Red Winter

by Smith, Dan

  I said nothing and glanced at the clock. It was still just after ten, the hands stuck in the position they’d been in when the clock stopped.

  ‘So have you come to kill me?’ he asked as I picked up the bottle. ‘To give me a good clean death?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone.’ I had to tell him something and perhaps this was the best thing. He might have information I could use.

  He made an impatient gesture over the glasses. ‘Pour. Pour.’ When he put his hand down, he studied me with unblinking eyes. ‘Looking for someone? Someone you do want to kill?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I poured vodka into each glass and pushed one across to him.

  Orlov nodded and glanced at the glass but left it where it was. ‘You know, there’s someone I want to kill,’ he said.

  I waited for him to go on.

  ‘We’ve been fighting in Tambov. Trying to put down this damn rebellion.’ He turned the pistol in his hand as if looking for the secrets of life in its design. ‘Returning with the wounded, picking up men along the way.’

  ‘But you’re heading towards Tambov,’ I said.

  Orlov looked up. ‘Excellent observation. And that’s who I want to kill – the man who issued that order. I get this far, bringing my injured men and anyone else who cares to catch a ride with us, and they send new orders. Turn back, they say. They need the train, they say. Drop off the wounded and come back, they say. So I drop them here, in the forest. To die.’ He sniffed hard. ‘What else can I do?’

  ‘Disobey?’

  Orlov waved his hand as if that didn’t deserve a reply. He picked up his glass and raised it to me. ‘The wounded,’ he said.

  I toasted with him and took a sip. Orlov drained the glass and indicated I should refill it. He continued to talk as I poured, vodka glistening on his moustache. ‘Did you know that this man Antonov – the one who they say started this peasant uprising – he’s a petty criminal? Put in prison for stealing from railway station offices of all things, and when the revolution pardons him, what does he do but go to war against us.’ Orlov scoffed and shook his head. ‘What a bloody mess. This whole damn country has gone to hell and we can’t even pick our enemies properly. Too many colours to choose from, I say. Tokmakov is the real leader of this uprising, though, a former Imperialist. A decorated soldier, no less.’

  Commander Orlov winced in pain and lifted his glass to his lips, stopping as he was about to drink. ‘Damn Imperialists,’ he smiled. ‘I was one myself once.’ He paused for thought. ‘You know the uprising began when some soldiers beat up an old man in Khitrovo?’ he said. ‘I went there and it was just like anywhere else. Just another unimportant town.’

  I had been there too, but I didn’t tell Orlov that.

  ‘As if we don’t have enough trouble with all the other damn armies who want to stop the people’s revolution. This isn’t war; this is chaos. No one knows what the hell is going on. We push the White Army down to Crimea, send Wrangel to the dogs, deal with the Blacks, and now our own people are rising against us. Now we have a Blue Army to fight.’

  ‘The Whites are defeated?’

  ‘More or less. Wrangel and his men disappeared into the Black Sea, going to who knows where, and now there’s just all these other colours to finish off – Blue, Green, a whole rainbow of colours – but they might as well all be brown for the shit this country has gone to.’ He seemed pleased with that analogy and smiled to himself before tipping back his head and swallowing the vodka.

  ‘They say they’re diverting men who are coming back home from Perekop,’ he said, wiping his moustache on his sleeve and looking at me, ‘but they’ll be as useless as the men I’ve just kicked off this train. Every one of them battle-weary or wounded, and I am ordered to leave them here rather than take them to a place where they can be treated, which is what I promised them.’ He nodded at me. ‘Drink.’

  I put the glass to my lips and sipped again.

  ‘All of it. Drink it all,’ he said, so I drained the glass and put it down beside his.

  ‘More.’ Orlov waved the pistol in my direction.

  When I had refilled the glasses, he fell into a sombre silence, shaking his head every now and then, staring at the pistol. Outside, the sounds of the men had settled. No more orders were shouted. There was only the occasional voice that lifted above the constant murmur and moan.

  I watched Orlov, wondering if now was the time for me to leave. He was so deep in thought I might have been able to slip from the carriage without him noticing. Or perhaps I could get to my knife and put an end to him, but I realised I had no reason to want to harm him. He had done nothing to me. He was a wounded commander trying to do his job, and it was refreshing to see the remorse he felt at having to leave his men to die. It would take huge courage for him to defy his orders, and looking at the state of the men outside, many of them would be dead before long anyway.

  ‘Nikolai Levitsky.’ The words came at me like a slap. It was the second time today that someone had spoken my name and I missed a breath, my hand tightening round the glass, some of it spilling over and running through my fist.

  ‘Nikolai Levitsky,’ he said again, this time turning his head to stare at me. ‘You’ve heard of him?’ He looked me up and down as if assessing me with new interest.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A hero of the revolution. Recipient of the Order of the Red Banner.’ Orlov shifted in his chair, pushing himself up a little straighter. ‘He was an Imperialist, just like me, but after the war with the Germans, he joined the Red Army and—’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  Orlov shrugged. ‘Not much longer than a month ago, Nikolai Levitsky and three men fought three hundred attackers in the village of Grivino. Armed with just their Mosin-Nagant rifles, they held the Blues back until reinforcements arrived. Earned himself the Order of the Red Banner. Now that’s a hero,’ Orlov said. ‘Fighting for the people. Not like this man Tokmakov, leading his peasants against the revolution.’

  It hadn’t been that way, though. We hadn’t been fighting for the people; we had been fighting for our lives. And there hadn’t been three of us; there had been ten, including my brother, Alek. And we had a tachanka. Peasants with a few rifles and pitchforks were no match for trained soldiers with good weapons and a horse-drawn machine gun. We gave them a chance to surrender, but they refused, so we gunned down every man, woman or boy they sent at us. Not three hundred, though; there can’t have been more than a hundred and fifty. And there were no reinforcements coming to help us; we didn’t need them. The battle lasted no longer than twenty minutes before the peasants finally saw the futility of their attacks and scattered back into the forest around Grivino. We didn’t follow them in, but sent a few gas grenades into the trees to finish off any stragglers.

  Only one of us died in that battle, and that was because his own rifle exploded, the barrel fragmenting and firing a piece of shrapnel into his head. But the real story was no inspiration to Bolshevik soldiers. They needed heroes, not men who slaughtered women and children. So the propaganda machine changed our story and put medals on our chests, right over our heavy hearts, and the more I had thought about it, the more ashamed I grew. It had been a burden to my brother too. He never spoke of it, but I had seen it every day in his eyes.

  ‘You know, they say Levitsky was killed in Ulyanov. Ambushed by guerrillas and shot dead. Left in a ditch with his face smashed in.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  Orlov shrugged. ‘Maybe. Others say he deserted. Left his unit like a coward.’

  ‘Maybe he just wanted to go home.’

  ‘And who would blame him?’ Orlov said. ‘Don’t we all just want to go home? Except it isn’t permitted.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound like a coward to me.’

  ‘Nor to me. And yet they say that men from his own unit are hunting him down to bring him to justice. Just like you’re looking for someone,’ he sa
id. ‘Who are you looking for, Doctor?’

  I put the glass down without emptying its contents. I had drunk enough already, and I needed to keep my wits about me. The alcohol would slow me, diminishing my chances of leaving the carriage alive. Outside, Lev and Anna were expecting my quick return, relying on me to lead them to safety. I would not let them down.

  ‘Well?’ Orlov waited for a reply.

  I held my hands together to stop them from shaking and met his stare, wondering if he was going to shoot me or call for me to be arrested. But he had come from north of here; perhaps he knew something that could help me. ‘I’m looking for a man who calls himself Koschei.’

  ‘Like the story?’

  I nodded and told myself to relax. I breathed steadily, loosened my hands and let them separate to hang by my sides, ready to act.

  ‘I never understood that story,’ Orlov said. ‘Why they called him “the Deathless”. Every story I ever heard about him, he dies at the end. I suppose that’s the truth, isn’t it? Eventually everybody dies, no matter who we are. Even me.’

  I said nothing and the commander shifted round in his chair a little more, the pistol still in his hand, the muzzle towards me. All it would take was for his finger to twitch.

  ‘I’ve heard of a man who call himself by that name,’ he said. ‘A Chekist.’

  And with those words, my attention sharpened. ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘Nobody. Somebody.’ Orlov shook his head. ‘I overhear the men talking when I’m sitting in here, but I’ve heard so many names. Krukov, Levitsky . . .’ He watched me for a reaction. ‘Other names I forget.’

  ‘Krukov?’

  Orlov shrugged. ‘That’s a name I heard.’

  I knew Krukov: we were from the same unit. I had fought alongside him, and now I saw his face. Lean and gaunt. I could understand why men might call him Koschei. Like the spectre in the skazka, Krukov was tall and thin and drawn. His beard was long enough to touch his chest, and he carried a sword, too. But if Orlov was right – if Koschei and Krukov were the same man – then what the young soldier outside had said could be true. Perhaps I had been responsible for loosing Koschei upon the world. If I had not deserted, he would never have been able to perpetrate such acts as he had.

  Belev would have been safe.

  If Alek and I had stayed with our unit, Koschei might never have gone into our village, and that sense of responsibility was like a weight crushing down on me. My mind reeled as it followed the thread of events that could have led to Krukov’s metamorphosis into Koschei. If I had not run, so much would be different.

  ‘You know where he is?’ My mouth was dry, my throat tight. My skin crawled and grew cold. The smoky air suddenly felt thick and claustrophobic.

  ‘No idea. First I even heard of him was a few weeks ago, but it was just stories. Hearsay about the things he had done. Yesterday, we took one of his men on board. Maybe he could give you—’

  ‘I saw him.’ My voice seemed to come from someone else. ‘He’s dead. What else can you tell me?’

  ‘Not much. My commanders are afraid of the Cheka, so they don’t ask too many questions, but he said he was with a small group escorting prisoners to a camp north of Dolinsk. His own men turned on him for some reason.’

  ‘Prisoners? You’re sure?’ I couldn’t hide my concern.

  Orlov raised his eyebrows in interest. ‘Mm-hmm. It’s what he said.’

  ‘Women and children?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Prisoners. It was a single word that gave me renewed hope. If Stanislav Dotsenko had been with Koschei and was then transporting prisoners, there was a greater chance for Marianna and the boys.

  ‘From what they say, I think a lot of people would want to kill this man Koschei, but why do you want to kill him?’

  ‘He took my family.’

  ‘Then I can see why you’re interested to hear about prisoners, and why you’d want to find him.’ Orlov nodded. ‘I have a family – a wife and son in Moscow. So far away.’

  ‘You’re wounded; you can go back to them.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe if I could walk like you can. Maybe if this damned leg wasn’t so rotten.’ He snatched his glass from the table and stared into it.

  ‘Do you have any prisoners on board this train?’ I asked.

  ‘You mean civilians?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You mean, did the Chekists give their prisoners to us?’

  I nodded once more.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Your family is not here. You have my word on that.’

  I felt a mix of emotions at this news. There was relief that Marianna and the boys were not cooped up and starving inside one of the carriages, and there was disappointment because I still didn’t know where they were. But Koschei did have prisoners – Orlov had told me that much – and that gave me more hope that they were still alive.

  ‘You know what I would do if I found Nikolai Levitsky?’ Orlov said. ‘If, for instance, he walked into my carriage right here on this train and told me he was looking for his family? Like you are, I mean.’

  ‘No. What would you say?’

  ‘I’d tell him to keep running. To keep looking. To find this man Koschei and tear out his heart for taking his family.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because now I understand what is important. Not fighting. Not war. Not revolution. None of this shit. Family. Family is what matters. In all this mess . . .’ Holding the pistol, he swept his hand around him. ‘In all this mess, nothing matters anymore except family. Not the revolution, not Lenin and definitely not the idiot who ordered me back to Tambov.’

  His words were enough to warrant execution.

  ‘I’ll never see my family again,’ he said, lowering his voice and becoming reflective. ‘With this leg, I won’t last more than another week. I’m rotting away right here in this carriage and they’re sending me back south to die.’

  ‘I can still dress it for you,’ I said. ‘I know how.’

  ‘I imagine you’ve seen a few wounds in your time.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll find a surgeon who—’

  ‘A surgeon?’ he sneered. ‘Out here? Not a chance. Anyway, I don’t want to be half a man. I’m a soldier.’ Commander Orlov looked up at me. ‘But if I knew that a man like Nikolai Levitsky was out there looking for his family, I would tell him to find them and take them somewhere small.’

  ‘Small?’

  ‘Somewhere unimportant. Invisible. Because even when this war is won – and it will be the Bolsheviks who win it, I’m sure of that – there still won’t be any peace. Not for anyone.’ He raised his glass and toasted, saying, ‘Family.’

  Orlov placed the glass on the table, then turned the pistol once more in his hands. ‘Time for you to go,’ he said. ‘We both have things to do.’

  ‘Thank you, Commander.’ I stepped out and closed the door.

  Returning through the carriage, the soldiers hardly watched me pass, but I was relieved to reach the far end and come out into the fresh air. I wanted to be back on Koschei’s trail straight away. Commander Orlov’s information had given me greater hope and I felt a renewed urgency. I was eager to return to Kashtan, to Lev and Anna, and to be away from this place.

  But I hadn’t escaped yet.

  As I turned to descend the iron steps, I saw something that changed my mood in an instant.

  I stood for a moment, trying to process what was happening.

  The commander who had taken me aboard the train was picking his way through the wounded men, coming towards the carriage with a grim expression of determination on his face. As he came, he drew his pistol from the wooden holster, raising it to point at me, and when I glanced up to look behind him, beyond the sea of wounded soldiers, I understood why.

  Close to the trees, two men with rifles stood guarding Kashtan. Lev’s horse grazed beside her. And there, between the soldiers, Lev and Anna stood prisoner.

  19

  The commander st
opped a few paces from the bottom step, standing in the sea of wounded men, and looked up at me, aiming his pistol. ‘Come down.’

  My only choice was to go back to Commander Orlov. It was he who had let me go, and so he might do it again, but there was a chance he would change his mind. When he sent me away, we were alone, with no one to know his actions, but when others were involved, he might not be so ready to do the same. Even a man like him could be accused as an enemy of the Bolsheviks, which was why he hadn’t disobeyed the order to dump his wounded and return to Tambov. On the other hand, when I had just left him, he was a broken, dying man. Perhaps he had reached the end of his allegiance. Maybe he would release us anyway. He was our only hope.

  ‘Please,’ I said, holding out my hands. ‘Come and talk to Commander Orlov. He—’

  ‘You’re no doctor,’ the commander said, sending a wave of interest flowing among the wounded men behind him. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Please. Come and talk to Commander Orlov. He’ll tell you—’

  ‘Get down.’

  I stood for a moment, looking at him, wondering what was the best course of action, but there weren’t many options open to me. It would be easy for him to shoot, and he wouldn’t need much more reason than my failure to obey. I would have to comply for now.

  But as I put my feet on the ground, so the first voice spoke among the soldiers.

  ‘Doctor?’ It was impossible to tell who said it: there were hundreds of men lying or sitting on the trackside.

  ‘He’s a doctor?’ A different voice this time. ‘Please. Help me.’

  ‘Get down here, now,’ the commander ordered.

  ‘Did someone say “doctor”?’ More voices joined the chorus. ‘Where? Where’s the doctor?’

  The men around the commander’s feet were the ones in the worst condition, left closest to the train to avoid carrying them too far, but the men further back were more able and a ripple of movement broke through them. A few began to struggle to their feet, some saying, ‘Over here, Doctor. Over here,’ and more and more of them called for me, adding their voices to the discord as they stood and began to shuffle towards me.