A Goddamn Moskal

Coming onto morning, heavy rainfall came drizziling down. A crack in the clouds revealed a stark, glowing sun bursting through. Gun fire echoed in an ordely fashion in the distance. A cold mist hung over the gravel road and drowned the surrounding fields in a hazy cloud. At the start of the road was a small checkpoint, manned only by two armed guards sitting in a small hut adjacent to the road playing chess on an improvised board scratched into a small bedside tabel, pawns were either empty shells or some other improvised junk they could get their hands on. Artiom was outside, keeping a close watch for any cars passing by through the thick mist. And just a few minutes later he could spot two headlights appearing from inside that deep unkown. He held his hand up high and halted them and directed them onto the gravel road. Once halted infront of the barrier a scrawny looking man stepped out from the backseat and instantly lit a cigarette already in his mouth.

“What can I expect from this, Artiom?”

“I'm not sure that mere words can describe the beauty of what we have achieved here, sir. So if I may?”
Artiom hinted towards the car and looked with eager eyes towards Aspuratov. He seemed confused and paused his cigarette before pulling in a deep breath.

“Stop looking at me and get in the car.”
He demanded, and Artiom seemed glad to comply. He took a minute to finish his cigarette, and then joined Artiom in the back.

“Just keep driving down this road.”
Artiom ordered.

“So this, “solution”, does it show promise? I mean, granted, your work rarely disappoints, but I just wanna know that the means can be justified. Are we on the same page, Artiom?”
Artiom gave him a smug grin and nodded.

“Our means are sure to satisfy your curiosity. We are pullling out the weeds from the roots. We are leaving nothing left to grow, no tistles to sting your barefeet. You can already now dismiss your concerns over the partisans.”

“This is a political and military matter, Artiom, stop talking in riddles.”

The car trundled forward over the open fields and entered a dark wood at the end of it. The sound of guns firing grew louder the deeper they got. The mist seemed heavier in the forest and the driver was forced to slow down. Aspuratovs anticipation laid heaver on his mind. He wasn't used to being out here in the dirt and blood and smoke. He usually resided in the army headquarters right on the border, where the fighting had stopped months previous. He seemed nervous the louder the rifles sang. Tapping his foot on the floor and looking rather frantically ahead of the car.

“What exactly are we driving into here, Artiom?”
He seemed displeased and sought desperately for an answer.

“We are driving into the center of the solution, general secretary.”

“This better not be a new fucking Treblinka, Artiom, or you will be the last body to fill those holes.”

“The nazis were sloppy, acted out of fear and missunderstanding. Hence why the exterminations or the mass killings, or any of all atrocities they commited were found out. Because they built their camps upon the understanding that they would win the war and as such, the camps would never have existed, because not one person would know the truth.”

Before Artiom could finish, the car entered a huge clearing, surrounded by the still, thick mist and a dense forest. In the middle of it stood a barn with it's doors wide open, the inside to dark to make out if something was actually in there. To either side of it were several massive open holes, two meters deep, twenty meters wide and three meters in depth. Before them stood a line of people, shaking in the cold, crying and holding hands, some cursing at the men before them, others shouting at the top of their lungs. Continuous screaming until a quick burst of twenty rifles brought them to silence. This nightmare becomes apparent in every five-mile stare cemented in the face of all those people. It all happened under supervision of several lieutenants screaming out the only three words they'd been told to say during their stay. The pace at which they operated was impressive, no fault in any execution. Stance, shoulder, aim and fire. It truly was a spectacle worthy of every god ever imagined.

As the car closed in on the farmhouse, about a hundred meters away from the barn, you could make out faces hiding in the darkness of the barn. Armed sentinels walked rounds around the building, looking for anyone brave enough to attempt a dash for freedom from under the walls. None would escape anywhere, but into a hail of bullets. From a nearby truck came more people for the slaughter, men, women and children altogheter, some lashed out and were shot in an instance, dropping like wet sacks of sand into the slippery mud. Left to die were they lie. All soldiers wore masks and some gasmasks, foreign flags sewn neatly onto their shoulders.

“You see we want people to know about this. It may seem drastic to you, but I assure you that when this reaches the world...”

“This will not reach anyone, do you understand me? I want all bodies burnt and… all of this just gone.”

“Look at our boys down there, what are they wearing? Those aren't our uniforms, we use the patterns. And those guns? It's not our equipment.”

“So all those photographers are gonna spread these pictures worldwide and we'll claim that the enemy is doing this. This is the easiest form of propaganda I've ever seen, no one will ever believe us and this is gonna backfire and ruin us!”

"Once they've taken all the photos they need, they'll be put in one of the enemy's jeeps and given a safe route to drive, once they've gone a few miles they'll be hit by an airstrike and killed. All possible witnesses that can leak to the world press will be gone and when the photos are found, if they ever do or if any of them survive the airstrike, it will seem like foreign press were documenting mass executions and tried to make it out of the country through our lines before the enemy caught up with them. And if they don't get the photos, then in due time they will find this place and see it for themselves.”

“You are a sick, sick man. And if this doesn't work I will have you executed where you stand.”

“I'll gladly die for this incredible drama. 'Tis my work, and I stand by it.”

“Who else knows about this?”

“So far you, me and all of our boys down there. I got the notion that's how you wanted it.”

“Good, make it stay that way. The less people who know about this will only improve our chances. I do have one concern though. What about our men?”

“Once this show is over, They'll be told that they are to be sent back to their respective regiment under strict confidentiality. Once on their way, they take a detour. We'll tell them they need to change their route. That route will accidently lead into the demilitarized zone, they get caught there, they'll be charged for warcrimes. Although it being a minor offense they'll be temporarily suspended, upon which we initiate an investigation and find some fake evidence for, say desertion, which puts them off the frontline into protective custody, no contact with the outside world. And once the investigation is done, they'll all be executed for treason.”

“What about you, Artiom?”

“I'll walk free, because I say so.”

“What's to say we won't have you executed among all these poor idiots?”

“Because I believe you need me.”

“We won't once this is done.”

“I trust you will need me.”

Aspuratov hummed and gazed out over the terrifying genocide that developed before him. He could see a mother cradling her baby among the masses moving towards the barn and sighed. It seemed as though she tried to get herself to the edge of the column to calm her wailing child, she tripped as she neared the open and her baby is left lying in the mud, screaming within his cloth cocoon. She crawls hastily towards him before a trooper aims his rifle at the child and fires without so much as a second of hesitation. He motions for the squealing mother to get on her feet and step back into line as he picks up the child and walks towards one of the pits. She is promptly shot as she attemps to run after him.
Aspuratov was lost for words as Artiom beckoned him inside for a drink. The farmhouse was in pristine condition. The former residents obviously had a nack for interior-design. Artiom had already sat down by the kitchen table and took a small swig of his drink and was ostensibly content about this whole ordeal. Aspuratov took a seat before him and smelt his drink before sipping it.

“When will you be done here do you think?”
Aspuratov asked, obviously nervous.

“We're expecting five more trucks. Each truck carries about twenty-five people, give or take. We go through about fifteen of them with every salvo. And then the clean-up... I'd say tonight, idealy during late supper.”

“Okay. What about the perimeter, anyone watching out for scouts and such?”

“We've taken every possible precaution there is. Should they get here, they'll be in those pits or in the barn in no-time.”

“Where do they come from... the people?”

“They're all from a nearby village.”

“That's it? What about enemy movements, have you seen any around there at all? How do you know one of them won't just run off and screw this whole charade?”

“They believe they're being moved as a precaution for one of our offensives. Whoever runs off will run off with little to tell.”

“You do know that people understand what happened during the great war right? If any of them is read up on history, they might know what's up. We might just make this work.”
Aspuratov tried to reassure. Knowing full well the consequences that would bear down on him should this come out to the chief of staff. Or worse still, the public. He looked up at Artiom sitting, straight in his back, chest held high and proud as ever. He couldn't begin to comprehend this despicable figure that sat before him, drinking with a taunting grin on his neatly groomed face. He tried thinking of possible ways for getting rid of him. Perhaps he could let his superiors know of his actions. No, he thought, they'd count him in on the crime for simply letting it go on. Perhaps he could simply kill him where he sat. Although that would put all the responsibility on him and him alone to either clean up this mess or confess Artiom's actions as his own. He'd let time take it's course and wait for a better opportunity. He was just about to speak when he heard a silent moan from upstairs and he fixed his eyes on the staircase behind him.

“Anything we need to worry about upstairs?”

“Nothing of importance, a simple houseguest.”
Artiom assured.