Dan Smith - Red Winter

‘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.

Marianna walked with one arm around each of our sons so they couldn’t look behind them and raise the suspicion of the guards. Pavel tried to turn, but Marianna held him tight.

Side by side with Krukov, I followed the tracks they left in the snow. I stared at their backs and controlled myself, but tears came to my eyes no matter how hard I tried to hold them at bay.

I wiped them away with a gloved hand and turned to Krukov to acknowledge my thanks.

‘What now?’ he asked.

I cleared my throat, taking a chance to compose myself. ‘I’m going home,’ I said. ‘I’m taking my family home.’

‘And your unit?’

‘I thought for a moment back there that you might betray me,’ I said, watching my family once more and feeling a lump rise to my throat.

‘It can be difficult to know who to trust,’ he agreed.

‘But I can trust you,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘Even if I told you I have no intention of commanding this unit any longer?’

Krukov nodded. ‘How could you command a unit when you’re dead?’

His words surprised me, and without thinking, I turned to him.

My hand reached for my pistol.

Krukov saw the movement and shook his head. ‘That’s not what I meant. We’re the only men who know you’re alive. Anyone who accused you of desertion is dead. That’s why you used Ryzhkov’s papers in there. You don’t want anyone to know that Nikolai Levitsky is alive.’

‘ You know,’ I said. ‘And the others too.’

‘All of us loyal to you. All we know is that you’re dead. We’ll swear to it.’

And for once I believed it.

We maintained the pretence of a unit escorting prisoners until we were well out of the forest, and even then, I was afraid to believe that I had recovered my family and that no one was hurt.

When we were clear of the trees and came to the ruined town, concealed among the damaged buildings, Marianna stopped and looked back at me and I saw what was in her eyes. It was not happiness but immense relief. She had travelled here on foot, seeing the kinds of horrors I had seen. Perhaps she had witnessed Ryzhkov’s brandings and torture, and wondered how long it would be before he did the same to her or to our sons. She had been imprisoned and starved and mistreated. She was awaiting deportation to a labour camp and would have known that meant certain death.

Now that she was free, the relief was overwhelming her.

When the children turned, Pavel called out, ‘Papa!’ and ran to me as I climbed down from Kashtan, the faithful friend who had brought me so far and never let me down.

Misha ran too, keeping up with his brother, and then my sons were putting their arms around me as if to test that I was real.

‘Papa,’ they said over and over, squeezing me tight and staring up at me.

I hugged them back and kissed them, and I put my face to Pavel’s hair. And as I did it, I looked over the top of their heads at Marianna.

She was so much thinner than I remembered, but just as beautiful.

I took off my coat and held my hand out to her.

She began to cry, her face crumpling, her shoulders rising and falling with great sobs as she took my hand.

‘Marianna.’ I put my coat around her. ‘I found you.’

‘Kolya,’ she said, touching her fingers to my face and staring in quiet disbelief. ‘Kolya.’

I drew her closer so that we were all together and we stood as a family, holding one another as if we would never be parted again.

I closed my eyes and held them for a long time.

When I finally opened them again, Anna was standing close, waiting, with Tuzik at her side.

‘This is Anna,’ I said. ‘She’ll be coming with us.’

‘Anna.’ My wife repeated the name as if to test it. She spoke gently and looked at Anna.

‘She’s part of our family now,’ I said, holding a hand out to her.

‘Where will we go?’ Marianna asked. ‘Home?’

I had been so single-minded I hadn’t given much consideration to what we would do when I had found them. Perhaps I had been too afraid that they might not be alive and that we’d have no future together. We couldn’t go home, though, I knew that.

There was nothing for us in Belev anymore but the dead.

Then I remembered the last place I had experienced real warmth and comfort. I remembered Lev’s friendship and how welcome he had made me feel.

‘There’s a place,’ I said, as Anna put her hand in mine and I brought her to be with us. ‘A farm that’s far from the road. I think we’ll be safe there for a while.’

‘And then?’

‘And then we’ll be together,’ I said, ‘all five of us. Whatever happens.’

Dan Smith grew up following his parents across the world. He’s lived in many places including Sierra Leone, Sumatra, northern and central Brazil, Spain and the Soviet Union, but is now settled in Newcastle with his family. His debut novel, Dry Season , was shortlisted for the Authors’ Club Best First Novel Award 2011, and was nominated for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award .