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Beauty And The Russian Beast

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No should question the courage & fortitude of the Russian Army & people during the Great Patriotic War (WW2). Nor can anyone deny the millions of deaths - the exact number will never be know - and years of suffering under German occupation. At the same time, the atrocities committed by the Red Army should not be overlooked. Many soldiers avenged their fallen comrades & family members upon the civilian population as they advanced Westward & many commanders either looked the other way or even encouraged such activities. there are still many women in Germany, Poland, Hungary & elsewhere who can tell tales of being raped by Russian soldiers. And, traveling with the Red Army were units of the NKVD, Stalin's secret police, who tortured, executed or deported anyone suspected of being a German collaborator, pro-Western resistance fighter, anti-Communist activist or anyone else who might be an obstacle to Soviet rule.

War is an ugly, dehumanizing business that can make beast out of many people.
 
Eulalia said:
Thanks Melissa, and everyone else!
Back to the story then -
I'll re-run the bit I posted last night,
it got rather lost amongst other stuff,
then read on ...

The room fell silent, I felt all their eyes turned on me. I repeated, now in a hoarse, almost whispering voice, but clearly and precisely, “Do it to me.”

The sergeant nodded to the nearest man, he pulled out the lamp from under my sister and held it up so I was illuminated. Walking over to me, he put the tip of his whip-handle under my chin and lifted it up, so my blue eyes met his dark brown ones, I felt a quiver through my breasts as the leather stroked the skin of my neck.

“You want us to do it to you?”

I lowered my eyes, nodding assent, “Yes, please Sir.”

They’d untied Nastusja, she fell forward off the chair, taking the tin tray with her, still stuck to her bottom with the burning. She shrieked as they pulled it off, her skin still stuck to it, then fell to one side, still jerking violently and retching in pain.

Two men were holding my upper arms now, gripping me as if they thought I was going to change my mind. There was no need, but their firm grip was calming to my spirit as well as to my excited body. I stood quiet, hearing my heart pounding. When they moved, I stepped forward and let them march me to the centre of the floor. There was a strange silence now, almost like a religious ritual, as if they were awe-struck by my astounding demand.

Stood in front of the torture-chair, my sobbing sister on the floor beside me, they let go of my arms. Not a word was spoken, none was needed. I pulled up my nightshirt, off over my head, dropped it to the floor. I paused a moment, flicked back my pigtails, felt them assessing my bare breasts, then bowed and rolled down my knickers, kicked them off.

Naked now, I let them take my arms again and turn me round, stepped back to feel the chair against my legs, sat down. The tin was still fiercely hot, I winced sharply, but let out no sound. It’ll be much worse, I told myself. They drew my arms round the back of the chair, I held them still while they tied me, biting my lip as I felt the barbed-wire bite me. I sat well back in the chair, spine straight, shoulders pulled back, conscious of the way my breasts were lifted up by this bondage. My waist next, then I parted my knees, positioned my feet, so those could be bound tight.

All the while, the sergeant stood in front of me, tapping his whip on the palm of his hand, eyeing his prey. Now I was ready, he lifted my face with the handle again.

“You think you’re tough, eh, brat?”

I stayed silent.

“We’ll see about that!”

With that, he thrashed my tits. I jerked, but let out no cry. I bore the second, by the third there were tears swelling in my eyes, I cursed myself for my girlhood, closed them while he dealt me two more.

I gritted my teeth, gripped tight with my wire-bound hands at the back of the seat. Yes, I told myself, I do think I’m tough, I know I’m tough, tough as a nail. I’ve had to be, we’ve all had to be tough to get through these last three years. But I was thin as a nail too, no more than a skeleton in scanty covering of skin. The thong kept caught my bones, unprotected by any layer of fat, the pain was pure and undiluted agony.

It was the next stroke, cutting right down the front of my body and between my thighs, that forced out my first, involuntary scream. He laughed as its echo died away, I opened my eyes, looked at him, thinking, “Okay, you’ve got what you wanted – but the fight’s only just begun!”

From then on, I didn’t restrain my yelling, it helped me sustain the blows and cope with the pain. I kicked and tugged and jumped on the seat the little that my cruel bonds allowed, while he swung the whip more wildly, lashing my face, my flanks, my thighs, as well as the softness of my breasts, my starved stomach, my pubescent girl-parts.

I didn’t swear or provoke him like my sister had done, but nor did I cry for mercy, I just shrieked out to absorb the blows. The pain was sharp and grew ever hotter as bruises built up, weals crossing weals, blood spurted from my wrists and ankles as I tugged on the barbed-wire bondage, but I felt exhilarated, fired up by the fight in a way I’d never experienced before.

I honestly think I won the first round, or at least honours were even, he stopped thrashing me not because he’d broken me, he was tiring himself. But of course I knew I’d just been softened up, the main contest was yet to come…

●●●

I wriggled on the chair, feeling the tin under my bare buttocks, I could sense the rough bits of Nastja’s skin still adhering, the back tips of my cunt-lips were in contact with the warm metal, tensing my thigh muscles I realised I could hardly get those most sensitive petals away from the torturing heat… heat that was now approaching.

Again, there was almost a ritual solemnity in the way the soldier knelt down and placed the oil-lamp under me. I watched him, like a captive bird fascinated by a snake, then, as he stood back, I looked up and around the ring of watching men, there eyes fixed on me equally captivated, some had their hands in their pockets, others were more shamelessly stroking the fronts of their trousers…

I made a final effort to prepare my whip-sore body, tossing my head back so my pigtails were behind my shoulders. As I did so, I glanced at the two men holding the back of the chair, I swear one of them winked at me. I gripped at my bum with my tied hands, and felt the warmth in the tin tray grow to heat again, heat I could endure, heat I could barely endure, heat I could no longer …. Aaaaah!

Again my scream echoed, again I began to twist and writhe, fighting with my tight bondage. The griddling heat tortured me most where my ischial bones pressed my skin against the metal. By contracting the muscles in my thighs, I could slightly relieve the intensity of burning in my buttocks and close to my sex, but that was at the cost of pressing the thighs against the tray, causing them hideous pain. Tugging at my bonds only added pain, tearing yet more at the rending barbs on my wrists and ankles, cutting a deep furrow with bleeding barb-wounds into my abdomen, tearing my flesh as I twisted my hips, straining the muscles of my legs and arms. Constantly turning my pelvis brought slight relief, but as the heat increased, I could feel my skin beginning to melt and adhere to the tin, sweat was streaming down my naked body, the smell of my own burning was making me gasp and choke.

The sergeant began whipping me again, his blows encouraging me to twist my upper body and toss my head about all the more – and, bizarrely, he revived in my tortured spirit the sense of enthusiasm for the struggle that I’d experienced earlier. For all my agony, I was determined to keep up the fight …

At least as long as I stayed conscious. But I was phasing in and out, the room around me was swimming, the pain seemed now to surge right through my body in waves, I was panting like a greyhound…

I must have lost consciousness briefly, there was a time of blackness when I felt nothing but pain, the suddenly a new shock, quite different, equally agonising, a bucketful of icy-cold water drawn from our pump was hurled over me.

When I came to enough senses to open my eyes and glance around, cold water trickling over my eyes and down my face, I could see the lamp had been removed, it was back on the table, though the tray under my bum was still viciously hot, while my upper body was shivering with the cold.

The sergeant barked, “Had enough, cunt?”

I turned my head, looked at him vacantly, gathering my wits. He slapped my face, blood trickled from my lip.

“No, Sir.” Was all I said. He –and all the men – looked gobsmacked. He shrugged, nodded to the soldier nearest the table, who brought back the lamp to resume my torture. But while I writhed and struggled again, with a kind of crazed determination, my tormentor was preparing a third act in my ordeal …

●●●

I was pretty soon becoming delirious once more. There was another bucketful of water waiting, but the sergeant ordered a stop to the torture, he even ordered one of his men to fill a mug with water and let me have a drink, I sipped at it, sucking it in greedily, I was desperately thirsty, but it hurt my throat to swallow, my whole body shuddered as it went down.

“Thankyou Sir,” I croaked. My relentless politeness seemed to wrong-foot them, clearly it was something they weren’t used to, least of all in this back-end of nowhere where Russians, Germans, Poles and Swedes had fought for centuries over vast, valueless wastes of bogland.

I leaned back in the torture-chair, trembling, my pelvis still needing to keep in motion over the yet-grilling tin, smouldering with ripped girl-skin, raw flesh still cooked on it. The sergeant was over by the kitchen range, where the embers yesterday’s fire still glowed in the grate. He’d found another piece of kitchen equipment that would serve his purpose, he was getting it ready to meet its girl-flesh.

When he turned and carried it towards me, I gasped, my body tensed rigid. I could see what it was – mamma’s flat-iron, made hot in the glowing coals! He stood before me grinning, I could smell the hot metal.

“Where shall I brand you, eh sow?”

I looked at him, wide-eyed, silent. One of the men said something, others sniggered. A man behind me grabbed my pigtails and tugged my head back, my breasts were forced further upwards, the hot metal was pressed, first on the left, then rubbed across to the right. The pain was first a brief, sharp shock that drew a yowl from me, then it seemed to subside briefly, before it began eating deeper and deeper, hotter and hotter, into my throbbing flesh.

I could only twist my upper body, from my rib-cage to my shoulders, in helpless response, letting the pain flow through me, devouring me deeper and deeper. Vivid crimson patches grew on pale skin that was already crossed with whip-weals and patched with purple bruises.

I felt strangely distanced, as if I was looking down in sorrow and deep compassion at my own ravaged body. I was aware of the pain, of course, still hideous in my bottom, my girl-parts and my breasts, all my most sensitive flesh, all the assets that make me a woman, yet somehow I was above it, no longer experiencing the excitement of battle, but a sense of having come through – not triumphant, but unbroken, still me, Alicja!
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This is fantastic writing, Eulalia. Your description of the pain, both physical and emotional is so vivid and terrifying
 
thanks QP!

this is the last part of chapter one:

They untied me, I lifted myself up and, like my sister had done, fell forward onto my knees. I too had the torture-tray welded to my bum by my own melted subcutaneous fat, and tearing it off was a ghastly taste of being flayed alive, I almost vomited as the agony burst through me.

But I was coping better than Nastusja, though she was now somewhat calmer, lying quietly, still on her side on the floor. The men had some conversation, then Nastja was kicked to kneel alongside me, and we were both made to crawl on all fours, booted and red-raw bum-slapped with mamma’s wooden spoons, across the kitchen floor and through the door into our bedroom.

I was being tugged by my pigtails, they seemed to amuse these Russian soldiers. This experience, of crawling naked at the mercy of my tormentors, while still burning in the freshness of hellish pain, should have been broken me utterly, total humiliation, final defeat – yet I didn’t feel it so, in spite of everything, it seemed to me a strangely enjoyable game, I was playing a role I’d always secretly dreamed of, a captive Scythian slavegirl of the ancient Viking Rus!

The crack of the sergeant’s whip seemed just right. By it, I was commanded to climb up onto my bed and lie there in readiness. Nastja was ordered to do the same, but she seemed dazed, unresponsive, two men grabbed her, hauled her up and threw her down on her back.

The men debated, one of them had a couple of dice, with those they sorted out the fucking order – though the sergeant had first choice. He picked me.

They were all rough – heavy, unwashed bodies, stinking of drink and spunk they’d shot while watching us girls being tortured. I tried to co-operate, in my entirely inexperienced way, at least I understood enough to open my thighs, bend my legs and plant my feet firmly on the mattress – it hurt like hell, lying on my raw burnt bum with the weight of bloke on me, but my spasms of agony jerking my pelvis probably improved the experience for my impalers. The sergeant stabbing through my maidenhood made me squeal, as much with pleasure as pain, but it was nothing after what he’d done to me in the previous couple of hours.

I kept my arms spread up above my head, my wrists still dripping blood on the pillow, letting them grope and bite at my poor roasted breasts and bruised neck, some even kissed me with deep, tongue-in-throat kisses that an innocent girl like me had never even imagined let alone experienced.

My sister was less compliant, and had a worse time in consequence, I heard her squealing and swearing, getting punched and kicked in reprisal, though to judge by their grunting, once they’d bludgeoned her into submission, her men got what they were wanting.

And it wasn’t all normal fucking. A couple preferred to do it from behind, I knelt on all fours bracing myself against the head of the bed, squealing at the hurt as they rubbed my raw tortured flesh. But much worse was the one who buggered me, after my suffering on the torture-chair, that was excruciating agony, I shrieked all through it – and it went on for many, many minutes, but he must have enjoyed the sense of triumph, forcing himself and his seed into a helpless female where she doesn’t want it, and getting all the signs he needs that he’s causing her unbearable pain!

Finally the sergeant came back and required me to kneel, opened his flies, thrust is long, hard cock against my lips. I guessed what I had to do, licked it first with my tongue, kissed it with my lips, sucked it slowly and gently into my mouth, then, still very tenderly licking, sucking with my lips, pressing very lightly with my teeth, I felt it twitching, jerking, growing yet harder, pressing further and further back, until with a gush of warmth it erupted, flooding my gullet. He drew it out, still dripping sperm, I kept my tongue extended to receive it. As he did up his flied, I bowed my head and whispered, “Thankyou, Sir.”

●●●

We didn’t say much to each other after the men had gone, the rumble of their truck vanishing into the night, merging with the now-distant pounding of bombs. Mamma bathed Nastja and my raw wounds as best she could, made us a tea with herbs that was calming, we hugged each other. Nastja was shaking continuously, sometimes with quite frightening violence, and cried out in a dreadful, terrified tone at the least sound outside, or nothing at all, and mamma, though she was attentive in trying to care for us, was speechless, not uttering a single word.

We two girls went back to our beds, scene of our energetic deflowering, our sheets still rumpled and stained with sweat and semen and blood – our blood. We were far too tired to care. We slept naked, couldn’t bear to put even our night shirts on our sore bodies, never mind knickers. Nastja was restless, dozing off then awaking screaming with nightmares.

And I – well, of course I was utterly exhausted by the pain and the struggle, both on the chair and in the bed, my body was still racked with burning that seemed to burrow deeper and deeper into my flesh, every movement was painful, and any touch likely to make me squeal.

And yet… I knew I should be feeling shame, anger, hatred – and all right, on the surface I think I did – but none of those emotions seemed to really be in my heart, in the real Alicja. Instead, I was experiencing – and feeling confused and half-guilty at experiencing – a sense of deep satisfaction, a sense of having proved myself, of having revealed strange, secret depths in myself that I’d never imagined, sense – absurd as it may sound – of gratitude to those Russian boys for what had happened, what they’d done to me…

When I awoke, it was light, I went out into the kitchen, still nude. It’s my duty to get the fire started, mamma wasn’t about, she must still be asleep. So I stepped outside, enjoying the cool morning air on my raw tortured skin, collected in an armful of wood. It was strangely quiet, even the distant bomb-booms had ceased. God knows what the future will be, but I still felt a quiet, deep happiness, a confidence that I, Alicja, had been through the worst that men can do, and I’ll cope with whatever comes.

I went inside, made up the fire, then tidied the kitchen – mamma must have been knackered, I’d never seen it so upside-down in the morning! The chair was still in the centre of the room, I shuddered at the sight. We’ll have to chop it up for firewood, it’s no more use as a chair, the seat destroyed, the wood charred, the memories too painful. I lifted the tin tray, dismantling the instrument of our torture. The burnt-on girlskin, Nastja’s and mine, had a tint of reddish tan. I tried scraping it, but it will need hot water, soda and a scrubbing brush to remove our rags of flesh – or maybe we should preserve them, as family heirlooms?

The thought gave me a grim smile. My nightshirt and Nastasja’s ripped one still lay where they’d dropped on the stone floor. I gathered them up. Knickers too. When I picked up mine, a small scrap of paper fluttered out. I caught it, peered at it, there was writing, just a couple of words hastily scrawled in pencil. The letters were childish capitals, barely literate, I couldn’t make out whether they were roman or cyrillic. I pulled my knickers on – my bum burnt as the cloth rubbed – and tucked the note in under the drawstring.

I fetched water from the pump, filled a couple of mugs for Nastja and myself. My sister was still wild-eyed, trembling, on the verge of panic. I stroked her hair, helped her sip the water. Gradually she calmed a little, asked me how I was, “Not bad, considering,” I replied, “Look, I’ve found something –“ I pulled out the scrap of paper, showed it to her. She peered at it through watery eyes.

“It’s Russian – pro-sti-te-iv-an, prostite Ivan.” We both understood, in good Polish we’d say “przepraszam”, but the dialect round here is closer to Russian - it just said ”Sorry. Ivan.” Nastja spat, “Well, I don’t know which one was Ivan, but that’s a fucking insult!” She screwed the paper in a tiny ball, flung it into the corner of the room, and burst into tears. I hugged her, quietly sobbing a little myself, I needed to cry, so much was bottled up inside, such furiously fighting emotions were as painful as the torture itself.

But later in the day, when Nastja was up and dressed, I crept back into the bedroom, found the scrap, carefully unscrewed it and laid it flat between the pages of my girly diary. It must have still been there when the KGB searched my flat and took away all my personal belongings.
 
Eulalia said:
thanks QP!

this is the last part of chapter one:

They untied me, I lifted myself up and, like my sister had done, fell forward onto my knees. I too had the torture-tray welded to my bum by my own melted subcutaneous fat, and tearing it off was a ghastly taste of being flayed alive, I almost vomited as the agony burst through me.

But I was coping better than Nastusja, though she was now somewhat calmer, lying quietly, still on her side on the floor. The men had some conversation, then Nastja was kicked to kneel alongside me, and we were both made to crawl on all fours, booted and red-raw bum-slapped with mamma’s wooden spoons, across the kitchen floor and through the door into our bedroom.

I was being tugged by my pigtails, they seemed to amuse these Russian soldiers. This experience, of crawling naked at the mercy of my tormentors, while still burning in the freshness of hellish pain, should have been broken me utterly, total humiliation, final defeat – yet I didn’t feel it so, in spite of everything, it seemed to me a strangely enjoyable game, I was playing a role I’d always secretly dreamed of, a captive Scythian slavegirl of the ancient Viking Rus!

The crack of the sergeant’s whip seemed just right. By it, I was commanded to climb up onto my bed and lie there in readiness. Nastja was ordered to do the same, but she seemed dazed, unresponsive, two men grabbed her, hauled her up and threw her down on her back.

The men debated, one of them had a couple of dice, with those they sorted out the fucking order – though the sergeant had first choice. He picked me.

They were all rough – heavy, unwashed bodies, stinking of drink and spunk they’d shot while watching us girls being tortured. I tried to co-operate, in my entirely inexperienced way, at least I understood enough to open my thighs, bend my legs and plant my feet firmly on the mattress – it hurt like hell, lying on my raw burnt bum with the weight of bloke on me, but my spasms of agony jerking my pelvis probably improved the experience for my impalers. The sergeant stabbing through my maidenhood made me squeal, as much with pleasure as pain, but it was nothing after what he’d done to me in the previous couple of hours.

I kept my arms spread up above my head, my wrists still dripping blood on the pillow, letting them grope and bite at my poor roasted breasts and bruised neck, some even kissed me with deep, tongue-in-throat kisses that an innocent girl like me had never even imagined let alone experienced.

My sister was less compliant, and had a worse time in consequence, I heard her squealing and swearing, getting punched and kicked in reprisal, though to judge by their grunting, once they’d bludgeoned her into submission, her men got what they were wanting.

And it wasn’t all normal fucking. A couple preferred to do it from behind, I knelt on all fours bracing myself against the head of the bed, squealing at the hurt as they rubbed my raw tortured flesh. But much worse was the one who buggered me, after my suffering on the torture-chair, that was excruciating agony, I shrieked all through it – and it went on for many, many minutes, but he must have enjoyed the sense of triumph, forcing himself and his seed into a helpless female where she doesn’t want it, and getting all the signs he needs that he’s causing her unbearable pain!

Finally the sergeant came back and required me to kneel, opened his flies, thrust is long, hard cock against my lips. I guessed what I had to do, licked it first with my tongue, kissed it with my lips, sucked it slowly and gently into my mouth, then, still very tenderly licking, sucking with my lips, pressing very lightly with my teeth, I felt it twitching, jerking, growing yet harder, pressing further and further back, until with a gush of warmth it erupted, flooding my gullet. He drew it out, still dripping sperm, I kept my tongue extended to receive it. As he did up his flied, I bowed my head and whispered, “Thankyou, Sir.”

●●●

We didn’t say much to each other after the men had gone, the rumble of their truck vanishing into the night, merging with the now-distant pounding of bombs. Mamma bathed Nastja and my raw wounds as best she could, made us a tea with herbs that was calming, we hugged each other. Nastja was shaking continuously, sometimes with quite frightening violence, and cried out in a dreadful, terrified tone at the least sound outside, or nothing at all, and mamma, though she was attentive in trying to care for us, was speechless, not uttering a single word.

We two girls went back to our beds, scene of our energetic deflowering, our sheets still rumpled and stained with sweat and semen and blood – our blood. We were far too tired to care. We slept naked, couldn’t bear to put even our night shirts on our sore bodies, never mind knickers. Nastja was restless, dozing off then awaking screaming with nightmares.

And I – well, of course I was utterly exhausted by the pain and the struggle, both on the chair and in the bed, my body was still racked with burning that seemed to burrow deeper and deeper into my flesh, every movement was painful, and any touch likely to make me squeal.

And yet… I knew I should be feeling shame, anger, hatred – and all right, on the surface I think I did – but none of those emotions seemed to really be in my heart, in the real Alicja. Instead, I was experiencing – and feeling confused and half-guilty at experiencing – a sense of deep satisfaction, a sense of having proved myself, of having revealed strange, secret depths in myself that I’d never imagined, sense – absurd as it may sound – of gratitude to those Russian boys for what had happened, what they’d done to me…

When I awoke, it was light, I went out into the kitchen, still nude. It’s my duty to get the fire started, mamma wasn’t about, she must still be asleep. So I stepped outside, enjoying the cool morning air on my raw tortured skin, collected in an armful of wood. It was strangely quiet, even the distant bomb-booms had ceased. God knows what the future will be, but I still felt a quiet, deep happiness, a confidence that I, Alicja, had been through the worst that men can do, and I’ll cope with whatever comes.

I went inside, made up the fire, then tidied the kitchen – mamma must have been knackered, I’d never seen it so upside-down in the morning! The chair was still in the centre of the room, I shuddered at the sight. We’ll have to chop it up for firewood, it’s no more use as a chair, the seat destroyed, the wood charred, the memories too painful. I lifted the tin tray, dismantling the instrument of our torture. The burnt-on girlskin, Nastja’s and mine, had a tint of reddish tan. I tried scraping it, but it will need hot water, soda and a scrubbing brush to remove our rags of flesh – or maybe we should preserve them, as family heirlooms?

The thought gave me a grim smile. My nightshirt and Nastasja’s ripped one still lay where they’d dropped on the stone floor. I gathered them up. Knickers too. When I picked up mine, a small scrap of paper fluttered out. I caught it, peered at it, there was writing, just a couple of words hastily scrawled in pencil. The letters were childish capitals, barely literate, I couldn’t make out whether they were roman or cyrillic. I pulled my knickers on – my bum burnt as the cloth rubbed – and tucked the note in under the drawstring.

I fetched water from the pump, filled a couple of mugs for Nastja and myself. My sister was still wild-eyed, trembling, on the verge of panic. I stroked her hair, helped her sip the water. Gradually she calmed a little, asked me how I was, “Not bad, considering,” I replied, “Look, I’ve found something –“ I pulled out the scrap of paper, showed it to her. She peered at it through watery eyes.

“It’s Russian – pro-sti-te-iv-an, prostite Ivan.” We both understood, in good Polish we’d say “przepraszam”, but the dialect round here is closer to Russian - it just said ”Sorry. Ivan.” Nastja spat, “Well, I don’t know which one was Ivan, but that’s a fucking insult!” She screwed the paper in a tiny ball, flung it into the corner of the room, and burst into tears. I hugged her, quietly sobbing a little myself, I needed to cry, so much was bottled up inside, such furiously fighting emotions were as painful as the torture itself.

But later in the day, when Nastja was up and dressed, I crept back into the bedroom, found the scrap, carefully unscrewed it and laid it flat between the pages of my girly diary. It must have still been there when the KGB searched my flat and took away all my personal belongings.
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Just amazing, Eulalila. I can't help feeling that this is taking some courage to write. It is so graphic and emotional.
 
a change of scene now,
into chapter 2

2​

The kids run off home, shouting and laughing, I clear the little schoolroom and get things ready for tomorrow. I’m liking this job, teaching the little rascals on this collective farm, in the back end of nowhere where they’d never have learnt to read and write before the war. There are some things we can thank the Russians for – well, I am a Russian now! By a stroke of a pen on some map, we’re no longer Polish, we’re citizens of the Soviet Socialist Republic of Belorussia. When watching out for mines, scraping for food to stay alive, keeping clear of marauding gangs of deserters from the disintegrating armies no longer fighting for the Reich, I neither knew nor cared what was going on in the conference chambers, and even now, with this job and a nice little flat, I’m certainly not going to be a troublemaker.

I hear the rare sound of a motorbike coming up the unmade track, then a knock at the schoolroom door. I open it to a sturdy-looking young man in a suit, swarthy face, dark hair – no film star, but not a bad looker. ‘Excuse me,’ he says politely, ‘Are you Miss Innokentaya?’ ‘Yes, I am.’ He stands, looking fixedly at me, there’s something vaguely familiar, slightly unsettling about him, I can’t put my finger on it. He doesn’t seem in a hurry to say any more, so I break the silence, ‘How can I help you, comrade?’ (I’m learning the correct mode of address, who knows, he might be from the KGB) ‘You don’t remember me?’ Again, I take in his face, quite weather-worn though young, still can’t place him, ‘Mmm – er, no…’ ‘I’m Ivan.’ H’m, well that narrows it down to a few million.

Then suddenly it clicks, the scrap of paper. ‘Ah, Ivan! You’re the one who was sorry?’ He nods, his eyes looking slightly moist, there’s a hint of anxiety. I look him up and down, all kinds of emotions welling up, do I laugh, cry, scream like a fury, slam the door in his face? I don’t do any of these, just say, ‘I’m going to make some tea, you’d better come in.’

He follows me to the little office at the back of the schoolroom. The kettle’s steaming on top of the wood-fired stove, the only source of heat in the building. He sits in silence on one of the two wooden chairs while I make a pot of tea and pour a couple of mugs.

‘So, Alicja – may I call you that?’ ‘All right, but it’s Alisa now.’ ‘Of course, comrade … so, how are you now?’ I shrug, ‘I’m fine.’ ‘Not married yet?’ I shake my head. There were a couple of boys, maybe three, but there was no chance of a having any lasting relationship in all the post-war chaos, and anyway, there’s something about me that they didn’t seem to understand, something I don’t understand… but it’s none of his business.

‘Your mother?’ ‘Dead… she was sick and starving already, your visit just finished her.’ He sighs deeply, his head drops, then he looks up at me again, he’s pale now. ‘And your sister?’ ‘In the madhouse. She never got over that night.’ I pause. ‘Don’t say sorry again, there’s no point.’ He sits silent, staring, not so much at me as through me.

Although I’m outwardly icy cold, the sight of him brings back a storm of boiling emotions that I can’t begin to cope with. I’m feeling anger and deep sorrow at what they did, at the effect it had on mamma and Nastja, I want to cry, I want to shriek all the swear-words I know in Polish and in Russian, I want to throw myself at him and tear out his eyes …. and yet, and yet … I shuffle my bum on the seat of the wooden chair…

Suddenly, I find myself smiling. ‘Hey, I remember, you were the one who held on to the back of the torture-chair?’ He looks startled. ‘You winked at me?’ ‘Yes, that was me,’ he croaks hoarsely. I sip my tea. ‘So, how did you track me down here?’ I ask him, adding, ‘Drink your tea, it’s getting cold.’

He seems surprised by my calm, matter-of-fact manner, takes a few seconds to get his thoughts together. ‘I work now for the Board of Agricultural Planning. I have to inspect and advise new collective farms. I got posted to this region –‘ (deliberately? I wonder) ‘and I remembered your farm –‘ ‘It’s gone’ I chip in, ‘Yes, I know, I’ve seen where it stood. I asked around, no-one could tell me anything, they all said they were newcomers to the area – dunno if they were lying, it’s hard to get anything out of the peasants round here. But then a barmy old git turned up at Farm Council meeting –‘ ‘Borys.’ ‘Yes, he was a Boris, he said you’d been sent to a resettlement camp. I traced you to that camp, then you worked on number 4 collective, then got into college in Kobryn …’ ‘Yes, well it was a long story… I guess I’m just a natural survivor… but I’m amazed you went to such trouble.’ ‘Oh, the Board of Agricultural Planning has very full records, very detailed.’ There’s a slightly sinister edge to the way he said that. ‘But why?’ I ask, beginning to feel uneasy, a vague sense of threat, ‘Why have you come here, what do you want?’

He looks at me hard, his big dark eyes soulful in the fading light, evening falling fast. ‘Do you hate me?’ he asks at last. I think for some time, still wrestling with my battling feelings. Then I look into those eyes and say, quietly but firmly, ‘No, Ivan, I don’t hate you.’

He stands up. ‘That’s why I came,’ he said, ‘I needed to know.’ He turns, I accompany him through the schoolroom, say farewell to him at the door. He strides his byke, about to set off down the road, when he suddenly turns and pulls a card from his pocket – ‘Here,’ he says, ‘If you’re ever in Brest, I owe you a cup of tea.’

I couldn’t sleep that night. It was hot and sultry, I was naked, I kept dozing off and waking with a start to see him winking down at me as I wrestled to brace my quivering body for the next blast of torture. I felt again and again the searing of the whip, I writhed on my sweat-soaked bed-sheet as heat surged through my glands.

I’m distracted, unsettled. The fun of teaching the youngsters, the security of my tiny flat, even the summer sunshine, seem overshadowed by a dark, menacing cloud. I try to put crazy thoughts behind me, I’m thinking of poor Nastja, and panicking that I too might be losing my mind. Yet in my body – yes, it’s a burning, bodily sensation, fierce as the flame beneath the torture-chair – I feel this remorseless, deep undercurrent, drawing me further and further into the darkness.
 
Eulalia said:
a change of scene now,
into chapter 2

2​

The kids run off home, shouting and laughing, I clear the little schoolroom and get things ready for tomorrow. I’m liking this job, teaching the little rascals on this collective farm, in the back end of nowhere where they’d never have learnt to read and write before the war. There are some things we can thank the Russians for – well, I am a Russian now! By a stroke of a pen on some map, we’re no longer Polish, we’re citizens of the Soviet Socialist Republic of Belorussia. When watching out for mines, scraping for food to stay alive, keeping clear of marauding gangs of deserters from the disintegrating armies no longer fighting for the Reich, I neither knew nor cared what was going on in the conference chambers, and even now, with this job and a nice little flat, I’m certainly not going to be a troublemaker.

I hear the rare sound of a motorbike coming up the unmade track, then a knock at the schoolroom door. I open it to a sturdy-looking young man in a suit, swarthy face, dark hair – no film star, but not a bad looker. ‘Excuse me,’ he says politely, ‘Are you Miss Innokentaya?’ ‘Yes, I am.’ He stands, looking fixedly at me, there’s something vaguely familiar, slightly unsettling about him, I can’t put my finger on it. He doesn’t seem in a hurry to say any more, so I break the silence, ‘How can I help you, comrade?’ (I’m learning the correct mode of address, who knows, he might be from the KGB) ‘You don’t remember me?’ Again, I take in his face, quite weather-worn though young, still can’t place him, ‘Mmm – er, no…’ ‘I’m Ivan.’ H’m, well that narrows it down to a few million.

Then suddenly it clicks, the scrap of paper. ‘Ah, Ivan! You’re the one who was sorry?’ He nods, his eyes looking slightly moist, there’s a hint of anxiety. I look him up and down, all kinds of emotions welling up, do I laugh, cry, scream like a fury, slam the door in his face? I don’t do any of these, just say, ‘I’m going to make some tea, you’d better come in.’

He follows me to the little office at the back of the schoolroom. The kettle’s steaming on top of the wood-fired stove, the only source of heat in the building. He sits in silence on one of the two wooden chairs while I make a pot of tea and pour a couple of mugs.

‘So, Alicja – may I call you that?’ ‘All right, but it’s Alisa now.’ ‘Of course, comrade … so, how are you now?’ I shrug, ‘I’m fine.’ ‘Not married yet?’ I shake my head. There were a couple of boys, maybe three, but there was no chance of a having any lasting relationship in all the post-war chaos, and anyway, there’s something about me that they didn’t seem to understand, something I don’t understand… but it’s none of his business.

‘Your mother?’ ‘Dead… she was sick and starving already, your visit just finished her.’ He sighs deeply, his head drops, then he looks up at me again, he’s pale now. ‘And your sister?’ ‘In the madhouse. She never got over that night.’ I pause. ‘Don’t say sorry again, there’s no point.’ He sits silent, staring, not so much at me as through me.

Although I’m outwardly icy cold, the sight of him brings back a storm of boiling emotions that I can’t begin to cope with. I’m feeling anger and deep sorrow at what they did, at the effect it had on mamma and Nastja, I want to cry, I want to shriek all the swear-words I know in Polish and in Russian, I want to throw myself at him and tear out his eyes …. and yet, and yet … I shuffle my bum on the seat of the wooden chair…

Suddenly, I find myself smiling. ‘Hey, I remember, you were the one who held on to the back of the torture-chair?’ He looks startled. ‘You winked at me?’ ‘Yes, that was me,’ he croaks hoarsely. I sip my tea. ‘So, how did you track me down here?’ I ask him, adding, ‘Drink your tea, it’s getting cold.’

He seems surprised by my calm, matter-of-fact manner, takes a few seconds to get his thoughts together. ‘I work now for the Board of Agricultural Planning. I have to inspect and advise new collective farms. I got posted to this region –‘ (deliberately? I wonder) ‘and I remembered your farm –‘ ‘It’s gone’ I chip in, ‘Yes, I know, I’ve seen where it stood. I asked around, no-one could tell me anything, they all said they were newcomers to the area – dunno if they were lying, it’s hard to get anything out of the peasants round here. But then a barmy old git turned up at Farm Council meeting –‘ ‘Borys.’ ‘Yes, he was a Boris, he said you’d been sent to a resettlement camp. I traced you to that camp, then you worked on number 4 collective, then got into college in Kobryn …’ ‘Yes, well it was a long story… I guess I’m just a natural survivor… but I’m amazed you went to such trouble.’ ‘Oh, the Board of Agricultural Planning has very full records, very detailed.’ There’s a slightly sinister edge to the way he said that. ‘But why?’ I ask, beginning to feel uneasy, a vague sense of threat, ‘Why have you come here, what do you want?’

He looks at me hard, his big dark eyes soulful in the fading light, evening falling fast. ‘Do you hate me?’ he asks at last. I think for some time, still wrestling with my battling feelings. Then I look into those eyes and say, quietly but firmly, ‘No, Ivan, I don’t hate you.’

He stands up. ‘That’s why I came,’ he said, ‘I needed to know.’ He turns, I accompany him through the schoolroom, say farewell to him at the door. He strides his byke, about to set off down the road, when he suddenly turns and pulls a card from his pocket – ‘Here,’ he says, ‘If you’re ever in Brest, I owe you a cup of tea.’

I couldn’t sleep that night. It was hot and sultry, I was naked, I kept dozing off and waking with a start to see him winking down at me as I wrestled to brace my quivering body for the next blast of torture. I felt again and again the searing of the whip, I writhed on my sweat-soaked bed-sheet as heat surged through my glands.

I’m distracted, unsettled. The fun of teaching the youngsters, the security of my tiny flat, even the summer sunshine, seem overshadowed by a dark, menacing cloud. I try to put crazy thoughts behind me, I’m thinking of poor Nastja, and panicking that I too might be losing my mind. Yet in my body – yes, it’s a burning, bodily sensation, fierce as the flame beneath the torture-chair – I feel this remorseless, deep undercurrent, drawing me further and further into the darkness.
Click to expand...
Eulalia, this just gets better and better. You are such a vivid writer.
 
I couldn’t sleep that night. It was hot and sultry, I was naked, I kept dozing off and waking with a start to see him winking down at me as I wrestled to brace my quivering body for the next blast of torture. I felt again and again the searing of the whip, I writhed on my sweat-soaked bed-sheet as heat surged through my glands.
----------
SLEEP TIGHT Eul :)
 
My travel-permit’s arrived! You can never be sure, it could take weeks, months, never come at all. My cotton summer frock, a discreet flutter of my eyelashes, must have had the desired effect on the glum guy in the Police Office.

So I’m off to Brest. As my Superintendent confirmed on my application form, I need to use the library there, the only decent one in our region, to prepare my lessons for next term. I’ll wear my skirt and blouse on the train, pack my two cotton frocks. I’ve stitched the hem of the skirt up about 5cm, now term’s ended I can risk the sour looks I’ll get at a glimpse of my knees! I wish I had some of those nylon panties you see in the American movie mags – as a schoolmistress, I daren’t even be seen with one of those mags, I browse them in secret at my friend’s house, never mind get my hands on black-market undies.

I’m still utterly confused, why am I doing this? I feel I’m being driven by the furies…

When I get to Brest, I phone the number on Ivan’s card, it must be his office. A stern-voiced woman answers, she sounds very suspicious of me. She goes away, there’s a long pause while I have to keep feeding coins into the box. Then Ivan’s voice, crackling on the poor line but recognisable. He simply says, “Alisa? Wait by the refreshment room at the station. I’ll be along in a few minutes.” I buy Izvestia and pretend to read it, perched on a bench beside the refreshment room, getting a few look-overs from passing railway staff.

When Ivan appears, he looks delighted, “Alisa! I never believed you’d take up my offer!” He ushers me into the refreshment room, we order tea and creamy pastries, something I’ve never eaten before! We sit at a corner table. While he’s clearly happy, he seems anxious, constantly glancing about him, almost as if it’s a habit, checking who’s in the vicinity. We talk quietly, the noise of steam engines and rattling trolleys in the busy station drowns our words, no-one could overhear.

I’m determined to keep control of the conversation this time, I want to learn more about him. No, like me, he’s not married yet. His job’s a pretty good one, with oversight of the collectivisation programme in the whole of the Brest region of Belorussia. I know that’s a controversial business, a lot of the families of the kids I teach are very bitter about the way their farms have been destroyed and they’re being bossed and bullied, but I just say, “You’ve done well, Ivan.”

He laughs about the dragon who answered the phone, “She’s my nuclear deterrent! She’s good at keeping greedy, whining peasants and corrupt local politicians off my back.” He’s got a flat in the town, also a run-down dacha (holiday home) about 10 kilometres out in the country. He gets around on his old military motor-byke, though fuel’s pricey and sometimes you just can’t get it, so he also uses trains, rickety buses, horse-and-cart taxis.

“How long are you in Brest?” he asks me, “A week.” “Where are you staying?” “At the Young Communist League Hostel – it’s dead basic, but cheap.” “Would you like to see my dacha at the weekend?” (Aha! I think) “M’m, that would be nice, Ivan.”

We sip our tea and munch quietly for a few minutes, the cream confection’s quite erotic, I never knew food could arouse such sensations! Suddenly, impelled by some inner urge, I swivel my hips on the wooden chair, lean back with my arms behind the back, open my knees, bend back my legs and press my ankles against the two sides.

I look at Ivan and smile, he seems unsettled by this reminder of our first meeting. I lean forward, say softly, almost in a whisper, “Ivan, there’s something I’d like you to do.” “What is it Alisa?” “You don’t have to do it, I won’t mind if you say no, but…” “What?” “I want you to do the same to me again, the same things you did that night in our farmhouse.”

Ivan’s gobsmacked, he just stares at me. “You don’t have to answer now,” I say, “Can you pick me up on Friday at the hostel? Even if your answer’s no, we can still have a nice visit to your dacha.” He gathers his wits, glances down at my knees and a bit of thigh. “Okay, I’ll phone the hostel to give you a message when I’m on my way. I’ll, er, I’ll have to think about …” I put out my hand and lay it on his. “That’ll be fine, Ivan. Thanks for the tea – and the scrumptious pastry!”
 
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