Beyond the Shadow of Night(33)

“What’s happening?” Mykhail said. “Are they going to bring them out?”

The man laughed. “All of those enemies of the people? The insurgents, agitators, Ukrainian nationalists? What do you think?”

Then the gunfire started, and Mykhail started to tremble.

“But . . . I don’t understand. They can’t just kill them.”

“This is war, young Petrenko. People die. We can’t leave them in there, and we can hardly let them out.”

“Why not?”

“Are you mad? These prisoners are enemies of the people. If we leave them there the Germans will liberate them. Do you want to fight the Germans and those prisoners?”

Neither man spoke for a few minutes, and by the time Mykhail forced himself to turn and walk away, the flamethrowers had moved in and the whole building was ablaze.

His corporal followed him and patted his back.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” he said. “But these are orders from the top. We’re here to obey. And don’t forget, friends or not, these people are all troublemakers. They deserve to die.”

Mykhail stopped and threw the man’s hand off him. “What did you say?”

“Look. The Red Army has no time for these people, and you are a serving member of the Red Army, so neither should you. Did you know that many of the towns and villages in Ukraine have actually been welcoming the German forces? They see them as liberators. Can you believe that?”

Mykhail pushed the man aside and walked away.



Mykhail had seen the flames from the prison lick the clouds above, and was now watching the smoke swirl high above the charred remains.

And as the wreckage smoldered, so did his anger. Taras was gone; now Borys too. Both killed by Mykhail’s own side.

He was sitting on the ground, his back against a low wall, when another soldier approached and stood next to him.

“Petrenko,” the man said, “you’ll do yourself no good.”

Mykhail just looked up and scowled.

“I heard you arguing about the prison with the corporal.”

“And?”

“We all feel the same. Always on the back foot. Outnumbered, outgunned, and outmaneuvered. Then they do this.” He nodded to the burned-out shell. “It disgusts me too.”

“You knew people in there?”

“It doesn’t matter whether I did or not. The corporal is right. We are an army, and they are orders.”

“Well, I feel no allegiance to this army,” Mykhail said, the venom clear in his voice.

“Shh!” The man glanced around. “You want to see what they do to cowards?”

Mykhail stood up quickly and faced the man, eye to eye. “I’m no coward.”

The man was taller than Mykhail, but pulled his head back and took a step away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m only telling you how it is.”

Mykhail opened his mouth to reply, but the man’s expression switched instantly to one of shock, his eyes bulging, his head trembling. It took another second for the rattle of aircraft fire on concrete to register with Mykhail, and then the man slumped to the ground, blood seeping from his mouth.

Soldiers ran left and right, each searching for cover. Shouts were heard above the noise, which now included the screaming engines of the aircraft themselves.

Mykhail ran in a jagged path. The prison didn’t matter now; all that mattered was survival. He fell beneath the back end of a tank, praying that the thing wasn’t going to move.

The aerial bombardment continued long enough for Mykhail’s legs to go numb, and when the aircraft gave up and left, their armory spent, the ground was spattered red.

He crawled out from under the back of the tank, focusing on the prison again, trying to shake all thoughts of Borys and Taras from his head. Whatever had happened to them wasn’t important now. He’d survived yet another onslaught. That was important.

He lit a cigarette and once again took himself away from reality, closing his eyes and pointing his face toward the sun. Soon they would be retreating yet again, he thought, but there was no rush—not until the aircraft returned.

The tank fired up, the noise startling Mykhail. But the engine gave up as soon as it was started. It was cranked over once more, and grunted for a few seconds before stalling again.

A nearby corporal cursed. “What have you done to it?” he shouted up to the soldier’s head poking out of the driver’s hatch.

“I don’t understand,” the man replied. “But we can try again.” He did, and still it spluttered and gave up.

“Perhaps it needs refueling. Check the fuel level.”

“Fuel level is good.”

As they argued, Mykhail wandered over.

“You,” the corporal said. “Put that cigarette out. We’re about to refuel the tank.”

Mykhail took another drag. “It uses diesel, not gasoline.” He noticed the glare of the corporal, apologized, and put the cigarette out. “And it won’t be a fuel problem, because it’s turning over.” He walked around the tank. “My guess is it’s either the air intake or the exhaust.”

“You’re an engineer?”

He shook his head. “I know engines. I’ve worked on many.”

“Well, do you think you can help?” The corporal flicked a thumb at the tank. “We need every tank we can save.”