Beyond the Shadow of Night(48)

Then there was the goading by the guards. They’d obviously learned a few Ukrainian and Russian words: useless, filthy, disgusting, subhuman, unworthy, ungodly—the list went on and on. The only merciful thing was that most of what they said was in German.

Today was different. This one happened to speak good Russian. “Time for your supper, Russian peasants,” he said as he cast scraps of food onto the ground.

It took a while to register with Mykhail’s stunted mind. But he listened more intently.

“Looks like we’ve discovered a new variety of pig. The Russian Weakling Pig.”

Mykhail grabbed a piece of moldy bread from the ground and started gnawing on it. But he kept his eye on the guard.

“Why are you Russians so filthy?” the guard shouted out, flashing a smile. “Is it in your blood or do you have to learn it from your Russian pig fathers?”

Mykhail couldn’t help but answer back. “I’m not Russian,” he said as he grabbed another chunk of bread from the dirt.

The guard laughed. “What did you say, Mister filthy Russian vermin?”

“I’m not Russian,” Mykhail said more firmly. “And my name is Mykhail Petrenko.”

The guard’s smile dropped. He reached out and grabbed Mykhail’s jacket, pulling him forward. Mykhail was so weak that the action made him dizzy for a second. He fell to his knees.

The guard twisted the lapels of his jacket up in his fist. “You speak to me like that again, Mr. Petrenko, and I’ll kill you, you dirty piece of Russian shit!”

Mykhail thought for a second about self-preservation. He thought it stank. Or perhaps he no longer cared; there wasn’t much of him left to preserve. “I’m Ukrainian,” he said. “And if you call me Russian again, I’ll make you kill me.”

At this, every trace of humor dropped from the guard’s face. He walked back, dragging Mykhail along by his knees. That wasn’t hard; the guard was a couple of inches shorter than Mykhail but he was fit and well fed. As he pulled Mykhail back he cracked his rifle against the back of Mykhail’s hand, making him drop the moldy bread into the mud.

They stopped at the fence, where the guard spoke in Ukrainian as if a switch had been flicked. “You’re Russian,” he said. “You’re Russian and you’re a pig. You’re a filthy, disease-ridden pig.” He lifted his rifle up to Mykhail’s throat. “So go on, Russian pig. Make me kill you.”

Mykhail said nothing, just froze and looked the man in the eye.

After a while the guard withdrew his rifle, smirked, and started walking off.

“Ukrainian!” Mykhail shouted out after him. There was no reason, no logic, no element of self-preservation. It was suicidal. Perhaps that was the idea.

Within seconds the guard was standing above him again. This time he didn’t raise his rifle, so Mykhail repeated the word, sensing the end—the end of his suffering. His heart didn’t race; it had no energy for that.

The guard burst into mocking laughter. “You’re a brave man,” he said. He pointed to Mykhail’s face. “Is that where you got that scar, from fighting?”

“I’m not brave,” Mykhail replied. “Look around you. What do I have to lose?”

The guard cast his eye over the mass of bodies—alive, dead, and a hundred stages in between. “I’m Ukrainian too,” he said. “Tell me, where are you from?”

“Dyovsta,” Mykhail replied.

“I’ve heard of that.” The guard thumbed his chest. “I’m from a tiny village near Tarnopol in Galicia.”

Mykhail had heard about Ukrainian men joining the SS—that there was actually a Ukrainian SS regiment—but never quite believed it. Here was proof.

“You must really hate the Russians,” the guard said.

“I remember what they did to my people,” Mykhail replied. “In the early thirties.”

“Me too. Stalin’s starvation. Yet you fought alongside them?”

Mykhail shrugged, and winced at the pain in his emaciated shoulders. What could he say? He could mention that the Russians effectively prevented his mama having more children. But so much had come to pass since he’d struggled with his principles on the issue.

Then the guard said, “You hate the Germans too?”

Mykhail cast a lazy arm at the prisoners behind him. “The Germans who keep me in this living hell? Germans who treat us worse than animals?”

“But what if you were allowed out of the camp?”

Mykhail, puzzled, hesitated. “To where?” he said. “For what purpose?”

“Labor is needed in Germany and elsewhere. People we can trust. Just tell me you’re not Jewish.”

“I’m not.”

“You know, if you’re lying I will find out, and I really will kill you.”

“Do what you need to. I’m not Jewish.”

“In that case I could recommend you, and you could get out of this place.”

“What would you want in return?”

The guard grunted a laugh. “Don’t fool yourself; you have nothing I might want in a million years.”

Mykhail, for weeks thinking he couldn’t feel any more wretched, now felt one inch tall. But the guard didn’t need to ask twice, and Mykhail didn’t need to take another look at the POW camp.