“I knew there was something wrong with him.”
“I just never had the evidence.”
“How else do you think those people hiding in the forest have managed to survive?
Someone has been protecting them all along.”
…
One after another, witnesses stepped into the dimly lit room to testify against Viktor.
His hands were tied to a chair.
His uniform had already been stripped away, leaving him in nothing more than a white undershirt and a pair of gray trousers.
His clothes were soaked, his face bruised and swollen, and he looked utterly exhausted.
The only source of light was a desk lamp sitting on the table opposite him.
Its yellow shade cast a weak pool of light across the room, leaving the corners shrouded in darkness.
Three stout, middle-aged men in plain clothes sat behind the table.
Under the dim light, their oily faces gleamed faintly.
They were the members of the so-called Three-Man Tribunal.
Today, they would decide Viktor’s fate.
There was never any question of a defense.
No lawyer would speak for him.
He would not even be allowed to speak for himself.
The proceedings consisted of little more than witness after witness repeating accusations before the tribunal announced a verdict that had already been decided.
Whether he was actually guilty—or even what crime he had committed—was almost irrelevant.
He was merely another name to be added to the tribunal’s growing list of convictions.
After the final witness had been escorted away, one of the judges cleared his throat.
Picking up a prepared document, he began reading in a flat, official tone.
“Based upon the detailed and credible testimony provided by fifteen witnesses, the tribunal unanimously finds Viktor Viktorovich Tarasev guilty of treason…”
He paused briefly, exchanged a few quiet words with the other two judges, then continued.
“The sentence is death.”
Another short pause followed.
“The execution will take place tomorrow.”
With that, the trial was over.
The judge gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
The two guards standing behind Viktor stepped forward, hauled him out of the chair, and dragged him from the room.
Although Shevchenko itself was little more than a giant prison, it still had its own jail.
The facility contained only twelve cells.
Every one of them was a water cell.
Each cell was flooded with filthy water that reached a prisoner’s waist.
After only a few days, the constant immersion caused the skin to ulcerate.
Because the stagnant water was never changed, those wounds inevitably became infected.
Worse still, prisoners could neither sit nor lie down.
They were forced to remain standing day and night.
Anyone who had ever stood motionless for dozens of hours could imagine the agony.
Since arriving in this world, Viktor himself had ordered prisoners thrown into these very cells.
Now it was his turn.
The irony was impossible to ignore.
At least his execution had been scheduled for the following day.
If everything proceeded as planned, he would only have to endure the water cell for a single night.
Any longer…
Even death would begin to seem like mercy.
But fate seemed determined to mock him.
The tribunal had sentenced him to die the next day.
Yet after he was thrown into the water cell, no one came for him.
Apart from the guards who brought him food twice a day, he was simply forgotten.
Day became night.
Night became day again.
The foul stench of the stagnant water gradually faded—not because it had disappeared, but because his sense of smell no longer worked.
Even the spoiled scraps thrown into the cell no longer seemed rotten.
His back ached from standing.
Then it went numb.
Eventually, he could no longer feel it at all.
To keep himself from collapsing into the filthy water, Viktor removed his undershirt, twisted it into a rope, and tied himself to one of the wooden support posts inside the cell.
The makeshift sling allowed him to steal a few minutes of restless sleep while remaining half-standing in the freezing water.
The light filtering through the tiny window changed from day to night…
Then from night to day…
Then once more from day to night.
By the third cycle, Viktor had lost consciousness.
The skin above the waterline had turned deathly pale and swollen.
It puffed outward like overcooked dough, stretched so tightly that it felt as though the slightest touch would split it open.
He had no idea how long he had been unconscious.
The first thing Viktor became aware of was the murmur of quiet voices nearby.
Slowly opening his eyes, he was met by a flood of bright light that made them sting.
Instinctively, he tried to raise a hand to shield his face, only to discover that his arms refused to respond.
He couldn’t feel them at all.
“Don’t move.”
A calm female voice sounded beside him.
“You have multiple infected ulcers.
We’ve treated them, but you still need plenty of rest.”
Turning his head with difficulty, Viktor saw a woman in a white medical coat standing beside the bed.
She was making notes on a clipboard, her thin oval face completely expressionless.
Noticing that he was awake, she closed the clipboard, picked up a small flashlight, and briefly shone it into his eyes.
“Can you hear me?”
“…Yes.”
His voice was little more than a rasp.
“Where am I?”
The doctor ignored the question.
“His consciousness is clear,” she said over her shoulder.
“You may ask your questions now, but don’t keep him awake for too long.
He still needs to recover.”
She stepped aside.
A stern-looking man in his thirties immediately took her place.
He wore an NKVD uniform beneath a wide-brimmed service cap with a reddish-brown band.
Standing beside the bed, he opened a hardbound notebook.
“Comrade Sergeant Viktor Viktorovich Tarasev.”
His voice was flat and methodical.
“Born September 24th, 1913, in Kureyka Village, Krasnoyarsk Krai.
Son of a hired laborer.
Entered Tyumen Agricultural School at the age of fourteen.
Enlisted in the Red Army at eighteen.
Joined the Communist Party at twenty-one.
Later assigned to the Tyumen Workers’ and Peasants’ Militia Administration of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs…”
He continued reading through Viktor’s entire service record until reaching the transfer to Shevchenko two years earlier.
Closing the notebook, he looked directly at Viktor.
“Is any of that incorrect?”
“…No.”
Viktor answered with difficulty.
His throat burned so fiercely that every word felt like swallowing broken glass.
A faint smile appeared on the man’s face.
“Then allow me to introduce myself.”
He reached into his coat and produced an identification document.
“My name is Fyodor Mikhailovich Parokov.”
He paused.
“I am the newly appointed Chief of the Political Investigation Department of the State People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs.”
Another slight smile.
“I only assumed the position two days ago, so it’s understandable if you’ve never heard of me.”
He handed the identification close enough for Viktor to read before slipping it back into his pocket.
“Good afternoon…
Comrade Captain Fyodor Mikhailovich,” Viktor replied hoarsely.
“Good afternoon.”
Fyodor reopened his notebook.
“I’ve come because there are several matters that require clarification.”
He glanced down at the page.
“For the past two years, you’ve served as a People’s Militia Sergeant in the Shevchenko Civil Police Bureau.”
“You should therefore be familiar with many of the cases investigated and sentenced by Lieutenant Bogdan Ivanovich.”
“Is that correct?”
“Yes, Comrade Captain.”
The moment the question was asked, Viktor understood.
Lieutenant Bogdan—the very man who had sentenced him to death only days earlier—had almost certainly fallen from power.
What Viktor didn’t yet realize was that Bogdan was only one among thousands.
Across the Soviet Union, the political landscape had changed almost overnight.
Nearly every powerful official who had risen during Yezhov’s tenure was now under investigation.
Many had already been arrested.
Shevchenko, isolated from the political center, had simply learned of it later than everyone else.
In Moscow, Nikolai Yezhov—the man many privately called the Bloody Dwarf—had already been stripped of every Party and government post before being thrown into prison.
His successor as People’s Commissar was Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria.
To Beria, the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs had become hopelessly corrupt.
His first priority was therefore not expanding its power, but purging it.
Within weeks, investigations spread throughout the Soviet Union.
Officials who had exercised authority under Yezhov found themselves under scrutiny, while countless cases handled during the Great Purge were reopened for review.
Knowing that such a purge would leave the Commissariat desperately short of experienced personnel, Beria persuaded Stalin to transfer large numbers of politically reliable junior officers directly from the Red Army and military academies into the NKVD.
Ternopil Oblast had already undergone its own sweeping purge.
Senior officials—including the head of the Civil Police Bureau—had all been dismissed.
The day after Viktor’s trial, that same political storm finally reached Shevchenko.
Every member of the former Three-Man Tribunal was removed from office.
Bogdan was among them.
As a result, Viktor’s execution was suspended.
His case would also be retried.
For the moment, however, it remained a minor matter.
Compared with dismantling Bogdan’s entire network, the fate of one condemned sergeant could wait.