going either east or west. “O God … there is so little time with them,” he realised, as he watched his ailing parents. He knew he and Mikhaelo had to return on that last delivery train before the elements would cut them off. They stood no chance if discovered in the labour camp. Their mission would fail. His parents, and Mikhailo’s, would be executed for their complicity.
It was a strange no-man’s land of time, of punishment. Halka, the only one able to move freely in and out of the camp on pretext of caring for her ill parents, conveyed vital messages. She also readied herself. Her parents willed her to leave them to their fate. She wanted to live. There was little more she could do for her pitiful parents. They did not want to watch their youngest child suffer during their last struggles with life. She became a vital conduit between the two friends as she listened for accurate information of the coming of the train.
* * *
“Petro!” Halka’s hushed whisper suppressed urgency after she rushed back early one day, pulling him to one side. “It’s already here! The train! The new prisoners are being taken this very minute to the holding yard!” Peter felt his heart lurch in sharp pain as if it had stopped. He knew what this meant. He could not look immediately at his grieving parents. He turned away, ostensibly to prepare himself. They knew they would not see another winter, would not see their Ukraine, or their family. He knew his eyes would not meet their loving ones again.
Yosep and Palasha blessed their son and daughter in a ritual of prayer long remembered from their days of religious freedom in their beloved Ukraine. Peter could not speak. His throat so tight, he felt he would choke with the pain. But he knew he had to turn his back; hope that what little pittance he had brought them might sustain them a little longer. He could not bring himself to look one last time at that door, at the hunched diminutive figure that had given him life and hope and joy for so many years.
Gloomy daylight still remained as they made their way to the train station, weaving in and out of the muddy snow path wherever they could to avoid detection. To no avail. A handful of orphans, excited at the prospect of leaving this death hole, tagged behind them. Peter pleaded with them not to follow, but it was too late. He had warned Halka to keep going, no matter what happened. She had her forged papers with her, and she must be on that train.
With the tension mounting, he reacted instinctively to an unlikely shadow. “Halka! Break now! Hide! Break from us!” he urged her. “From now on we are strangers, if you’re questioned. Hurry!” He grabbed her arm, quickly pushed her towards a snow-mound. Just in time, she and the other children scattered, out of view.
From nowhere, it seemed, burly guards with their ancient but deadly rifles pointed, gave the men orders to stop and marched them to a back shed of the station, hidden from public view. There, stripped of boots, coats and warm clothing, they were strapped to well-worn chairs. These guards knew what they were doing; they were practised at this. Two Stalinist secret police, almost casual in their confident manner, strolled in, ready for their interrogation. They, also, were seasoned at this. No guns, no visible signs of tormentors. Peter’s mind raced. He and Mikhaelo had talked about such an eventuality. But their journey thus far, so long and tortuous, had been relatively uneventful. It didn’t seem possible that they would lose their lives at this juncture.
His thoughts flashed, at counterpoint with his logic as he tried to anticipate the interrogation. “Mikhaelo won’t withstand this … I must divert their attention,” he bargained with his mind. He was the instigator, the leader, the originator of their plan. He would try to save his friend, whatever the consequences. But his pounding heart, his logic, told him otherwise. It looked to him, in his military calculation, and with a veterinarian’s smell of looming death, that that would be nigh impossible. They were both dead men.
Chapter 12
A shot of fire seared through him as the ancient syringe penetrated deep into his left arm. Peter knew it had to be sodium pentothal, the truth drug. Stalin’s NKVD had been culled, streamlined, given extraordinary powers. The senior secret police bureaucrat leaned patiently against a grubby table. The serum took little time to do its work. No point in teasing out superfluous material. Wait for the truth to be revealed. His patience will pay off.
Peter knew he had only seconds to warn Mikhaelo, to prepare him for the inevitable. He had to take the brunt of the interrogation, divert the secret agents’ attention from his friend. Blank terror registered in Mikhaelo’s eyes. Younger than Peter, he was less experienced, less worldly than his trusted friend. Peter’s army and veterinary experience had exposed him to lethal drugs, and their consequent effect on brain and body. This truth drug could kill its victims. He hoped, irrationally, that these were experienced agents. They might give more measured doses of the drug, not kill their victims outright.
“Divitsa xloptsi,” he called out, his voice confident, official, his colloquialism ‘fellows’ authenticating his Ukrainian origins. “Be reasonable. You can see from the documents we’re on official business. No need to examine my assistant here. I can confirm anything you want to know about my mission.” He felt the serum taking hold, constantly shooting pain like an electric charge. The NKVD men watched, and waited. “We had some bad vodka to keep warm, and missed our last stop at Omsk. We need to get back to headquarters in Romny, in our Sumskaya Oblast. We’re already behind schedule. These blasted trains. We never know when they’re arriving.” Peter prayed he had thrown enough doubt to slow down, or even soften the interrogation.
The senior NKVD agent rifled through Peter’s briefcase again and scrutinised the documents, then frowned. There were so many changes in the Oblasts these days. It was difficult to discriminate genuine from forgery. There was little proof of espionage with these men. And they were leaving to return to Soviet Russia. Still the doubt persisted. Eyes half-closed, the senior agent gave a moment’s reflection: eyed his captives coldly, impassively. His nostrils widened, sniggered exasperation. The cat had its mouse. The game might as well begin. He nodded to his junior. Mikhaelo screamed, shock and fear overtaking him as the syringe came at him.
It was too late for Peter to plead further. The truth drug was doing its deadly work. He was hallucinating, drowning in a huge whirlpool, monsters enveloping him, talking at him through an ocean of foghorns. His brain felt as if it had exploded. His eyelids fluttered, trying to clear his vision and brain. To no effect. He sensed his mouth moving, but couldn’t comprehend what he said. He, too, spoke through incomprehensible foghorns. The burning sensation in his arm had surged through his body, penetrated the circuitry of his brain. It was in over-drive, over-kill.
One current of his brain told him he was related to Nikita Khrushchev, Stalin’s right-hand axeman in the Ukraine. “You do know, fellows,” he cockily exploded, “that Khrushchev is my kym, my godfather, don’t you? How else do you think I’d be entrusted on our Bolshevik Party business so far from Romny?” His mind raced to the absurd. “And Kaganovich! It was he who suggested this journey anyway!” His voice almost broke in explosive conviction.
He had no cognition of their response. There was more fumbling through documents. The senior NKVD bureaucrat picked up the telephone receiver, paused without dialing, then slowly returned it to its cradle. He signalled to his junior. They spoke in muted tones, observing their prisoners. The interrogation had not gone well. Their prisoners had no recollection of any counter-revolutionary activity. Except for their stupidity in drinking bad vodka, common these days, there was no hardcore evidence they were a danger to the Party, or to the NKVD. Their mission was unusual. But the seasoned NKVD apparatchiks knew the Oblast headquarters decreed ridiculous undertakings these days, just to outdo each other to demonstrate their loyalty at the Central Party meetings. Stalin himself had been Commissar of Nationalities and travelled throughout Russia, wreaking havoc. Though highly unlikely, it was just possible, in these crazy times, Khrushchev had sent trusted ‘connections’
