Simon Montefiore - Red Sky at Noon

And then he looked up at the stars and Sashenka came to him. Was she even alive? He was overcome with a wave of love; he craved her lips, the stretch of the tendons behind her knees when her legs were around him. If she was reachable out there somewhere, he sent her kisses: ‘I love you!’ he whispered. But though he strained to hear something back, there was no sound, not even an echo. Of all the people in the world whom he loved, he did not know if a single one of them was alive…

The fear of tomorrow loomed over him. In the meadows beyond, the horses whinnied. There were thousands of them in the paddocks here, Budyonny horses bred by Russia’s first cavalryman, Marshal Budyonny. Silver Socks was there. He peered out towards where she might be and thought he saw the white blaze on her forehead and her white shanks. He walked out further into the darkness and stood at the fence, clopping his tongue, the way the Cossacks did, and the horses came to him. First amongst them was Silver Socks and he felt he was not so alone any more. She put her soft muzzle in his hand and, as he leaned towards her long face, his eyes so close to hers, he found he was weeping: for others, for Polyak, for himself perhaps more. Silver Socks slowly rocked her head and her breath smelled of sweet grass.

Then he heard a click and he turned, leaving one hand on Silver Socks’s neck. It was Prishchepa lighting a cigarette.

When it was lit, he offered it to Benya. ‘One for you; now I’ll roll my own.’

The makhorka was so strong it made Benya cough but he was grateful. He could see the doctor and one of his nurses standing behind Prishchepa; his friends from the Camps at Kolyma. Dr Kapto looked at Benya. ‘Are you OK, dear friend?’ he said, placing his hand on Benya’s arm. ‘We’re all a little unsteady. Easy, now, easy! You’ll be fine.’

‘Thank God you’ll be with us,’ said Benya.

‘And you, Prishchepa, how are you feeling?’ Kapto asked the Cossack.

‘I never think about tomorrow,’ replied Prishchepa sunnily. He had forgotten about Polyak already.

‘Tonya, will you be with us?’ Benya asked the nurse, who had worked for Kapto in the clinic in Kolyma.

‘Of course, I ride with you,’ she said.

Tonya always said little. She was, thought Benya, like a light without a bulb, and was overshadowed by the brown skin and long legs of Nyushka, Kapto’s other nurse. ‘We saw them bury him,’ was all Tonya said, and Benya knew she meant Polyak.

Together they had undergone their training here, far behind the front lines in Russia’s vastness. Gun training, how to fire the basic weaponry, the Moisin–Nagant rifles and the light Degtiarev machine guns… Captain Zhurko had held competitions to assemble and disassemble them in record time. The greatest skill was learning to load a PPSh machine gun at night, taking the lid off the drum, tightening the spring and pushing in the cartridges. Then there were the pistols, Nagants and German Parabellums to master and Degtiarev–Shpagins heavy machine guns. They had nicknames for everything: the PPShs were Papashas, the Degtiarev–Shpagins were Dashkas, the mounted machine guns Tchankas, and the new missiles fired from trucks Katyushas.

They had been quartered at this army base designed for cavalry and there were so many Cossacks in the penal unit that Melishko, an old cavalryman himself, decided they should be trained as cavalry.

‘Even in the age of the tank,’ Melishko told them on their first day, ‘our Red Army theory, developed by Marshal Budyonny under the guidance of the Great Stalin, states cavalry is a powerful strike force, of peerless speed and flexibility, suitable for frontal assaults, screening manoeuvres, reconnaissance, and deep raids behind enemy lines. In ideal conditions such as the Don steppe, cavalry can achieve averages of seven or even ten miles an hour…’

After that pep talk, their instructor, Sergeant Pantaleimon Churelko, stepped forward. This Don Cossack whom everyone called Panka had a head of thick grey hair worn in a topknot, and a handlebar moustache and whiskers so extravagant and broad that they seemed almost to be a piece of equipment in their own right. Leading them into the paddock, he swished his quirt and looked into the faces of the gathered hundred or so Shtrafniki. Benya stood out. He was one of the oldest – and probably the most delicate.

Pantaleimon pointed at him. ‘You! Step forward! Has this Zhid ever seen a horse?’

Benya took a breath; Cossacks were known for their attitude to Jews. ‘Yes, I’ve ridden,’ he replied. ‘But a long time ago…’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Panka. ‘First, walk into the meadow and choose a horse. Remember, this is the most important choice of your life. More important than choosing a wife!’

The moment Benya stepped into the paddock, a horse with a white flash and white feet walked right up to him.

‘That’s Silver Socks! She chose you. She’s a smart one. That speaks well for you. Now you’ll learn to ride properly and then to fight,’ Panka said. Benya’s acquaintances, Smiley and Little Mametka, sniggered but Panka spat out his tobacco wad and simply observed: ‘You laugh at the Jew learning to ride? Apart from we Cossacks, no one knows anything. Your tongues have tails but rein them in. Lesson one: your horse is your son and daughter, wife and mistress, priest and commissar. Listen to your horse! Tend her like a wife! Respect her like a mother! Feed her like a daughter! Ever made love to a beautiful woman, Jew? I doubt it.’

‘He’s too slight to handle a woman!’ teased ‘Fats’ Strizkaz, a pink barrel of a man with a small patch of moustache and bell-shaped head, who never lost weight, even in Kolyma.

‘Or too old,’ chortled another man, Ivanov, who Benya recalled was nicknamed ‘Cut and Run’.

‘Enough,’ said Panka. ‘Next one who says such a thing, I’ll thrash him myself.’

‘Really?’ sneered Ivanov. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘Who spoke?’

Panka stepped towards Smiley’s gang of Criminals and Benya noticed them slink back an imperceptible inch.

‘Don’t cross us,’ piped up Little Mametka in his usual soprano. Benya recognized the tone of the Gulag where the Criminals ruled. ‘Get off our backs, old man.’

‘I am not going anywhere ,’ Panka replied affably and calmly. ‘Now listen to me or the Germans will get you before you’re even in the saddle. You there, Ivanov, mount your horse. Now!’

Ivanov hesitated.

‘Go on! Let’s see you do it,’ cried Mametka. ‘Anyone can ride a horse!’

Ivanov put his boot in the stirrup, swung his other leg around and climbed up on to the horse with a triumphant leer.

‘Very good,’ said Panka, hands on his hips. The horse reared up and bucked Ivanov off and he landed on his back with a thump. His gang snickered as Panka offered a hand and pulled him up. ‘Mount your horse.’

‘Not again!’ said Ivanov.

‘That’s an order.’

‘He’s frightened,’ piped Mametka.

‘All right.’ Ivanov heaved himself up again and sat white-faced on the horse.

‘Try to hold on this time,’ said Panka, who made a soft kissing noise – and the horse bucked off Ivanov once more.

The Criminals whooped as Ivanov thwacked on to the sand where he lay groaning.

‘Not so easy, is it?’ said Panka. ‘No wonder they call you Cut and Run!’

Afterwards Benya realized that Panka could get any horse to throw its rider. He spoke horse language – amongst many others. ‘Who’s next? You’ – and he pointed to Fats Strizkaz.

‘Fats Strizkaz was once a Chekist torturer,’ gabbed a voice next to Benya. It was Koshka – ‘the Cat’ – bilious, scurfy and rail-thin, an Uzbek thief who liked telling tales about prisoners. ‘Just saying.’