Near Lviv, Vynnyky
In a recently vacated two-story house, Anlina stood in front of a full-length mirror in the bedroom, humming an unknown tune while adjusting her fitted white shirt. The shirt was quite tight, especially around her chest, causing a button to nearly pop off. However, Anlina didn't mind; she loved the outfit delivered by Valenka today, a uniform of the female soldiers of the NKVD. Anlina could swear that she had admired these dashing female soldiers since she was a child, but she never thought she would one day wear a military uniform herself.
Outside the ajar bedroom door, her mother's nagging complaints and her father's discontented curses could be heard occasionally. Her mother complained about the previous owner of the house being too sloppy, making everything so dirty, which made cleaning a hassle. Her father cursed the Poles who attacked the town's supply depot last night, saying that anyone who opposed the Soviet regime should be hanged.
Interestingly, Anlina's mother wasn't someone who liked cleanliness. Back in Shevchenkove, she wasn't lazy but didn't enjoy doing household chores either. She preferred basking in the sun under the eaves. Her father, on the other hand, had always liked to curse behind people's backs. Back then, his targets were the police and border guards, always hoping the guerrillas would storm Shevchenkove and hang all the uniformed men.
Now, as they moved from Shevchenkove to Lviv and settled in a two-story house with six rooms, and with her parents getting jobs at the Demir Sugar Refinery, this couple, who had lived in exile for almost half their lives, seemed to change their minds overnight. The first thing they did while tidying up the living room was to hang portraits of Lenin and Stalin on the wall opposite the front door. They quickly forgot the grudges of the past decade and astonishingly transformed into staunch supporters of the Soviet regime.
For Anlina, the past month's life felt like a dream. First, Viktor, who had provided her shelter and occasional aid, suddenly left Shevchenkove without warning, and his position was taken by someone else. Just when Anlina was despairing, thinking she was doomed, Shevchenkove began to review old cases, with the official explanation being to right the wrongs done to some unjustly accused people.
Thus, Anlina's family was among the first to have their sentences lifted. From then on, they were no longer prisoners but ordinary citizens who could choose to work on a collective farm.
A few days later, Anlina's father received a notice saying that considering his past experiences, the organization had arranged a suitable job for him in Lviv. Overjoyed, her father eagerly accepted the job and hastily brought his family to Lviv.
Everything seemed normal. After all, theirs wasn't the only family to be rehabilitated, nor were Anlina's parents the only ones to move to Lviv for work. However, deep down, both Anlina and her parents knew the truth behind their situation.
Now, Anlina also had her own job. She was assigned to the Lviv Automobile Inspection Bureau—now called the Transportation Corps Bureau—handling some archival paperwork.
The sound of a car engine came from outside the open window. It grew louder as it approached the house and then stopped, indicating that it had arrived downstairs.
Anlina's heart began to race. She felt her breathing quicken and her face grow warm.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Over the past month, she seemed to have gained a bit of weight. Her once gaunt face was now fuller, with a hint of baby fat on her formerly hollow, pale cheeks.
Feeling a sudden nervousness, she wondered if the man would still like her now.
In the living room, her mother's nagging and her father's cursing abruptly ceased. They seemed to be speaking softly and deferentially to someone. Then, the sound of boots stepping on the wooden floor echoed, drawing closer until it reached her room.
The person who entered was Viktor. Today, he was not in uniform but wearing civilian clothes. As he walked into Anlina's bedroom, he immediately saw the young woman standing in front of the mirror. By modern standards, she was still a girl.
She was wearing a white undershirt and a blue skirt. Her hair was tied in a bun at the back of her head, but she wasn't wearing her cap, which lay on the bed nearby.
In the short time since they last met, she no longer looked emaciated. Her delicate face had a pure, yet striking beauty typical of Belarusian women, enough to catch any man's eye.
Without saying a word, Viktor walked toward Anlina, closing the door behind him and starting to undress as he approached. To be honest, he didn't feel any so-called love for this girl; it was more of a mix of pity and, overwhelmingly, desire—an almost perverse desire.
In front of the tall mirror, Anlina once again endured Viktor's nearly brutal advances. The uniform she loved so much became a prop that stimulated his primal instincts.
After an indeterminate amount of time, Anlina finally lay on the table, exhausted. Her legs wrapped tightly around Viktor's sturdy waist, and she cradled his head resting on her chest, finding a strange sense of calm amidst his heavy breathing.
Leaving Anlina's new home, Viktor glanced back at the upstairs window before getting into the car. The beautiful girl stood behind the curtain, watching him intently. When their eyes met, she waved slightly but quickly pulled her hand back.
Viktor did not wave back. Instead, he got into the car and told Valenka to start the engine.
Viktor knew very well that there could never be any future between him and Anlina; this was a foregone conclusion. Yet, the idea of cutting ties with her now was unthinkable—not impossible, but something he simply didn't want to do. This was the mentality of a scoundrel.
But Viktor didn't care. Having been reborn into such a damned world where even life and death were out of his control, why should he care about being a scoundrel?
The jeep drove slowly through the town's streets, not heading toward Lviv's city center, but in the direction of Galicia.
The car soon left the town and drove onto a dirt road about five or six meters wide. This road led from Lviv to Ternopil. At that moment, a line of raggedly dressed men was slowly moving eastward along this road.
These men were all Polish soldiers who had fallen into the hands of the Soviet Red Army. Over the past couple of days, they had been gathered from various prisoner-of-war camps across Western Ukraine, converging in Lviv before being transferred toward Kyiv. According to orders from above, most of these men would be sent to places like Stalino (Donetsk) to become miners.
Of course, compared to the officers, even low-ranking lieutenants or sergeants, the fate of these ordinary soldiers was much better. The officers were being gathered separately according to regions, and the orders from the National Security Directorate of the NKVD were to execute them all.
The directive from the National Security Directorate stated two reasons for this action: first, the existence of these officers could encourage some people to continue pushing for the so-called Polish independence movement. Second, this large-scale execution was also a form of retaliation for the mass execution of Soviet prisoners of war by Poland between 1919 and 1920. A specific line from the order read: "The Poles think they have washed the blood off their hands, but we have already etched the scars on our chests."
Why did Merkulov suddenly come to Lviv? He wasn't here to inspect national security work. His sole purpose in Western Ukraine was to oversee this execution operation.
Additionally, those being sent to the execution grounds were not limited to the officers. There were also Polish landowners, intellectuals, social activists, and government officials. All of these individuals would be executed without any form of trial. They would be gathered together, executed in batches, and then buried in the pits they had dug themselves. This was the entire extermination plan.
To avoid panic and international condemnation, these execution plans had to be kept strictly confidential. The people carrying out the executions were not from the army but from the security forces of the National Security Directorate, and Viktor was the action officer in charge of the Lviv area.
Sitting in the back seat of the jeep, Viktor watched the disheveled Polish prisoners walk past the car. His stern face showed no sympathy at all. In truth, he had no right to pity anyone. Since his rebirth, he had always been standing on thin ice, with disaster seemingly just a step away.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a half-empty pack of cigarettes. On closer inspection, the cigarette pack was covered in German writing. The cigarette he pulled out was also quite unusual. Its cross-section was not round but oval, as if it had been flattened—these were cigarettes issued to German troops.