by Mark Arundel
Her struggling eased, but she continued to cry.
Leonid returned from fetching the horses. He stared at the girl, confused by her appearance.
‘Look for her coat, her hat, and any clothes you can find,’ Kasseri said.
His subordinate just stood, even more confused.
‘Why?’ he questioned.
‘We’re taking her with us,’ Kasseri said.
Wrapped in four layers of clothing the girl sat on the saddle in front of Kasseri, secured by a cord to prevent her falling off. She had stopped crying. The cold night air had awoken her fully.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Kasseri told her. He pulled her cloth hat further down over her ears.
The two escaped kulaks had a twenty-minute start. They were on foot and pursued by a single soldier, who was also on foot.
The empty sky gave up an eager moon that lit the ground. Kasseri weighed the options as he searched ahead in the direction the men would have run. He put himself in the place of the two landowners and considered what he would do.
‘Halt,’ he said. The command was loud in the still night air. ‘We’re going back to the house,’ he said.
Once they had tethered the horses out of sight and they were close to the house, Kasseri explained.
‘Their horses are here,’ he said, ‘and neither of them is wearing a coat. They’ll be back.’
The girl had not spoken again since asking her only question. She and Kasseri were now in the house together. He arranged a place in one corner for them to sit, and from which he could see both entrances. His rifle and that of his dead comrade were loaded and he held them ready to fire.
Leonid was flat on the ground outside, on a raised slope, some distance from the house in a position from which he also could see both entrances. He too held his loaded rifle and his orders were to observe and follow in behind should anyone show. The ground was very cold. He was fortunate; he didn’t have to wait too long. One dark figure and then a second appeared from the north, the same direction as they had left, clearly visible in the moonlight. After going a mile or so the two farmers must have doubled back; cold and a long way from home, they chose to return to the house hoping it would now be safe.
Kasseri had been right. Sitting quietly inside, with the girl asleep beside him, he heard the two kulaks arrive on foot at the rear door and raised his rifle and prepared to fire.
Leonid watched the two figures enter the house, then he jumped up and ran.
Kasseri listened carefully as the two farmers entered. They came in slowly, cautiously. They were unsure. Would the soldiers still be there? Neither of them had come in far enough for Kasseri to get a good shot. He stood up, holding his rifle to his shoulder and stepped slowly towards the door. The house was gloomy, the candles were out and only the fire embers gave a soft orange glow. As he stepped across the room, he caught his foot in the rug, twisted by the fighting earlier. He stumbled and gave away his presence. The first kulak moved forward, raised a rifle and fired.
As Leonid approached the rear door, he heard the report of a rifle shot. It came from inside. He reached the entrance and hurried in. Immediately, he saw one of the kulaks. He raised his rifle and shot the man from about ten feet, in the back, between the shoulder blades. The farmer’s head turned violently and his body fell like a heavy sack hitting the floor with a thump.
Kasseri was down; he still held his rifle. He looked up to see who had fired. Leonid continued into the room, stepped over the dead farmer and found himself instantly confronted by the second farmer, who had turned in defence and raised the rifle with the bayonet attached. Leonid was unprotected and he stared at the bayonet in cold terror. The point of the twelve-inch blade was only a hands width away from his stomach. The kulak did not hesitate. He pulled back the rifle and steeled himself to make the kill. The rifle bullet entered just below his right ear at an angle of thirty-five degrees, exiting through the top of his skull above his left eye. Its effect was devastating. The man dropped the rifle in mid-lunge and fell hard, his life taken in a second. Relief came to Leonid in an ecstatic wave; he was alive. He stared down at the dead kulak and then looked questioning to where the shot had come. Kasseri was on the floor, his rifle still in his hands. Blood ran down the lower half of his face and dripped from his chin. In the gloom, Leonid could see he was smiling.
‘That’s one each,’ Kasseri said.
Kasseri sat heavily on the wooden chair holding a cloth to his left cheek. The bullet had sliced his face, removing a strip of flesh across his cheekbone. It hurt badly.
Leonid, his young fighting companion was standing next to him, still a little shocked by the night’s events and silent.
Kasseri looked over to the corner where the girl was still asleep. This time, nothing had woken her. He looked up and spoke to Leonid.
‘Never let me take an assignment involving kulaks ever again,’ he said.
‘Where did he get the rifle?’ Leonid asked, re-discovering his ability to speak.
‘He must have taken it from your comrade. He’s probably dead, out there somewhere,’ Kasseri said and moved his head to signify outside and then regretted it as a sharp pain ran across his face.
They were quiet for a few moments while they rested and thought.
‘Why did you take the girl with us…when we were going to track them?’ Leonid asked, trying to remember and understand all that had happened. Kasseri moved his head slowly. He turned to Leonid and then looked over at the girl.
‘One of these dead kulaks is her father,’ he said. ‘Having her, gave us an advantage that we may have needed; while two of them were still alive she may have been useful.’ His explanation made sense and Leonid nodded. Kasseri kept his own head still.
‘Drag all the bodies outside,’ he said, pointing at the corpses on the floor. ‘Put that one on his horse,’ he said and pointed at the tall soldier who had been killed at the start. ‘We’ll sleep here tonight and leave at first light.’
Kasseri felt tired. He completed his orders and then rubbed his gritty eyes.
Leonid nodded again and began the work of moving the dead men.
Kasseri turned around, still holding the cloth tightly to his face and gazed at the sleeping girl. He stood up and pulled a coat from one of the chairs. As he draped it over her, she moved in her sleep and pulled the coat tighter.
Leonid returned from outside to get the next body. He saw Kasseri watching the girl.
‘What will we do with her?’ he asked.
Kasseri didn’t look up. His voice was soft.
‘This fight with the kulaks is going to get worse. Her chances here are not good; she will starve to death or worse.’ He continued to watch her sleeping face in the gloom. He made a decision. ‘We’ll take her with us, back to Moscow,’ he said.
‘What about her mother?’ Leonid asked.
Kasseri knew about her mother from the local Commissar.
‘Her mother’s already dead,’ he said.
2 February 8, 1931, Moscow, USSR
Marik Kasseri took the girl by the arm and pulled her along behind him. She managed to keep up using quick little steps. The wound to his face still ached. He felt it with his fingertip and grimaced. The Moscow dawn had a deep chill that Kasseri felt strongly after the riding and the heat from his horse and the girl who had sat pressed against him for five days. He looked down at her and pulled her hat in a gesture to ensure it was properly on. It was. She looked up at him and pulled her hat in a copycat motion. It amused him.
‘It was bloody tough,’ Kasseri said. ‘The kulaks fought like Cossacks without wives and the boys you gave me lacked experience. I was lucky not to lose them all. It was a fight I could’ve lost.’
From behind his desk, General Baranov listened to the report from his most trusted officer.
‘You killed all five of them, though?’ he said.
‘There were six of them, and yes, I killed them all,’ Kasseri
said without pleasure.
Baranov’s intelligence had told him there would be five kulaks, not six. No matter. All of them were dead.
‘…and you left the bodies outside?’
‘Yes, just as you ordered,’ Kasseri said.
The Kremlin wanted to send a message.
‘Good, you’ve done well,’ Baranov said and then fixed him with a stare. ‘What happened to your face?’
Kasseri didn’t answer.
General Baranov relaxed in his chair and placed his hands in his lap. His attention turned to the girl who stood silently, listening, at Kasseri’s side.
‘She was in the farmhouse,’ Kasseri said. ‘There was no one left to take care of her.’
General Baranov opened the file on his desk and searched through the papers.
‘She must be the daughter,’ he said and then paused while he read more of the file. ‘Her mother is dead.’
It confirmed what Kasseri already knew.
‘What are you going to do with her?’ Baranov said.
‘Can we send her to an orphanage?’
General Baranov closed the file and sat up.
‘No,’ he said, ‘but there’s something else we can do with her.’
Marik Kasseri examined his face in the dirty mirror. His eyes seemed unsure of what they saw. His skin was grey, ingrained with dirt and the lower half of his face was black with a nine-day beard. He pulled off his hat and his short hair was black like coal dust. He moved closer and focused on the wound. The bullet had removed a strip of flesh from his left cheekbone. It was swollen and bruised with purple and yellow discoloration. He prodded it with his finger and it hurt so he stopped. A scab had formed which he decided was good enough. It was going to leave a deep scar, but that didn’t matter. He took another swig from the vodka bottle and a flood of exhaustion hit him. He tipped back his head and poured the rough alcohol over the wound. It stung like the slap from a Cossack’s wife. He took another swig and allowed his body to fall back onto the wooden cot. He thought about the girl and then he fell asleep and thought of nothing.
Marik Kasseri was born in 1902. He became a soldier at the age of fifteen when he joined the Russian army to fight the Germans just before the end of World War I. In the few days that followed, he killed his first man. It made him feel strong. Killing the enemy of the Russian people was what he wanted to do. Then came the revolution and he never stopped being a soldier. The Red Army became his life, killing became his profession and he learnt the work well and became good at it. The combination of his physical strength and quick mind helped him survive. From the open battles of the Ukraine to now, and the killing of counter-revolutionaries on the instructions of the Kremlin, Kasseri was a good Russian soldier.
He found General Baranov outside by the stables.
‘How does your face feel?’ Baranov said.
‘It stings like the slap from a Cossack’s wife,’ Kasseri told him.
Baranov laughed.
‘Don’t worry, it will heal,’ he promised. ‘The Kremlin is pleased with your work. It won’t be long before they promote you again. Perhaps you will end up a general like me.’
Kasseri laughed.
‘They will never make me a general,’ he said.
‘Perhaps, one day,’ Baranov said.
There was a silence before Kasseri spoke again.
‘What about the girl?’ he asked.
‘She’s going to America,’ Baranov said. ‘A woman, an American, will adopt her as her own. There are activists everywhere now, and the Party mechanism will make it happen. You know how it is. For the girl it is good; she’s saved. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Kasseri said.
‘She’ll grow up an American,’ Baranov said.
‘A Russian-American,’ Kasseri said.
Baranov laughed again.
‘Yes, a Russian-American,’ he said.
The two soldiers sat by the fire drinking vodka like old friends. Leonid stared at the wound on Kasseri’s face.
‘Does it still hurt?’ he said.
‘No,’ Kasseri said.
He poked the fire with a long stick and it crackled and flared. Leonid watched the flames dance. Before the night in the farmhouse and the fight with kulaks, he had never killed a man.
‘You shot him with a rifle; that was easy. Next time, you might have to push a knife into his belly and feel his life escape up your arm,’ Kasseri said.
Leonid was quiet while he thought and then he said, ‘How many men have you killed?’
Kasseri pulled the stick from the fire and looked up. The shadows danced on his wounded face and his mouth, when he spoke, was black.
‘I never counted,’ he said.
Leonid was quiet again. He drank some vodka.
‘The girl leaves tomorrow,’ he said. ‘They say she’s going to America.’
Kasseri emptied his vodka glass. He stood up and dropped the stick in the fire.
‘Yes,’ he said.
The next morning an official black ZIS car came for the girl. Kasseri walked her to it and told her to get in.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘You’re going to America,’ he told her.
‘Are you coming?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have to stay here.’
‘When will I see you again?’
Kasseri closed the door. He didn’t answer her question. The car pulled away. The girl turned in her seat and watched him.
Kasseri turned and walked away.
3 Christmas Day, 1932, Long Island, New York
Edward Rafferty, nine-years-old, awoke before six with an instant burst of pure excitement and anticipation.
It was still dark, but in the gloom of his bedroom, his instinct sensed its location. He scrambled out of bed and raced to the chair against the opposite wall as though steered by radar. Yes, it was there. An oblong box wrapped in shiny gold and red paper. Young Rafferty lifted it from the chair and carried it back to his bed.
He switched on the bedside lamp and sat with his legs underneath him, holding and looking at his Christmas present. The excitement he felt made him fidget. The light danced on the shiny paper and the object glowed. Rafferty tore away the lavish adornment to reveal a wooden case with a brass fastening. He released the catch and opened the lid, revealing the treasure held within. Rafferty’s dark eyes shone with wonder and happiness as he stared at the Webley and Scott mark II air rifle. The gun rested in two pieces held snugly by its silk lined interior.
He lifted the wooden stock and the cold metal barrel. Then he fixed the two pieces together as if he had been doing it for years although it was the very first time. He knew how to do it because he had read all about this exact gun in the periodical Rifle News.
‘Please, sir; this is the one I want,’ he had told Richard Tobias while showing him the picture and article in the magazine. Richard had smiled and taken the periodical from him. He had scanned the particulars noting the air rifle was the very latest model, the best available and manufactured in England. He had made a mental note of the details before handing the magazine back to his young charge.
‘Well, it’s Christmas soon, we’ll see,’ he had told him. Young Rafferty had read and reread the article a hundred times.
Now, he held the very rifle in his hands. It was heavy with a cold lifeless feel. He raised it to his shoulder, pulled it in tight and placed his cheek against the stock while aligning the sights. The inert object underwent transformation into a deadly weapon and became as one with the boy who controlled it.
Something was missing. He jumped out of bed and rushed to the chair; it was there on the seat at the back. A box wrapped in red. He had missed it before in the gloom and the excitement of the main present. He ripped off the paper and opened the heavy cardboard box. Inside, the lead grey pellets filled the carton to the top. He took one out and examined it caringly.
The boy
dressed quickly, filling his jacket pocket with a handful of the pellets. He picked up the rifle (there would be no need for his trusty catapult today) and headed out of the house through the kitchen at the back. Within a couple of minutes, he was a hundred yards away, walking on a small clear stretch of grassland which led away beside an area of meadow, adjacent to the headland.
He stopped and looked around deciding which way to go. The day had just begun to lighten. The skyline behind the house was hued with creams, pinks, greys, and blues as the rising sun awoke the horizon. While he considered his options, he looked down at the rifle and grinned with anticipation.
The weapon used break-action with a superimposed barrel locked by bolt action and was a .25 calibre. He gripped the end of the barrel while holding the stock with his other hand against his midriff. He then broke the gun opening and cocked it. He took a pellet from his pocket and carefully placed it into the barrel. The rifle snapped shut with a pleasing clunk. Young Rafferty raised the rifle to his shoulder feeling the weight and balance; he looked through the sights while swinging ninety degrees at the waist. The sun had risen a little further and the pink and cream horizon had sent a glow of red strips reaching higher into the dawn sky. As he lowered the rifle to his waist, he heard the clear, sharp noise. It had come from behind a bank of scrub at the head of a slope leading to a sandy area where a small wooden jetty, worn by years of Long Island weather, stood in the mud. He knew the jetty well.
Leaving the ribbon of grassland, the boy headed through the undergrowth where the reeds grew in clumps and hindered an easy route. The wet December grass darkened the boy’s leather boots. The dawn was mild for a Long Island Christmas Day. He reached a bank of reeds on the rise, twenty yards from a gentle slope leading to the flat where the grasses were coarse and grew in tufts. Moving silently and using the reeds as cover, he studied the area between the closest scrub on the headland and the jetty.
Daylight was improving and a yellow patina spread from the east and fell across the land. The boy saw them immediately, only two but near together. The birds’ feathers displayed mottled with fifty shades of brown helping them merge deftly with the landscape; only their short, quick movement and yellow legs and bills gave them away. The boy watched intently while he crouched behind the reeds taking care not to spook them. He judged whether they were close enough, and deciding they were, dropped carefully to his knees and then onto his front.