The Commissar

by Tony Roberts

  After twenty minutes of stumbling along they pitched their blankets and bedrolls and made as best a place to sleep as they could. There was precious little to forage and it was too dark anyway, so they wrapped themselves in as much as they could, laid blankets over themselves and tried to get as much sleep as they could.

  The morning came with a gradual brightening of the eastern sky, a line of dull red, then orange, then yellow. Casca packed away the blankets and rolls and hitched them up on his back. Raisa did likewise. A drink, a quick meal and they were off south.

  Lines of trees grew along watercourses and they refilled their canteens from these after breaking the ice. Casca wrinkled his nose and looked around. “I think the temperature’s rising. We could be in for a thaw.”

  “That will be good for us, but we will get wet.”

  “Not a problem. We’ll stick to the higher ground away from the dips. Melt water will collect there and it’ll be hell. Come on, we’ll find a place to spend the night further on.”

  They made steady progress and by late afternoon had spotted a farmhouse where they would spend the night. A barn was the place, away from the lights of the domicile. He doubted the farmer or occupant would take kindly to intruders so they were quiet and covert in getting into the barn.

  They spent a warmer night than the previous one, but sometime while they slept the rain began, as the temperature climbed. The effect on the land was incredible to those not used to it. The ice was gone, and the snow melted, turning the previously iron-hard ground to a drenched squelchy morass. The roads were just wet mud and the ground soaking wet where there was grass or crops.

  Casca tried to walk a route that was drier or firmer than in most places. The rain came down in torrents, soaking the pair of them and eventually Casca decided enough was enough. A nearby woodland gave them some cover and the ground here was firmer. They managed to get a fire going eventually under the shelter of the trees but the damp wood gave off gouts of smoke.

  “Won’t people see it and come to investigate?” Raisa asked.

  “They might, but I doubt it. People here have learned to keep to themselves what with the warring bands. We can’t be too far from the Front now. Kharkov is in Soviet hands I know, but further south? Who knows how far they’ve gone.”

  The rain stopped but the ground was still very sodden and they had to walk through woodland whenever they could. This also served to keep them concealed from any prying eyes. They learned to carry firewood so that when they set up camps for the nights, they had dry wood to start a fire.

  Finally they came to a river, one that ran a few feet below the level of the ground. It was swollen with meltwater and rainwater and it had submerged jetties and broken moorings. Some boats were adrift in the water moving downstream. The trees were thick here and one boat had become jammed against a fallen tree that had landed half in and half out of the river.

  Casca told Raisa to wait by the bank and he waded in, bracing himself against the cold of the water, and the current, and grabbed the boat, hauling it into the bank using his great strength. There were oars in the bottom, rather conveniently, and he grinned, telling her that they could now avoid the mud and footslogging, as he called it, and travel in style.

  She smiled, but worried now that they were in full view of everyone. Casca made sure she was seated comfortably at the stern before grabbing the oars and kicking the boat off into the current. “Don’t worry too much about that. Unless the Reds have a fleet of boats on this river, and I don’t think they will, we’re travelling too fast for anyone to stop us.”

  The banks were not clearly defined here, as the flood waters had burst the banks and many trees were stood in water, their bare trunks standing up like sentinels. They would soon burst into leaf with the spring, but now they were looking quite stark.

  “This is the Donets,” Raisa said. “It flows south to the Don near the Sea of Azov.”

  “Which isn’t too far from the Crimea,” Casca said thoughtfully.”

  Raisa smiled. “Will you come with me to my home town?”

  Casca pulled on the oars, keeping them to the middle of the river. “I can’t see why not. But I’m not sure whether I’m going to stay in Russia. Things are far too crazy for anyone to stay out of the warring sides, and I’ve had enough of the civil war. I want away.”

  “But, won’t you wish to remain with me?”

  Casca gave her a long considered look. “I promise I’ll come with you to your home city but after that, I will want to leave Russia. There’s plenty of a world out there for me to explore and enjoy, and I’m not going to get stuck here fighting a war for a people that aren’t even mine. Neither side are ones I want to fight for, so I’ll move on after we get you safely back with your parents.”

  Raisa sulked in silence for a while after that. He rowed on and off for the best part of a day, his hands blistered and wet, wrinkled and cold. Eventually enough was enough and he brought the boat against one of the banks, the eastern bank, and dragged it up onto a dry spot away from the rapidly flowing muddy waters.

  “Where are we?” Raisa asked, shivering. The rain still fell persistently and both were wet through.

  “I have no idea,” Casca replied. “We’ve passed a few towns and villages but nobody is interested in a single rowboat on a fast river. Tomorrow we may have to call in at a village and find out the situation. For now, let’s find a dry spot and get a fire going. We need to dry our clothes.”

  He unwrapped the wood he had kept dry in the pack and soon had a warm fire blazing away. They hung their clothes on an improvised rack and they were soon steaming as the moisture rose off them. Wrapped in blankets, the two sat by the fire, warmed by heated water and some of the last of their food.

  Raisa grudgingly cuddled into him, needing his warmth, and soon she was using her feminine charms on him, straddled on his lap, facing him, rising up and down, gasping softly into his ear that she really wanted him to stay with her when they got to Dzhankoy.

  Casca said he would remain with her until it was time for him to go, and that was all he was willing to say. He knew he could never stay with her; his unchanging physical state would one day attract her attention and then the question of his immortality would need addressing. She would never believe him, and then she would become afraid. It was something he’d experienced all too often. So he would have to move on.

  Raisa seemed satisfied with that and moved even more enthusiastically, the heat from her body warming him through.

  The next day the weather cleared up but the river was even more ferocious. The boat was almost uncontrollable and where the water changed direction, he found it hard to keep in the middle of the stream.

  The river was a hundred yards wide in places and the surrounding terrain mostly of trees and gently sloping banks. They had to eventually give in and Casca headed for the side where a small town spread along one bank.

  Cursing and sweating, the Eternal Mercenary maneuvered the small boat to the left, following the main flow of the river, then as it curved sharply to the right, steered it to the bank where a partly-submerged jetty stood. It was too much to expect him to get there without a mishap, for he wasn’t that used to using a rowboat. The prow struck a wooden post and it spun around sharply, trying to pull itself downstream. Another obstacle caught the keel, one under the surface of the water, and the boat tipped over, sending both sideways out into the rushing waters.

  Casca immediately reached for Raisa and pulled her up as she threatened to plunge deep into the river. His other arm grabbed a post and he held on for dear life. “Can you get to this post?” he asked her, spitting out a stream of river water.

  “Yes,” she gasped. She used his body to get to the post and held on, nodding that she was alright.

  He helped her up onto the half-submerged jetty and she stood there, cascading water. He pulled himself out and saw a group of armed men approaching, having watched the duo’s antics. He saw the red star of the Communists on their un
iform and groaned. They hadn’t gone far enough.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?” the officer with them demanded, looking them up and down. He spotted the pistol in the holster. “Surrender that weapon at once!”

  The soldiers levelled their rifles and Casca had no option but to pass it over. He still had the other one tucked into his trouser belt behind and under the greatcoat. “So, do you have authority to be on this river?”

  “I wasn’t aware one had to have permission,” Casca said sullenly.

  “Don’t be clever,” the officer growled, inspecting the pistol. “So, an officer’s pistol. How come you are in possession of this, comrade?”

  “I found it.”

  “I don’t believe you,” the officer said. “You’re under arrest, both of you. You will be taken away for interrogation.”

  Casca sighed to himself. Unless he could come up with something clever in the next few minutes, he was as good as sunk. Raisa looked scared and was pushed along by two soldiers while three covered him. As they walked through a street towards the taller buildings of the center, he saw more soldiers walking along the streets, trying to look smart. They were still scruffy looking but had a look to them that didn’t bode well for him.

  They were taken to a wide stone building along the main street and passed through the doors into a hall. It seemed to be an old mansion house of some kind. The old chandelier was still there but nobody had bothered clearing away the cobwebs for a long time, and there were old discarded cigarette stubs along the skirting boards.

  A large desk stood to the left and a bespectacled clerk sat behind it, his cold, hard face looking up at the two new arrivals, still dripping water. “Well?” he snapped to the officer.

  “Comrade Yedanov, I picked these two up out of the river. They had been in a small boat. He had this on him,” and the pistol was placed on the desk. “He lies about having found it.”

  “Lies?” the clerk was no mere clerk, Casca could now see. He stood up and came around the desk. “We’ll get the truth out of these two,” he said, smiling. “The Cheka always find out the truth.”

  He pointed to Raisa. “Put her in a cell. I will interrogate this one myself.” He waved to two guards. “Bring him to the room.”

  Casca closed his eyes. He was in the hands of the Cheka and God alone knew what was going to happen to him now.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Whack! “Tell us who you are spying for, filthy Tsarist pig!”

  Casca’s eyes were shut. Not through him keeping them so; they were puffy and blackened from the repeated beating he had received. Tied to the chair in the cell room, one single light coming from a lamp on the interrogator’s table in the corner which illuminated his face, he was at the mercy of the Cheka.

  Of course, finding his second pistol had given them every excuse to think he was an agent of the enemy Whites, the Cossacks or even the filthy French, who had been in Odessa until recently. He was stripped to the waist, his shoes and socks had been removed, and all he had on were his trousers.

  Blood had run down his chest but it had clotted instantly, and his wounds received from the blows healed so fast. The Chekist brutes dishing out the punishment looked at their leader in consternation, but this had merely meant to the unimaginative man that this creature here needed more punishment.

  “It will be more painful for you, animal, to carry on resisting. We are very skilled in extracting confessions from enemies of the Revolution, believe me.”

  Even though Casca could no longer see, he knew the man was on the edge of the desk, one booted foot on the floor, the other crossed over at the knee, cigarette in hand, taking the occasional puff. His gaze never wavered from the prisoner. This was his toy, his play-thing. The Revolution and Lenin had provided him with the release from a life of obscurity and contempt from society, and now he could get his revenge on all the superior bastards. If he had his way, all would be shot. But orders were orders, and he had to get a confession from this filthy thing in his possession.

  The woman would be questioned in a different way. After she had been raped about five times, she would tell him everything. Women always did; he used rape as a weapon to terrorize them. And if they were innocent, well at least he’d had his fun and the body could always be tossed into the river. Who gave a damn?

  But this man here, no he was interesting. A big man, with a massively scarred body. It looked like he’d been in a fight with a bear, and survived. Tough, then. And what was it with his healing? All these cuts and blows he’d been given? The blood stopped flowing after about ten, maybe twenty seconds, and the cuts healed before his very eyes! An odd man, indeed. What was he? Was he some kind of freak?

  “So, scum,” he stubbed out his cigarette on the prisoner’s arm, a pleased expression crossing his face as the scarred man hissed in pain. He held the cigarette there until it was too cold to burn him anymore, but when he took the butt away, the burn mark was much smaller than he anticipated. Then he stared again. It was closing! What in the name of…?

  “What is this? How is it you heal so fast?”

  Casca kept his head down, but it was pulled back by the hair by one of the two brutes.

  “Tell me, you freak!”

  “Think you’re going to get me to talk?” Casca said, pain coursing through his body. “I have nothing to say other than what I’ve told you before you began beating me; we were trying to get to Rostov. The woman is from the Crimea. I was helping her.”

  “You must have stolen these guns from an officer or a Commissar. So, did you kill them?”

  Casca went silent. He got a punch to the stomach for that.

  As he fought for breath, and thought up a whole host of vile endings for the interrogators, the senior Chekist walked away from the table and stood a few paces away. “So, Tsarist pig, who are you spying for?”

  “The Tsar,” Casca gasped.

  “Don’t play with me, you filth!”

  “Well you called me a Tsarist, you idiot.”

  The interrogator breathed in deeply through his nostrils. “If you do not tell me I’ll shoot you on the spot.”

  “Go ahead, then masturbate in the toilet with glee. Its about your level.”

  The two brutes gaped in amazement, then at their leader, waiting for the next order. They hoped it would mean further pain and punishment for this disrespectful dog.

  “That’s going to cost you dearly, you vile piece of filth. Whoreson!” He waved angrily to the brutes and Casca was assaulted with blows to head, arms, stomach, legs, crotch and every reachable part of his body. The pummeling was so severe he passed out.

  He came to in his small cell, lying on the floor. The iron salt taste of blood was strong in his mouth, and his face felt as if it had been used as an anvil to fit a whole squadron of Cossack horseshoes. His arms ached and he guessed a few ribs were broken. Vomit lay on the floor. He hissed in pain and sat up against one of the cold walls. At least he could see again.

  They would come for him once more. He hoped he could goad the man into such fury that they would shoot him sooner rather than later, then he could get on with his life once his body had been abandoned wherever they threw the corpses. As for poor Raisa, he knew she had no chance.

  There were screams coming to his ears faintly. Whether they were hers or some other poor bastard in these animals’ clutches, he couldn’t tell. He sat there and his mind began to work once more. Dark, angry, vengeful. Communists. Pigs. Animals scraped off the gutters of Russian society, keen to get their own back on their betters for the God-awful life they had endured up to now.

  None of them had any ability to build, only to destroy. The middle-class revolution was dead, and now the gutter-class revolution had taken it over, just like in France a hundred and twenty years before. He’d seen it himself, and it had led to terrible wars that had engulfed Europe. He’d been with Napoleon and his all-conquering army; what soldier wouldn’t have been? All those victories over the Prussians and Austrians
. Yes, those had been marvelous days.

  Then had come Russia in 1812 and Napoleon’s callous abandonment of an army he’d led to its own destruction. He’d been so disgusted he’d quit – well, he’d been shot for killing one of his own men – and gone to fight for Wellington at Waterloo against Napoleon. Put the mad dog down once and for all.

  These Communists were just as mad. They had to be put down too. He was just fearful that before they were done away with, they would plunge Europe into a war that wouldn’t be forgotten for a long, long time.

  He was left for a few hours, then they came for him again.

  He was beaten and punched, kicked and spat on. Dragged to the interrogation room, he saw a sight that made him sick to the stomach. He’d been around long enough to know when a woman had been raped, but this was something else.

  Raisa, or what was left of her, was hanging in a bloody lump from the ceiling, her wrists manacled above her head, naked. She had been used by all three of these animals, and then cut up. The only blessing was that she was dead and could suffer no more.

  “So, Comrade Kaskarov,” the interrogator smirked. “She told us everything. You’re a deserter. Trying to take her to her home city? Oh how romantic. Perhaps you hoped to marry her? Well, we showed her how a honeymoon should be, then we allowed her to marry death.” He laughed. The other two did likewise.

  Casca looked up at him. His eyes locked onto the interrogator’s. “I am going to kill you, slowly. Nothing on this earth is going to stop me.”

  “Oh, you really have such high hopes, don’t you?” He picked up one of Casca’s two pistols. “I’m a generous man. So much so, that I am prepared to even kill you with your own gun. See how generous I am?” He walked around to Casca’s back. “So, Kaskarov, there will be no killing of me or anyone else by you. You can’t when you’re dead.”

  Casca snorted in amusement. “Better people than you have said that many times before; they all died by my hands. You won’t be any different.”