Dan Smith - Red Winter

‘It’s not how I thought it was. I’ve seen things that change it all. We’re not saving our country; we’re killing her. Men like Ryzhkov are killing her. Do you know the things he’s done?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you didn’t try to stop him?’

‘I thought about it, but then I was following you .’

‘On his orders?’

‘We had both lost our commanders; he was the senior soldier. I never wanted to take orders from him.’

‘But you had to.’ I had heard that sentiment before. Commander Orlov had been the same. He followed orders because it was his duty to follow them and because there were consequences for men who did not. ‘And he wanted you to come after me.’

‘Yes, and I wanted to come. Some of the men too. We talked; they volunteered.’

‘What about Ryzhkov’s comrades? Any of them come with you?’

‘Two of them. They aren’t good men either.’

Only two of them were with Krukov. Including the four who had been at the farm, that gave him only six men from his original unit, but there had been more when we merged. The rest must have been with the prisoners, taking them to a holding camp. At least Ryzhkov had only been half lying about that. I wondered if they were due to return at any time soon.

‘You know what happens to deserters,’ Krukov said.

‘I know.’

‘It would have been easier if you had died.’

‘I am dead. At least, I can be. If you would let me be.’ Deserters could be hunted. Dead men could only be mourned and forgotten.

Krukov blinked hard and tightened his mouth further.

‘My family was taken from a village called Belev. If you’ve been following me, you will have seen it.’

‘There have been so many villages.’

‘My wife and sons were there. Ryzhkov took them.’

‘Where is Alek?’

‘Dead.’

‘And Ryzhkov took your wife and sons?’ Krukov looked me up and down once more, then nudged his horse even closer. ‘Are they alive?’

‘I think so. I hope so.’ I gripped the revolver harder, my finger tightening on the trigger.

‘I’m sorry, Commander.’

‘It’s just Nikolai now. Kolya.’

Krukov backed away, keeping his eyes on me, then he turned his horse and rode to the other men. He spoke for some time with the two men in the centre of the line, while the others maintained their positions facing us.

When he had finished his conversation, Krukov rode along the line, going to one of the men at the end and speaking briefly before the man passed something to him. Krukov set the object on the saddle in front of him, then turned his horse in our direction.

As he returned, the two riders from the centre of the line broke away and followed, coming either side as he reached us. They were the two men he had spoken to at length, men whose faces were in shadow beneath hats, but as they came closer, I wondered if I had seen them before. Something about them was familiar.

Both men wore a winter coat, and each of them had a leather cap pulled low on his brow. The front of each cap bore the red star. The same image I had seen branded into my children’s eyes in my nightmares.

The older of the two men had a weather-beaten face, and a look of boredom about him, the way he slouched in the saddle. A scar ran from his left eye and disappeared at his cheekbone, where it was covered by a beard that had been allowed to grow wild. The other was clean-shaven and thick-featured with a firm, square jaw. He was a good-looking man, the kind whose representation wouldn’t look out of place on a propaganda poster.

It was the bearded one who spoke first as he caught up with Krukov, saying, ‘What’s going on, Commander? Why did you want to know about—’ As soon as he saw the revolver in my hand, he raised his rifle and pointed it at me. ‘Drop your weapon.’

Krukov was sitting still in the saddle, one hand on the reins, the other holding his pistol, resting on the item he had brought: a large bag, shaped like a sack but made from stout green canvas, tied with a piece of frayed cord.

‘Drop it now ,’ said the scarred man.

‘Who are you?’ I asked him. ‘You’re not in charge.’

‘This is Stepan Ivanovich,’ said Krukov, tilting his head to the man at his left, ‘and my other comrade is Artem Andreyovich.’

‘Ryzhkov’s men?’ I asked. That’s why I had recognised them.

‘We are all of the same unit,’ Krukov replied. ‘These men volunteered to join the search for you.’ When he said the word ‘volunteered’, there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Krukov was not an emotional man – he gave little away in his expressions and intonation– but I had known him long enough to understand that he didn’t like Stepan Ivanovich and Artem Andreyovich. Krukov would have preferred to lead just the men he knew. Like me, he would have felt uneasy having strangers at his side, especially ones who were loyal to a man like Ryzhkov. Krukov would see them as spies in his ranks. He would not have liked having them in his unit.

‘Why didn’t you take his weapon?’ Stepan asked Krukov. ‘And where’s Koschei?’

‘Ryzhkov’s not here,’ Krukov said.

‘He’s gone ahead to the camp, you mean? That’s where he is?’ Stepan’s words made me look to Krukov.

‘Exactly. He’s taken the prisoners to the holding camp.’ Krukov spoke slowly and with emphasis.

‘So what are we waiting for?’ Stepan Ivanovich snapped the rifle tighter to his shoulder and glanced sideways at Krukov.

Neither Krukov nor I spoke.

‘You want me to get a rope,’ asked Artem Andreyovich, ‘or you want to shoot him?’

‘Wait.’ Krukov raised his left hand and made a circling motion in the air. Immediately the other riders came forward.

For a moment the approaching men were silhouettes against the sun. They moved well in the saddle as they crossed the blood frost, and like the others, I saw their faces only when they were almost upon us. They were four faces I recognised: Bukharin, Manarov, Repnin and Nevsky. Four men who had served with me for many years. Four men whom I had loved like brothers but now thought me a traitor and were bound to execute me for treason.

When they were almost upon us, they split, riding in pairs to either end of the line and moving inwards to form a semicircle round Anna and me. We were hemmed in now. No escape.

‘We have a choice to make,’ Krukov said. His voice was hoarse, as if he needed to clear it.

‘You mean bullet or rope?’ Artem Andreyovich smiled at the prospect.

‘We should wait for Koschei,’ said Stepan. ‘Or take him to the camp. He’ll want his head.’

Now Krukov took his eyes off me. He shifted in the saddle and turned first to look left along the line, then right along the line. When he faced forwards once more, he took a deep breath. ‘Koschei is dead.’

‘What?’ There was a flash of confusion in Stepan’s eyes, followed by a glint of understanding, but before he could react, Krukov raised his pistol to point directly at his chest.

As soon as he did it, the two men at either end of the line turned their weapons on Stepan and Artem.

‘What is this?’ Stepan demanded. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘I don’t trust you men,’ Krukov said. ‘I never did. You are no longer needed in this unit.’

‘You can’t do this.’

‘Who’s going to stop me?’

Stepan tore his eyes from Krukov and looked at me along the barrel of his rifle. ‘I could kill him now. I’d be a hero.’

‘No, you’d just be a dead man,’ Krukov said. ‘Or you could ride away. Right now.’

‘And you’d just let us go?’ Artem asked.

Krukov thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’ And he shot Stepan through the heart.