The camp reeked of filth.
Snorting warhorses made their way between rows of crude wooden barracks, their iron-shod hooves sinking deep into the muddy sludge with every step.
Each time they pulled free, they produced a wet, squelching sound that echoed through the camp.
If its living conditions had to be described in a single sentence, there was only one conclusion: they were beyond description.
If this place was hell, then even the worst slums in the world would seem like paradise by comparison.
Viktor had long since given up trying to avoid the mud.
His black leather boots had lost their original color, stained into a dull brownish gray by layers of dirt.
Leading the warhorse by the reins, he occasionally reached up to stroke its neck, calming its obvious unease.
Even the horse disliked this place.
Something oppressive lingered in the air, making the normally steady animal visibly restless.
Walking beside the horse, Anlina picked her way lightly through the mud.
The sewage, floating grass, and human waste beneath her feet no longer seemed to bother her.
She had lived with this filth for so long that it had simply become part of her life.
Her attention, however, was fixed on the two burlap sacks hanging from either side of the saddle.
One of them had a small tear.
Through it protruded half of a bright red apple.
The apple had become wedged against a metal fitting beneath the saddle.
As the horse walked, the sack swayed gently back and forth, causing the fruit to strike the metal over and over again.
A little juice had already begun to seep from its bruised skin.
Anlina watched it silently.
Her lips pressed tightly together, and her slender hands slowly curled into fists until the veins stood out beneath her skin.
Her eyes shifted repeatedly between Viktor and the apple.
Whenever Viktor wasn’t looking, she would quietly reach over and move the sack away from the metal fitting.
Yet after only a few steps, it would swing back into place and begin bumping against it once again.
It was noon.
Thin columns of cooking smoke rose from every corner of the ramshackle camp.
Carried by the southern wind, they drifted lazily through the settlement like morning mist over a river.
A little more than twenty minutes later, Viktor, Anlina, and the horse reached the edge of the camp.
Beyond it stretched an open field overgrown with weeds.
In the distance stood a barbed-wire fence more than two meters high.
The fence was old and poorly maintained.
In several places, gaps large enough for a person to crawl through had already appeared.
Even so, the Civil Police Bureau showed little concern.
Without food, money, or legal identification, few escapees could survive for long.
Even if someone managed to flee, they would eventually be caught.
Viktor led Sergei beneath a small roadside shelter and tied the reins to one of its supporting posts.
At the entrance sat a heavily bearded middle-aged man on a rough wooden block.
His ragged appearance made him look more like a beggar than anything else.
He stared blankly at Viktor without standing or offering a greeting.
Anlina walked over and crouched beside him.
She gently covered his mud-caked hand with both of hers, rubbing it softly as she whispered a few words.
Only then did the man’s vacant eyes regain a trace of awareness.
He was her father.
A frail Belarusian whose mind had begun to fail him.
“Anshka!”
A thin face suddenly appeared at a small window patched together with crooked wooden slats.
“Mom!
Anshka’s home!”
The half-closed door creaked open.
A middle-aged woman in a tattered dress rushed outside, followed closely by two children as thin as bean sprouts.
The woman’s face lit up with joy—until she noticed Viktor unloading the two sacks from his horse.
Her smile vanished instantly.
Fear replaced it.
The two children instinctively hid behind their mother like frightened squirrels.
Viktor pretended not to notice.
He carried both sacks to the doorway, set them quietly against the wall, then returned to Sergei.
After untying the reins, he mounted the horse and rode back toward the camp without another word.
By the time Viktor returned to his barracks, two riflemen were leaning against the doorway, smoking.
Sitting on the porch was a middle-aged man dressed in plain clothes.
Viktor reined in his horse and dismounted.
“Good afternoon, Comrade Sergeant Viktor,” the man said as he rose to his feet.
“Good afternoon, Comrade Warrant Officer Anufriy.”
Viktor released the reins, came to attention, and saluted.
Anufriy served in the Shevchenko Civil Police Bureau, but unlike Viktor, he belonged to a different department.
He was the deputy chief of the Political Intelligence Investigation Section.
The section specialized in political investigations, counterintelligence, and anti-subversion operations.
Over the past two years, however, its authority had expanded dramatically.
It was gradually evolving into a true secret police organization, functioning as one of the predecessors of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs’ security apparatus.
“Come with me, Comrade Sergeant,” Anufriy said after a few words of greeting, placing a hand on Viktor’s shoulder.
“I have a new assignment for you.”
He smiled faintly.
“I doubt you’ll have any free time this afternoon.”
Viktor gave a slight nod and followed him inside.
Standing beside the room’s only wooden table, Anufriy removed a folded memorandum from his pocket.
He spread it open on the tabletop and held it flat with one hand.
“You know Shevchenko better than anyone, Comrade Sergeant Viktor,” he said.
“So this mission should—and must—be carried out by you.”
Viktor lowered his gaze to the memorandum beneath Anufriy’s hand.
Most of it was covered, but from the few words visible between his fingers, he could tell it was a list of names.
“The General Criminal Investigation Bureau received an anonymous report yesterday,” Anufriy said.
“It identified several individuals who have managed to remain hidden for quite some time.
According to reliable intelligence, they have been maintaining contact with Serchiak’s partisans and supplying them with information.”
The People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs was currently divided into nine major departments.
Besides the Civil Police Bureau, it included organizations such as the General Automobile Inspection Bureau, the General Fire Department, and the General Criminal Investigation Bureau.
At this point in time, the Civil Police Bureau and the General Criminal Investigation Bureau still operated as relatively independent branches within the Commissariat.
Serchiak’s partisans were the largest separatist organization active in the forests around Shevchenko.
Composed primarily of Belarusians, Ukrainians, and Poles, the group received financial support from the Polish government and fought for what they called an independent Ukraine.
Finally, Anufriy lifted his hand from the memorandum.
“Lieutenant Bogdan wants every one of these parasites found,” he said.
“The tribunal has already reached its verdict.
Execute them immediately.
Your only task is to carry out the sentence.”
Lieutenant Bogdan was the head of the Shevchenko Civil Police Bureau and one of the three members of the local Special Tribunal.
The so-called Special Tribunal had been established two years earlier during the Great Purge.
It possessed sweeping judicial authority, handling everything from arrest to trial and sentencing.
Its three members were appointed respectively by the Civil Police Bureau, the Prosecutor’s Office, and the judiciary.
Shevchenko had its own tribunal as well.
Its decisions required neither approval from higher authorities nor concrete evidence.
Once the tribunal reached a verdict, sentences ranging from imprisonment to immediate execution could be carried out without delay.
Viktor picked up the memorandum and began reading.
When his eyes reached one particular name, the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
His expression, however, remained perfectly calm.
“Immediate execution?” he asked quietly, folding the memorandum once before unfolding it again.
“Immediately,” Anufriy replied with a nod.
“Gather your men and begin the operation at once.”
“Understood, Comrade Warrant Officer.”
Viktor folded the memorandum, slipped it into his uniform pocket, saluted, and turned to leave.
Moments later, the shrill sound of whistles echoed throughout the camp.
Militiamen who had been preparing for an afternoon nap hurried from the barracks and assembled in the open square.
Standing on the grass before them, Viktor unfolded the memorandum once more.
He read each name aloud before assigning arrest teams.
The tribunal’s orders were explicit.
Anyone listed on the memorandum was to be executed immediately upon capture.
There were six names in total.
Viktor assigned five of them to his men.
The sixth he kept for himself.
Vavilla Antonovich Roskach.
Anlina’s older brother.
Viktor knew Vavilla well.
The nineteen-year-old was lazy, impulsive, and forever chasing impossible dreams.
He talked constantly about escaping Shevchenko and starting a new life somewhere else.
But a partisan?
Viktor found that difficult to believe.
The boy simply lacked the courage for that kind of life.
He had no idea who had written the anonymous report, nor what evidence it claimed to contain.
What he did know was that this was an era in which suspicion had become a weapon.
False accusations, fabricated evidence, and personal vendettas had become part of everyday life.
Many people denounced others not because they stood to gain anything, but simply because they could.