Red Sniper

They forced her at gunpoint through the house and to an upstairs bedroom. Barkov pointed at the bed. She sat down on it. Barkov sighed and made motions like he was pulling a shirt up over his head. Were German girls so dense? The girl stared at him, horrified, and he reached over to slap her to get her attention, and then repeated the motion of pulling his shirt over his head. This time, the girl complied and took off her dress. Barkov nodded and gave her a push so that she fell back on the bed.

By now, the rest of the squad had crowded into the bedroom. Six men. All in various states of intoxication. Staring at the girl on the bed. Barkov unbuckled his trousers, his intent all too obvious, and the girl started to wail.

They were all so intent on the scene on the bed that the younger brother slipped in unnoticed and leaped onto Barkov’s back like he was climbing a mountain, shouting and pounding his fists. Cursing, Barkov shrugged him off, dumping the boy to the floor in a heap. Murushko kicked him, and the Mink raised his pistol to shoot him. The girl wailed even louder, sounding like an air raid siren to Barkov’s ears.

This was not going as he had planned, not at all. He slapped the girl and shouted at the Mink, “Nyet!”

Drunk as he was, Barkov quickly explained his plan. The Mink hauled the boy to his feet, wrapped an arm around his throat, and put a revolver to his head. Barkov pointed at the boy and then at the girl. Unless she was a complete Oyabuk, she ought to understand the situation, and what Barkov wanted.

Horribly, the crime that was taking place in that bedroom was being perpetrated all across Berlin. Rape was being used by the invading Russians as both a form of punishment against the German people and as a grotesque spoil of war. It was as if the medieval era had returned to the 20th century.

• • •

When Barkov finished with the girl, he took another big swig from some bottle they had found, and then Murushko took his turn. The brother was sobbing, unable to take his eyes off the nightmare scene in front of him because the Mink was holding him so that he was forced to watch. Still, the boy strained against the Mink’s grip. Barkov absently punched him in the belly.

It turned out that the girl’s initial screaming had not been for nothing. Murushko was busy humping away, his pale ass bobbling up and down, when a commissar appeared in the doorway. He was young and looked startled by the scene he had walked into. These hardened soldiers all resembled drunken thugs, and he looked from one to the other uncertainly, despite his commissar’s uniform.

“What is going on here?” he demanded.

“What do you think?” Barkov said. “Go away.”

The young commissar did not seem sure what to do about the rape, but he did know one thing: “You cannot speak to me that way.” His hand fumbled at his holster.

Barkov gave him a shove that sent the officer crashing against the wall. Then the sniper reached down with a hand the size of a bear paw and took away the officer’s gun. It was a Tokarev TT-33 Service Pistol in 7.62 mm, ugly but reliable as a hammer. “This does not concern you, Comrade Commissar. That is, unless you want a turn.”

Barkov gestured at the bed. The young officer blushed, and averted his eyes. He darted from the room, chased down the narrow hall by the laughter of the soldiers.

Only the Mink wasn’t laughing. “Yegor, what have you done?”

“That little runt won’t be back, not if he knows what’s good for him,” Barkov said. “You worry too much.”

They all had a go at the girl. Murushko went twice. To take his turn, the Mink released the brother, who sank to his knees, blubbering. Barkov considered killing him anyhow, but that seemed too kind. The boy would be having nightmares about this day for years to come—it would serve the little Nazi bastard right. The boy would always be reminded of the day when he had been too weak to defend his sister.

Finished, Barkov and his men stumped loudly down the stairs of the neat German house and out the front door—where he saw the young commissar approaching again. This time, he was not alone.

An older political officer flanked him, and if the young commissar had the look of a puppy, this one had the appearance of a watchdog who enjoyed biting. Barkov recognized him vaguely as having been one the senior commissars to give speeches before the attack on Seelow Heights. He had then gone to the rear to shoot those for whom the speech had not been sufficient motivation for advancing toward the German lines. As if the appearance of the commissar wasn’t bad enough, a couple of NKVD guards marched along, submachine guns casually aimed in Barkov’s direction.

“You,” the older commissar said to Barkov. “I know you. You are the sniper. Your name is Barkov.”

“Yes, Comrade Commissar.”

“Why do you think I am here, Barkov?”

“The girl—”