Red Shadow

by Paul Dowswell

  Misha’s heart sank at the thought of being locked away for years with them. He was surprised to find himself completely ignored by everyone around him. But that suited him. He didn’t want to talk to anyone either.

  He found a space by the wall and tried not to think about what would happen when they came for him again.

  Throughout the night people were called from the cell. Some of them returned, usually covered with bruises. One prisoner was thrown back in the cell whimpering in agony, clutching a broken arm. The next few hours passed in a haze of slammed doors, distant screams and echoing footsteps.

  Chapter 24

  Misha had drifted into an uneasy sleep when he was called from the cell. As he emerged, he was grabbed roughly by two NKVD men and dragged down corridors and up stairways to an outer courtyard where he waited with several other prisoners. The smell of the autumn night air hit him like a wave of clear fresh water and he filled his lungs, feeling his senses return from a numb stupor. But it was cold too, and he began to shiver beneath the cloudy sky. What time it was he could only guess. He felt so dislocated from the real world he hadn’t even realised it was night again. As they waited, he heard the distant chimes of the Kremlin’s Spasskaya Tower clock and counted to ten.

  After a couple of minutes, he began to feel braver and let his gaze wander around his fellow prisoners. Valya was there, staring at the floor – the usual protective gesture of any prisoner who expects to be hit at any moment. He was only a metre or two away from her. They could have spoken to each other without even raising their voices. Misha felt a sharp blow at the back of his head.

  ‘Eyes down,’ snapped a guard.

  They heard the throb of a lorry engine and shouts from the far side of the courtyard wall. There was a hammering at a small steel door and two of the guards hurried to open it. The prisoners were herded through with kicks and punches, like sheep with vicious dogs, and into the enclosed cargo compartment of the lorry. Inside the compartment there were no guards and Misha immediately went to sit by Valya on one of the narrow benches that ran down each side. She looked haunted but, unlike many of his fellow prisoners, he could see no bruises on her face. Maybe they had not treated her as badly as he had feared.

  They reached for each other’s hands. Her hair ribbon was gone. Maybe they thought she’d try to hang herself with it. She squeezed his hand tight and was about to speak when two of the burlier guards leaped into the back of the lorry. Just before the doors were slammed shut a small light in the roof came on. The guards stood with two submachine guns pointing at the prisoners.

  ‘No talking, no moving,’ said one.

  The journey was over in less than a minute. As they emerged from the lorry, Misha looked up to see a building he recognised: Moscow City Central Court. Kicks and punches accompanied them to a holding room. Misha stood by Valya but instinct told them not to let the guards know they knew each other.

  The captives were counted off in tens and taken up a narrow staircase to a wood-panelled court room, where they were crammed into the prisoners’ dock.

  The court had clearly been very busy. Three haggard but stern middle-aged men wearing black gowns were sitting directly opposite them. The man in the centre stood and announced that they were cowards, saboteurs and traitors to the motherland and in accordance with paragraph 58 of the Soviet Criminal Code they were all to be sentenced to the highest measure of punishment: execution by shooting, with all property belonging to them to be confiscated. Sentence was to be carried out immediately with no right of appeal.

  One of the women in the dock called out in an anguished, angry voice, ‘We have a right, as citizens, to a fair –’ but she got no further before she was knocked to the ground by a guard.

  Misha, standing next to Valya, felt her visibly wilt when sentence was passed. As they were herded away, she managed to whisper, ‘I thought we would be sent to the camps.’

  A similar lorry awaited them, and they emerged into the night as the sound of air-raid sirens started to wail across the city. Hurriedly herded into the cargo compartment, they sat in darkness as soon as the door was closed. With no guard present, everyone began to talk. ‘Where will they take us?’ ‘I have not said goodbye to my family.’

  Valya said, ‘Misha, I’m sorry I got you into this terrible mess. I should never have come to your apartment.’

  He couldn’t feel angry. ‘They would have come for me anyway,’ he said. He was surprised at how calm he felt. It was all too unreal. The lorry rocked slightly and the engine started. Only then was Misha seized by a creeping terror. This was going to be their final journey. Would they take them to the outskirts of the city and kill them there? Or would they shoot them back at the Lubyanka?

  The two of them sat in silence, holding hands again, as the other passengers raged at their fate. Everyone, it seemed, was talking but no one was listening. He could feel Valya breathing deeply, and guessed she was trying to hold back her tears.

  ‘Let’s be brave for each other,’ she said.

  In the distance a string of explosions rang out and everyone stayed silent. ‘Come on, come and blow us all to bits,’ shouted one angry voice in the darkness. ‘Finish us off in an instant. Put us out of our torment.’

  The truck stopped barely more than a minute away from the courthouse. Misha thought they must be back at the Lubyanka but he didn’t recognise the building when they were hustled out of the van. Despite their anger and despair as their final journey began, the other prisoners now seemed infected with a defensive herd instinct. Look down, don’t catch anyone’s eye. Do exactly what you’re told and you will make your last moments easier.

  Misha observed the whole scene as if it were happening to someone else. Blood was pounding so hard in his ears he could hear nothing more than the muffled thud of his own heartbeat. When people spoke, he could see their lips moving, but his mind wasn’t registering their words; it was all a distant babble.

  They passed through an entrance arch with ornate white plasterwork and a heavy wooden gate which led directly through to a large interior courtyard. Here several bonfires were blazing away in strict contravention of air-raid regulations. Despite his overwhelming fear Misha recognised the smell in all its different components. There was burning paper, burning cardboard, a slight whiff of kerosene.

  In the distance, bombs were still falling. But the explosions seemed to be coming from over to the east, where most of the factories were.

  A small group of NKVD guards were standing by the far wall of the courtyard, the light from the bonfires casting their stark, flickering shadows against a plain brick wall. Nearby was a large goods trolley, the sort you would see at the railway station. Among them one man stood out by nature of his physical presence; he was neither short nor tall but his stocky, muscular build gave the impression of immense strength. He wore the same uniform as the others, but also a green leather apron and thick black gloves. It was the sort of protective clothing a slaughterman might wear in an abattoir. He pulled hard on a cigarette as he listened to another man speak and blew out a great plume of smoke. Then he laughed and the other men around him laughed too. He glanced over to the crowd that was being assembled at the other end of the courtyard. Misha looked away. He had seen the face of his executioner.

  NKVD guards surrounded them, rifle bayonets glinting in the firelight. Misha thought a bullet would be a better way to die than a bayonet. It hadn’t occurred to him that they would kill him in any other way. A bullet was quick. In the films, when people were shot, they dropped to the ground, lifeless in an instant. In a film he had never seen anyone being killed with a bayonet. He could imagine that was infinitely more agonising and prolonged.

  Misha realised Valya was still holding his hand and he glanced over to her face, half lit by the flames. She still looked beautiful to him in that moment. Tear tracks glistened on her cheeks in the light of the fires. He thought with choking sadness of New Year’s Eve bonfires and fireworks. He wondered if his papa would ever h
ear about what had happened to him.

  The man in the apron barked over to the other side of the courtyard. ‘Right, let’s get going. One at a time. This shouldn’t take long.’

  Two guards grabbed a man at the front of the huddled group and dragged him over to the wall. They held him tight and he struggled with every step. The executioner walked towards him and Misha could see the condemned man wilt as he approached. Unable to tear his eyes away, Misha saw the executioner lean forward and whisper in the man’s ear. Misha could bear to look no longer.

  A shot rang out and Valya squeezed his hand harder. Other prisoners cried out in alarm and despair. The guards around them pointed their bayonets menacingly close.

  ‘Silence,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘I will kill the next prisoner to make a sound.’

  One at a time, the group were dragged away to their fate. Some of them cried out to Jesus or Stalin just before they were shot; others died without a sound. When he could bear to steal a glance over to the execution spot, Misha saw they were stacking the lifeless bodies in a neat pile on the trolley. His legs began to shake violently and he wondered how much longer he could stand without collapsing. His head began to swim and his legs lost their strength. He couldn’t help himself and fell to the ground. As he lay there, he became dimly aware of someone shouting, ‘All of you, down. Sit on the ground.’ Valya put her hand around his shoulder to support him and he held her hard, surprised at the warmth of her body on this cold autumn night.

  The group of prisoners was dwindling. All at once Misha felt a boot nudging him. ‘You,’ said a harsh voice.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered to Valya, and she kissed him fleetingly on the side of the head as she gave him a final desperate hug.

  ‘Let him go, comrade,’ said one of the soldiers. He didn’t have the heart to hit her.

  Another guard grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

  The pattern was the same. Two guards held him tightly on each side. Misha’s feet dragged behind him, scuffing the grass on the lawn, and then the gravel that formed a wide path around the square sides of the courtyard.

  Misha expected his life to flash before him, but all he could sense was the flickering shadows of the fires, the acrid smell of burning, and the sparks and embers that floated in the air around them. Wispy streams of hot breath escaped from his mouth into the cold autumn sky. He looked up and caught a final glimpse of the moon and the stars – diamond points of light and a luminous creamy orb. The night sky had never looked more beautiful.

  The man in the apron approached him. ‘Kneel to face the wall, comrade. This will be very brief.’ Even in his fear, Misha was struck by the calmness in his voice. He had spoken to him so matter-of-factly. Like a dentist about to carry out an unpleasant procedure. He kneeled close to the wall, the gravel sharp on his knees. He felt every breath, sensed every heartbeat, wondering which would be his last. He flinched as the cold barrel of the gun touched the back of his neck and steeled himself to stay still, so the man would not have to shoot him twice.

  There was a click, followed by cursing, and the executioner called for another weapon. Misha let out an anguished sob. He was still there. His agony was not yet over. ‘Hurry, comrade, I cannot bear to kneel much longer,’ he said.

  A strange whistling filled his ears, getting louder by the second. He breathed again, wondering why the shot had still not been fired, then a shattering explosion enveloped him like a great wave.

  That was it. He was dead. But he was still thinking. He could hear Valya’s voice. She was pleading, harsh, desperate. ‘Misha, run. Run like hell.’

  There was smoke, brick dust, debris everywhere. A brace of bombs had blown a hole in the wall and left the building devastated.

  Misha and Valya fled, expecting a bullet in the back at any moment. Misha sensed others fleeing with them. One or two shots flew past them, but there were urgent cries too, inside the courtyard. The guards who had survived had other things to worry about.

  Misha and Valya ran until they could run no more and stopped to catch their breath as a nearby clock struck the three-quarter hour. The chimes faded into the night as cold wind howled down the narrow street. Both of them were wearing only the flimsy clothes they had been arrested in.

  ‘Misha, what are we going to do?’

  ‘We can’t go home . . .’

  Misha choked up when he said that. They were barely ten minutes away from their cosy apartments. Both of them knew, without a shadow of doubt, that they would never see those familiar rooms again. There was a long silence as the towering awfulness of their predicament sank in.

  They sheltered in the doorway of an abandoned shop. Valya was the first to speak. ‘We’ve got no money, we’re going to freeze to death before the dawn, and if we show our faces back home we’ll be shot.’ She sounded quite matter-of-fact about it. Then she laughed a cold, graveyard laugh. ‘We might as well jump into the Moskva and get it over with.’

  Misha shivered at the thought. ‘There must be somewhere we can go to, Valya?’ Misha was trying to be brave. ‘Who can we trust?’

  ‘Could we go to Nikolay?’ she said. ‘What are his parents like?’

  ‘They’re nice people but they’re very staunch Party members,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think we can trust them.’

  ‘We have to think quickly,’ she said. ‘The all-clear will sound soon and when it starts to get light there will be more people about. We must look suspicious like this.’

  ‘We could try my Aunt Mila, but she’s over in the Sparrow Hills. And there’s Grandma Olya, she’s barely ten minutes away.’

  ‘They’re the first people the NKVD would go to, to look for you,’ Valya said. ‘And if they found us with either of them they would be punished too. Anyway, your Aunt Mila’s too far away. We’d be spotted by Militia or die of exposure before we got halfway there.’

  Then Misha remembered something. ‘What about that woman you helped, on the day the war broke out? Do you remember where she lived?’

  ‘Misha, that’s it.’ She hugged him. ‘That’s a brilliant idea. We must go at once. I can’t remember the way exactly. And I can’t quite remember her name either.’

  Misha shook his head. ‘Me neither. We’ll just have to try to find our way as best we can.’

  They hurried through the dark streets. ‘It’s so difficult to recognise where we are in this blackout,’ said Valya. But they both knew this was their best chance. Their only chance. If they could find the old lady before dawn, then maybe she would be able to help them.

  ‘She had a place overlooking a big square,’ said Valya, as she panted for breath.

  ‘It was one of those great old apartment buildings from before the Revolution. She lived on the top floor – a big apartment, not a kommunalka.’

  ‘Hush a second,’ said Valya, and held up her hand. ‘There’s someone coming.’

  There were footsteps, two people at least. ‘It’s probably a Militia patrol. Quickly, we have to hide.’

  They dived behind some shrubbery in the alcove of a small building. The footsteps came closer. Misha tried to control his breathing. He could not bear to look and closed his eyes. He felt dizzy with fear. It was as if he were standing on the parapet of a very high building. Then they heard the rattling of a key in a lock. A door opened and shut, and all was quiet again.

  ‘It’s round here somewhere, I’m sure of it,’ said Valya. She peered round a corner and immediately froze. ‘Oh no! Just up the street. Two Militia men.’

  ‘That’s just what we need.’

  ‘And they’re both carrying submachine guns.’

  ‘Are they coming this way?’

  She looked terrified and put a finger to her lips to shush him.

  They could hear voices close by now. Coarse, ugly voices.

  ‘Something going on up ahead.’

  ‘Put your torch on.’

  Valya grabbed Misha, turned his back to the wall, and began to kiss him hard, plac
ing his hand on the small of her back.

  Misha was so astonished he froze. She stopped for a moment and hissed, ‘Rub your hands up and down my back. Quickly!’

  He did as he was instructed. Even in his blind panic, he still noticed how warm she was despite the freezing cold night and how slender the curve of her back.

  The torch flashed its light into the shrubbery.

  They heard coarse laughter. ‘You dirty bastards,’ one of the men said. They laughed again and walked away.

  Misha continued to kiss her, but Valya immediately broke away and whispered, ‘Sorry, Misha, I couldn’t think of anything else to do.’

  They waited for the footsteps to recede, still holding each other tight. Misha felt her warmth and wondered if he would ever kiss her again.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We must be near . . .’

  They darted between the shadows, peering into the gloom at the names of side streets.

  ‘It’s just round here, I’m sure of it,’ Valya said.

  They came out into a big tree-lined square. ‘Strastnoy Boulevard – this is it. I remember now.’

  Most of the buildings here were pre-Revolution and it was difficult remembering which one they had gone to.

  Misha spotted a distinctive doorway. ‘Look, it’s here. There’s the door, with the great stone archway.’

  They looked up. The building was eight storeys high with a short flight of stairs leading to the main entrance. Valya tried the door. It was locked.

  ‘What do we do?’ said Misha.

  ‘Wait for someone to come out . . . and then nip in. Sometimes these doors catch on the lock if you don’t close them properly.’

  ‘It might work.’

  The all-clear siren sounded. That was usually the signal for the streets to fill with people as they flooded out of the air-raid shelters, but not any more. Recently one of the public shelters had been bombed. Hundreds of people had been killed, so now many Muscovites had decided it was just as safe staying in their own apartments. And your home was less likely to be looted that way too.