his stepfather was Jewish. Besides, here was adventure on a scale he had never supposed would come his way.

  “Would you like to think it over?” the President inquired.

  “Not necessary, sir,” Alex said. “I will certainly volunteer.”

  How to tell Mother, there was the problem, he thought, as he completed his rounds and returned to his office. He took off his coat and sat behind the desk, stroking his chin. She would go spare! As for Joe. There was a tap on the door, and Elaine came in. “Hi!” Apart from when on duty together, they hadn’t seen too much of each other over the past year. Now...he frowned. She was looking a little breathless, as well as defiant, as she closed the door. “Are you going to Russia?”

  “I’ve volunteered, as a member of the medical team, yes. Seems they need all the doctors they can get.”

  “I’ve volunteered as well,” Elaine said.

  Alex raised his eyebrows. “I think it is a necessary qualification that the entire team should speak fluent Russian.”

  “I speak fluent Russian,” Elaine said, in Russian.

  “Good God!”

  “I’ve been taking lessons, all this year,” she said.

  “Are you psychic?”

  “I did it, because...I wanted to do it. I told you, I love everything about Russia. This is my chance to see it at first hand.”

  “You’re not exactly going as a tourist!”

  “So? I’ll be doing just what I’m doing here, only in more exotic, and exciting surroundings.”

  Alex considered, and decided against reminding her that tending men who have been shattered in battle is likely to be slightly more traumatic than tending heart patients or premature deliveries, or that her surroundings were unlikely to be quite as aseptic or as well backed-up, both with staff and medicine, as in Boston. “Well, then,” he said. “Congratulations!”