Beyond the Shadow of Night(49)

Mykhail was dragged out of the camp the very next day—not told anything, just ordered into a truck at gunpoint. He was taken to somewhere they called the Trawniki camp. It was a strange place, a kind of training facility in Poland for people who should have been enemies of the Germans but had been “persuaded” to work for them.

Mykhail was confused, although he did find out why the guard at Kiev had saved him: he was on a commission of sorts for providing reliable labor for the German war effort.

Mykhail spent the first few weeks at the camp getting his health back—that and getting used to sleeping in a bed again after so long sleeping in muddy fields. He had no idea what they needed him for, but in time they assessed every aspect of his skills, involving tests and interviews.

It was soon after these that he was summoned from his barracks and marched to a worryingly official-looking building, into a room dominated by three men seated behind a large desk.

The men talked in German among themselves, then Mykhail heard his name and they all perused sheets of paper before one of them looked across at him and spoke in passable Ukrainian.

“They say you’re good with engines, Petrenko?”

“I’ve repaired tractors and—”

“Speak up!” another one of the men said.

Mykhail cleared his throat and decided to speak with a measure of confidence, hoping it wouldn’t be taken as a sign of insolence or arrogance.

“I was brought up on a farm, and when the farm first acquired a tractor I learned the basics of how it operated and how it needed to be maintained. I became well known throughout the surrounding villages for being able to diagnose and fix most mechanical problems. From there I learned about civilian vehicles—both gasoline and diesel—and during the last few weeks of fighting in and around Kiev I was responsible for tank maintenance.”

The three men looked slightly shocked, and Mykhail could feel his heart racing, wondering if he’d said too much, but eventually they started muttering among themselves, after which Mykhail was marched back to the barracks none the wiser.

The next day he was taken to a workshop, the inside of which was almost entirely filled by a large tank. In front of the three men he’d seen the previous day, he was asked what he knew about the vehicle.

Still unsure what the hell this was all about, Mykhail decided he had little to lose and a lot to gain, so spoke again with confidence.

“It’s a German model,” he said, “whereas I’m more familiar with Soviet tanks.” He sauntered around the vehicle, peering at the air intake, checking the brackets around the exhaust, opening the engine cover and tapping his fingers on a few of the components inside. “But the principles are much the same,” he continued, and proceeded to explain—from the fuel and air intake to the compression cycle and to the emission of exhaust gases—precisely how the engine operated, to the approving nods of the onlookers.

They were clearly impressed, but still didn’t tell Mykhail what they had in mind. And he didn’t dare ask.

Soon afterward he was shipped out of the training camp, with no idea where he was going or why.

When he arrived, it seemed a pleasant place—a small settlement of huts and buildings in the middle of the countryside. It even had its own dedicated railroad station, with the name “Treblinka” on the platform. A set of carriages pulled up, holding more people than seemed possible. The people looked quite ill and were shoved this way and that by guards with rather nasty-looking dogs. Mykhail was told not to look at them—which was difficult considering the number of people—and was shown to his quarters. The building was like an army barracks, not much more than a shed, but it was a palace compared to the hell of the POW camp.

He was told he would be collected for work within the hour, and decided to spend that time resting in his bunk, which was still a paradise of sorts and to be savored.

As well as rumors about Ukrainian SS divisions, there had always been rumors about secret camps hidden all over Germany and the countries under its command, where conditions were desperately poor for prisoners—mostly Jews.

Mykhail wondered whether this was one such camp. He was unsure for two reasons. For one thing, there weren’t many guards or other staff. For another, there simply wasn’t the room—perhaps only twenty or thirty buildings, mostly small. And Mykhail didn’t feel like a prisoner, although he told himself never to show complete trust in anyone.

After a while he heard voices outside and sat up. The doors opened and a handful of men came in. They were speaking Ukrainian. Mykhail immediately felt better: this far from home, these men were as good as brothers. He got up and introduced himself. They talked openly of the routine of roll call, mealtimes, and suchlike. They weren’t exactly happy, but they looked to be in relatively good health.

Then Mykhail said, “So, what’s the purpose of this camp?”

They all stopped what they were doing for a second and glanced at one another. One gave Mykhail a very worried look.

“I mean, what have you just been doing?”

Still they didn’t speak.

“You’ll be told what part you play in good time,” one of them said.

Mykhail was puzzled. These men were all able-bodied, and although slim didn’t look dangerously ill. So whatever they were doing, it wasn’t harming them.

Thinking he might have somehow offended them, Mykhail got back into his bunk and kept quiet.