The Homecomer had committed the ultimate sin for any soldier: he had lost his gun.
Fortunately he had another.
The New Country, July 1936
At the beginning of the year, all Party membership books must be renewed with a photograph. Enemies of the state who have somehow acquired a false identity will be unmasked in this way, and will be purged — but Aron calmly settles down in front of the camera in the office. A photograph is nothing but an advantage as far as he is concerned. He has stolen Vladimir Jegerov’s name and life, and with his own Party book Vlad becomes even more credible.
Afterwards, it feels odd to see the photograph once it has been developed; Aron has not looked in a mirror for several years. He sees a hardened young man with a broken nose and a red scar running across his forehead. He doesn’t recognize himself; it is Vlad that he sees.
Vladimir has not only become a member of the Party, he has also been given a domestic passport and a guard’s uniform. This almost makes him a free man; he can move around without restrictions outside the camp, and he has moved into a small room in the military barracks that is actually warm. An old babusjka prepares his food each evening and takes care of his uniform. Trying to keep his boots clean and shiny in the spring mud and the summer dust is a hopeless task, but Vlad has found two pairs and alternates between them.
He has only one rifle, but he never lets it out of his sight, and he cleans it meticulously every night. It must always be in good working order.
After a few months, the spring begins to make its presence felt even in the north of the Soviet Union. Some of the prisoners go crazy and hurl themselves towards the light. Towards the fence. Vlad does not hesitate: he positions himself with his legs wide apart and shoots them.
And he is good at it.
He has shot seven prisoners by the fence since Grisha. All trying to escape. Commandant Polynov has praised him for his vigilance and has even given him a bonus of one hundred roubles.
A wood-fuelled crematorium has been built at the far end of the camp; the bodies are dealt with there.
In the summer, the heat pushes through the forest, and the camp becomes drowsy. The prisoners work more slowly, but there are also fewer escape attempts.
There is a sense of peace in the Soviet Union, in a way. The Kulaks and the class enemies have been broken, and all foreign spies have also been removed. Perhaps the future is here at last.
But at the beginning of July, a new vice-commandant arrives at the camp, a lieutenant. His name is Fajgin, and he has come from somewhere in the south, wearing a new uniform and a spotless cap.
Polynov gathers the guards in his office, but it is Fajgin who speaks, with fire in his eyes. The emblem of the NKVD, the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, is on his shirt collar; it shows a sword striking down a serpent.
‘We have important news,’ the lieutenant says. ‘More enemies have been unmasked in the south, both in the towns and in rural locations. More than ever.’ He leans across the desk. ‘This is a huge conspiracy, involving thousands of people.’
‘Kulaks?’ asks the guard next to Vlad.
‘We have got rid of the Kulaks,’ Fajgin replies. ‘These enemies are even more dangerous. They are Trotskyites. Intellectuals. Fanatics.’
‘Is this war?’ someone else asks.
‘Yes. This is war. But not on the streets. These enemies hide, they try to blend in and look like us. Be like us. Then they strike, through sabotage and disturbances. Or murder, which is what they did to Kirov.’
The guards stand in silence. Kirov. They all remember the murder of Sergei Kirov, the leader of the Leningrad Party organization, two years ago. Kirov was both popular and respected, one of the few leaders who could challenge Stalin. Suddenly, he was dead, shot by a madman.
Fajgin rests his clenched fists on the desk and goes on. ‘They have a plan, drawn up by the traitor Trotsky. He is directing them from outside our country; they are ready to die for him.’
Trotsky. So many names for Vlad to keep in his head. Wasn’t Trotsky a friend of Stalin? Evidently not.
Fajgin gives a little smile for the first time, and points to a folder in front of him. ‘And, believe me, they will die. We have lists of those who are on their way here by train, and details of how they will be dealt with... The Trotskyites will have their own building here in the camp.’
There have been punishment blocks with barred windows for a long time in the camp, and this is where many of the new prisoners from the south end up when the trains deliver them. The new block that is built behind them is different. It is called the Sty, even though there are no pigs in the camp. It is a long, low building with thick timber walls, and it is right next door to the crematorium. The innermost room has a sloping floor.
The new arrivals are sorted into two categories, according to Fajgin’s list: the first or second category. The second is the largest group; they are set to work in the brigades.
Those in the first category remain in camp. They are allocated a special platoon of guards, who are issued with new Mausers. Vlad is not selected for this group; he still has his old Winchester and continues to spend the long shifts patrolling the fence.
But he knows what is going to happen inside the Sty.
The work is carried out at night.
A wind-up gramophone begins to play patriotic marching music when a Trotskyite is taken into the innermost room. The music is very loud, virtually drowning out any other sounds.
However, sometimes Vlad is on duty outside the Sty, and he hears the shots echoing through the timber walls. The shots come at regular intervals, every night.
Not everything has been thought through; they should have added another door or some kind of hatch at the back of the Sty. As it is, all the bodies have to be transported to the crematorium through the front door, long after midnight, when the summer night is dark enough.
In the mornings, grey smoke rises from the chimneys.
But there are too many enemies this year; the trains just keep on coming.
The number of Trotskyites swells to a flood. Summer turns to autumn, and the emaciated rag dolls are all over the camp, staggering around.
In September, Vlad and a dozen or so other guards are summoned to Commandant Polynov’s office, where Fajgin is also waiting. Fajgin’s chin is up, but Polynov’s head is drooping. He looks very old; his face is swollen, with dark hollows under his eyes. He finished off his wine collection long ago.
Vlad also notices that the portrait of Jagoda has been removed. Stalin’s picture is still there, but there is another face beside him. A younger man, with an expression as merciless as Jagoda’s.
‘Our commissariat has a new leader,’ Polynov says quietly, nodding towards the portrait. ‘His name is Comrade Ezhov. Jagoda has been arrested... he was caught reading Trotskyite literature.’
The commandant sighs. ‘The putrefaction is spreading. We need more firing squads.’
He picks up a bottle of vodka and takes a long swig. He is very drunk.
‘We will be getting more work,’ he goes on. ‘A lot more work. All of us. We have to clear it... cleanse it from... from...’
He falls silent, as if he has lost his way. Fajgin takes over.
‘The Sty and the crematorium are no longer adequate when it comes to dealing with Category One prisoners, and we cannot start piling up corpses inside the camp. We have to find a better solution, so we are going to organize a special place for our most dangerous enemies, the Trotskyites. We are going to clear the ground and prepare a gravel pit for them deep in the forest, where no music will be necessary.’