Beauty And The Russian Beast

[Naraku]

For those not familiar with Soviet history: Comrade Beria is Lavrentry (or Lavrenti) Pavlovich Beria. He succeeded Yezhov as head of the NKVD in 1938 & became the second most powerful, & most feared man in the Soviet Union. Eulalia's description is not so far from the truth. The man was a sexual predator with the power of the secret police at his disposal. His former Moscow mansion is now the Tunisian Embassy. In the 1990s, works uncovered the remains of several young women in what had been the rose garden. It is believed they were women who resisted - or maybe submitted to - his rapes.

This is a picture of him with what may have been the only girl he didn't dare molest (at least at the time); Stalin's daughter Svetlana. Doesn't she look kind of creeped out?

 

[Eulalia]

Indeed, Svetlana's life makes a gripping story -
one in which (as in so much that was going on at that time)
the truth is often stranger - and more disturbing - than fiction.
Even in Daddy's arms she looks understandably apprehensive:



More aspects of Beria's multi-shadowed character will emerge -
no spoilers! ​

 

[Eulalia]

They leave me for a long while, things go quiet, I suspect they’ve gone off for a drink. The pain of whatever they’ve put on me eats cruelly, only very gradually subsides. If this first bout of torture is Beria’s idea of sophistication, I’m not impressed, seems pretty crude and brutal so far!

No point in thinking about why I’m here, what’s got me here. As for any future – how long it’ll go on, how long I’ll go on, what he’ll do with me if I survive – don’t even start to think. Just imagine I’m at Izba Smerty, Ivan and the boys are playing with me, testing me, letting me show them how much I can take.

Eventually I hear footsteps, talking, more apparatus being readied. I quiver violently at the sudden sensation of cold, greasy water, my body’s being swabbed down. It’s slightly soothing to my burning parts, but presages no good.

Someone’s fingering me, like in lover’s foreplay, flicking my nipples, then in between my thighs. One of them opens my still hot, burning flesh-folds - I scream - he touches my trembling clit, feels right inside me.

I tug at the manacles, able to twist my pelvis a bit in response, but of course there's no escape from these attentions. My blood’s pumping hard, I'm panting, sweating, although my upper brain tells me that I'm hating it, I sigh with pleasure as my tits and clitoris swell hard. In spite of the terror, my breasts are throbbing, firm, my sex soft, warm, tumid.

But all these ministrations have surely been to get me ready: now they’re fitting clips on my pulsing nipples, armpits, thighs, quivering labia - “Owwww!” The clips bite my burnt flesh so sharply!

I hear the machine start, making a constant hum... I hear a man speak, perhaps into a phone, “She’s ready, comrade!”

Still I wait, minutes feeling like hours, I’m remembering what it was like with Ivan’s hand-generator, back in his dacha, some of the sharpest, most intense pain I’ve ever experienced, some of the most exciting too. This’ll surely be a lot worse, will it still thrill me?

At last he comes, it must be Beria. He checks me – electrodes where they’ll cause me most pain, on my breasts, my vulva, close to my clitoris ...
I’m trembling, taut, tense, yet excited – even eager!
Still no questions. He just says, “Begin!”

“Ahhhh!” Power screams right through my body to the metal cuffs on my wrists and ankles, the current surges over my wet, burnt skin, I hear my own shrieks, high, piercing, echoing through this large torture-chamber. The bonds have beeen relaxed a little more, so I can jerk, leap about, kick wildly, my shoulders and buttocks springing up off the bars they’ve been stretched across. My hair’s swinging wild, my head shakes side to side, my teeth snap and grind, I’ve bitten my tongue, blood’s spitting out.

The shocks come, ten, twenty, thirty seconds each, with brief gaps in between; some are more powerful, some less, some to my genitals, some to my breasts, sometimes to all the clips. Sometimes they move the clips, just twiddle them slightly, so I don’t get numb, I feel a fresh bit of my flesh made ready for the pain. After several minutes of violent agony, there’s a pause, just a little space while they let me lie here, sweating, gasping, sobbing. I beg for some water, they refuse.

And as soon as they see me relaxing a bit, my breasts pulsing a little less, again they torture me! There’s the sophistication, holding me in constant expectation of the agony. As in the Lubyanka, though even more overwhelmingly, I experience the sense that my body’s not my own, Beria’s made it his electric toy that moves at each touch of the switch, jump, jerk, sharp squeals come out of it…

 

[cxslave]

They leave me for a long while, things go quiet, I suspect they’ve gone off for a drink. The pain of whatever they’ve put on me eats cruelly, only very gradually subsides. If this first bout of torture is Beria’s idea of sophistication, I’m not impressed, seems pretty crude and brutal so far!

No point in thinking about why I’m here, what’s got me here. As for any future – how long it’ll go on, how long I’ll go on, what he’ll do with me if I survive – don’t even start to think. Just imagine I’m at Izba Smerty, Ivan and the boys are playing with me, testing me, letting me show them how much I can take.

Eventually I hear footsteps, talking, more apparatus being readied. I quiver violently at the sudden sensation of cold, greasy water, my body’s being swabbed down. It’s slightly soothing to my burning parts, but presages no good.

Someone’s fingering me, like in lover’s foreplay, flicking my nipples, then in between my thighs. One of them opens my still hot, burning flesh-folds - I scream - he touches my trembling clit, feels right inside me.

I tug at the manacles, able to twist my pelvis a bit in response, but of course there's no escape from these attentions. My blood’s pumping hard, I'm panting, sweating, although my upper brain tells me that I'm hating it, I sigh with pleasure as my tits and clitoris swell hard. In spite of the terror, my breasts are throbbing, firm, my sex soft, warm, tumid.

But all these ministrations have surely been to get me ready: now they’re fitting clips on my pulsing nipples, armpits, thighs, quivering labia - “Owwww!” The clips bite my burnt flesh so sharply!

I hear the machine start, making a constant hum... I hear a man speak, perhaps into a phone, “She’s ready, comrade!”

Still I wait, minutes feeling like hours, I’m remembering what it was like with Ivan’s hand-generator, back in his dacha, some of the sharpest, most intense pain I’ve ever experienced, some of the most exciting too. This’ll surely be a lot worse, will it still thrill me?

At last he comes, it must be Beria. He checks me – electrodes where they’ll cause me most pain, on my breasts, my vulva, close to my clitoris ...
I’m trembling, taut, tense, yet excited – even eager!
Still no questions. He just says, “Begin!”

“Ahhhh!” Power screams right through my body to the metal cuffs on my wrists and ankles, the current surges over my wet, burnt skin, I hear my own shrieks, high, piercing, echoing through this large torture-chamber. The bonds have beeen relaxed a little more, so I can jerk, leap about, kick wildly, my shoulders and buttocks springing up off the bars they’ve been stretched across. My hair’s swinging wild, my head shakes side to side, my teeth snap and grind, I’ve bitten my tongue, blood’s spitting out.

The shocks come, ten, twenty, thirty seconds each, with brief gaps in between; some are more powerful, some less, some to my genitals, some to my breasts, sometimes to all the clips. Sometimes they move the clips, just twiddle them slightly, so I don’t get numb, I feel a fresh bit of my flesh made ready for the pain. After several minutes of violent agony, there’s a pause, just a little space while they let me lie here, sweating, gasping, sobbing. I beg for some water, they refuse.

And as soon as they see me relaxing a bit, my breasts pulsing a little less, again they torture me! There’s the sophistication, holding me in constant expectation of the agony. As in the Lubyanka, though even more overwhelmingly, I experience the sense that my body’s not my own, Beria’s made it his electric toy that moves at each touch of the switch, jump, jerk, sharp squeals come out of it…

As Wragg says, my Loath-o-meter is redlining! More great stuff Eul!

 

[Eulalia]

Yet my mind’s still not part of his toy. In the pauses between spasms of agony, I’m surprised how cool and clear it is – but then it’s had a good bit of practice! I’m angry at what’s being done to me, I know perfectly well that it could go on till I’m crippled, till my mental or physical health breaks down irreparably, till I die. So be it, that’s out of my control. But Beria needn’t think he’s defeated me.

“Look, comrade,” I gasp, in one of the interludes, “If you want me to sign some made-up confession, let me sign it. You’ll know it’s a lie, but if that’s what you want…” A whiplash cuts across my tenderised breasts, another round of electric shocks begin.

That just makes me the more determined. “None of this is helping you, is it comrade? You still don’t know who passed those girls’ files to the Israelis!”

That provokes him, that’s what I want, I’m so fired up. I hear some muttering, some rearranging of instruments. The clips are removed from my sensitive parts. The bars supporting my shoulders and buttocks are lowered, I remain hanging between the manacles.

There’s a pause, I feel increasing heat, already sweating, I’m streaming now. Then suddenly, with just a click of a switch, the cables holding my limbs are released, I drop heavily to the floor, on my back.

But the floor I land on isn’t flat, it’s lined with sharp little spikes, and between them there are fiercely hot metal bars. I yowl, hurl myself about, more or less free to move between the slack cables, but it lasts only a few seconds, they tighten and I’m jerked back up just as quicky as I fell, and sharply stretched. A wave of agony rips through my body – this is what it means to be racked!

Even now, my brain’s in control, but it’s telling me he can’t do that many times, or I certainly shall be crippled for life, or – with luck – dead. Still I sob out my defiance, “If you just want to torture me for the fun of it, if you want ot cripple me, if you want to kill me…”

I’m dropped and jerked up again, my mind is beginning to whirl now, I’m becoming dizzy, losing it…

A third time. I think I black out completely for a few moments, when I come round, there are flashing lights like exploding bombs in front of my blindfold eyes, I’m heaving for breath, pain is shooting from my shoulders across my chest and behind my rib-cage as I struggle to breath, my heart’s haywire, irregular pounding’s deafening my ears…

I think some sort of medic examines me, I feel what might be a stethoscope on my chest, fingers checking the pulse on my neck. “Okay,” I hear him say.

I ready myself for more torture, but at last Beria speaks. “Alisa, do you hear me?” I do, but I don’t reply. He grabs my hair, shakes my head roughly, “Do you hear me?” he shouts in my ear. “Y-yes, comrade, I can hear you…”

“Right, well now listen. You keep saying you didn’t hand over those files to Mossad –“ “I didn’t comrade, honest…” “Listen, I said! You say you didn’t hand them over, if you didn’t, who did?” My brain’s still spinning, mind wandering, I try to focus, but only sob weakly “i- I d-don’t know…” “Well think, cunt!” The whip slashes my breasts again. I cry out, still can’t get coherent. “When you completed those forms, what did you do with them?” “Er, I put them in the envelopes, comrade, and sealed them, and took them to the security desk.” “And where did they go from the security desk?” I pause. “Come on, cunt, you know.” “Y-yes, comrade, they were to go to Ivan – er, to Comrade Taneyev.”

“Right. So if you didn’t give them to the Israelis, who did?” “W-well, comrade, it c-could have been one of the security staff…” “But if one of the security staff handed them over, they wouldn’t have reached Comrade Taneyev, would they?” “N-no, comrade.” “And wouldn’t he have asked you where the files had gone?”

I sigh, he’s right of course. “So,” he goes on, there’s a cruel hint of triumph in his tone, “There are only two possibilities. Either you were passing them to Mossad, with Taneyev’s connivance, or he was handing them over, without you knowing.” He pauses, my brain labours to process the awful conclusion he’s obviously dragging me to.

“Which was it then, cunt?” I hang my head back, sobbing. He tugs it up again by the hair, “Come on cunt, answer!” “It- it wasn’t me, comrade…. it must have been … Ivan…”

 

[cxslave]

Yet my mind’s still not part of his toy. In the pauses between spasms of agony, I’m surprised how cool and clear it is – but then it’s had a good bit of practice! I’m angry at what’s being done to me, I know perfectly well that it could go on till I’m crippled, till my mental or physical health breaks down irreparably, till I die. So be it, that’s out of my control. But Beria needn’t think he’s defeated me.

“Look, comrade,” I gasp, in one of the interludes, “If you want me to sign some made-up confession, let me sign it. You’ll know it’s a lie, but if that’s what you want…” A whiplash cuts across my tenderised breasts, another round of electric shocks begin.

That just makes me the more determined. “None of this is helping you, is it comrade? You still don’t know who passed those girls’ files to the Israelis!”

That provokes him, that’s what I want, I’m so fired up. I hear some muttering, some rearranging of instruments. The clips are removed from my sensitive parts. The bars supporting my shoulders and buttocks are lowered, I remain hanging between the manacles.

There’s a pause, I feel increasing heat, already sweating, I’m streaming now. Then suddenly, with just a click of a switch, the cables holding my limbs are released, I drop heavily to the floor, on my back.

But the floor I land on isn’t flat, it’s lined with sharp little spikes, and between them there are fiercely hot metal bars. I yowl, hurl myself about, more or less free to move between the slack cables, but it lasts only a few seconds, they tighten and I’m jerked back up just as quicky as I fell, and sharply stretched. A wave of agony rips through my body – this is what it means to be racked!

Even now, my brain’s in control, but it’s telling me he can’t do that many times, or I certainly shall be crippled for life, or – with luck – dead. Still I sob out my defiance, “If you just want to torture me for the fun of it, if you want ot cripple me, if you want to kill me…”

I’m dropped and jerked up again, my mind is beginning to whirl now, I’m becoming dizzy, losing it…

A third time. I think I black out completely for a few moments, when I come round, there are flashing lights like exploding bombs in front of my blindfold eyes, I’m heaving for breath, pain is shooting from my shoulders across my chest and behind my rib-cage as I struggle to breath, my heart’s haywire, irregular pounding’s deafening my ears…

I think some sort of medic examines me, I feel what might be a stethoscope on my chest, fingers checking the pulse on my neck. “Okay,” I hear him say.

I ready myself for more torture, but at last Beria speaks. “Alisa, do you hear me?” I do, but I don’t reply. He grabs my hair, shakes my head roughly, “Do you hear me?” he shouts in my ear. “Y-yes, comrade, I can hear you…”

“Right, well now listen. You keep saying you didn’t hand over those files to Mossad –“ “I didn’t comrade, honest…” “Listen, I said! You say you didn’t hand them over, if you didn’t, who did?” My brain’s still spinning, mind wandering, I try to focus, but only sob weakly “i- I d-don’t know…” “Well think, cunt!” The whip slashes my breasts again. I cry out, still can’t get coherent. “When you completed those forms, what did you do with them?” “Er, I put them in the envelopes, comrade, and sealed them, and took them to the security desk.” “And where did they go from the security desk?” I pause. “Come on, cunt, you know.” “Y-yes, comrade, they were to go to Ivan – er, to Comrade Taneyev.”

“Right. So if you didn’t give them to the Israelis, who did?” “W-well, comrade, it c-could have been one of the security staff…” “But if one of the security staff handed them over, they wouldn’t have reached Comrade Taneyev, would they?” “N-no, comrade.” “And wouldn’t he have asked you where the files had gone?”

I sigh, he’s right of course. “So,” he goes on, there’s a cruel hint of triumph in his tone, “There are only two possibilities. Either you were passing them to Mossad, with Taneyev’s connivance, or he was handing them over, without you knowing.” He pauses, my brain labours to process the awful conclusion he’s obviously dragging me to.

“Which was it then, cunt?” I hang my head back, sobbing. He tugs it up again by the hair, “Come on cunt, answer!” “It- it wasn’t me, comrade…. it must have been … Ivan…”

absolutely gripping stuff Eul!

 

[thehangingtree]

...I never trusted Eul to keep a secret...

Tree

 

[Eulalia]

things may not be as they seem, Tree

and even when they seem to be, they probably won't!

 

[Eulalia]

The machinery hums, one of the bars rises up to support me under my bum, and the framework that’s holding me divides, the part holding my arms turns upwards, so I’m sitting now, uncomfortably on the single bar, my legs still stretched out horizontally, my arms raised, facing forward.

“Take off the blindfold,” says Beria. A guard obeys. I blink, the light’s very bright, there’s Beria standing alongside me, two tough torturers, I peer through hazy vision, blinking again. There’s another man, standing at the controls of the torture machinery.

It’s Ivan.

A sickening shock-wave of utter despair grips my whole being. I hang my head, gasping, sobbing. My brain can no longer cope, all grasp on sense is lost…

Ivan operates a switch on the controls. The machinery hums again, the frame folds back down, the second bar rises to support my shoulders, I’m horizontal, stretched out again for torturing.

He walks across to me, Beria and the other men stand and watch. His eyes don’t meet mine, he’s just looking at my body. I'm shuddering still, my breasts, womb and genitals still gripped with cruel orgasms. He’s got a bucket, a filthy rag, he swabs me again. And now he fetches something else from the control desk. I feel a wet steel scouring pad, a wire tampon being forced into my cunt. I squeak at the pain.

He returns to the controls. The torture chamber is silent, hushed, expectant. Beria is smiling.

Owwwwwwwwwww!

The wire pad spreads the shock right through my genitals, gripping my womb and thighs, arousing my clitoris, stimulating my ovaries, I feel continual rushes of wetness that only enhance my receptiveness, to the electric current, the muscles of my womb seize and contract like I’m giving birth over and over – I’m orgasmic, I’m being raped in a cruel parody of sexual ecstasy, thrusting exquisite, penetrating, burning agony deep into my womanhood!

How long? I’ve lost all sense of time. Whether Beria says any more I’ve no idea, I hardly hear now, I can’t understand anything, I'm gabbling nonsense, sobbing and howling, even laughing hysterically...

 

[Wragg]

Ivan.

 

[cxslave]

Ivan.

Always knew he was up to no good...

 

[Eulalia]

Confusion, blankness. I’ve vaguely aware that I’m lying in some hospital bed, wrists handcuffed to the bed-head. Doctors, nurses, tests, injections…

Vaguely aware of riding in a van, wrapped in a blanket. Lubyanka. The Stripping Room, hustled straight through, I’m naked already. Short canvas smock, knickers. A cell like before. I can just about gather enough of my wits to slot back into the routine – food bowls, piss-buckets, scamper through the shower…

I’m alone, utterly alone. At night I wake shaking, Ivan’s there, looking at me – not at my eyes, at my naked body – he keeps saying, in a strange, mocking tone, “Whatever happens don’t lose faith in me – don’t hate me!”

I’m frightened, frightened of all human creatures, even the looks of the other prisoners scare me, the guards – I know what to expect from them, brutality’s in their veins, especially the female ones…

Taken off to another part of the huge complex. A big, ornate room. Lots of people chattering, shuffling papers. Someone’s saying something about a trial. I’m standing on a sort of podium in the middle of the room, guards sit either side of me, I have to stand, still in my prison smock, hands cuffed behind bum.

Three important people enter, two men, one woman. Everyone stands up, the three sit behind a large desk, in front of me. Everyone sits again, except me, and the Prosecutor. It’s a formality. The charges against me are the ones I confessed to in the cellar of the Lubyanka. No mention of Israeli agents.

The whole time in Beria’s quarters in the Kremlin is seeming more and more unreal, a delusion, a nightmare. Yet my pussy’s still sore, red-raw from the plucking and burning, though hair’s beginning to grow again. And the pain inside, from the wire-wool torture Ivan inflicted, that goes on and on, a constant burning in my most sensitive parts, frequent, irregular bleeding, continual flow of sexual fluids… I’m conscious of my wet, smelly knickers.

They ask me if I understand and accept the charges. A guard has to kick me to bring my mind back, “Y-yes, comrade – er, I, er, I understand and accept…”

The Prosecutor produces and hands to the Judges the confessions I signed. They’re crumpled, grubby, bloodstained. They pass them to one another rapidly, checking cursorily, hand them to a clerk. They converse quietly for a few minutes.

I glance up, looking vaguely around this hall-like room, its rococo plasterwork ceiling. There’s a portrait of Stalin on the wall opposite me, and another beside it, but smaller, I don’t recognise the man. And above, high up in the wall, is a window, a sort of viewing gallery. There’s only one person in it, a man with a round face, receding hair, rimless glases…

The Judge in the centre is ready to read the Court’s decision. I am guilty of crimes against the Soviet State. My penalty will be eighteen years corrective labour in a camp of the Main Administration.

 

[Eulalia]

Friends (thanks for all the encouraging comments! )
who've followed this story all the way and remember how it started
will realise that the last 98 pages (in my WordDoc text ) have been one long flashback,
now we're back where we came in -
poor Alisa alone, betrayed by the man she loved, tortured by a monster of evil,
now facing a bleak Siberian future...

There's one more chapter to come.
I'll have to be off Forum for two or three days at the end of this week,
so I shan't start posting chapter 10 till the weekend.

I think I can promise you a few more surprises...
​

 

[Barbaria1]

Confusion, blankness. I’ve vaguely aware that I’m lying in some hospital bed, wrists handcuffed to the bed-head. Doctors, nurses, tests, injections…

Vaguely aware of riding in a van, wrapped in a blanket. Lubyanka. The Stripping Room, hustled straight through, I’m naked already. Short canvas smock, knickers. A cell like before. I can just about gather enough of my wits to slot back into the routine – food bowls, piss-buckets, scamper through the shower…

I’m alone, utterly alone. At night I wake shaking, Ivan’s there, looking at me – not at my eyes, at my naked body – he keeps saying, in a strange, mocking tone, “Whatever happens don’t lose faith in me – don’t hate me!”

I’m frightened, frightened of all human creatures, even the looks of the other prisoners scare me, the guards – I know what to expect from them, brutality’s in their veins, especially the female ones…

Taken off to another part of the huge complex. A big, ornate room. Lots of people chattering, shuffling papers. Someone’s saying something about a trial. I’m standing on a sort of podium in the middle of the room, guards sit either side of me, I have to stand, still in my prison smock, hands cuffed behind bum.

Three important people enter, two men, one woman. Everyone stands up, the three sit behind a large desk, in front of me. Everyone sits again, except me, and the Prosecutor. It’s a formality. The charges against me are the ones I confessed to in the cellar of the Lubyanka. No mention of Israeli agents.

The whole time in Beria’s quarters in the Kremlin is seeming more and more unreal, a delusion, a nightmare. Yet my pussy’s still sore, red-raw from the plucking and burning, though hair’s beginning to grow again. And the pain inside, from the wire-wool torture Ivan inflicted, that goes on and on, a constant burning in my most sensitive parts, frequent, irregular bleeding, continual flow of sexual fluids… I’m conscious of my wet, smelly knickers.

They ask me if I understand and accept the charges. A guard has to kick me to bring my mind back, “Y-yes, comrade – er, I, er, I understand and accept…”

The Prosecutor produces and hands to the Judges the confessions I signed. They’re crumpled, grubby, bloodstained. They pass them to one another rapidly, checking cursorily, hand them to a clerk. They converse quietly for a few minutes.

I glance up, looking vaguely around this hall-like room, its rococo plasterwork ceiling. There’s a portrait of Stalin on the wall opposite me, and another beside it, but smaller, I don’t recognise the man. And above, high up in the wall, is a window, a sort of viewing gallery. There’s only one person in it, a man with a round face, receding hair, rimless glases…

The Judge in the centre is ready to read the Court’s decision. I am guilty of crimes against the Soviet State. My penalty will be eighteen years corrective labour in a camp of the Main Administration.

Each chapter leaves me more breathless, and soaking wet, than the one before it!

 

[Barbaria1]

Friends (thanks for all the encouraging comments! )
who've followed this story all the way and remember how it started
will realise that the last 98 pages (in my WordDoc text ) have been one long flashback,
now we're back where we came in -
poor Alisa alone, betrayed by the man she loved, tortured by a monster of evil,
now facing a bleak Siberian future...

There's one more chapter to come.
I'll have to be off Forum for two or three days at the end of this week,
so I shan't start posting chapter 10 till the weekend.

I think I can promise you a few more surprises...
​

Can't wait Eul !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

[cxslave]

Oh and she leave me hanging again! When your writing amazing Eul and I will wait as long as necessary for the final chapter!

 

[DarknessMonger]

I knew it when I saw him buy a wire pad, he didn't look like the kind of person who washes dishes

 

[Eulalia]

right, time to take you back 60 years, to somewhere in Siberia...

10​

The train shudders and creaks its way across the taiga. I shuffle myself over to the kid in the corner. We exchange only a few words. Like me, she’s dazed, unable to connect, trying to get out of the nightmare we’re all part of. Her name is Hannah Bogdanova. I shudder, I’m sure hers was among the last of those forms I completed. We fall silent.

Endless hours, probably days, of slow shaking, with frequent stops when all we hear is the hiss of steam from the engine way ahead, Siberian wind whistling through the crude planking of our cattle-wagon. Occasionally there are lights outside, glimmering in through the cracks, men shouting, vehicles moving. But it means nothing to us, the train moves on.

Another such stop. Doors are being opened further up the train, a man shouts, the door slams shut again. Just checking, I guess, doesn’t sound like we’re being unloaded yet. In time, our door’s unlocked, slid open, a soldier looks in, shouts “Alisa Innokentaya!” Astonished to hear my name – not even my number, just name – I freeze, bewildered, he’s about to shut the door again when I call out weakly, “Yes, that’s my name!” “Found her!” he turns and calls to comrades further along, then to me, “Get out, quick!”

I squeeze poor Hannah’s cold hand, then clamber across my female fellow-travellers, the soldier grabs me by the hips and swings me down to the track-ballast, then mounts the step and slides the door shut. I gaze around, we’re miles from anywhere, a cold, grey sky, a frosty expanse of flat, rushy vegetation, dense forests of birch and fir beyond it. The soldier points me towards the head of the train, we march briskly. A good way off – it’s a very long train – I see the buildings and lights of a small station, there’s a cluster of huts, several trucks, men moving around.

As we approach the platform, one man comes walking in our direction, at first I think he’s just one of the several who are busy with papers, discussing, looking into the wagons nearest the engine, but he’s definitely heading towards my escort and me. Suddenly it hits me. It’s Ivan! I freeze, stop dead, let out a wild scream that’s carried on the wind across the endless waste. I turn and run, as if I’ve seen a ghost – indeed, so broken is my brain, I’m in little doubt I have seen one.

The soldier quickly catches me, I’m no sprinter in the hefty boots and thick, coarse dress they’ve given me. He holds me firmly, turns me back and leads me towards Ivan. He’s smiling, “You’re all right, Alisa,” he says, “I’m not surprised this is a shock for you, but you needn’t be afraid, no-one’s going to hurt you.” I stare at him, utterly confused. What lunacy, what sadistic game are they playing with me now? I still want to scream, want to run, but I’ve no idea where on earth – or in hell – I am. Ivan thanks the soldier, leads me – without touching me, which is a relief, I’m cringing at him being so close – along the track to the station, up the ramp to the busy platform. Some of the squaddies salute as we pass them.

He takes me into what must be the stationmaster’s office, just a small room with a couple of chairs, a table, a good hot stove. The attentive stationmaster is waiting with a large pot of tea, he pours two mugs, Ivan thanks him, he departs. We sit. Ivan looks at me, into my eyes again this time. I’m silent, consciously trembling. “Well Alisa,” he says, “I really mean it, you are safe now. It’s all over.” I look up at him, disbelieving, mystified. “For a start, it’s all over with Beria – he’s dead.” I shrug, it’s too late for that to affect me, he’s done his worst.

But Ivan continues. “There’s a lot I have to explain. You need to know what’s been happening, and why. I’m not going to make excuses, I’m not going say I’m sorry, ask you to forgive me, anything like that. I only ask you to hear me. After that, you’re a free woman, you’ll be able to decide your own future, I’ll make sure the way you choose is clear and open for you, no matter what your decision.”

I just nod, and sip the welcome warm tea.

 

[Wragg]

This should be interesting......

Or should we be worried that Alisa's in the same room as Ivan and a hot stove?

 

[cxslave]

Im quivering with excitement!!