CHAPTER 5

With the victory at Seelow Heights, won by grinding thousands of Russians to a bloody pulp until the Germans were simply overwhelmed, all roads were now leading to Berlin.

On one of these roads, a very drunken Yegor Barkov was riding in the back of a Studebaker truck emblazoned with a Soviet star. He had a bottle of liquor in one hand and his prized Mosin-Nagant rifle with its telescopic sight in the other. Balanced in the bed of the slow-moving truck, he looked like he was posing for a photograph.

The advance toward Berlin resembled a victory parade after so many months upon months of slogging through snow and mud and blood. The truck slowed yet more to move around a trio of German women who struggled to push a wheelbarrow piled high with their possessions. The women appeared hunched and beaten, not even bothering to look up. These damn Germans, he thought. They deserved this defeat. Now they were reaping what they had sown.

Barkov took one last swig of alcohol and hurled the empty bottle at the women. The bottle struck one of them in the head with such force that it knocked her down. Barkov laughed. He’d always had good aim.

"What else is there to drink, Oleg?" Barkov wanted to know.

"We are dry as the dessert," the Mink said, his eyes glassy with booze.

"Not for long," Barkov said. He staggered across the bed of the truck and banged a big fist on the roof, shouting, "Pull over, if you know what's good for you!"

The truck slowed. They had reached the outskirts of Berlin. Beyond, they could see the city — or what was left of it. Soviet troops now encircled the German capital. Earlier, they had opened fire with an artillery barrage that went on and on, punishing the city with nearly two million pounds of high explosive. Berlin no longer had any fight and there was no military purpose to the bombardment; it was a beating, pure and simple.

When the Studebaker stopped, Barkov and the Mink jumped off, along with several other men in their squad. They were mostly snipers, but there was little need anymore for their services, not when the artillery and tanks were busily at work on what little remained of German resistance.

The road around them was filled with advancing masses of Soviet troops. The scene was chaotic — there was very little order among the men. The officers and even the dreaded commissars kept their heads down, letting the men enjoy the fruits of victory after long months of war.

To the Germans peering from whatever shelter they could find, it looked like a horde of barbarians had arrived. Some of the enemy troops had the facial features of Mongols, as if Genghis Khan’s soldiers had arrived. Others wore sheepskin caps and bandoliers of brass-jacketed bullets draped across their shoulders. If the frightened Germans looked closely, they would have noticed an especially large, drunken barbarian, trailed by a much smaller man, step off the road. A handful of soldiers followed them.

Barkov and his men spread out through the ruins, searching for anything of value. Many of the Russian soldiers were simple peasants, and the richness and plenty of the plunder they found was overwhelming. Some wore several layers of captured clothing — sweaters, suit jackets, raincoats, even women's fur stoles — it was all too good to pass up. They stuffed their pockets with bottles of perfume, silver combs, and costume jewelry, so that each man seemed to be carrying the contents of a shop wherever he went. Along with the churning of muddy tires could be heard the clink of bottles and the rattle of beads.

By Stalin's order, every Russian was entitled to ship home a five-kilo parcel. Officers were allowed even more. In this way, many a Russian sister or wife received an expensive German dress or new silverware. The higher-ranking officers took their pick of the plunder, which included expensive hunting rifles, radios, or even artwork.

The Germans saw them as barbarians, so why disappoint?

Mainly, what the soldiers wanted was booze. They ransacked houses and shops, grabbing anything that looked remotely like alcohol. Already, there had been several incidents of soldiers fatally poisoned by drinking industrial solvents at one of several factories the Russians had overrun. It turned out that the Russians could not believe their good luck in discovering the huge vats and tanks of intoxicating liquid. All that booze for the taking! There had been quite a party as a result. As many as several hundred soldiers had died, or were in the process of dying horribly. The Russians were convinced that the Germans had deliberately poisoned them — never mind the fact that the vats and holding tanks clearly stated that the contents were not for human consumption. It was not the way of the Russian soldier to bother with the fine print, even when he had some knowledge of the German language.

"Spread out," Barkov ordered his squad. "Look at these bomzhi, getting all the good stuff! See what you can find us to drink."

"I only drink red wine," the Mink said. He was so intoxicated that he reeled; Barkov reached out a hand to steady him.

"Look at you, Oleg, drunk as a lord! Ha, ha! That's the spirit." He looked around at the men. "Don't listen to him. He's drunk. Bring back anything you can find, just as long as it's not that poisoned shit the Germans have been leaving for us."

"What about women?" one of the men asked, grinning.

"If you find any German women who don't look like hags, you let me know," Barkov said. He had already seen plenty of ugly ones, like the women he had thrown a bottle at.

The men fanned out. They had their orders, and when Barkov gave orders, they listened. His men ran from house to house like dogs chasing rabbits. Barkov sat on the fender of the Studebaker and smoked a cigarette, waiting to see what they would find.

• • •

In a cellar nearby, a dozen people were hiding from the Russians and the shelling. So far, they had been lucky. The Russian shells had spared them while knocking down other houses and burying the occupants alive. None of the marauding Russians had bothered with the cellar. There was more than enough bounty in the rooms above.

The knot of frightened people hiding in the dark included a mother, her eighteen-year-old daughter, and thirteen-year-old son — the last they had heard from the father was two weeks ago when he was being rushed to defend Seelow Heights, and they did not know if they would ever hear from him again. There was an elderly neighbor and his wife, both of them frail old people. There was also a woman whose husband had died serving in the Luftwaffe, and she had managed her grief by eating — even in these lean times she looked fat as a sausage. In comparison to the other three women, the girl stood out like a diamond among lumps of coal. The girl’s mother was acutely aware of this fact, which was why they had gone into hiding.

The cellar hideaway had been spared so far, but the men of Barkov's squad were more enterprising than most. Snipers were used to ferreting out hiding places; it was how their minds worked. Under Barkov's direction, they had also become skilled looters since crossing over into Germany.

One of the men, whose name was Murushko, entered the house and made a quick circuit of the rooms. Clearly, the place had been picked over. He did, however, notice a door in the kitchen that appeared to lead to a cellar. When he tried the door, it was locked. Ah. Who bothered to lock the cellar door and left the front door open? He took a step back and kicked it open with a muddy boot.

He stood at the top of the stairs and sniffed. The smell alone told him that Germans were hiding down there. He caught the smell of boiled potatoes and cabbage, along with a whiff of the bucket in the corner that served as a makeshift latrine.

Someone, probably several someones, was hiding in the cellar.

Keeping his gun ready, he descended several steps and flicked on a flashlight. Playing the beam over the floor, he picked out several Germans, all huddled together, as if hoping he wouldn't see them.

One of the Germans looked up. His flashlight beam fell upon a pretty young face. The first one he had seen in weeks.

He turned on his heel to fetch Barkov.

• • •

Barkov was smoking another cigarette when Murushko came running up. Before he could explain the situation to Barkov, an old German man materialized out of nowhere and began berating the Russians. He seemed very excited and angry, to the point that he waved his arms about. He looked silly, like a mad babbling puppet. Barkov was not sure what the old man was yelling about, so with a sigh he drew his Nagant M1895 Revolver and shot the old man. A lead bullet weighing 9.5 grams and traveling at just over 1,000 feet per second entered the skull and tunneled through the gray matter, then almost instantaneously exploded out the back of the brain pan, immediately putting an end to the old man's protest. Barkov watched with half-hearted interest as the body collapsed into the mud. Now the old man was a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He turned to Murushko. "What?"

"I found something in that cellar over there."

"Booze?"

"Better."

"Show me." Barkov tossed away his cigarette. The Mink wobbled nearby in an alcoholic haze, so Barkov grabbed him by the shirtfront and dragged him along like a bewildered child.

It wasn't far. This time, it was Barkov who went down the stairs with the flashlight, keeping his pistol ready. A cornered animal was a dangerous one. Murushko and the Mink were right behind him, the later having sobered up quickly enough. Barkov always felt better with the Mink watching his back — drunk or not.

In the flashlight beam, the people huddled in the corner stared with frightened eyes in the direction of the light. They were a pathetic, harmless bunch. An old man who would break like a stick. Three ugly women dry as an old boot. The boy might be trouble if he showed a little bravery. Barkov's light picked out the face of the girl.

“What have we here?” he growled.

He approached the group. Barkov's German was limited, but in this case it was enough. Only an imbecile would not understand what the men wanted.

"Fräulein," he said. "Lestnitsa." Upstairs. He pointed at the girl, and then pointed at the steps.

When the girl did not move, Barkov waded into the little group, kicking them aside like dogs, and grabbed the girl by the arm. "Poyekhali!"

The mother had the good sense to know that there was no point in protesting, considering that they were staring down the barrels of three Russian rifles. Cooperation was the only hope they had of survival.

The brother couldn't know that, or didn't care. He decided to be brave. He launched himself at Barkov, shouting something in German and swinging bony fists. Barkov simply reversed his rifle and smashed the boy's face. He went down on the dirt floor and curled up into a ball. The girl tried to help him, but Barkov dragged her away and shoved her toward the stairs.

They forced her at gunpoint through the house and to an upstairs bedroom. Barkov pointed at the bed. She sat down on it. Barkov sighed and made motions like he was pulling a shirt up over his head. Were German girls so dense? The girl stared at him, horrified, and he reached over to slap her to get her attention, and then repeated the motion of pulling his shirt over his head. This time, the girl complied and took off her dress. Barkov nodded and gave her a push so that she fell back on the bed.

By now, the rest of the squad had crowded into the bedroom. Six men. All in various states of intoxication. Staring at the girl on the bed. Barkov unbuckled his trousers, his intent all too obvious, and the girl started to wail.

They were all so intent on the scene on the bed that the younger brother slipped in unnoticed and leaped onto Barkov's back like he was climbing a mountain, shouting and pounding his fists. Cursing, Barkov shrugged him off, dumping the boy to the floor in a heap. Murushko kicked him, and the Mink raised his pistol to shoot him. The girl wailed even louder, sounding like an air raid siren to Barkov's ears.

This was not going as he had planned, not at all. He slapped the girl and shouted at the Mink, "Nyet!"

Drunk as he was, Barkov quickly explained his plan. The Mink hauled the boy to his feet, wrapped an arm around his throat, and put a revolver to his head. Barkov pointed at the boy and then at the girl. Unless she was a complete Oyabuk, she ought to understand the situation, and what Barkov wanted.

Horribly, the crime that was taking place in that bedroom was being perpetrated all across Berlin. Rape was being used by the invading Russians as both a form of punishment against the German people and as a grotesque spoil of war. It was as if the medieval era had returned to the 20th century.

• • •

When Barkov finished with the girl, he took another big swig from some bottle they had found, and then Murushko took his turn. The brother was sobbing, unable to take his eyes off the nightmare scene in front of him because the Mink was holding him so that he was forced to watch. Still, the boy strained against the Mink’s grip. Barkov absently punched him in the belly.

It turned out that the girl's initial screaming had not been for nothing. Murushko was busy humping away, his pale ass bobbling up and down, when a commissar appeared in the doorway. He was young and looked startled by the scene he had walked into. These hardened soldiers all resembled drunken thugs, and he looked from one to the other uncertainly, despite his commissar's uniform.

"What is going on here?" he demanded.

“What do you think?” Barkov said. “Go away.”

The young commissar did not seem sure what to do about the rape, but he did know one thing: “You cannot speak to me that way.” His hand fumbled at his holster.

Barkov gave him a shove that sent the officer crashing against the wall. Then the sniper reached down with a hand the size of a bear paw and took away the officer’s gun. It was a Tokarev TT-33 Service Pistol in 7.62 mm, ugly but reliable as a hammer. “This does not concern you, Comrade Commissar. That is, unless you want a turn."

Barkov gestured at the bed. The young officer blushed, and averted his eyes. He darted from the room, chased down the narrow hall by the laughter of the soldiers.

Only the Mink wasn't laughing. "Yegor, what have you done?"

"That little runt won't be back, not if he knows what's good for him," Barkov said. "You worry too much."

They all had a go at the girl. Murushko went twice. To take his turn, the Mink released the brother, who sank to his knees, blubbering. Barkov considered killing him anyhow, but that seemed too kind. The boy would be having nightmares about this day for years to come — it would serve the little Nazi bastard right. The boy would always be reminded of the day when he had been too weak to defend his sister.

Finished, Barkov and his men stumped loudly down the stairs of the neat German house and out the front door — where he saw the young commissar approaching again. This time, he was not alone.

An older political officer flanked him, and if the young commissar had the look of a puppy, this one had the appearance of a watchdog who enjoyed biting. Barkov recognized him vaguely as having been one the senior commissars to give speeches before the attack on Seelow Heights. He had then gone to the rear to shoot those for whom the speech had not been sufficient motivation for advancing toward the German lines. As if the appearance of the commissar wasn’t bad enough, a couple of NKVD guards marched along, submachine guns casually aimed in Barkov’s direction.

"You," the older commissar said to Barkov. "I know you. You are the sniper. Your name is Barkov.”

"Yes, Comrade Commissar."

"Why do you think I am here, Barkov?"

"The girl—"

"Girl? Do you think I give a shit if you screw some German girl? No, I might give you a medal for that. No, Barkov, you stupid Oyabuk, your crime is that you dared to put a hand on this officer here, who hesitated in shooting you because he still believes in the milk of human kindness. I have no such frailties.”

Barkov started to speak, but thought better of it.

The commissar went on, “The only reason I am not going to shoot you right now is because of your service. I know who you are, Barkov. In your drunkenness, you have made a serious error in judgment that will require some reeducation.” He made an expression that he must have thought was a smile, but the sight of his perfectly square teeth gave even Barkov a shiver. “I have new duties for you now that the fighting is over."

"Yes, Comrade Commissar." Barkov felt a sinking feeling. Whatever a commissar had in mind couldn't be good. "What about my men?"

The commissar nodded at Murushko and the Mink. “You can bring those two along. They look dependable. Now, give the commissar his pistol back.”

Barkov did as he was told, handing back the Tokarev TT-33.

Then the commissar turned to the younger officer. "Make yourself useful, Comrade. Shoot these others."

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