6
CHEKA
Tomsk, Siberia
Throughout his life, Sasha’s father had taught him many things, but the most important was this: family came first. Before city, before country, before business, before pride – family held sway over all.
Perhaps that was an idea afforded them by the lawless wilds of Siberia. In Moscow, or Petrograd, or Stalingrad, they would be the inheritors of a legacy of serfdom. Now chained by collectivization, and by the merciless grinding of the Bolshevik industrial machine.
But here, in Tomsk, they’d always been free. Life wasn’t extravagant, but it was theirs.
Sasha was nineteen, and foolish enough to think his life would always be his.
Evening fell in curtains of pale purple and blue, the sunset a bruise in the western sky, last light striking like flares off icicles and the fresh layer of crust on the snow. Sasha’s long legs ate up the distance; he’d been walking in snow his whole life, and it was second nature, placing his feet carefully, his fur-wrapped boots keeping out the cold and the wet. The sled gliding along behind him, heavy, but manageable. He felt the pleasant burn of lean muscles in his arms and shoulders and chest as he towed his kills. A badger, a fox, a deer – the last a young buck with tiny buds for spring antlers.
He was always clear-headed and peaceful after a successful hunt. After the adrenaline washed him clean, and the urgency bled out of him. When a vague sickness settled in his stomach, a blending of gratitude for the animals he’d killed, and regret for the lives taken. Furs were the family business, and they’d provided them with a comfortable house, food to fill their bellies, vodka for the long cold nights. They had paid to bury Sonya, when she passed, his poor little sister, always sickly and frail. Paid for his tuition at the university in town.
But there would always be a part of him that hated the way the life bled out of the animals’ eyes. A last wink of light, and then nothing. Husks to be dressed, and butchered, and tanned.
The light was gone from the sky by the time he reached the edge of town, but then there were lighted windows to show him the way. Warm wooden houses all buckled up for the night, shadows moving behind curtains. The market was shut up, the children had abandoned their games. He heard the distant whistle of the train – it would depart in just a few hours, loaded with pelts, and raw gold, and coal, all of it bound for the factories in Stalingrad…and the war effort.
“Thank God it doesn’t touch us here,” his mother always said. “There’s not a German alive stupid enough to come into Siberia.”
And there wasn’t.
A few young men from Tomsk had gone to join the Red Army, those from families fallen on hard times, who needed the money. And Sasha had seen the cattle cars packed with prisoners headed for the gulags.
Not us, not us, not us he prayed at night. He wanted nothing to do with the war. His family had suffered enough losing Sonya – they didn’t need to lose him too.
He turned down his street, routine propelling him forward, through the shoveled drifts to their brown wooden house with whitewashed scrollwork around the windows. He imagined he could smell his mother’s cooking, feel the heat of the fire, the promise of familiar comforts already lulling him half to sleep.
“Sasha,” someone called, and he pulled up short.
Their neighbor, Andrei, big, bearded, and ruddy-cheeked, always laughing, stood with his arms stiffly at his sides, his expression totally out of place. He almost looked afraid as his eyes skipped up to Sasha’s house.
“What is it?” Sasha asked, heartbeat accelerating.
Andrei’s breath plumed white in the darkness. He shook his head, like a man who’d seen a ghost. “Six men went into your house. One was old. But five were not. They had…they wore long black coats.”
Sasha frowned. “What?”
“Black coats,” Andrei stressed. He looked petrified. “Chekists, Sasha. Stalin’s secret police. Not the locals – these came from the train. From Moscow, I heard.”
Chekists. From Moscow.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Sasha looked toward his house. The windows were lit. A curtain twitched.
He started forward.
“Sasha, wait–” Andrei said, hurrying toward him.
But Sasha’s legs were longer. He left the sled behind and mounted the front steps in a few strides, let himself soundlessly into the front door.
The inside of their house was homely and cozy, two-story, the walls and floors and ceilings all made of wide wooden planks stained from time and wear, deep brown, and their surfaces almost soft to the touch, polished smooth by the brush of boots, and hands, and his mother’s broom. They rarely used the front door, always entering through the kitchen, so the front room was empty and silent save the faint crackle of the logs in the grate. His father kept fires burning in all the rooms this time of year. Sasha looked beyond their simple, comfortable furnishings to the doorway that led into the kitchen, just beyond the staircase. He could hear the low din of multiple voices, the scuff of too-many feet.
His pulse pounded in his ears, throbbed strongly in his throat so that it was hard to swallow.
His mother would tan him for tracking snow across her clean floors.
But his mother was in the kitchen with the secret police right now, so he thought she’d forgive him this time.
He crossed the room up on his toes, silent, and pressed himself flat to the door casing when he reached it. Straining, listening.
He was met with silence. His own heartbeat. Quick, nervous breaths that could have been his own, or could have been his mother’s.
A stranger’s voice said, “Your son’s here, I think.”
A big hand darted around the casement and grabbed a fistful of his jacket.
“Hey!”
The hand dragged him like he weighed nothing into the room, and when he got a look at the man it belonged to, he felt the blood drain out of his face. He was huge. Tall and broad and bull-like. Dressed in a long black leather coat and a black fur hat embroidered with the hammer and sickle. He grinned, flashing a gap between his two front teeth.
He was a monster. All thoughts of throwing a punch at him flew straight out of Sasha’s head. He dangled like a doll, gaping.
“Ooh, look at him,” the man said with a laugh. “Skinny and pretty as a girl.”
“Ivan,” one of the others scolded. “Don’t break him.”
Sasha glanced wildly across the room – there were his parents, huddled together at the table, pale-faced but unharmed – toward the speaker. He was dressed the same, though more normally proportioned. A few years older than Sasha, dark-haired, snowflakes melting on his jacket, his eyes hard and blue-gray. His face was handsome, but cruel. Shut up like a summer dacha, revealing nothing.
“No, please, not that,” someone else said.
This voice belonged to a squat older man with a salt-and-pepper beard and oddly kind, sparkling eyes. He nudged between two of the black-coated men and walked toward Sasha – smiling.
His coat was a patchwork of pelts, his hat gray wolf fur. His clothes were not the all-black of a Chekist, but formal and stiff, the dated clothes of a gentleman from the days of the empire.
The big man – Ivan – set Sasha back on his feet, but didn’t let go of his jacket. Sasha caught a glimpse of his mother’s face, her damp eyes and trembling lower lip, and thought better of snatching out of the man’s grip.
“You must be Sasha,” the smiling man said, drawing up in front of him. He captured one of Sasha’s hands between both of his; his palms were smooth, soft, warm. It was unsettling to Sasha, in his world of cracked dry skin and hard-work calluses. “My name is Philippe. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Uh…” Sasha said.
Philippe tsked and glanced around the room. “Captain, your men are intimidating the poor boy. Give him some space.”
The man with the cold gray eyes stared at Philippe, expressionless, muscle in his cheek twitching. Then he nodded to his men and they all stepped back toward the wall.
A bit of the tension in Sasha’s belly released. For the moment.
“Now,” Philippe said, turning back to him, beaming. “I think you’re probably wondering what we’re all doing in your home, yes? And you have many questions, I assume. Don’t worry.” He patted the back of Sasha’s hand. “I’ll explain everything.”
~*~
Mama had made stew: rabbit with thick-sliced turnips and potatoes, flavored with a little wine. Under the weighty gazes of the men, she served up bowls of it with slices of buttered bread, more generous with the portions than she normally would have been, not wanting to displease them.
Sasha’s heart felt like it might burst out of his chest, its rhythm frantic with anxiety.
“Papa,” he whispered, leaning into his father. “What–”
“Hush,” his father said.
Everyone was seated at the long plank table, save Ivan, who prowled around the kitchen peeking into cupboards. And the captain, who leaned against the wall with his arms folded, looking bored with them all. This must be an everyday occurrence for him, Sasha thought, invading homes and watching families tremble in their boots.
He tried and failed to understand what Stalin’s thugs would want with anyone in Tomsk. It was strange beyond imagining.
Stranger still was Philippe. The smiling man with a French name who spoke flawless Russian.
The men dug into the food with gusto.
Sasha couldn’t bring himself to lift his spoon. “Why are you here?” he asked Philippe, and his father kicked him hard beneath the table.
Philippe chuckled. “A very reasonable question. Ah, where to begin?” He pushed his bowl to the side and folded his hands on the tabletop, expression contemplative. “We are a long way from the capital, but I trust you know what happened in Moscow?”
Sasha nodded.
“The Germans are very committed to this war effort,” he continued with a sigh. “Surprising? No. But alarming. The Vozhd is equally committed. He’s using every means at his disposal to ensure that we turn back the fascists. These are frightening times in the Motherland,” he said, earnest, “and anyone who can help should help. For the good of us all. Don’t you agree, comrade?”
Sasha’s tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He wanted to curl his hands into fists. He wanted to run. He wanted to do something.
He nodded.
“Some men have more to contribute than others. Some have quite a lot to contribute – you could almost call them gifted.” His smile made Sasha think of the hunt, the moment of stillness when the sights were leveled and the trigger finger was ready. The held breath before the shot. “Men like you, Sasha.”
The statement hit him like a fist to the stomach. “What?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
“Sasha,” his mother hissed.
But he’d already started down this path, and didn’t seem able to back out now. “Gifted? Me? What could Stalin want with me?”
One of the men snorted.
Patiently, Philippe said, “You’re modest. An admirable trait. Especially at your age – how old are you, Sasha?”
He didn’t like the question, but saw no reason to lie. “Nineteen.”
“Wonderful! Your life is just beginning! Young, and strong. Just the kind of specimen my project requires.”
This time it was Sasha’s father who spoke up. “Project?”
“The Vozhd has employed me to design a very special, state-of-the art weapon. One that will enable us to beat back the Nazis once and for all.” Philippe smiled wider than ever, bright eyes disappearing into the lines around them. “An incredible weapon, known only to a few.”
“Everyone’s become a soldier,” Papa said, grimly, “and there aren’t enough men to work the factories, is that it? They need someone to make the guns, and tanks, and bullets?”
Philippe’s smile twitched to the side. “No, comrade. This isn’t a gun, or a tank, or a bullet we’re talking about.”
“Then what?” Sasha asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you all the details. But I need your help, Sasha. You’re the last piece of the puzzle.”
“But…”
“Tell him what it is,” one of the men spoke up. It was the gray-eyed captain, his mouth a cruel, straight line. “Stop with your speeches and tell the boy what you plan to use him for.”
Philippe turned to look at him, and a stare-down ensued.
Philippe said, “Captain, will you give us a moment?”
The captain waited, and waited…and finally pushed away from the wall, making it known that he’d chosen to leave them alone. He hadn’t been ordered.
The five of them trooped into the front room, boots heavy across the boards.
Sasha heard his mother let out a small, relieved sigh.
But there was no relief here. The man who lingered across the table from them was of no comfort, smiling and talking about weapons.
“Please,” Papa said. “I’m not sure what you want–”
Philippe leaned toward them, a sudden movement, bracing his elbows on the table, voice low. “Listen to me. I didn’t bring these men with me as my friends. They’re my escorts. They have orders to retrieve you – by whatever means necessary. I don’t think I have to tell you that they are not gentle men.” His brows lifted meaningfully.
Sasha’s hand rested on the table and Philippe covered it with his own. Warm and smooth, like before.
Sasha wanted to pull away, but found he couldn’t. His hand grew warmer, and then warmer still. His adrenaline ebbed and in its place was a bone-deep exhaustion. He was so tired. He could have put his head down on the table and slept.
“I shudder to think what they’ll do to you if you resist. What they’ll do to your family. Sasha.” The old man looked grim. “I’m so sorry, my son, but I’m afraid you don’t have any choice. When the Vozhd calls you…you must answer. Or else Captain Baskin and his men will kill you and me both.”
Put like that, he didn’t really have a choice, did he?
~*~
He was a boy. Just a boy. Younger even than Pyotr.
A volunteer, Nikita thought with an inward sneer. A great weapon commissioned by Stalin. A special man to wield it – and he was just a lanky Siberian boy with pale hair falling in his blue, blue eyes. A boy who smelled of snow and wilderness, wrapped in wolf and badger fur, unselfconsciously entitled in the way of all Siberians who’d never lived beneath a man’s boot heels in Moscow.
Nikita wanted to be sick. Every time he blinked, he saw Dmitri’s face…now overlaid with the narrow, angular face of Aleksander Kashnikov.
Kolya sidled up to him, voice low. “It’s not too late to kill the old fool and say he was eaten by a bear.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that.”
“We aren’t actually taking the boy, are we? Nik–”
“We have our orders,” he said with finality. But his stomach clenched.
This line of work was going to get him killed one day.
And it would be a relief.
~*~
“My beautiful boy,” Mama said, voice a choked whisper, pressing her cheek to his heart. He was so much taller than her now, and when he looked down at the top of her head, he saw rivers of silver threaded through her dark hair.
Father was next, his hands rough against Sasha’s face as he cupped his jaw. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery. “I’m proud of you, son.”
Shadows danced across the floor, the leap and crack of the fire in the hearth. Around them, the house was warm, and dark, and full of memories. He let his gaze rove across the furniture, the rugs, his mother’s tea set on its shelf above the settee.
He’d been born in this house, upstairs on sheets soft from many washings, and he was filled now with the heavy knowledge that he’d never see this place, or his parents, again.
But he would rather leave than risk their safety.
“Come, boy,” the man named Ivan called from the door.
“I love you,” he told them, one last time, heart in his throat, and he went to catch the train with the Bolshevik nightmares.