Red Winter

by Smith, Dan

  I remembered what Ryzhkov had said to me in the izba last night. It felt like it was a long time ago, but it was only a matter of hours since he had told me how I had disappointed him.

  ‘We received orders to crush the local peasants,’ Krukov said. ‘There had been resistance to grain and animal requisitions, and the Bolsheviks were afraid the uprising was spreading.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So we went into the first village we came to.’ Once more he reached into his pocket for the flask and I noticed his hand was shaking when he drank from it and offered it to me.

  ‘That’s when we saw what kind of man Ryzhkov was; what kind of unit he was leading.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I said. ‘You didn’t know.’

  ‘We should have stopped him.’

  I realised that the other men had grown silent and were listening to Krukov. When I glanced around at them, none of them would meet my gaze. The river, the open steppe and the road cutting through it had become fascinating to them.

  ‘They took the boys and some of the women. Others they . . .’ He looked at Anna, then lowered his voice and leaned closer to me. ‘They raped them. Shot the men, hanged them . . . Ryzhkov himself flayed an old man’s hand. And there was that brand. The star that—’

  ‘I’ve seen the things they did,’ I told him.

  ‘But you didn’t see their faces when they did it. You didn’t hear them laugh. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, couldn’t believe that my commander would . . . He was like an animal. Like the devil. Like—’

  ‘Koschei,’ I said.

  Krukov shook his head. ‘He was worse than that.’

  He held his hands out in front of him, fingers outstretched, as if he had just noticed they were shaking, then he clenched them into fists and held them tight to his thighs. ‘When we left the village, I told him it was wrong, so he went ahead to the next village and sent me to find you alone.’

  ‘You’re lucky he didn’t try to kill you.’ I kept my tone flat, so he didn’t hear the question in it. If Krukov had disagreed with a man like Ryzhkov, I was surprised he had just let him go.

  ‘I think he wanted to. I saw him kill one of his own men for disobeying an order to . . .’ He noticed Anna watching him. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘So what stopped him?’ I asked. ‘From trying to kill you?’

  Krukov looked at the others sitting with us. ‘Loyal men, I suppose. He knew these men might support me, and he didn’t want to fight soldiers – that wasn’t his style.’

  ‘But he sent a couple of his men to watch you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He should have sent more.’

  Krukov allowed a wry smile to show, the first sign of emotion, but it was gone in a second. ‘Some of the men were taken in by him and stayed. Dotsenko—’

  ‘I saw him. After the farm, there was a train in the forest.’

  ‘We saw it too. All those wounded men. How was Stas?’

  ‘Dead.’

  Krukov sighed. ‘It was as if Ryzhkov had put a spell on them, convinced them they were doing revolutionary work.’

  ‘But not you?’ I asked. ‘He didn’t convince you?’

  Krukov shook his head. ‘Not me.’ He looked around. ‘Not us.’

  I hoped he was right. All it would take was for one of them to share his twisted idea of patriotism, for one of them to turn his weapon on me.

  ‘I never had any intention of executing you as a deserter,’ he said.

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Maybe at first. It was a crime. I thought you were a coward, but then . . . the more we saw . . .’ He shook his head. ‘You’re a better man than he ever was. You’re the commander of this unit, and now you’re back where you belong.’

  It took a moment for his words to sink in.

  ‘You want me to take command of this unit again?’ I couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. I couldn’t let everything turn in a circle; all that death and nothing gained.

  ‘Of course. If you come back now, no one need ever know you left. Ryzhkov and the others are dead now.’

  I swallowed my words. This was not the best time to tell Krukov I had no intention of commanding this unit again. I wanted a life of peace; to forget the things I had done, to atone for them by taking care of my family as a father and a husband. I wanted to leave the soldier behind, but I didn’t know how Krukov would react. He was giving me a chance to come back, but if I refused, perhaps he would turn on me as Ryzhkov had done.

  My trial wasn’t over. I wasn’t done with the soldier just yet, and it was likely there was more blood to be spilled.

  ‘Maybe we should go,’ I said, standing up.

  Krukov stood too, coming to attention. ‘It’s time to put on your uniform,’ he said.

  47

  Nagai was barely recognisable as a village. There was no life there. Not even a dog strolled in what was left of the street, but it was not like it had been when I arrived in Belev. Not one of the houses here was intact, not a wall left standing. The husks of the buildings were blackened, collapsed in on themselves or blown out into pieces, and there was rubble all about: cracked stones, crumbled bricks, charred beams, broken fences. The ground was a mess of craters big enough to swallow a man, and the air was thick with the scent of old smoke. Last night’s snow had settled in places, stark against the burned wood that lay all about.

  ‘Shellfire,’ Krukov said, as we rode among the ruins, sweeping our eyes around the destruction. ‘They didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘I wonder which side it was,’ said Nevsky from behind me.

  ‘What difference does it make?’ I asked. ‘People are people.’

  Krukov glanced across at me. ‘Those who oppose the revolution must be . . .’

  ‘Crushed?’ I said.

  He clenched his teeth and the muscles at the side of his jaw bulged.

  ‘Would it not be better if we could just live in peace?’ I suggested.

  ‘Once the counter-revolutionaries are quiet, then there will be peace. We remove the weeds and the crop grows strong, right?’

  I sighed and shook my head. ‘That’s too much black and white.’

  ‘No, for him there’s only red,’ Bukharin said, making some of the men laugh.

  Krukov cast a stern look at them. ‘I saw the wrong in Ryzhkov,’ he said, looking at me once more. ‘The war is only against those who bear arms.’

  ‘And those who refuse to give up their grain?’ I asked. ‘Do they not need to be crushed too?’

  ‘They need to be educated,’ he said. ‘Not crucified and tortured.’

  ‘And how can they be educated?’ I asked.

  ‘Labour. It’s the great leveller. No man is better than another when there is sweat on his brow and he’s working for the good of the people.’

  ‘Like my family?’ I asked. ‘They should be in a labour camp, should they?’

  ‘No, I . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Everything used to make sense.’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ I agreed.

  We came to a halt among the ruins, where what remained of the road cut through them, passing back onto the steppe and curving round the forest to the north.

  ‘It should be in there,’ Krukov said. ‘Among the trees.’

  Among the trees, I thought. Would I ever get away from them?

  ‘All right, then,’ I said, feeling my anticipation build. ‘Repnin and Manarov, you come with us. Bukharin, I want you and Nevsky to stay here with Anna. Guard her with your lives.’

  ‘I won’t stay with them,’ she said, refusing to dismount. ‘I won’t let you leave me.’

  ‘Anna.’

  ‘You can’t go without me.’

  So I asked her to ride to the end of the village with me, alone.

  ‘This is going to be dangerous,’ I told her.

  ‘I don’t mind. As long as I’m with you, I’ll be fine.’

  Her confidence in me made me feel good, proud even, but this was not a ti
me for pride.

  ‘What I mean is that you’ll make it dangerous. You see, a commander riding into a camp is one thing, but a commander riding into a camp with a child is something else altogether. People will wonder why you are there. They may ask awkward questions. Remember when I spoke to the Cossacks? This is no different.’

  ‘You’re a Chekist commander,’ she said. ‘You can tell them whatever you like.’

  ‘No one is immune,’ I said. ‘No one is safe. You have to stay. I’m sorry.’

  Anna said nothing. She pouted and stared ahead, reminding me she was only twelve years old.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. The camp won’t be far into the forest. It won’t take long.’

  ‘I won’t talk to them.’

  ‘You don’t have to. In fact, I don’t want you to.’

  She looked at me like she didn’t understand.

  ‘I want you to keep away from them, and I’ll tell them to keep away from you.’

  ‘Why? I thought you trust them?’

  ‘I do. I want to. I think I trust them, but they want me to lead them again and—’

  ‘You’re not going to, are you?’

  ‘No. And I don’t know what they’ll do if they find out, so you keep apart, and if anything happens, I want you to ride away as fast as you can. I’ll find you.’

  ‘Out here?’

  ‘Tuzik will help me. He’ll catch up soon.’

  ‘What if he follows me?’

  ‘He won’t. He’ll be looking for me.’

  Anna bit her lip as she thought about what I’d said. ‘You will come back?’ she asked.

  ‘I promise.’

  She closed her eyes and nodded. ‘All right.’

  With that settled, we turned and headed back to where the others were waiting. I was eager to find the camp, and the day was drawing to its close. We had to leave soon.

  ‘How many will there be?’ Anna asked as we rode. ‘How many prisoners at the camp?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where will they all go?’

  At first, I didn’t understand her question and I repeated it to myself, wondering what she meant, but then it struck me that my intention today was not exactly what Anna thought it was.

  I stopped Kashtan and leaned back to look at the sky. I took off my hat and ran a hand over my head before turning to her. ‘I won’t be bringing everyone out. Only Marianna and the boys.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to leave everyone else? That’s . . .’ she searched for the right word, ‘. . . that’s unfair.’

  ‘Yes, it is, and I’m sorry for them, but it’s the way it has to be. I can’t save everyone, Anna.’

  ‘I would try.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a better person than I am.’

  The sun was setting over the forest as we approached the trees, and when we rode into the woods, following a narrow trail, everything darkened around us.

  An eerie silence fell over the world as the clouds thickened and the second snow of winter began to fall. This time it was heavier, though, the flakes softer, like countless feathers filling the air between the trees. They rode the gentle currents, settling on naked branches, cheerful against the darkness of the oak and chestnut and maple, beautiful against the stubborn colours of the evergreens.

  I glanced back at Krukov, his horse just a length behind Kashtan, Repnin and Manarov following, and I wondered what he was thinking. It occurred to me that he could be leading me into a trap, enticing me into the forest to take my head or nail me to a tree. Krukov was a soldier and a patriot. He might not have considered himself a thinker or a leader, but he was a true believer. He still saw righteousness in the war. He still thought a deserter was a deserter rather than a man who had seen and done enough to want just a little peace.

  Then I told myself that if he was going to kill me, he would not have come this far with me. No, he wanted to help me. He wanted to assist in putting Marianna and the boys in their rightful place so that he could see me put in mine: at the head of this unit. I only hoped that once I had found my family, I could persuade him to see things differently.

  I didn’t want to have to kill him.

  No more than three hundred metres inside the forest, the camp had been invisible from the ruins of Nagai. As we drew nearer, we heard sounds of life – the low hubbub of voices, the occasional shout or the clatter of metal on metal – and I formed a picture of what this place would look like. I had seen many transit camps and they had all been similar: small, squalid affairs more fit for animals than for people. The prisoners they housed were criminals, enemies of the state who deserved no better.

  Or so I had always thought.

  This camp was new, though, much larger than I had expected. It must have taken a great team of labourers to fell so many trees and turn them into the log cabins that stood here in the forest. The inner compound, surrounded by a high wire fence, contained eight buildings large enough to house twenty people each. They were arranged in two rows with a cleared area in front of them that was now filled with prisoners milling about in the falling snow, huddled together for warmth because they would be locked out of the huts for most of the day. I sat a little higher in my saddle as we approached, trying to spot Marianna among them.

  I touched the chotki and prayed she was here.

  He likes to drown the women.

  My heart was beating as hard now as it had ever beaten in battle. I could feel it racing in my chest, forcing blood to every part of my body so that my muscles prickled with anticipation. I fought to keep calm, to keep from spurring Kashtan into a gallop.

  I was moments away from what I had longed for.

  If she’s here.

  Please let her be here.

  Directly outside the secured inner compound, two more snowcapped buildings provided barracks for the soldiers who were posted here to guard the camp, and there was a smaller cabin for the commander. The whole area was then surrounded by another fence, at least ten or twelve metres high, that ran in a square round the entire camp. Outside the fence, the trees had been felled so that none overhung the fence, and at each corner, a watchtower stood half as tall as the trees. In each tower, a guard stood watch.

  ‘All this for a few harmless peasants,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that you said?’ Krukov asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  The entrance to the camp was made up of two gates, one at either end of a ten-metre run that served as a corral. Anyone coming in had to pass through an outer gate, which was then closed behind them before the final approach to the second gate that gave access to the camp.

  This final approach was overlooked by guard towers.

  The path we were following through the forest began to widen, and I followed it to the outer gate, beside which there was a small guardhouse.

  ‘I want you to follow my lead,’ I said to Krukov as he came alongside me. ‘Is that understood?’

  ‘Of course, Commander.’

  ‘Stay calm,’ I whispered to Kashtan, reaching down to pat her neck. ‘Stay calm.’

  I rode straight to the front gate and stopped, Krukov beside me, Repnin and Manarov behind.

  Before I could call out, a guard emerged from the hut, dressed for cold weather in a coat and budenovka hat. The material was as black as poppy seeds, not at all faded, and the star on the front of it was red like blood. In his hands, he held a Mosin-Nagant dragoon like the one I had given to Lev.

  ‘Comrade Commander,’ he said, looking me over, taking note of my uniform.

  No longer was I dressed as a peasant, trying to remain unnoticed. Now I wore the uniform I had left on the body of a disfigured man in a distant and unwanted past. The uniform Krukov had returned to me and wanted me to wear as I led him through the remainder of this war.

  The brown coat was much warmer than the one I had taken from the peasant, but it felt wrong to be wearing the insignia of the Red Army, which was sewn on the arms and lapels. It reminded me of the raw
and festering star Ryzhkov had branded into his victims. And the bright red button loops and lapel-tips seemed to draw attention to themselves, like blood in the snow.

  Beneath the coat, I wore the uniform and long, black boots I had thought never to see again, and over it, I wore a Mauser pistol, which denoted my position, holstered in its wooden case and clipped to the leather strap that crossed my chest. Rather than a red-starred budenovka, I wore a black leather cap with a short peak, which dipped to a spot just above my eyes. The leather was old and faded, and the star adorning it had lost its lustre.

  ‘We weren’t expecting anyone today,’ the guard said, putting a hand to his brow to keep the snow from his eyes. ‘Shit. What happened to you?’

  ‘Do you always know when someone is coming?’ I replied, looking down at him. I was a Chekist commander now, not a nervous husband or a worried father.

  He hesitated. ‘No, comrade.’

  ‘Then stop talking and let me in. Or do you want to join the prisoners inside?’ I stared down at him, and Krukov did the same. I could only imagine how we must have looked to the young man. Battle-hardened Cheka soldiers, weary from a long ride, expressions that allowed no dissent.

  Even so, it would only take one wrong move, one word out of place to raise suspicion. And we were surrounded by soldiers who would kill us with almost no hesitation.

  The guard nodded, then remembered himself. ‘Y-your,’ he stuttered, ‘your papers, please, comrade.’

  I paused, staring hard at the young man for a moment as if to ask him how he had dared to request such a thing, then I looked at Krukov and sighed so the guard could see my contempt. ‘Why do they post boys in positions of responsibility?’ I said.

  When I turned back to the guard, I unfastened one of the buttons on my coat and pulled my papers from the inside pocket. I held them out without leaning down, forcing him to come closer.

  He hardly dared to look me in the eye as he reached up to take them.

  ‘Well, hurry up,’ I said.

  His hands were shaking when he unfolded the documents. He scanned them, glanced up at me, then looked back at the papers again. ‘I-I’m sorry, comrade. Just one moment.’