Silky rain draped the entire Volyn–Shevchenkovo Forest in a thin, misty veil.
The birch trees, sparse yet tall and straight, seemed newly refreshed, their white trunks and emerald leaves blending into a scene as vivid as an oil painting.
At the forest’s edge, a grizzly bear ambled lazily through a patch of blooming alfalfa before flopping onto the damp grass.
After a leisurely roll, it pushed itself back onto its feet.
Its small, dark eyes settled on a field mouse peeking cautiously from a burrow nearby.
The massive bear showed no interest in such tiny prey, and the little mouse seemed equally unconcerned by the giant squatting only a few feet away.
For a brief, tranquil moment, the two simply stared at one another.
Bang!
A dull gunshot shattered the silence of the forest, destroying the fragile peace between bear and mouse.
Startled birds burst from the treetops in a frenzy of beating wings.
The mouse vanished into its burrow without a trace, while the grizzly flinched, let out a startled grunt, and lumbered into the depths of the forest, disappearing among the trees.
Bang!
Bang!
Two more shots echoed across the valley.
On the bank of a nearby river, less than a hundred meters from the forest’s edge, two fleeing men collapsed almost simultaneously.
Their bodies struck the ground with heavy thuds before tumbling into the waist-high grass below the embankment, crimson blood splashing across the wild vegetation.
The grass below the slope was lush and vibrant, dotted with clusters of purple and white wildflowers.
A pair of butterflies drifted lazily through the blossoms, untouched by the violence.
Three bodies lay scattered among the swaying grass.
One of the corpses rested face-up, its tangled hair soaked in blood.
The bullet had torn through the man’s muddy forehead, ripping apart the front of his skull.
Fragments of bone, blood, and pale brain matter spilled across his face before dripping onto the trembling blades of grass below.
Standing atop the embankment, Viktor clenched a half-smoked cigarette between his lips.
He slipped a palm-sized sergeant’s service record back into the breast pocket of his olive-brown uniform, adjusted the wide-brimmed cap with its blue band, then turned toward a black warhorse waiting nearby.
With practiced ease, he swung himself into the saddle.
“Comrade Viktor Viktorovich.”
A corporal rode over, a cavalry rifle slung across his back.
“The remaining two escaped into the Volyn Forest,” he reported.
“Should we pursue them?”
Viktor gave the reins a light tug, turning his horse toward the dark forest in the distance.
He raised his binoculars, surveyed the tree line for a few moments, then lowered them.
“They won’t get far,” he said calmly.
“Let’s head back to camp before we miss lunch again.”
“Yes, Comrade Viktor Viktorovich.”
The corporal answered with a salute before blowing the whistle hanging around his neck.
Moments later, the two dozen cavalrymen gathered along the embankment mounted their horses.
With shouted commands and pounding hooves, they galloped west along the riverbank.
The Volyn–Shevchenko Forest takes its name from two geographical landmarks.
“Volyn” refers to the Volyn–Podolian Upland that stretches across southwestern Ukraine, while “Shevchenko” denotes a forested region between Kopychyntsi and Chortkiv.
In this forest area, there is a minority settlement called Shevchenko.
Officially classified as a town, Shevchenko had a population of fewer than thirty thousand people.
Russians, Ukrainians, Belarusians, Moldovans, and several other ethnic groups lived there, making it unusually diverse despite its modest size.
What truly set the town apart, however, was its population.
Aside from soldiers and police officers, most of its residents were convicted criminals.
Exiled from Ukraine, Belarus, and southern Russia, they had been sent to Shevchenko to perform hard labor in the surrounding forests and collective farms as punishment for their crimes.
Viktor led his troop of more than twenty cavalrymen west along the riverbank.
Less than an hour later, the dense forest gave way to a vast sea of wheat fields stretching to the horizon.
Crisscrossing dirt paths wound through endless rows of vibrant green shoots, and the sight alone was enough to lift one’s spirits.
This was the Shevchenko Red Banner No.
2 Collective Farm.
Beyond its fields lay the town of Shevchenko itself.
After passing the collective farm, they reached a narrow asphalt road, barely wide enough for a single truck.
On either side stood large propaganda billboards supported by rough-hewn timber frames.
The billboard to the left depicted an elderly woman with a deeply lined face, dressed in traditional Ukrainian clothing.
She held a letter in one hand, her expression solemn and resolute.
It was a mother’s message to her son, urging him to remain loyal to his homeland and to the Soviet Union, and to fight against separatists and Polish spies.
The billboard opposite showed the silhouette of a factory worker raising an enormous hammer.
Beneath its crushing blow, a grotesque, clown-like figure was being smashed into the ground.
Bold Russian lettering stretched across the background:
CRUSH ALL TRAITORS!
By now it was nearly noon.
The narrow road was busy with military traffic.
Besides Viktor’s cavalry, another column—more than forty infantrymen—was marching briskly toward the town.
Their olive-brown uniforms matched Viktor’s, and the markings on their guidon identified them as soldiers of the 14th Infantry Division of the Ternopil Border Guard.
Shevchenko lay within Ternopil Oblast, near the frontier separating the Soviet Union from Polish-controlled western Ukraine.
For years, Poland had remained one of the Soviet Union’s principal adversaries.
During the Russian Civil War, Polish forces had spearheaded the foreign intervention against the fledgling Soviet state.
Even now, Poland retained control of large portions of western Belarus and western Ukraine while continuing to infiltrate Soviet territory with spies, saboteurs, and guerrilla fighters, hoping to fuel separatist uprisings along the border.
To suppress these insurgent groups, the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs (NKVD) had deployed three Border Guard infantry divisions to the region, supported by an entire division of the Internal Guard.
Viktor served in the latter.
Naturally, a force of that size could not be concentrated in a settlement as small as Shevchenko.
The town itself housed only a single company of Internal Guard cavalry.
As a sergeant, Viktor commanded the 3rd Cavalry Platoon of that company.
Shevchenko stood atop a gently sloping hill overlooking the winding Dniester River.
Surrounded by forests, rolling hills, and water, it should have been a place of remarkable beauty.
Instead, it was utterly bleak.
The town consisted almost entirely of crude wooden shacks thrown together without any sense of planning or order.
There was no beauty to be found here—only decay.
For the thousands of convicts forced to live within its boundaries, Shevchenko was little more than an open-air prison.
Mounted on his black warhorse, Viktor rode slowly into town.
The stench hit him immediately.
The sour odor of urine mingled with the harsh smell of curing leather, filling the air so completely that it made his stomach churn.
From beneath sagging wooden awnings, the townspeople watched the cavalry pass along the muddy, sewage-filled streets.
Some stared in fear, others with empty resignation, but none dared move.
To the people of Shevchenko, the soldiers in polished boots, blue riding trousers, and olive-brown uniforms were executioners who could take a life on a whim.
To the soldiers, the townspeople were not merely prisoners—they were enemies of the state.
Viktor had long since grown accustomed to those fearful eyes.
Instilling fear was part of his duty.
If the prisoners ever ceased to fear him, he would become one of them.
That was the true cruelty of Shevchenko.
In fact, the administration of Shevchenko was not particularly strict.
The prisoners living there enjoyed most of the freedoms that ordinary people did.
They were free to move about the town, leave its boundaries, visit one another’s homes, and socialize as they pleased.
The only unusual requirement was that every prisoner had to report to the Workers’ and Peasants’ Militia Administration once every two days to prove they had not escaped.
Anyone who failed to report on time would be hunted down by the People’s Militia of the Civil Police Bureau and the cavalry of the Internal Guard.
In addition, they were required to surrender eighty percent of their earnings from the collective farm, while the remaining twenty percent served as their food allowance.
They could also exchange tanned leather for food, medicine, and other daily necessities, but nearly everything available for trade was expensive.
As a result, in this town of fewer than thirty thousand people, not only were food and basic necessities in short supply, but medicine was even scarcer.
This was perhaps the cruelest aspect of life in Shevchenko
The cavalry troop rode through most of the town before finally stopping at an open dirt square on its southern side.
This was the site of the Civil Police Bureau.
The two-story building of red brick and stone served as the headquarters of the Shevchenko Workers’ and Peasants’ Militia Administration, while the rows of wooden houses surrounding it were the barracks of the Internal Guard cavalry company.
Viktor dismounted onto the patch of grass beside the square.
A young woman with a thick braid down her back, dressed in a long traditional Belarusian dress, immediately stepped forward.
The dress had long since faded beyond recognition, its original color replaced by a dull, tea-gray stain.
Holding up the mud-stained hem with both hands, she approached, took the reins from Viktor, and asked timidly,
“Sir, may I have the afternoon off?
I’d like to go home for a while.”
Viktor glanced at her without answering.
He slowly looked over his warhorse, then reached out and gently stroked its long, powerful neck before finally speaking.
“Go after lunch,” he said.
“Be back before sunset.”