A trace of joy appeared on the girl’s dirt-stained face.
She nodded eagerly.
“Thank you, sir.
I’ll be back before sunset.”
“And tell your foolish brother to behave himself,” Viktor said, his eyes fixed on her face.
His expression remained unchanged.
“If he keeps running around with Yuri and the others, he’ll end up getting himself shot sooner or later.
Sankovich’s fate today may well become his tomorrow.”
As if suddenly remembering something, he asked, “You didn’t know Sankovich had tried to escape, did you?”
“W-What?
N-No…
I didn’t.
I don’t know anything,” the girl stammered instinctively, clearly startled.
“Well, now you do.” Viktor shrugged.
“He was shot about half an hour ago.”
The girl’s body trembled.
Her lips, already pale from malnutrition, quivered uncontrollably.
Sankovich had been one of the three bodies lying by the river earlier that morning.
Two days ago, he had fled Shevchenko with two companions, carrying two pumpkins they had hidden away.
Unfortunately for them, they had apparently become lost in the forest, wandering aimlessly for two days before unknowingly circling back to the outskirts of Shevchenko.
There, they ran straight into a cavalry patrol.
Three bullets had brought their escape to an end.
“All right,” Viktor said calmly, patting the horse’s hindquarters.
“Go clean Sergei.
Use warm water—he covered a lot of ground today.”
The girl quietly led the horse away, her tall but slender figure looking strangely forlorn as she disappeared into the camp.
Without another glance at her, Viktor turned and walked toward a wooden cabin a short distance away.
As a sergeant, he had been assigned a cabin of his own.
It was just as plain as the others, but thanks to someone cleaning it regularly, it was at least tidy and reasonably well kept.
The room itself was small, almost cramped.
A single narrow window faced the sun, but it let in little light, leaving the interior dim and heavy with dust.
The gloomy atmosphere was enough to dampen anyone’s spirits.
The furnishings were equally modest.
A handmade wooden bed, a rough wooden table, three battered chairs, and a simple washstand made up nearly everything in the room.
Despite its simplicity, the walls were surprisingly well decorated.
Hanging beside a map and several animal pelts were two color portraits—one of Lenin and the other of Comrade Stalin.
Stepping inside, Viktor removed his cap and casually tossed it onto the table beside a stack of documents.
He undid the top two buttons of his tunic before walking over to the washstand and splashing cold water onto his face.
As he wiped the water away with a towel, the roar of an engine suddenly echoed from outside, accompanied by the clatter of grinding metal.
Viktor walked to the small window and looked out.
A tank with a cylindrical turret rumbled along the dirt road outside the camp.
A thick plume of exhaust drifted lazily from the rear of the vehicle, slowly dispersing into the afternoon air.
This was a Border Guard tank, not one belonging to the Internal Guard.
Since coming under the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, the Internal Guard had never been equipped with heavy armored vehicles like this.
After drying his hands, Viktor casually hung the towel back on the washstand.
He crossed the room, crouched beside the bed, and pulled out two bulging burlap sacks from underneath it.
They were standard military ration bags, stained with dust and packed full.
Opening one, he peered inside.
It was filled with fresh red apples.
In a place like Shevchenko, where almost everything was scarce, fresh fruit was an unimaginable luxury.
Among the prisoners, a single apple was valuable enough to persuade a young and attractive woman to sell herself.
Of course, that scarcity applied only to the exiles.
As a sergeant in the Internal Guard, Viktor received a weekly ration unavailable to ordinary prisoners.
He took four apples from the sack and placed them on the bed.
After a moment’s thought, he picked up two of them and returned them to the bag.
Then he tied both sacks shut and carried them to the table.
Only then did he sit down.
Looking exhausted, Viktor leaned back in the splintered wooden chair and rested his boots on the table.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Before long, he was softly snoring.
In his dream, Viktor found himself back in the world he knew.
A silver Land Rover sped through a rain-soaked highway.
One hand rested casually on the steering wheel while the other slipped beneath the white skirt of the young woman sitting beside him.
Just as he was beginning to enjoy himself, a massive truck tire suddenly came hurtling out of nowhere.
It slammed into the rain-covered windshield.
Darkness swallowed everything.
When the light returned, the world had changed.
He stood inside a dilapidated wooden house.
An exhausted middle-aged couple in ragged clothes huddled together in a corner.
Beside them, two children no older than thirteen or fourteen clung to each other, sobbing uncontrollably.
At the doorway, where rain poured relentlessly outside, a burly soldier had pinned a frail young woman against the rotting doorframe.
One hand covered her mouth.
The other was tearing at her skirt.
A clap of thunder rolled across the sky.
Viktor jerked awake.
The bright afternoon light streaming through the window made his head ache.
Shielding his eyes with one hand, he blinked several times before his vision cleared.
The first thing he noticed was the two burlap sacks resting on the table.
He had prepared them for the girl from earlier.
With those supplies, he figured she and her family would be able to live comfortably for at least a little while.
Her name was Anlina Antonovna Roskach, a Belarusian whose family had originally come from the Rostov region.
Her father had worked as a technician at the Red October Fertilizer Plant before…
Viktor’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt.
He had a secret.
He did not belong to this world.
He had awakened in this body only a month earlier.
During the first two weeks after his inexplicable transmigration, he had hovered on the edge of madness.
Unable to accept his new reality, he had done countless reckless and irrational things.
Everything he had just seen in his dream had actually happened.
Stretching his stiff limbs, Viktor rose from the chair and let out a slow breath.
He walked toward the doorway.
As he stepped over the threshold, he saw Anlina sitting quietly on the wooden porch outside, carefully mending a child’s worn jacket.
Whether it belonged to her younger brother or younger sister, he could not tell.
Hearing his footsteps, she immediately stood up.
She draped the jacket over the porch railing, folded her hands in front of her waist, lowered her head, and avoided meeting his eyes.
She would turn eighteen in just one month’s time.
Viktor employed her for six potatoes a day.
Her duties were simple: care for his horse Sergei, wash his clothes, clean his cabin, and do whatever household chores needed doing.
Two weeks earlier, during a stormy night, the drunken Viktor had brutally violated her.
Even so, by noon the following day, she had returned to his cabin despite her injuries and quietly resumed her work as though nothing had happened.
Perhaps, as a prisoner in Shevchenko, Anlina had never believed her chastity or dignity possessed any real value.
She knew only one thing.
The six potatoes she earned each day were enough to keep her younger brother and sister alive.
That alone made the job worth enduring.
“Valenka!”
Ignoring the silent girl, Viktor strode down the porch steps and shouted across the yard.
“Valenka!”
“Comrade Viktor Viktorovich!”
A young soldier came running from across the camp, one hand holding an oversized cap in place while the other carried a metal kettle.
“I’m here!”
“Go see if lunch is ready,” Viktor called before the young man reached him.
“And hurry.
I want bread, understand?
Don’t bring me those damned potatoes again.”
“Yes, Comrade Viktor Viktorovich!”
The young soldier immediately turned and sprinted away.
Only after watching him disappear did Viktor turn back toward Anlina.
Her face was classically oval, with delicate features, but it was smeared with mud and black soot.
Most young women in the exile settlement looked much the same.
Being dirty—or appearing unattractive—often spared them unwanted attention.
Even so, anyone standing close could still notice her graceful eyebrows, straight nose, and soft pale lips.
Only the hollows beneath her cheeks, carved there by constant hunger, diminished her beauty.
“Eat something when lunch is served,” Viktor said flatly.
He reached out, gently lifted her chin with his fingers, and looked into her lowered eyes.
“After lunch, I’ll take you home.”