John Schettler: 9 Days Falling, Volume I

Local lore said the Siberian shamans of old attributed special healing powers to the waters here, but Troyak found a taste of the savory ‘Omul’ fish sold by an old woman at the Mysovaya train station to be more than enough to fortify him. They found it freshly caught, and set up a makeshift brazier to grill it to a smoky delight that was much akin to salmon.

The three men were resting quietly on a bench near the watering station while the rail attendants topped off their tank when they heard the labored approach of another train coming in from the west. It was a short train with a weathered old red engine followed by three gray freight cars, a coach car, and two large boxcars painted dull green. As the train rolled to a stop they saw five armed guards jump down from the coach car in brown NKVD uniforms and carrying rifles with bayonets. Fedorov watched as one guard went to the first boxcar and raised the iron door latch while the other four slowly pulled the doors open.

They heard the sound of people moaning and groaning from the shadowy interior, and they could smell the stench of excrement, urine and dank body odor even where they sat about twenty yards away from the other train. Fedorov immediately realized that this was a group of detainees, most likely bound for one of the hundreds of labor camps haunting the forbidding reaches of Siberia in the great ‘Gulag Archipelago.’

These lost souls had probably been rounded up in a wild and unexpected moment when the soldiers would come to their homes, pounding loudly on the door with shouts of “Otkroite! Open up!” whatever grievance they had, or whether or not there was any proof of wrongdoing on the victims’ part, did not matter. It was often merely the simple fact of the neighborhood they lived in that condemned them and saw them rousted out of their homes in the night and herded aboard these obscene train cars heading east into the oblivion of Siberia. Once they had reached their destination, those that survived the oppressive journey would be interrogated by the Bluecaps, NKVD security men, and their “case” would be manufactured on the spot in that dark hour, a confession extracted, and a judgment rendered that would shadow their lives for years—or end their lives.

This group looked like they had been on the train for a good long time, haggard and disheveled, their faces gaunt and fearful under hollow eyes that seemed to stare ahead blankly, as though they were unwilling to truly see or believe what was happening to them. Fedorov looked at Troyak, shaking his head.

“Welcome to Stalin’s world,” he said quietly. “We have had an easy ride west thus far, but we forget what happened in this war, the misery we inflicted on our own people, and the terror and injustice of it all.”

Troyak nodded, eying the soldiers with unfriendly eyes. They soon realized that aside from ventilating the cramped boxcar, the guards were also looking to remove anyone who had died the previous night. Their harsh voices lashed at the people huddled in the car and Fedorov saw that they were pointing at a man who lay on the soiled hay of the boxcar floor. They wanted him shoved out, but he could hear the sound of a boy crying, women sobbing, and then he saw that a young lad was holding dearly to the old man’s hand, crying fitfully. The boy would not let go, which soon prompted one of the guards to reach in and give him a hard slap on the back of his head, and then another when this only increased his terrified weeping.

Fedorov had seen enough, standing up with an angry expression on his face. “Here we are trying to stop world war three, but we can damn well do something about this one as well.” He strode boldly towards the scene, walking briskly across the intervening rail lines with a determined gait. Troyak and Zykov were up at once, waiting to see what would happen and watching the armed soldiers closely.

“You men!” Fedorov shouted. “What are you doing?” He saw that the soldier who had struck the boy was just about to turn his bayonet on the lad and he immediately seized him by the arm and dragged him back. The guard spun around, the butt of his rifle ready to strike. Then he saw the dark Ushanka on Fedorov’s head, the shoulder straps on his jacket and insignia on his chest, and he stopped himself.

“I’m sorry, sir. I did not see you. I thought you were one of these.” He wagged his head derisively toward the open boxcar. Fedorov looked inside, horrified to see the condition of the car. People were huddled together so closely that they could barely move. The putrid smell of death rolled from the open door. He saw where they had managed to pry loose one of the floorboards in the center of the car where it now served as the solitary toilet facility. The thought that people—men, women, children, would have to squat there on the long train ride filled him with revulsion. Two or three women were sobbing quietly, and the young boy still clung woefully to the old man’s arm, wailing “ dedushka , dedushka —grandfather, grandfather!”

“The man is dead,” the guard pointed. “He must be removed.”

Fedorov edged closer to the boy, seeing how the people nearest to him instinctively shirked back—from the uniform he wore, not knowing the man inside this one, but having undoubtedly met many others who wore that garb.

“Do not be afraid,” he said in a quiet voice, and he reached in and put his hand softly on the young boy’s head, as if to soothe away the sting of the guard’s blows and comfort him. A young woman brave enough to meet his eyes was watching the scene, and seeing her he gestured that she should come closer. “Help me with him, please,” he said quietly.

He told the boy not to worry, and that they were going to take his grandpa to see the doctor. Hearing his voice and seeing the expression on his face, the people seemed to perceive that he was of a different ilk, uniform aside, and two men within moved to assist. One of the women took the young boy into her arms while the men eased the old man out. The guards just stood there stupidly, thinking to see the man simply pushed from the train car onto the ground, and when Fedorov saw this he sharply ordered them to take hold of the man and carry him forward, out of the boy’s sight.

Fedorov turned to the soldier who had struck the child, his anger still very apparent. “What is your name, soldier?”

“Melinikov, sir.”

“You have a grandfather, Melinikov?”

“Sir?

“You have a grandfather, do you not? What if he was lying there on that filthy floor, eh? And what were you going to do with that bayonet, kill a child?”

“His grandfather would not be stupid enough to get himself stuffed in a rail car like that,” came a hard edged voice, and Fedorov turned to see another NKVD man had come out of the coach car and was striding to the scene. He looked to be an officer, and he did not look happy. “Who are you and what business is it of yours?”

Fedorovknew from the sound of his voice that this man was the ring leader of this rail security detachment, a Lieutenant by rank, inured to the pain and suffering of others and the man truly responsible for the conditions here. He knew this train was probably one of a hundred others that had come east this month, and though it seemed a futile blow against a tide he could not possibly hope to stem, he was here in front of this train at the moment and, by God, he was going to do something about situation.

“What business is it of mine?” he said with as much of a tone of threat as he could put in his voice. He turned to face the man, allowing deliberate silence to communicate his displeasure as he looked him up and down. The officer wore black leather boots beneath flared navy blue trousers and a leather jacket with gold plated buttons. A brown shoulder strap crossed his chest to a pistol holster at his left hip. A brown leather pouch was at his other hip, attached to his belt. A young man, he nonetheless wore round wire framed spectacles and seemed to squint in spite of them, his eyes narrow with insolence. He wore a black billed, blue felt officer’s cap with a gold star centered on red hatband. His face was shrouded with a pall of cigarette smoke and he took a long draw on the butt before slowly pinching the tip to put it out, exhaling heavily.