Red Winter

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 time 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.’

And with that, he disappeared back into the guardhouse.

I turned to look at Krukov, who shrugged, just a slight movement of his shoulders, and then a different guard emerged from the hut. This man was older, sterner, but he still had trouble looking me in the eye.

‘Grigori Ryzhkov,’ he said.

‘Commander Ryzhkov,’ I said, before I turned to Krukov with a subtle warning glance. ‘Where do they find these people? They wouldn’t last more than a day out there.’

Krukov could hardly hide his confusion, wondering why I had shown Ryzhkov’s papers and not my own. I was a decorated soldier – Nikolai Levitsky should command more respect than Grigori Ryzhkov, but I had my reasons for the deception.

‘My apologies, Comrade Commander,’ the man said, before looking over the papers he held in his thick hands. He pursed his lips, his moustache rising so the bristles touched his nostrils. ‘I have to ask… what is your business here?’ He looked back at the soldiers behind me.

‘We’re taking some prisoners away,’ I said.

The guard took off his hat and scratched his balding head as he went back to staring at my papers. ‘I—’

‘Just open the gates.’

He nodded at me and shifted his attention to Krukov. ‘Papers?’

Krukov passed his documents to the guard.

‘I know you have a job to do, comrade,’ I said, ‘but you do you know who I am?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I suggest you give me access to your prisoners right away, or when I speak to your commander, I will ask him to give you to me for punishment. Comrade Krukov here is particularly good at flaying a man’s hands while he’s still alive. He can peel away the skin like a glove.’

Beside me, Krukov remained expressionless.

‘All right.’ He swallowed hard and handed back the papers, waving us forward. ‘Let them in.’

The younger man ran to the first gate and opened it, signalling to the towers to let us through.

I looked down at the guard for a long moment, then nudged Kashtan forward into the corral between the two gates. ‘You think we’re safe?’ I spoke under my breath.

‘I can’t be sure,’ Krukov said. ‘Why did you use Ryzhkov’s papers?’

I ignored his question and rode on as the first gate closed behind us, the barbed wire rattling as it banged shut. The older guard followed us into the corral.

We were trapped now, hemmed in between the two gates, with towers ahead of us. If they’d wanted to kill us, now would be the best time. The four of us wouldn’t last more than a few seconds.

As we reached the main gate, though, it drew back in front of us, rolling away to one side, and I felt my heart beating hard as we crossed the groove it had left in the dirt.

I had a better view of the prisoners in the inner compound now. There were more than two hundred of them at first sight, milling about in front of the huts, but there may have been more, obscured by the buildings. Mostly they were women and children, some of them hardly more than babies, but there were some men too. Boys, really. Boys destined to be soldiers.

Please be here. Please be here.

Most of them watched us enter the camp. Undernourished, tired and afraid, they could only wonder what we might have in store for them. They would be accustomed to soldiers arriving and taking people away to labour camps or Red Army units, and already groups were forming, families closing together, hoping they would not be separated from their loved ones. I watched those groups, looking for any sign of Marianna and the boys, but saw nothing.

As soon as we were all in, the soldiers drew the gate closed behind us, and the guard jogged past, heading for the building closest to the entrance. He didn’t need to knock on the door, because as he reached the building, the door opened and the prison commander stepped out. The two men spoke, and then the guard returned to the gate, calling for the men to let him back out to his post.

The commander of the camp smoothed his uniform tunic and came towards us, his gleaming black boots stark against the thin layer of snow.

I remained in the saddle, giving myself a position of superiority, making the man look up at me when he spoke.

‘Comrade Ryzhkov,’ he said with an officious smile. ‘I am Commander Donskoy. I didn’t know you were coming.’ He couldn’t help looking at my bruises, staring at my swollen lips.

‘Why would you have known I was coming?’

The smile fell from his face. ‘Your men are still here. Shall I call for them?’

‘My men?’ I couldn’t help but glance at Krukov, whose face remained blank. I searched his eyes for any clue that he knew about this and it crossed my mind that he had planned it. He had brought me to a place from which there would be no escape.

‘Commander?’

I looked down at Donskoy and tried to give nothing away in my expression. I was thinking quickly, trying to see a way through this. If Krukov was betraying me, I had no chance, but if not, I had to stop those men from seeing me. As soon as they saw me, they would give up my real identity. I had men at my back, men who I hoped were loyal. They were experienced and quick, but we would be outnumbered if we had to fight. Too many possibilities were presenting themselves to me.

I had to just fix on one.

‘Where are they?’ Krukov asked.

‘In the barracks.’ The commander pointed to the building closest to the camp entrance. It looked like all the others, but instead of housing prisoners, it housed the men who could identify me as Nikolai Levitsky. Something in Donskoy’s voice, though, and in the twist at the corner of his mouth suggested that he disapproved of the men who were now his guests.

‘Doing what?’ I asked, risking a quick look at the building before pulling my cap further down on my brow and allowing Kashtan to turn so that my back was to it. If any one were to look out of the window, they would see only a man on horseback.

The commander’s eyes turned down for a fraction of a second before he spoke again. ‘They’re sleeping, Comrade Commander.’

‘Sleeping?’

‘They said your orders were to rest once the prisoners were delivered, so they’ve been drinking all day. They had some of the women in the barracks too.’

‘The women?’ I tried not to clench my fists as anger began to replace fear. ‘And you disapprove?’

The camp commander looked to one side and clenched his jaw.

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘They’re not fit to be part of my unit. Have your men arrest them.’

Donskoy could not hide his surprise.

‘Do you know who I am?’ I asked him.

‘Only by reputation, Commander Ryzhkov.’

‘Good. Because those men in there,’ I said, ‘have not only brought you the wrong prisoners, but they have taken advantage of that reputation.’

‘The wrong prisoners?’

‘Have your men arrest them, Commander. They’re to be sent to Ryazan. Perhaps a few years of hard labour will remind them how to be patriots.’

‘You don’t want them shot?’

‘Let them labour for the glory of the revolution,’ I said. ‘The motherland always needs more workers.’

‘I’ll prepare the papers.’ He looked disappointed to be denied a shooting.

‘Sign them yourself,’ I said. ‘In the meantime, I want you to give me access to the prisoners. Some of them will be leaving with me today.’

‘If you give me the names of the ones you’re looking for, I’ll have my men—’

‘If I wanted to do that, I would have done it. Do you know the names of every prisoner you have here?’

‘No, but we can—’

‘Unlock the gate.’

‘Of course, Comrade Commander.’ Donskoy took a step back, saluted and turned to summon one of the guards. He issued his orders, and when the guard hurried back to the barracks, the commander went to the gate and unlocked it, pulling it wide for us to enter.

I glanced at Krukov and dismounted, feeling my heart thumping.

Closer.

Please be here.

I had to control myself, stop myself from hurrying into the compound and calling out Marianna’s name.

Krukov and the other men also dismounted, and we stepped into the compound.

The commander came in behind us and called to the prisoners, ordering them to assemble in front of us and form a line.

Please be here.

They were a ragged bunch, shivering in clothes that were dirty and torn, many of them thin, as if they hadn’t eaten properly for a long time. They were like animals kept in a cage, thrown scraps of food and forced to sleep piled on top of one another. I remembered what Anna had said about wanting to save them all, but I couldn’t do it. No matter how wrong this was, I was one man. I would struggle even to save my own; I couldn’t begin to think about taking them all with me. A child’s world is so much simpler.

Please be here.

I saw Marianna straight away. She was unmistakeable. She stared at the ground, as if afraid to look up, and she held our sons close to her, pulling them against her almost as if they had become a part of her.

My heart stopped. My eyes took in every detail.

The shabbiness of her dress, the way she shivered without her winter coat, the split boots that barely covered her feet.

She kept my sons near, both for hopeless protection and to share their warmth. Her face was thinner than I had ever seen it, engrained with dirt, and the tangle of her hair had lost its winter-wheat shine.

Misha was hunched in his coat in a way that was unnatural for one so young, and his features, too, were sharper than I remembered them. The weeks of hunger had not been kind to him. Nor had they been kind to Pavel, who looked smaller than he was in my memories, so that his winter coat swamped him, hanging off his thin shoulders. His head was lowered so that he stared at the ground, and I longed to bring him to me, to put my face to his hair.

They were alive.

The look of despair about them was almost too much for me to bear. I wanted to cry out their names and throw my arms around them. I wanted to rage against those who had harmed them. I wanted to fall on my knees and thank God they were still alive.

But I had to be calm. I had to act the part I was playing.

Marianna looked up to see who had come; at first, she just saw a soldier with his cap pulled low, so she averted her eyes, not wanting to draw attention to herself. But she had seen something she recognised. It was clear in her expression. A widening of her eyes. A loosening of her mouth.

And when she looked up again, our eyes locked.

For a second it was as if no one else were there. We were alone.

I stared into her eyes, the colour of the summer sky, and I longed to reach out and touch her. I wanted to put my hands on the pale skin of her cheeks just to be sure it was her, that she was really alive. It took all my strength and reserve to hide my emotions as I looked at my sons, desperate to put my arms around them, hold them tight. I yearned to press my face against Misha’s, to kiss the top of Pavel’s head and breathe the scent of his hair I remembered so well.

‘Comrade Commander?’ Donskoy asked. ‘Is everything all right?’

Then the spell broke. My heart lurched and Marianna began to open her mouth, as if to speak, but I shook my head in warning, sharp and quick.

I turned away, hoping she had seen the message I was trying to send.

It took all of my strength to look away from her. Every fibre in my body ached. When I went to the first man in the line of prisoners, I risked a glance back at her, seeing her whisper to Misha and Pavel. The boys lifted their faces to look at me, but Marianna put a hand on each of their heads and turned them with a quick jerk. Even so, their eyes slid to watch me and I prayed they would say nothing.

So I fought my yearning and began to walk along the line of prisoners, looking at the face of each person I would not save. I could hardly concentrate on anything. The prisoners in front of me were a blur and I had to stop my eyes from wandering, shaking my head each time.

When I came to Marianna and the children, my mouth was dry and my hands were shaking. I had to lace my fingers together to hide their trembling as I nodded and spoke to Krukov. ‘These ones,’ I said.

‘Come forward,’ Krukov ordered, and when they stepped from the line, he ushered them out of the compound before my sons could say anything.

‘That’s all?’ Commander Donskoy said, and I could see that he wanted to ask. He wanted to know why I was taking these prisoners away.

‘Secret business,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘Orders from Moscow.’ I looked along the line of other prisoners, thinking again about what Anna had said, but I could not help them. I had to leave them to their fate.

Donskoy straightened and stiffened his back. He put his feet together, throwing his chest out like a peacock. ‘From Moscow. Of course, Comrade Commander. I understand.’

I let him have his moment of pride, then turned to watch Krukov leading my family away. As I did, I noticed soldiers coming out of the barracks in the outer compound. They were armed with rifles, five men, and heading towards the other barracks building where Ryzhkov’s remaining men lay sleeping.

‘You want to speak to them when they are arrested?’ Donskoy asked, as we returned to the horses.

‘No.’ I put my foot into the stirrup and pushed up onto Kashtan’s back. ‘I have to leave.’

‘So quickly? Let me offer you a—’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Moscow can’t wait.’

‘Of course. I understand.’

I nudged Kashtan into a walk and directed her towards the gate. Krukov fell in beside me, while Repnin and Manarov took their positions behind us. My prisoners – my family – walked in front of us, waiting at the gate for the guards to pull it open.

From the barracks came the sound of shouting. A mess of voices arguing and swearing. Then a single shot was followed by the crackle of several weapons firing at once.

The guards in the towers all turned their rifles towards the barracks, and the men at the gates unslung their rifles, working the bolts and preparing to fire. The commander of the camp drew his pistol and stood waiting to see what or who was going to emerge.

Repnin and Manarov behind me had also readied their weapons, while Krukov and I had drawn our pistols.

Then there was silence.

Not a sound from the barracks.

Everyone waited, the snow falling around us, thick flakes settling on our shoulders.

And in that moment when time seemed to stand still inside the camp, I spoke to Krukov, my voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Get my family through that gate,’ I said. ‘Whatever happens.’

The door to the barracks opened and a soldier came out into the evening. He was barefoot and had his hands clasped together over his head. He was followed by a second man, then a third. Each one of them had nothing on his feet and held his hands on his head. The guards who emerged behind them organised Ryzhkov’s men into a line and ordered them to their knees.

‘What happened?’ the camp commander asked.

‘They shot Suvorov,’ said one of the guards.

‘So you killed him?’

‘We had to. He would have shot us all.’

The commander turned to look at me. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Ryzhkov’s men all looked over at me. My cap was pulled low and the day was darkening and I hoped they couldn’t see my face, but I couldn’t take the risk. I couldn’t let them identify me. I was too close now.

Too close.

‘They’re your prisoners now,’ I said, kicking Kashtan forward. ‘Do with them as you will.’

I trotted into the corral, side by side with Krukov, and when we were halfway through, the gate closed behind us and a volley of shots cracked the evening air.

When the outer gate opened, I trotted through it and felt nothing for the men who had just died. Nothing that was behind me mattered anymore – all that mattered now was ahead.