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Sviridov Georgy Ivanovich
Ring behind barbed wire

Heroism, courage, courage, perseverance and loyalty to the Motherland - all these qualities have been highly valued by our people at all times and under all rulers.

The names of the characters in the novel are genuine.

Part one

Chapter first

The short word “Achtzen” (eighteen) was a conditioned signal. It meant: “Attention! Watch your back! Danger is near! With this conditioned signal, the prisoners working at the Gustlov-Werke plant warned each other about the approach of the SS men.

Prisoners from the work crew of the boiler room and the adjacent electrical workshop and mechanics jumped to their feet and hastily set to work.

Alexey Lysenko also jumped up. He had just come from the mechanic's shop to the boiler room and was drying his shoes by the fire. A shadow slid across his thin, weathered face. Alexey tried to quickly put his wet shoes on his swollen, sore feet, but he failed. He only managed to put on one shoe when heavy footsteps were heard behind the wall. Alexey hastily stuck his second shoe into the pile of coal and grabbed a shovel. With every movement, his striped convict clothes dangled from his emaciated body, as if they were hanging on a hook.

The heavy figure of Hauptsturmführer Martin Sommer appeared in the doorway.

The prisoners, pulling their heads into their shoulders, began to work even more diligently. Sommer's appearance did not bode well. Alexey watched the SS man sideways. Many people died at the hands of this executioner. With what pleasure he would have fucked this reptile with a shovel on his flattened head!

Sommer walked through the stoker into the electrical workshop. The fitters jumped to their feet and, with their arms stretched out at their sides, froze. The SS man, without looking at them, stopped at Reinold Lochmann's small workbench.

Placing a small radio in front of the frozen prisoner, Sommer muttered only one word:

- Repair!

And, turning, he headed towards the exit.

Alexey looked at the hated SS man. Then he took out his shoe and slowly shook the coal dust out of it. And then his gaze settled on Lochmann’s workbench. Sommer's radio did not have a back cover. Radio tubes glimmered inside. Alexei's breath caught.

He needs a radio tube. One single lamp - “W-2”. All other parts for the radio have already been prepared. Leonid Drapkin and Vyacheslav Zheleznyak got them. The only thing missing was the main part - a radio tube. We decided to “borrow” it from Lochmann. But none of the receivers brought by the guards for repairs had the required lamp. Long weeks dragged on one after another, but the treasured lamp did not appear. Alexei seemed to be running out of patience. Will they never hear the voice of their native Moscow? And today Sommer, the executioner of the punishment cell, brought the radio to be repaired. Alexey felt with all his being that there was a treasured lamp in Sommer’s receiver.

Alexey looked around. The prisoners continued to work, but without nervous tension. Nobody paid attention to him. Without letting go of the shoe, Lysenko headed into the next room, to a small workbench.

Reynold, humming a song, repaired the SS speaker. Noticing the Russian, he raised his head and smiled in a friendly manner with bloodless lips. He liked this Russian guy. Inquisitive, curious and diligent. It’s just a pity that he doesn’t know a damn thing about radio engineering. Totally savage! Reynold remembered how two months ago this Russian had goggled his eyes and openly admired the “miracles” of transmitting music and human speech without wires. Then Lochmann, laughing good-naturedly, spent an hour diligently explaining to him the principle of operation of the radio, drawing a simple diagram on a piece of paper and proving that there was no supernatural force here. But the Russian, apparently, did not understand anything. However, when he left, Reynold did not find the piece of paper on which he had drawn the radio receiver diagram. She mysteriously disappeared. No, no, he didn’t even suspect that he was Russian. Why does he need her?

Reynold raised his head and smiled friendly at Alexei.

– Have you come to see “miracles”?

Alexey nodded.

- Well, look, look. I do not mind. – Lochmann took a heated soldering iron and leaned towards the disassembled apparatus. “My hands are the hands of a wizard.” They will even make iron speak. Hee-hee-hee!..

Alexey glanced at the lamps. Which one is “W-2”? The gold embossing gleamed dully. Here she is!

Lysenko extended his hand. The lamp sat tightly. My mouth became dry from excitement. He put the lamp in his pocket.

Reynold didn't notice anything. He continued to hum the song.

Alexey handed over the treasured lamp to Drapkin. He beamed. Alexey whispered:

- Don't take it too far. What if... Let's not let Lochmann down.

Until the evening, Lysenko watched the radio technician. Waited. Finally he took up the radio. He examined something for a long time, then, cursing, began to busily disassemble it. Alexei's heart was relieved. It's done!

That same night, as soon as the prisoners of the barracks fell asleep in a heavy sleep, Alexey nudged Leonid with his elbow.

Vyacheslav Zheleznyak was waiting for them in the washroom. The three of them sneaked out of the barracks. It was a dark, stuffy night. Here and there, spotlights flashed on the watchtowers and seemed to be hurriedly rummaging around the camp with long yellow arms. When they went out, the darkness became even thicker.

They had a difficult path ahead of them. You need to get to the other end of the camp and return to the boiler room. There, in a small closet, the capo of the boiler room, the political prisoner German Krause, is waiting for them. He agreed to help.

Zheleznyak went first. Behind him, at some distance, are Alexey and Leonid. Where they crawled, where they pressed themselves against the wall of the barracks, looking around and listening sensitively to the tense silence, they stubbornly moved towards the boiler room. Everyone was thinking about the same thing: “Just don’t get caught!”

Don't get caught in the spotlight, don't run into the guards wandering around the camp. Walking around the camp after lights out is death.

The boiler room is located near the crematorium, a low, squat building surrounded by a high wooden fence. There is work going on there around the clock. In the darkness of the night, you can’t see black smoke pouring out of the chimney. Only occasionally, sheafs of sparks jump out and the terrible, sickening smell of burnt hair and burnt meat spreads throughout the entire camp.

In Krause's cramped closet, an electric light bulb glows dimly. The window and door are curtained with blankets.

“I wish you luck,” says the capo, and his lanky figure disappears through the door.

Krause will wander near the barracks until the rise and, in case of danger, will give a signal.

Leonid pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and smoothed it out with his palm. It was a diagram of a simple radio receiver, the same one that Lochmann drew. Vyacheslav took out the hidden parts. Alexey checked the availability of parts with the diagram. And he smiled.

- Full set!

For the first time in his years of captivity, he felt joy in his soul. The friends began assembling the receiver. It was delicate and damn difficult work. None of the three of them had ever worked in radio engineering before. None of them were even simple radio amateurs. They worked only as electricians. But if necessary, if really necessary, a person can perform miracles, rediscover what has already been discovered, learn what he does not yet know, invent and do with his own hands something that he has never done before.

They spent five nights, five tiringly intense and terribly short nights in the cramped closet of the capo’s boiler room. At the end of the fifth night, the last capacitor was soldered, and Alexey wiped drops of sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.

- It seems that everything...

The long-awaited moment has arrived. The receiver is finally assembled. The main thing left is to try it...

Zheleznyak, worried, sticks two needles into the electrical wiring and strings the stripped ends of the cord onto them.

Tense seconds pass, and the hairs in the lamp glow. The quiet characteristic noise of a working radio was heard. It seems to be working!

The friends looked at each other happily. Alexey hastily puts on his headphones. There is a noise. Some crackling noises can be heard. Alexey turns the tuning knob. Now he will hear Moscow! But the noise doesn't stop. Lysenko strains his hearing, but the receiver does not pick up anything other than noise. From Alexei's gloomy face, his friends understood everything.

“Give it to me,” Zheleznyak nervously puts the headphones to his ear. Turns the tuning knob. He listens for a long time, but nothing resembling human speech or music comes from the ether. Vyacheslav, sighing, hands the headphones to Leonid. - On the…

Drapkin waved his hand.

- No need…

There was a gloomy silence. The receiver just beeped treacherously. The prisoners looked at the apparatus for a long time, and each thought hard. Yes, the receiver, despite all their efforts, did not come to life, did not “speak.” This means there was an inaccuracy in the assembly. Something was set wrong, incorrectly. But what is the mistake? Where is she? None of them could answer this painful question...

The fatigue accumulated over five sleepless nights suddenly fell on my shoulders.

Having hidden the receiver, the friends silently went to their barracks. The return journey, for the first time in five nights, seemed endless to them.

In the washroom, before going to their bunks, Lysenko said:

- But it still works. We just need to find a radio operator. The real one.

Chapter two

SS Major Dr. Adolf Gauvin smoothed his pomaded light brown hair with a small palm, pulled down his jacket and stepped into the reception room of the commandant of the Buchenwald concentration camp. The lower ranks jumped up and stood up. The major responded to the greetings with a casual nod and walked to the adjutant's desk. The adjutant, who had long since outgrown the lieutenant's age, but still wore the shoulder straps of an untersturmführer, thirty-five-year-old Hans Bungeller, looked at the major with an indifferent glance and pointedly politely offered to wait.

- The Colonel is busy, Herr Major.

And, making it clear that the conversation was over, he turned to Gust, a clean-shaven, healthy SS senior lieutenant.

The major walked arrogantly around the wide reception area, hung up his cap, sat down in a chair by the open window, took out a gold cigarette case and lit a cigarette.

The adjutant was saying something to Gust and looking askance at the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. The major saw that the Untersturmführer was busy not so much with the conversation as with his hairstyle. Bungeller was proud of the fact that he bore some resemblance to Hitler and was constantly concerned about his appearance. I dyed my mustache twice a week. I styled my hair, shiny from brilliantine, every minute. But the hard forelock did not lie on the forehead, like the Fuhrer’s, but stuck out like a visor.

Major Gauvin despised Bungeller. Cretin in an officer's uniform! At this age, men of even average ability become captains.

The doctor made himself more comfortable in the chair. Well, let's wait. A year ago, when work at the Hygienic Institute, the head of which he, Major Gauvin, was just getting better, when threatening telegrams arrived from Berlin one after another, demanding the speedy expansion of the production of anti-typhoid serum, a call to the commandant did not foretell anything joyful.

Then Adjutant Hans Bungeller greeted the doctor with a kind smile and let him see the colonel out of turn. And now... Success always causes envy, thought Gauvin, and even more so if a woman contributes to this success, and even one like Frau Elsa. The colonel's wife treated him favorably, everyone knew that, as for Gauvin, he was not indifferent to her. And not only him. In the entire SS division “Totenkopf”, which guarded the concentration camp, there was not a German who, upon meeting the mistress of Buchenwald, would not lose his composure. And this capricious ruler of men’s hearts was always inventing and commanding something. At the whim of Frau Elsa, thousands of prisoners built a playpen for her in a few months. Soon she got bored of prancing around on a stallion dressed as an Amazon. A new hobby has appeared. Elsa decided to become a trendsetter. She saw tattoos on the prisoners, and it occurred to her to make unique gloves and a handbag. Such that no one in the whole world has! Made from tattooed human skin. Major Gauvin, without flinching, undertook to fulfill the wild fantasy of the eccentric mistress of Buchenwald. Under his leadership, Dr. Wagner made the first handbag and gloves. And what? I liked the new product! The wives of some important officials wanted to have exactly the same ones. Orders for handbags, gloves, lampshades, and book covers began to arrive even from Berlin. I had to open a secret workshop in the pathology department. The patronage of Frau Elsa elevated and strengthened the position of the major. He began to communicate freely and almost independently before the commandant of Buchenwald, SS Colonel Karl Koch, who had a direct telephone connection with the office of Reich Commissioner Himmler himself. The name of Koch awed all of Thuringia, and he himself was in awe of his wife.

The major turned his gaze to Gust - and with the professional eye of a doctor he felt the tight muscles of the triangular back, the trained biceps of the senior lieutenant, his muscular neck, on which his blond head proudly rested. Gust listened absentmindedly to the adjutant and lazily tapped his flexible transparent riding crop on his patent leather boot. And with every movement right hand A black diamond sparkled on his little finger. Gauvin knew the value of jewelry. Boy! Robbed and boasts. Puppy!

Gauvin looked at his watch - he had been waiting for an appointment for fifteen minutes. Who sits with the colonel for so long? Isn't Le Clyre the head of the Gestapo? If he is, then damn it, you'll sit for another hour.

The doctor began to look out the window. Lagerführer SS Captain Max Schubert is walking along the sunny side of the road paved with white stone. He undid the buttons of his uniform and took off his cap. The bald spot glistens in the sun like a billiard ball. Walking nearby, with his head slightly bent, is the tall, red-haired SS lieutenant Walpner. He sticks out his chest, on which a brand new first class iron cross gleams.

Gauvin chuckled. This cross is awarded to front-line soldiers for military merits, and Walpner earned it in Buchenwald, fighting defenseless prisoners with a stick and fists.

Schubert stopped and beckoned to someone with his finger. Gauvin saw an old man in the striped clothes of a political prisoner bending obsequiously before the Lagerführer. It was Kushnir-Kushnarev. The doctor could not stand this hired provocateur with a flabby face and the dull eyes of a drug addict. Gauvin knew that Kushnir-Kushnarev was a tsarist general and held the post of comrade minister in the Kerensky government. Thrown out by the October Revolution, he fled to Germany, where he squandered the remains of his fortune, went downhill, served as a doorman in a famous brothel, was bought by British intelligence and captured by the Gestapo. He led a miserable life in Buchenwald before the war with Soviet Russia. When Soviet prisoners of war began to arrive at the concentration camp, the former general became a translator, and then, having shown diligence, “received a promotion” - he became a provocateur.

Kushnir-Kushnarev handed Schubert some piece of paper. Gauvin, noticing this, listened to the conversation taking place outside the window.

“There are fifty-four of them here,” said Kushnir-Kushnarev. – There is material for everyone.

Lagerführer scanned the list and handed it to Walpner.

- Here's another penalty command for you. I hope it doesn't last more than a week.

The lieutenant hid the paper.

- Yavol! Will be done!

Schubert turned to the agent.

“No way, Herr Captain,” Kushnir-Kushnarev blinked his eyes in surprise.

“Then tell me, why did you come here?” Buchenwald is not a holiday home. We are unhappy with you. You're not doing a good job.

“I’m trying, Herr Captain.”

-Are you trying? Ha-ha-ha...” Schubert laughed. – Do you really think you’re trying?

- That's right, Herr Captain.

- I do not see. How many communists and commanders did you identify in the last batch of Russians? Ten? Something is too little.

– You yourself were a witness, Herr Captain...

- In fact of the matter. Neither I nor anyone else will believe you that out of five hundred prisoners, only ten are communists and commanders. Nobody! I forgive you this time, but keep this in mind in the future. If we all work the same way as you, then even in a hundred years we will not cleanse Europe of the red infection. It's clear?

- That's right, Herr Captain.

– And for today’s list you will receive a separate reward.

- Glad to try, Herr Captain!

The major looked at Schubert's bald head, his wide bottom and thin legs. Rag! An SS officer - the Fuhrer's personal security forces - captain of the "Totenkopf" division, a division into which tens of thousands of pure-blooded Aryans dream of joining, behaves worse than an ordinary policeman, descends to talking with dirty provocateurs, and even becomes liberal with them. Major Gauvin considered all traitors and defectors, as well as the Jews, to be open enemies of Greater Germany. He didn't trust them. He was firmly convinced that a person who once chickened out and betrayed his homeland or nation for the sake of personal well-being could betray a second and third time. In such people, the bacilli of cowardice and betrayal live and multiply in their blood.

Three SS men tramped along the alley: the head of the crematorium, Senior Sergeant Major Gelbig, and his two assistants - the chief executioner Burke and the gorilla-like giant Willie. About the latter, Gauvin was told that he had once, as a professional boxer, led a gang of repeat offenders. Gelbig walked ponderously, spreading his legs wide, and carried a small box, pressing it to his stomach. A greedy light flashed in Major Gauvin's eyes. Gauvin, damn it, knew about the contents of the box. There are jewelry there. Those that the prisoners hid during searches. But you can’t hide anything from an Aryan. After burning the corpses, the ashes are sifted. A profitable business with Gelbig! It is clear from his rounded face that it was not in vain that he exchanged the honorable position of head of the weapons warehouse for the far from honorable job of manager of the crematorium and warehouse of the dead...

The door leading to the commandant's office finally swung open with a noise. Frau Elsa appeared. Her fiery yellow hair flared in the rays of the sun. The men stood up as if on cue. Gust, ahead of the others, hurried to meet Frau. She extended her hand to the lieutenant, open to the elbow. On her wrist, a wide bracelet with diamonds and rubies sparkled and shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow. Thin pink fingers were studded with massive rings. Gust gallantly shuffled, kissed the outstretched hand and wanted to say something. Apparently this is a new compliment. But the gaze of the hostess of Buchenwald slid over the faces of those present and settled on Major Gauvin.

- Doctor! You, as always, are easy to talk about...

The major, a forty-year-old bachelor who knew a lot about women, had the blood drain from his face. Frau Elsa was approaching him. He saw the thighs held together by a short piece of fine English wool. With every step Frau Elsa took, they swayed, like an Egyptian dancer. The major almost physically felt their elasticity. Without looking up, he slid upward and hugged his narrow wasp waist and high chest with his gaze.

“You, as always, are easy to talk about,” continued Frau Elsa, “I must thank you, dear doctor.” The latest batch is an extraordinary success!

Dr. Gauvin's nostrils quivered. Leaning forward, he listened, answered and looked, looked into the woman’s eyes, which magnetized, attracted, promised.

Frau Elsa left, leaving behind a subtle aroma of Parisian perfume. Silence reigned in the reception area.

Major Gauvin sank back into his chair and, assuming a stony expression on his face, mentally returned to the conversation with the commandant’s wife. He, remembering every word, every phrase she uttered, thought about them, comprehended them, trying to find out more than they really meant. The way to a woman's heart sometimes lies through her hobbies. He was convinced of this more than once. And Frau Elsa was carried away. Let it be handbags now. She even prepared sketches of new models herself. Wonderful! For a woman like that, you can fucking tinker! In this rotten camp, her mere presence makes the doctor a man again. By the way, Frau Elsa expressed a desire to personally select the material for future handbags and lampshades. You must not yawn. Tomorrow he will order the organization of an extraordinary medical examination of prisoners. In love, as in hunting, it is important to seize the moment!

When Major Adolphe Gauvin was invited to see the colonel, he walked into the office, maintaining dignity and confidence. Passing by the adjutant, he did not look at him and only out of the corner of his eye caught a sarcastic smile on Hans Bungeller’s face. Busy with his thoughts, the major did not pay attention to her. It's a pity. The adjutant’s face spoke better than a barometer about the “weather” in the colonel’s office.

The commandant of the Buchenwald concentration camp, Standartenführer Karl Koch, sat at a massive desk made of black oak, covered with green cloth. Behind him hung a huge portrait of Hitler in a gilded frame. On the table, next to the bronze writing instrument, on a round metal stand stood a small, fist-sized human head. It has been reduced by special processing. Gauvin even knew who it belonged to. His name was Schneigel. He was killed last year because he twice complained to the commandant about the camp rules. Koch said to him irritably: “Why the hell are you getting in my way? Do you like hanging around in front of me? I can help you with this! " And a month later, the dried head of the prisoner began to decorate the office of the colonel of the SS division “Dead Head”.

Leaning back in his chair, SS Colonel Karl Koch stared at the major with a tinny gaze and did not return the greeting. Gauvin pretended not to notice this and smiled kindly.

- Herr Colonel, did you call me? I am glad to meet you.

Koch's sallow face remained expressionless. Thin, bloodless lips were tightly compressed. Again he said nothing.

The major, still smiling, walked to the chair that stood at the side of the table and, as usual, without waiting for an invitation, sat down.

- May I light a cigarette, Herr Colonel? I ask you to. Havana cigars.

The answer was still silence. Gauvin, impressed by his conversation with Frau Elsa, looked at the colonel’s dry, sallow face in a new way, saw bags under his eyes that indicated sleepless nights, a narrow chest, and thin arms. Colonel, he thought, is a bad match for such a blooming and, by all accounts, temperamental woman like his wife. And he grinned.

“I’m listening to you, Herr Colonel.”

Lightning flashed in Koch's eyes:

- Get up!

The major, as if thrown by a spring, jumped to his feet.

– How do you stand in front of the senior boss? Maybe you weren't taught this?

Gauvin, mentally cursing, stretched out at the seams. He saw in front of him not a boss, but a jealous husband. Damn it, did the Colonel notice anything?

- Doctor Gauvin! “I didn’t call you,” Koch shouted in a raspy voice. – And meeting you does not bring me joy!

Gauvin shrugged.

“I didn’t call Dr. Gauvin,” Koch continued, “I called SS Major Adolf Gauvin!” I want to know how long will this last? Are you tired of wearing major's shoulder straps?

Gauvin's cheeks turned white. He became wary. Things took an unexpected turn.

The colonel fell silent. Leisurely taking out the keys, he opened the desk drawer. The major closely followed the commandant's every move. Koch took a large blue package out of the drawer. Gauvin noticed the state coat of arms, the stamp “top secret” and the stamp of the imperial office. The doctor's mouth became dry: such packages do not bring joy.

Koch pulled out a folded paper and threw it to Gauvin.

Major Gauvin unfolded the sheet, quickly skimmed the text and was horrified. Cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

“Read it out loud,” the commandant ordered.

When the major finished reading, he felt a pounding in his chest. He was accused of being “the initiator of the production of anti-typhoid serum from Jewish blood.” He, damn it, is primarily to blame for the fact that a million German soldiers, “the purest Aryans,” representatives of the “superior race,” were infused with the blood of “filthy Jews” along with the serum...

The Berlin authorities reprimanded the chief physician of the Hygienic Institute of the Buchenwald concentration camp for “political myopia” and categorically proposed to “immediately stop the production of anti-typhoid serum from Jewish blood”...

Chapter first

The short word “Achtzen” (eighteen) was a conditioned signal. It meant: “Attention! Watch your back! Danger is near! With this conditioned signal, the prisoners working at the Gustlov-Werke plant warned each other about the approach of the SS men.

Prisoners from the work crew of the boiler room and the adjacent electrical workshop and mechanics jumped to their feet and hastily set to work.

Alexey Lysenko also jumped up. He had just come from the mechanic's shop to the boiler room and was drying his shoes by the fire. A shadow slid across his thin, weathered face. Alexey tried to quickly put his wet shoes on his swollen, sore feet, but he failed. He only managed to put on one shoe when heavy footsteps were heard behind the wall. Alexey hastily stuck his second shoe into the pile of coal and grabbed a shovel. With every movement, his striped convict clothes dangled from his emaciated body, as if they were hanging on a hook.

The heavy figure of Hauptsturmführer Martin Sommer appeared in the doorway.

The prisoners, pulling their heads into their shoulders, began to work even more diligently. Sommer's appearance did not bode well. Alexey watched the SS man sideways. Many people died at the hands of this executioner. With what pleasure he would have fucked this reptile with a shovel on his flattened head!

Sommer walked through the stoker into the electrical workshop. The fitters jumped to their feet and, with their arms stretched out at their sides, froze. The SS man, without looking at them, stopped at Reinold Lochmann's small workbench.

Placing a small radio in front of the frozen prisoner, Sommer muttered only one word:

- Repair!

And, turning, he headed towards the exit.

Alexey looked at the hated SS man. Then he took out his shoe and slowly shook the coal dust out of it. And then his gaze settled on Lochmann’s workbench. Sommer's radio did not have a back cover. Radio tubes glimmered inside. Alexei's breath caught.

He needs a radio tube. One single lamp - “W-2”. All other parts for the radio have already been prepared. Leonid Drapkin and Vyacheslav Zheleznyak got them. The only thing missing was the main part - a radio tube. We decided to “borrow” it from Lochmann. But none of the receivers brought by the guards for repairs had the required lamp. Long weeks dragged on one after another, but the treasured lamp did not appear. Alexei seemed to be running out of patience. Will they never hear the voice of their native Moscow? And today Sommer, the executioner of the punishment cell, brought the radio to be repaired. Alexey felt with all his being that there was a treasured lamp in Sommer’s receiver.

Alexey looked around. The prisoners continued to work, but without nervous tension. Nobody paid attention to him. Without letting go of the shoe, Lysenko headed into the next room, to a small workbench.

Reynold, humming a song, repaired the SS speaker. Noticing the Russian, he raised his head and smiled in a friendly manner with bloodless lips. He liked this Russian guy. Inquisitive, curious and diligent. It’s just a pity that he doesn’t know a damn thing about radio engineering. Totally savage! Reynold remembered how two months ago this Russian had goggled his eyes and openly admired the “miracles” of transmitting music and human speech without wires. Then Lochmann, laughing good-naturedly, spent an hour diligently explaining to him the principle of operation of the radio, drawing a simple diagram on a piece of paper and proving that there was no supernatural force here. But the Russian, apparently, did not understand anything. However, when he left, Reynold did not find the piece of paper on which he had drawn the radio receiver diagram. She mysteriously disappeared. No, no, he didn’t even suspect that he was Russian. Why does he need her?

Reynold raised his head and smiled friendly at Alexei.

– Have you come to see “miracles”?

Alexey nodded.

- Well, look, look. I do not mind. – Lochmann took a heated soldering iron and leaned towards the disassembled apparatus. “My hands are the hands of a wizard.” They will even make iron speak. Hee-hee-hee!..

Alexey glanced at the lamps. Which one is “W-2”? The gold embossing gleamed dully. Here she is!

Lysenko extended his hand. The lamp sat tightly. My mouth became dry from excitement. He put the lamp in his pocket.

Reynold didn't notice anything. He continued to hum the song.

Alexey handed over the treasured lamp to Drapkin. He beamed. Alexey whispered:

- Don't take it too far. What if... Let's not let Lochmann down.

Until the evening, Lysenko watched the radio technician. Waited. Finally he took up the radio. He examined something for a long time, then, cursing, began to busily disassemble it. Alexei's heart was relieved. It's done!

That same night, as soon as the prisoners of the barracks fell asleep in a heavy sleep, Alexey nudged Leonid with his elbow.

Vyacheslav Zheleznyak was waiting for them in the washroom. The three of them sneaked out of the barracks. It was a dark, stuffy night. Here and there, spotlights flashed on the watchtowers and seemed to be hurriedly rummaging around the camp with long yellow arms. When they went out, the darkness became even thicker.

They had a difficult path ahead of them. You need to get to the other end of the camp and return to the boiler room. There, in a small closet, the capo of the boiler room, the political prisoner German Krause, is waiting for them. He agreed to help.

Zheleznyak went first. Behind him, at some distance, are Alexey and Leonid. Where they crawled, where they pressed themselves against the wall of the barracks, looking around and listening sensitively to the tense silence, they stubbornly moved towards the boiler room. Everyone was thinking about the same thing: “Just don’t get caught!”

Don't get caught in the spotlight, don't run into the guards wandering around the camp. Walking around the camp after lights out is death.

The boiler room is located near the crematorium, a low, squat building surrounded by a high wooden fence. There is work going on there around the clock. In the darkness of the night, you can’t see black smoke pouring out of the chimney. Only occasionally, sheafs of sparks jump out and the terrible, sickening smell of burnt hair and burnt meat spreads throughout the entire camp.

In Krause's cramped closet, an electric light bulb glows dimly. The window and door are curtained with blankets.

“I wish you luck,” says the capo, and his lanky figure disappears through the door.

Krause will wander near the barracks until the rise and, in case of danger, will give a signal.

Leonid pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and smoothed it out with his palm. It was a diagram of a simple radio receiver, the same one that Lochmann drew. Vyacheslav took out the hidden parts. Alexey checked the availability of parts with the diagram. And he smiled.

- Full set!

For the first time in his years of captivity, he felt joy in his soul. The friends began assembling the receiver. It was delicate and damn difficult work. None of the three of them had ever worked in radio engineering before. None of them were even simple radio amateurs. They worked only as electricians. But if necessary, if really necessary, a person can perform miracles, rediscover what has already been discovered, learn what he does not yet know, invent and do with his own hands something that he has never done before.

They spent five nights, five tiringly intense and terribly short nights in the cramped closet of the capo’s boiler room. At the end of the fifth night, the last capacitor was soldered, and Alexey wiped drops of sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.

- It seems that everything...

The long-awaited moment has arrived. The receiver is finally assembled. The main thing left is to try it...

Zheleznyak, worried, sticks two needles into the electrical wiring and strings the stripped ends of the cord onto them.

Tense seconds pass, and the hairs in the lamp glow. The quiet characteristic noise of a working radio was heard. It seems to be working!

The friends looked at each other happily. Alexey hastily puts on his headphones. There is a noise. Some crackling noises can be heard. Alexey turns the tuning knob. Now he will hear Moscow! But the noise doesn't stop. Lysenko strains his hearing, but the receiver does not pick up anything other than noise. From Alexei's gloomy face, his friends understood everything.

“Give it to me,” Zheleznyak nervously puts the headphones to his ear. Turns the tuning knob. He listens for a long time, but nothing resembling human speech or music comes from the ether. Vyacheslav, sighing, hands the headphones to Leonid. - On the…

Drapkin waved his hand.

- No need…

There was a gloomy silence. The receiver just beeped treacherously. The prisoners looked at the apparatus for a long time, and each thought hard. Yes, the receiver, despite all their efforts, did not come to life, did not “speak.” This means there was an inaccuracy in the assembly. Something was set wrong, incorrectly. But what is the mistake? Where is she? None of them could answer this painful question...

The fatigue accumulated over five sleepless nights suddenly fell on my shoulders.

Having hidden the receiver, the friends silently went to their barracks. The return journey, for the first time in five nights, seemed endless to them.

In the washroom, before going to their bunks, Lysenko said:

- But it still works. We just need to find a radio operator. The real one.

Chapter two

SS Major Dr. Adolf Gauvin smoothed his pomaded light brown hair with a small palm, pulled down his jacket and stepped into the reception room of the commandant of the Buchenwald concentration camp. The lower ranks jumped up and stood up. The major responded to the greetings with a casual nod and walked to the adjutant's desk. The adjutant, who had long since outgrown the lieutenant's age, but still wore the shoulder straps of an untersturmführer, thirty-five-year-old Hans Bungeller, looked at the major with an indifferent glance and pointedly politely offered to wait.

- The Colonel is busy, Herr Major.

And, making it clear that the conversation was over, he turned to Gust, a clean-shaven, healthy SS senior lieutenant.

The major walked arrogantly around the wide reception area, hung up his cap, sat down in a chair by the open window, took out a gold cigarette case and lit a cigarette.

The adjutant was saying something to Gust and looking askance at the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. The major saw that the Untersturmführer was busy not so much with the conversation as with his hairstyle. Bungeller was proud of the fact that he bore some resemblance to Hitler and was constantly concerned about his appearance. I dyed my mustache twice a week. I styled my hair, shiny from brilliantine, every minute. But the hard forelock did not lie on the forehead, like the Fuhrer’s, but stuck out like a visor.

Major Gauvin despised Bungeller. Cretin in an officer's uniform! At this age, men of even average ability become captains.

The doctor made himself more comfortable in the chair. Well, let's wait. A year ago, when work at the Hygienic Institute, the head of which he, Major Gauvin, was just getting better, when threatening telegrams arrived from Berlin one after another, demanding the speedy expansion of the production of anti-typhoid serum, a call to the commandant did not foretell anything joyful.

Then Adjutant Hans Bungeller greeted the doctor with a kind smile and let him see the colonel out of turn. And now... Success always causes envy, thought Gauvin, and even more so if a woman contributes to this success, and even one like Frau Elsa. The colonel's wife treated him favorably, everyone knew that, as for Gauvin, he was not indifferent to her. And not only him. In the entire SS division “Totenkopf”, which guarded the concentration camp, there was not a German who, upon meeting the mistress of Buchenwald, would not lose his composure. And this capricious ruler of men’s hearts was always inventing and commanding something. At the whim of Frau Elsa, thousands of prisoners built a playpen for her in a few months. Soon she got bored of prancing around on a stallion dressed as an Amazon. A new hobby has appeared. Elsa decided to become a trendsetter. She saw tattoos on the prisoners, and it occurred to her to make unique gloves and a handbag. Such that no one in the whole world has! Made from tattooed human skin. Major Gauvin, without flinching, undertook to fulfill the wild fantasy of the eccentric mistress of Buchenwald. Under his leadership, Dr. Wagner made the first handbag and gloves. And what? I liked the new product! The wives of some important officials wanted to have exactly the same ones. Orders for handbags, gloves, lampshades, and book covers began to arrive even from Berlin. I had to open a secret workshop in the pathology department. The patronage of Frau Elsa elevated and strengthened the position of the major. He began to communicate freely and almost independently before the commandant of Buchenwald, SS Colonel Karl Koch, who had a direct telephone connection with the office of Reich Commissioner Himmler himself. The name of Koch awed all of Thuringia, and he himself was in awe of his wife.

The major turned his gaze to Gust - and with the professional eye of a doctor he felt the tight muscles of the triangular back, the trained biceps of the senior lieutenant, his muscular neck, on which his blond head proudly rested. Gust listened absentmindedly to the adjutant and lazily tapped his flexible transparent riding crop on his patent leather boot. And with every movement of his right hand, a black diamond sparkled on his little finger. Gauvin knew the value of jewelry. Boy! Robbed and boasts. Puppy!

Gauvin looked at his watch - he had been waiting for an appointment for fifteen minutes. Who sits with the colonel for so long? Isn't Le Clyre the head of the Gestapo? If he is, then damn it, you'll sit for another hour.

The doctor began to look out the window. Lagerführer SS Captain Max Schubert is walking along the sunny side of the road paved with white stone. He undid the buttons of his uniform and took off his cap. The bald spot glistens in the sun like a billiard ball. Walking nearby, with his head slightly bent, is the tall, red-haired SS lieutenant Walpner. He sticks out his chest, on which a brand new first class iron cross gleams.

Gauvin chuckled. This cross is awarded to front-line soldiers for military merits, and Walpner earned it in Buchenwald, fighting defenseless prisoners with a stick and fists.

Schubert stopped and beckoned to someone with his finger. Gauvin saw an old man in the striped clothes of a political prisoner bending obsequiously before the Lagerführer. It was Kushnir-Kushnarev. The doctor could not stand this hired provocateur with a flabby face and the dull eyes of a drug addict. Gauvin knew that Kushnir-Kushnarev was a tsarist general and held the post of comrade minister in the Kerensky government. Thrown out by the October Revolution, he fled to Germany, where he squandered the remains of his fortune, went downhill, served as a doorman in a famous brothel, was bought by British intelligence and captured by the Gestapo. He led a miserable life in Buchenwald before the war with Soviet Russia. When Soviet prisoners of war began to arrive at the concentration camp, the former general became a translator, and then, having shown diligence, “received a promotion” - he became a provocateur.

Kushnir-Kushnarev handed Schubert some piece of paper. Gauvin, noticing this, listened to the conversation taking place outside the window.

“There are fifty-four of them here,” said Kushnir-Kushnarev. – There is material for everyone.

Lagerführer scanned the list and handed it to Walpner.

- Here's another penalty command for you. I hope it doesn't last more than a week.

The lieutenant hid the paper.

- Yavol! Will be done!

Schubert turned to the agent.

“No way, Herr Captain,” Kushnir-Kushnarev blinked his eyes in surprise.

“Then tell me, why did you come here?” Buchenwald is not a holiday home. We are unhappy with you. You're not doing a good job.

“I’m trying, Herr Captain.”

-Are you trying? Ha-ha-ha...” Schubert laughed. – Do you really think you’re trying?

- That's right, Herr Captain.

- I do not see. How many communists and commanders did you identify in the last batch of Russians? Ten? Something is too little.

– You yourself were a witness, Herr Captain...

- In fact of the matter. Neither I nor anyone else will believe you that out of five hundred prisoners, only ten are communists and commanders. Nobody! I forgive you this time, but keep this in mind in the future. If we all work the same way as you, then even in a hundred years we will not cleanse Europe of the red infection. It's clear?

- That's right, Herr Captain.

– And for today’s list you will receive a separate reward.

- Glad to try, Herr Captain!

The major looked at Schubert's bald head, his wide bottom and thin legs. Rag! An SS officer - the Fuhrer's personal security forces - captain of the "Totenkopf" division, a division into which tens of thousands of pure-blooded Aryans dream of joining, behaves worse than an ordinary policeman, descends to talking with dirty provocateurs, and even becomes liberal with them. Major Gauvin considered all traitors and defectors, as well as the Jews, to be open enemies of Greater Germany. He didn't trust them. He was firmly convinced that a person who once chickened out and betrayed his homeland or nation for the sake of personal well-being could betray a second and third time. In such people, the bacilli of cowardice and betrayal live and multiply in their blood.

Three SS men tramped along the alley: the head of the crematorium, Senior Sergeant Major Gelbig, and his two assistants - the chief executioner Burke and the gorilla-like giant Willie. About the latter, Gauvin was told that he had once, as a professional boxer, led a gang of repeat offenders. Gelbig walked ponderously, spreading his legs wide, and carried a small box, pressing it to his stomach. A greedy light flashed in Major Gauvin's eyes. Gauvin, damn it, knew about the contents of the box. There are jewelry there. Those that the prisoners hid during searches. But you can’t hide anything from an Aryan. After burning the corpses, the ashes are sifted. A profitable business with Gelbig! It is clear from his rounded face that it was not in vain that he exchanged the honorable position of head of the weapons warehouse for the far from honorable job of manager of the crematorium and warehouse of the dead...

The door leading to the commandant's office finally swung open with a noise. Frau Elsa appeared. Her fiery yellow hair flared in the rays of the sun. The men stood up as if on cue. Gust, ahead of the others, hurried to meet Frau. She extended her hand to the lieutenant, open to the elbow. On her wrist, a wide bracelet with diamonds and rubies sparkled and shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow. Thin pink fingers were studded with massive rings. Gust gallantly shuffled, kissed the outstretched hand and wanted to say something. Apparently this is a new compliment. But the gaze of the hostess of Buchenwald slid over the faces of those present and settled on Major Gauvin.

- Doctor! You, as always, are easy to talk about...

The major, a forty-year-old bachelor who knew a lot about women, had the blood drain from his face. Frau Elsa was approaching him. He saw the thighs held together by a short piece of fine English wool. With every step Frau Elsa took, they swayed, like an Egyptian dancer. The major almost physically felt their elasticity. Without looking up, he slid upward and hugged his narrow wasp waist and high chest with his gaze.

“You, as always, are easy to talk about,” continued Frau Elsa, “I must thank you, dear doctor.” The latest batch is an extraordinary success!

Dr. Gauvin's nostrils quivered. Leaning forward, he listened, answered and looked, looked into the woman’s eyes, which magnetized, attracted, promised.

Frau Elsa left, leaving behind a subtle aroma of Parisian perfume. Silence reigned in the reception area.

Major Gauvin sank back into his chair and, assuming a stony expression on his face, mentally returned to the conversation with the commandant’s wife. He, remembering every word, every phrase she uttered, thought about them, comprehended them, trying to find out more than they really meant. The way to a woman's heart sometimes lies through her hobbies. He was convinced of this more than once. And Frau Elsa was carried away. Let it be handbags now. She even prepared sketches of new models herself. Wonderful! For a woman like that, you can fucking tinker! In this rotten camp, her mere presence makes the doctor a man again. By the way, Frau Elsa expressed a desire to personally select the material for future handbags and lampshades. You must not yawn. Tomorrow he will order the organization of an extraordinary medical examination of prisoners. In love, as in hunting, it is important to seize the moment!

When Major Adolphe Gauvin was invited to see the colonel, he walked into the office, maintaining dignity and confidence. Passing by the adjutant, he did not look at him and only out of the corner of his eye caught a sarcastic smile on Hans Bungeller’s face. Busy with his thoughts, the major did not pay attention to her. It's a pity. The adjutant’s face spoke better than a barometer about the “weather” in the colonel’s office.

The commandant of the Buchenwald concentration camp, Standartenführer Karl Koch, sat at a massive desk made of black oak, covered with green cloth. Behind him hung a huge portrait of Hitler in a gilded frame. On the table, next to the bronze writing instrument, on a round metal stand stood a small, fist-sized human head. It has been reduced by special processing. Gauvin even knew who it belonged to. His name was Schneigel. He was killed last year because he twice complained to the commandant about the camp rules. Koch said to him irritably: “Why the hell are you getting in my way? Do you like hanging around in front of me? I can help you with this! " And a month later, the dried head of the prisoner began to decorate the office of the colonel of the SS division “Dead Head”.

Leaning back in his chair, SS Colonel Karl Koch stared at the major with a tinny gaze and did not return the greeting. Gauvin pretended not to notice this and smiled kindly.

- Herr Colonel, did you call me? I am glad to meet you.

Koch's sallow face remained expressionless. Thin, bloodless lips were tightly compressed. Again he said nothing.

The major, still smiling, walked to the chair that stood at the side of the table and, as usual, without waiting for an invitation, sat down.

- May I light a cigarette, Herr Colonel? I ask you to. Havana cigars.

The answer was still silence. Gauvin, impressed by his conversation with Frau Elsa, looked at the colonel’s dry, sallow face in a new way, saw bags under his eyes that indicated sleepless nights, a narrow chest, and thin arms. Colonel, he thought, is a bad match for such a blooming and, by all accounts, temperamental woman like his wife. And he grinned.

“I’m listening to you, Herr Colonel.”

Lightning flashed in Koch's eyes:

- Get up!

The major, as if thrown by a spring, jumped to his feet.

– How do you stand in front of the senior boss? Maybe you weren't taught this?

Gauvin, mentally cursing, stretched out at the seams. He saw in front of him not a boss, but a jealous husband. Damn it, did the Colonel notice anything?

- Doctor Gauvin! “I didn’t call you,” Koch shouted in a raspy voice. – And meeting you does not bring me joy!

Gauvin shrugged.

“I didn’t call Dr. Gauvin,” Koch continued, “I called SS Major Adolf Gauvin!” I want to know how long will this last? Are you tired of wearing major's shoulder straps?

Gauvin's cheeks turned white. He became wary. Things took an unexpected turn.

The colonel fell silent. Leisurely taking out the keys, he opened the desk drawer. The major closely followed the commandant's every move. Koch took a large blue package out of the drawer. Gauvin noticed the state coat of arms, the stamp “top secret” and the stamp of the imperial office. The doctor's mouth became dry: such packages do not bring joy.

Koch pulled out a folded paper and threw it to Gauvin.

Major Gauvin unfolded the sheet, quickly skimmed the text and was horrified. Cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

“Read it out loud,” the commandant ordered.

When the major finished reading, he felt a pounding in his chest. He was accused of being “the initiator of the production of anti-typhoid serum from Jewish blood.” He, damn it, is primarily to blame for the fact that a million German soldiers, “the purest Aryans,” representatives of the “superior race,” were infused with the blood of “filthy Jews” along with the serum...

The Berlin authorities reprimanded the chief physician of the Hygienic Institute of the Buchenwald concentration camp for “political myopia” and categorically proposed to “immediately stop the production of anti-typhoid serum from Jewish blood”...

Chapter Three

The train, rattling on the switches, goes further and further to the west. Old freight cars are tightly packed and surrounded by a network of barbed wire. An electric current is passed through it. On the first and last carriages there are searchlights and machine guns. Near them are Germans - soldiers of a special forces regiment. They are glad that they are going home to Germany, away from the damned Eastern Front, and are especially zealous in guarding the train.

In the fifth carriage, as well as in the rest, there were crowded about a hundred Soviet people, exhausted by hunger and beatings. These are wounded soldiers and sailors, captured partisans and civilians taken by the Gestapo. The sick and wounded moan, rush about in delirium, and ask for water. Flies hover over open, festering wounds.

And, oddly enough, they sing in this terrible situation. They sing in a low voice. The old Odessa geography teacher Solomon Isaakovich Peltser also sings. His face was drawn, his unshaven cheeks sagged. He looks at those around him with sad brown eyes and smiles somehow shyly like a child.

The Gestapo captured him at a flea market during a raid. He came to exchange a silver pocket watch for food for his sick wife. Pelzer was dragged to the Gestapo, and he convulsively clutched a chicken in his hands. The teachers didn’t ask him anything, they beat him, they beat him cruelly just because he was a Jew. And then, waking up on the cement floor of the cell, he realized that neither his home, nor his family, nor Rachel no longer existed; that his life was taken away, strangled, like the life of that skinny chicken that the red-haired Gestapo man tore from his hands.

Peltser sits bent over, legs tucked under him, and waves his hand to the beat of the song. The same unshaven, thin people sit and lie around him and sing:

In vain the old woman waits for her son to come home,
They will tell her - she will burst into tears...

A narrow-faced soldier with a hooked nose rises from the floor.

- Shut up, you damn cuckoos! And without you my soul is painful!

“Don’t make noise, brother,” a young sailor in a torn vest interrupts him, “let them sing!” It seems easier with a song.

“Sing,” one of the wounded shouts, holding his hand bandaged with a dirty rag, “you listen, and the pain subsides.” Doesn't pull. Sing, guys!

On the top bunk, turning to the wall, Andrei Burzenko lies silently. His young, tanned face has sharply defined cheekbones, he has a slightly snub nose and a stubborn, steep chin. Youthful, full lips are tightly compressed. Putting a fist as large as a cobblestone under his cheek, Andrei looked straight ahead at the boards of the carriage wall. They creak monotonously in time with the movement of the train. Eh, if only I could get some iron object, at least a nail. Then we can try. First, this board - it’s old and will easily give way if you saw it with a nail. And then the top and bottom. Three boards are enough. A head can easily fit into such a hole. How to jump - head first or feet forward?

Andrey has difficulty returning to reality. A Turkmens friend lies on a bunk next to him. He's delusional. The high-cheekbone face turned black, the eyes sunken. Dry lips were covered with a dark coating.

- Water... suv... water... suv...

Burzenko's heart sank in pain. He gets up and sits down next to him, unbuttons his friend’s dirty tunic, roughened by sweat, from his chest. I don’t want to believe that Usman is living his last days. His throat has bled twice already... Andrey wipes Usman’s wet forehead with his shirt sleeve. Bastards, what did they do to him!..

“Usman, Usman... wake up,” Burzenko almost shouts in his friend’s ear. – It’s me, Andrey! Andrey…

Wide open eyes in a veil of fog. Usman does not come to his senses for the second day.

- Usman, brace yourself... brace yourself! We will fight again. We'll show them. Do you hear? For everything, for everything! Just be strong!

“Suv... suv...” the Turkmen wheezes, “water...”

Andrey bit his lip. Water! People only dream about her. At least one sip. The narrow-faced soldier with a hooked nose, the one who shouted at the singers, bent down to the naked back of his neighbor and licked large drops of sweat. Wrinkled his face. But drops of moisture, like a magnet, were drawn to themselves.

A bearded elderly soldier lies next to Usman. He rises on his elbows and looks into Andrey’s eyes:

- If you make it, son, remember: we are being transported from Dnepropetrovsk. Today, consider it the twelfth day on the road...

Andrey nods his head.

Two days ago, when in Dresden he, along with Usman and Lieutenant Colonel Smirnov, were pushed into a carriage, the bearded man moved to give way:

- Lay it here, son...

Andrey carefully laid Usman on the dirty bunk. Then the stern lieutenant colonel took off his jacket and put it under the Turkmen’s head. Then he pulled out a small piece of chocolate wrapped in paper from his pocket.

The prisoners watched Smirnov with hungry glances. He handed the chocolate to Andrey:

- Give it to the patient.

Usman spat out the chocolate. He was thirsty.

-Who has water? – asked the lieutenant colonel.

“We’ve been like this for five days, without water,” answered the bearded man.

“They’ll destroy us, you bastards,” the narrow-faced soldier swore. - At first they gave at least a mug per brother. And bread - a loaf for eight. Will they really just starve them to death?

The carriage doors are locked, the windows are tightly boarded. The roof and walls, heated by the July sun, radiate heat. I can't breathe. People are suffocating. Two daredevils tried to break off the boards on a small window. They were cut down on the spot by machine gunners. Six could not bear the torment, but the seventh... The seventh was from Rostov, a jeweler. A strong forty-year-old man with graying dark hair. He's gone crazy. The guards came running in response to the noise he made. Without opening the door, the non-commissioned officer refused to isolate the patient.

- At least you all die. I am responsible for you individually.

There was no rope to tie the madman. He screamed, hit others, bit. They held him in turn for 24 hours, and then they became exhausted... The unfortunate man had to be finished off. The guards did not allow the corpses to be thrown out, and they were placed under the lower bunks towards the front wall. They began to decompose...

The carriage door was not closed quite tightly. A life-giving stream burst from a narrow crack fresh air. Before Lieutenant Colonel Smirnov appeared in the carriage, the gap was undividedly owned by Muscovite Sashka Pesovsky, a former physical education worker. Hiding from mobilization, he headed to Central Asia and in one of the small towns of the Fergana Valley got a job at a military school, hoping to study until the end of the war. However, the school was disbanded and sent to the front in its entirety. In the first battle, Sashka surrendered. The Germans sent him to the Vlasov army. But Sashka didn’t want to fight at all. After getting drunk, he beat up an officer. The military court first sentenced him to death, and then commuted the execution to life imprisonment.

The lieutenant colonel immediately intervened in the life of the carriage. He headed towards Pesovsky, who, standing at the crack, greedily sucked in air. His whole appearance said that he would not give up his place to anyone.

Smirnov put his hand on Sashka’s shoulder:

- Come on, fellow countryman, help arrange the wounded here. For them, air is life.

Pesovsky instantly turned around. Sashka’s green eyes, like a cat’s, sparkled angrily:

-Where did you find someone like that?

They were looked at. The lieutenant colonel looked Pesovsky up and down.

- Move away from the gap.

Andrei's attention, like that of other prisoners, focused on Ivan Ivanovich Smirnov. There, at the train station in Dresden, in the pre-dawn twilight, he did not have the opportunity to take a closer look at his senior army comrade. The lieutenant colonel was brought to the station under strong escort. The guards were in civilian clothes. And only here, in the carriage, Andrei saw what kind of person he was. Smirnov did not hide either his name or rank. He, wiry, fit, with decisive commanding gestures, exuded strength and will. On an unshaven face, brown eyes glowed sternly from under shaggy eyebrows raised to the temples. There were notes of authority in the calm voice.

- I order you to move away from the gap!

- Orders! – Sashka bared his teeth. “Your time is up, comrade commander.” Now the Germans are giving orders.

Andrei jumped off the bunk and, choosing a path between the people lying on the floor, decisively headed towards the arguing. Sashka’s pupils began to dart. He looked for Kostya the sailor with his eyes. For some reason, Sashka counted on his support. In the Gestapo they sat in the same cell.

- Over my corpse!

But Sashka was wrong. Kostya grabbed him by the chest:

- The commander speaks his mind. Enough, unmoor.

Pesovsky is used to respecting force. He cringed and blinked his eyes:

- What am I doing? Nothing. You're welcome…

The sick and wounded were laid on best places. Ivan Ivanovich was given an old pocket watch with peeling nickel plating. Using this watch, he strictly monitored the line at the slot. Everyone could use it for no more than six minutes.

...Andrey looked down. There's a line at the crack. His time is not yet coming. Gripping the boards of the door with his gnarled fingers, Kostya leaned against the crack. Andrei already knew that this sailor was among those heroic defenders of Sevastopol who covered the retreat of the last boat. Kostya was captured, escaped from a concentration camp, and fought in a partisan detachment.

When two days ago the prisoners heard the terrible word Buchenwald from the guards and realized that they were being taken to this monstrous death camp, Kostya Saprykin asked Pelzer, an old geography teacher:

-Where is this damn camp?

– Almost in the very center of Germany. Near the city of Weimar.

- Oh, what a fool I was at school! - the sailor sighed. – It’s a shame I didn’t learn German. How useful it would be to me!

- For what? – asked the freckled soldier, supporting his wounded hand bandaged with a rag. - You can die like that.

“I’m not going to die, brother.” But as a refugee from the camp, I might get caught in vain. How will I ask for directions? In Russian?

Kostya’s self-confidence, his confidence that he would escape from the clutches of the Nazis, resonated in the heart of every captive, igniting a spark of hope...

It was time for Saprykin to give up his place at the crack. A few more seconds. He pressed his unshaven cheek closer to the door and sucked in air, panting and in a hurry.

Air... Air...

Andrei imagined a cool, caressing, elastic stream blowing across his face. It can be inhaled, drunk, swallowed. And with every breath it brings life, infuses vigor, strength, energy.

Burzenko sat down more comfortably, stretching out his numb legs, and leaned his back against the warm boards of the carriage. The train, rhythmically tapping its wheels on the rail joints, went further and further to the west, and Andrei’s thoughts rushed back to the east, returning to the recent, but already distant past...

He sits in the corner of the ring, leaning back on a hard pillow. Behind us are two rounds of intense battle. Coach Sydney Lvovich vigorously fans Andrey with a white shaggy towel. Each of his swings coincides with the boxer's breathing rhythm.

Andrey's hot face feels pleasantly cool. One minute is given to rest. But this is quite enough for a strong young body. With every second, wasted energy is restored, the legs become light, the arms become strong, the body becomes flexible and resilient.

Andrey Burzenko plunged into memories.

It was his last Stand in the ring. Crowded Tashkent circus. People even sit on the floor near the ring. There is a hum of voices in the air. Last minute break. Andrey hears Sydney Lvovich passionately whispering to him:

- Hit the body. You know, along the body, from below. It protects the head well, but the body poorly. Open. Hit from below.

Burzenko smiled. He understood the coach. Indeed, in the second round, all attempts to attack the enemy in the head ended in failure. Andrei's fists collided either with the glove, or with the elastic shoulder exposed to the blow, or - worst of all - they beat the air. The opponent “drew” under the striking hand, and Andrey “failed” due to inertia.

The sound of the gong lifts Andrey from the stool. Sydney Lvovich puts a rubber mouth guard in his mouth - a tooth protector, wipes his wet face with a towel and says:

- Hit the body. From below!

Andrey nods. Fyodor Usenkov approaches with sliding steps. He is six years older than Andrei, athletically built, handsome, and has eighty fights experience behind him. The repeated champion of the republic in the light heavyweight division is confident of his victory. Covering his chin with his raised left shoulder, Usenkov delivers a series of quick straight punches from a long distance. He moves easily around the ring, carefully avoiding getting close to Andrey. Meeting in close combat or even in a mid-range fight with the heavy fists of a young boxer does not promise anything good. Besides, why take the risk? An advantage in the first two rounds gave the right to win on points. This advantage just needs to be consolidated. And Usenkov, skillfully maneuvering, consolidated his success with light but lightning-fast direct strikes from a long distance.

There is a continuous roar of voices above the dense rows of spectators. Hundreds of pairs of eyes crossed on the bright square of the ring. There, behind the tight white ropes, the final fight of the championship of the republic is taking place, the fate of the first place in the light heavyweight is being decided.

The last seconds of the third round are expiring, Usenkov is still gently moving away from the pressing Andrey, slipping away like a fish from his hands.

Then Burzenko decides to attack from long range. True, this is dangerous: Usenkov is more experienced, sharp in his movements and can respond with a strong counterpunch. But there is no other way out. Having caught the moment of the attack, Andrey made his opponent miss with a barely noticeable deflection. The next moment, Burzenko sharply throws his arms forward and delivers a series of direct blows to the head. Usenkov quickly reacts to them, substituting his elbow and glove, and opens the body. This is what Andrey was waiting for.

The blow to the body was unexpected and lightning fast. Usenkov, waving his arms, slowly lowers himself onto the tarpaulin.

“One,” the ring judge waved his hand, opening the count, “two...”

Andrey slowly walked to the far corner of the ring and stood with his back to the prone opponent.

“... three... five... eight...” the judge’s voice was clearly heard.

At the count of ten, the silence was broken by a roar of applause. Usenkov came to his senses. He rose forcefully to one knee and extended his hand to the winner.

- Congratulations, Andryusha...

Right there in the ring, the chairman of the physical education committee, to the sounds of a march, presented the winner with a prize - a crystal vase and a blue, gold-embossed diploma of the champion of the republic. Comrades shook hands and congratulated. Fans gave flowers.

Among those congratulating Andrei was an unfamiliar girl. Excited by success, Burzenko probably would not have paid attention to her if she had approached earlier. But the girl came up later than the others and handed the winner a bouquet of red roses with a large white lily in the middle.

Andrey smiled guiltily - his hands were busy: in addition to the flowers already presented, he was holding a crystal vase and a champion’s diploma. Burzenko could not take the proffered bouquet.

The girl was embarrassed.

Andrei still doesn’t remember how long they stood in front of each other: maybe a second, or maybe several minutes. He looked into her big eyes and didn’t know what to do.

“Well, take the flowers,” the girl smiled shyly.

This smile seemed to shake Andrey up.

- Wait for me. I'll be there in a jiffy!

With these words, he gave her flowers, a diploma, a vase, and he himself, easily jumping over the ropes of the ring, disappeared into the locker room.

Andrey was in a hurry. He was very young, and, of course, no girl was waiting for him yet.

- You are ready? – she asked quietly, and a blush filled her cheeks. Probably the same thing happened to Andrei - he felt that his ears, and then his whole face, were on fire.

Andrey remembers how they left the circus. Here, near the huge colorful poster, she slowed down:

- I need to go right. Goodbye.

“If you allow me, I will accompany you,” he said quietly.

The girl lowered her head:

“My friends are long gone.”

They headed down Pravda Vostoka Street, past the stalls of the Voskresensky Market, along a long wooden fence. They walked in silence. Passing by the Tashkent restaurant, Andrei remembered that his teammates suggested celebrating his victory here.

The girl stopped at the Sverdlov Theater. Carefully holding the flowers, she bent down and with her free hand took off the shoe, shook it and put it back on.

- The pebble hit.

The thought flashed through Andrei’s mind that he needed to support her, help her, take her by the arm. But how to decide on this?

- Tell me, champion, do you have a name?

Andrei was embarrassed, realizing that they should have met much earlier, and timidly identified himself.

“And my name is Leili,” she lightly touched his hand. - Shall we wait for the tram?

From her calm tone, from her invisible smile, everything around became clear and simple. Andrey carefully touched Leili’s elbow. The girl did not resist. Then, having made up his mind, he took her arm. And - surprisingly, nothing happened, the ground did not open up under our feet, thunder did not strike. Andrey sighed with relief. So they reached Assaka.

- I'm here. – Leili looked with some alarm into the depths of her street: there were almost no electric lights here, and the small lamps at the gate did not illuminate the street. Near the sidewalk, the water gurgled faintly in the ditch.

“We’ll get there soon,” Leili said apologetically. – I live next to the park.

Andrey felt sorry to part with his companion; he slowed down. The girl understood this in her own way and looked around with caution.

“It’s scary here at night,” she said quietly. - I never walk alone...

Andrey pressed her elbow harder. The arm muscles, like cast iron balls, rolled under the silk shirt. Leili straightened up proudly: how can you be a coward when you go with such a guy!

Having reached the massive arch of the park, Andrei stopped:

– Leili, show me your park.

- A park? – asked the dumbfounded girl. - Now? But they are waiting for me at home.

- We won't be long, we'll be quick.

Andrei, worried, awaited an answer. He wanted to keep this girl near him as long as possible. A little more, at least a few minutes.

“We’ll just look at the river and come back,” Leili agreed trustingly.

At night the old park looked amazingly quaint. The southern giants, elms, cast shaggy shadows on the narrow paths. Light sculptural groups emerged against a dark green background. They, as if alive, stretched out their hands to them.

Leili and Andrey passed the sports ground, the children's playground, and went down the wide marble stairs down to the river.

...The boxer's gaze slid over the dirty, overgrown and tired faces and buried itself in the plank walls of the carriage. No, he did not see his comrades. A crescent moon flickered before his eyes, reflected in the rippled waves of the river...

They sat on the shore, on the soft, slightly damp grass. Leili was silent. And the river carried its waters noisily and capriciously. The crescent moon reflected in its waves trembled and became like a chipped golden horseshoe. And ancient gnarled willows bent their thin long branches to the uneven banks, touching the water here and there. On the opposite bank, behind an iron fence and dark silhouettes of trees, towered the buildings of Tashselmash. Red sparks flew out of long chimneys along with clouds of smoke. A monotonous rumble was heard, as even as breathing. The plant was working, the plant knew no rest.

Leili... this is a very poetic tender name. This is a beautiful name. This is an oriental name, but her mother is Russian. Andrey closed his eyes to once again remember the half-forgotten image. Leili has searing black braids and light turquoise eyes. She has a dark face with a gentle blush. She doesn't look like an Uzbek. And yet she is an Uzbek. Never since has Andrey seen such an amazing combination of colors. But this is precisely what made Leili’s face beautiful.

What happened next? Then they sat next to each other for a long time. This was the only lyrical evening in Andrei’s life. But he realized this only a long time later. What were they talking about? Of course, about boxing.

– Were you very nervous today? – Leili asked.

Andrey smiled:

- What do you! After all, boxing strengthens and hardens nervous system. Does this seem strange to you? But in reality it is so. A boxer in the ring, even after receiving many blows, remains calm in spirit. A boxer, if he wants to win, develops an iron calm in himself... You know, Leili, when a person learns to be calm in a fight, he will always be able to correctly assess the situation and find the right path to victory.

Carried away, Andrei continued:

– A boxer is like a chess player. For every blow there is a defense, for every combination you can find a response. True, a chess player has minutes, sometimes even hours, to think about a move. And in the ring, the boxer is given seconds, sometimes even tenths of a second, to think about the next attack. An inaccurate move or a mistake by a chess player leads to the loss of a piece, and the boxer feels the mistake during the fight. So... In addition, a good boxer must be as resilient as a long-distance runner, swift as a basketball player, flexible as an acrobat, precise as a gymnast, attentive as a shooter. Boxing, like a sea sponge, has absorbed all the best that is available in all types physical culture. And if gymnastics is called the “mother of sports,” then boxing has rightfully won the title of “king of sports.”

When Andrei stopped to take a breath, Leili meekly said:

“It’s time for me to go home, Andrey.”

Burzenko smiled at his memories. He spent that evening, which would never be repeated, with boyish naivety. He did not kiss or hug the girl, from whom he later often received letters, right up to his capture.

They agreed to meet in a week, but Andrei was summoned to the military registration and enlistment office. He was called up for active service. When was this? A long time ago, about three years ago, at the end of August 1940.

Chapter Four

- For starters, this lousy Czech! - a Gestapo man with officer stripes extended his hand and pointed his finger at the skinny prisoner.

The Czech stood next to Alexander. The Czech's hands were shaking and his teeth were chattering. Alexander quietly leaned his back against the cement wall. She was cold and wet. It was easier to stand this way and, most importantly, to suppress the treacherous weakness in the kneecaps. They sometimes broke out of obedience and trembled. One must die with honor. Let the Gestapo see how the security officers die! They seem to have already guessed who I am.

Two fascists jumped up to the Czech. Tall, red-faced, with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. With their usual movements, they instantly undressed their victim and brought him to the whipping machine. The lock clicked and the wooden blocks tightly grabbed the skinny legs. The Czech lay down on the machine with melancholy resignation and stretched out his arms. The fascists grinned; they liked submission! But still, one of them hit him on the back with his fist. He didn't want to disrupt the established order.

Then, when the yellow belts were tightened so that the victim could not move, the Gestapo man with the officer's stripes turned to Alexander. In broken Russian-Ukrainian he said:

- You are russishe shweine! First, open your eyes well! Gut, gut! – he grinned, revealing large, sparse teeth. – Then the second turn!.. As they call it, noh ain mal... try one more time!

The Nazis took rubber hoses.

The first blows fell in light red stripes. Then they began to turn brown and swell. The executioners worked rhythmically, like blacksmiths in a rural forge. One beat thin twisted rubber band, another heavy hose. The first, striking, seemed to indicate the place where a heavy rubber hose was immediately lowered, like a sledgehammer.

A few minutes later the Czech no longer reacted to the blows. He was doused with cold water. As soon as he showed signs of life, the executioners again continued the torture.

Alexander ground his teeth in impotent anger. Oh, if only I could break the handcuffs! He would show these red-faced people what a Russian fist is! But the handcuffs were strong. With every attempt to tear them apart, the steel teeth only ate deeper into the wrists.

The Gestapo man with the officer's stripes saw everything. He occasionally glanced at Alexander. He smoked and smiled sarcastically.

– First, look well at the eyes! Gut, gut!

And Alexander watched. I looked at the torment of my comrade. He didn't know him, he'd never met him before. But since the Gestapo are mocking him like that, it means he belongs.

Today they are being tortured for the third time. Third time and together. And in the same order. First the Czech, then him, Alexander Calling, the Russian. Endless beatings. It's the second day. Immediately, as soon as he was brought to the Magdeburg prison from the concentration camp, this nightmare began. Have the Nazis really gotten to the bottom of the truth and found out who he is?

Alexander watched the officer sideways. The Gestapo man blew out smoke rings and smiled.

“Everything is going great! - thought the fascist. – The Russian’s nerves are finally starting to give in. New system“preliminary psychological treatment” has shown itself to be excellent. The interrogation can begin tomorrow.”

As for the Czech, the Nazis did not even think about him. He was just a random victim who was chosen. He looked a little like a Jew, that's all his fault. To instill fear in the Russian, the Czech was beaten to death.

Alexander woke up in solitary confinement. He did not remember when the wild flogging stopped, how he was pulled from the machine, doused with water, and dragged into a cell. He woke up to bedbugs. There were many of them. These damned insects, smelling the smell of blood, surrounded him from all sides.

Gathering his strength, Alexander began to waddle from side to side on the bare wooden floor, crushing insects.

At night they came for him. The Gestapo man with the stripes of an officer said through an interpreter that the preliminary flogging is only an introduction, and if he, a Russian prisoner, wants to save his life, he must confess sincerely.

The Gestapo man's opening speech had the opposite effect. She did not intimidate, but only inspired confidence. The Hitlerite does not know the truth! He, as in the prisons of Wittenberg and Schmitenberg, considers Pozyvay an “unreliable prisoner” who conducted anti-fascist propaganda in the camp, was a leader, and carried out sabotage.

Alexander smiled internally. He felt better. A few hours ago, when the “preliminary processing” was still going on, he thought that his end had come, that the Nazis had gotten to the bottom of the present. After all, they didn’t ask or interrogate him about anything, they just beat him. This is how they usually beat to death all captured security officers, NKVD and police officers. The Nazis did not talk to them, but subjected them to painful death. And if there is an interrogation, it means they don’t know anything about him.

The interrogation lasted several days, Alexander persistently denied his participation in organizing escapes and conducting anti-fascist propaganda. Barely able to stand on his feet after the torture, he still found the strength to firmly adhere to one line.

-Are you a red officer?

- Soldier. An ordinary militia soldier.

-What is a militia?

Alexander explained. He was forced to repeat. Once, twice, three times. They expected him to falter and get confused.

-Are you a communist?

- I am a collective farmer, an ordinary collective farmer.

Alexander looked into the stupid, smug face of the fascist and with pain in his heart thought about how few Nazis he had destroyed with his own hands. After all, he only had to fight for a few months! The armor that protected him from mobilization did not protect him from remorse. The call was eager to go to the front, eager to go where the fate of history was being decided. He wrote one report after another with a request to be sent to the active army. But he was released only in August 1941, when the front approached his native Kyiv. Taking a rifle in his hands, Alexander Pozyvay stood up to defend his hometown. Then the retreat beyond the Dnieper, battles near Boryspil, encirclement... It was not possible to escape... Captivity, barbed wire. He visited the concentration camps of Darnitsa, Kyiv, Zhitomir, Slavuta, and Rivne. He saw how exhausted people died from hunger, went crazy from despair, and died from disease. He saw how the Nazis carried out monstrous repressions, the victims of which were innocent and unarmed.

From Rovno we were taken to the west, to Germany. From the concentration camp they were taken to logging, then transferred to a factory. But is it possible to force a Soviet person to work for the enemy?

There were reliable comrades among the prisoners of war at the plant. They began to do harm in an organized manner, damage equipment, and prepare to escape. Those who were escaping needed to have at least some food. But where can I get them? At night, underground fighters attacked a food warehouse. They tied up the guard and knocked down the locks. However, there was only one bag of rusty fish in the warehouse. They took the fish, and the first group of twenty-seven brave men escaped that same night.

In the morning, the organized escape caused a stir. The fascists began to look for activists. Grabbed and Calling. During a search, they found the tail of a rusty fish. This was the only evidence of his guilt. But pieces of fish were also found on other prisoners...

The Gestapo man with the officer's stripes was nervous. The interrogation brought nothing new. “Preliminary psychological treatment” did not give the desired result. They called me and threw me into a torture chamber.

The nightmare continued for three days and three nights. However, the will of the security officer turned out to be strong. He bravely endured the torture.

But the Gestapo man was convinced that this was one of the organizers of the escape. And he decided to try again Calling in the old, well-proven way - to be thrown into a general cell, among criminals. “If he is not political, then the bandits will accept him,” thought the Nazi. “And if it’s political, then there will be a clash between them.”

As soon as Alexander came to his senses, the Gestapo came to the solitary cell.

- Get up!

Gritting his teeth, Alexander slowly stood up. Rainbow circles swam before my eyes. Every movement caused pain throughout my body. “Just don’t fall,” he thought.

He was pushed into a common cell. What else were the executioners up to? Call could hardly stand on his feet. Dozens of eyes looked at him from all sides. The small cell was overcrowded. The prisoners sat on bunks, on the floor. Alexander looked around. Familiar characteristic gestures and facial expressions. Call grinned. Criminals! Now everything is clear, he saw through the Gestapo.

Jumping off the bunk, a tall prisoner walked up to Call with a careless gait. There was something terribly familiar about his appearance. Alexander strained his memory. And he, with his hands behind his back and his legs spread wide apart, looked straight ahead, his head slightly tilted to the side.

- Well, have you met?

Alexander got goosebumps down his spine. He recognized him! This swaggering gait, habit of bowing his head, hoarse voice and mocking, cynical smile could belong to only one person, namely Parovoz, a major Kyiv criminal. He was arrested several times. He was sentenced to three years, then five years, seven...

- Do you recognize it?

Still wouldn't know? Such a meeting did not bode well. What to do? There, behind him, his every move is now being watched through a peephole. And ahead... All that remains is to choose from whose hands you will accept your death...

- Well why are you quiet? Or did you forget in two years?

Yes, it was two years ago, in the sultry August days. Having served his next sentence, Zhenya Parovoz returned to Kyiv, and they met in a pub on Khreshchatyk. Alexander sat down next to him and ordered a glass of beer.

- What a stuffy day, huh?

The Engine's eyes narrowed and it bristled like a tiger about to attack. I tried to get up several times, but the chair seemed to be magnetic and held me. Finally the locomotive could not stand it.

– What do you want from me?

The locomotive was convinced that he would now be arrested again.

– Your life is not good, Zhenya. Oh, not good!

The peaceful appeal disarmed the bandit and confused him. He fidgeted in his seat. He started making excuses, lying that after serving his sentence he went to work, received a paycheck and then went into a pub.

- Maybe you should join us for some vodka for good measure? Comrade detective.

- Vodka will knock down an elephant. And you should give up the old... Look how well people live. Why are you worse than others? Think about it. Think by yourself. By God, this is not good.

The vodka remained untouched. From a half-hint, Pozyvay moved on to a serious conversation. The bandit sat with his head casually bowed, and seemed to ignore everything. But Pozyvay expressed everything he thought. He believed and was convinced that the bandit was catching every word, watching every movement.

The call was strict and persistent. The criminals were afraid of him, but were secretly pleased when they came to him for interrogation. They knew his honesty, simplicity and justice. Many, after conversations and serving their sentences, took the honest path of life. How many of them, former thieves and criminals, did he have to get jobs, give references and guarantees!

But nothing worked out with Zhenya Parovoz. They talked several times. “If you want to work, we will help you get a job at any factory,” Alexander said. “If you want to study, we’ll help you enroll.” However, the Steam Locomotive was incorrigible. And they met last time two years ago, at the crime scene. Face to face. A knife flashed in the bandit's hands. However, Sambo wrestling techniques turned out to be stronger than weapons. Disarmed, with a face twisted in pain, the Engine exhaled:

- Okay, take me...

And here they are again standing in front of each other. Now it seems the roles have changed. Zhenya Steam Locomotive smiled cynically.

- Well, what should I do with you now?

The call did not answer. He said nothing.

Zhenya repeated the question:

- Why are you keeping silent?

– If you are Russian, then you know what to do.

The bandit's face changed. These simple words apparently reached his consciousness. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. Two young criminals ran up to him obsequiously.

- Give my little boy a ration of bread and gruel! Alright, sketty!

The Gestapo man with the officer's stripes winced. He saw through the peephole how Calling was given a place on the bunk, handed a piece of bread, and brought a cup of stew. The Gestapo man was considered a prominent expert on the criminal world. He walked away from the door and spat.

- Well, what idiots are sitting in the Schlissenburg Gestapo! - he told his assistant. – They cannot distinguish a criminal from a political criminal.

And in the cell, treating Alexander with his ration of bread, the Steam Locomotive whispered:

- Don't be afraid, I won't sell you. Word! This is completely different... Here's my paw for you!

Alexander shook his hand heartily.

The Nazis used criminals for their own purposes, sent them to prison camps as overseers, and sent them to spy schools. At dawn, Zhenya Steam Engine and his company were taken away. Soon they came for Alexander. He thought he was going to be shot. After all, in all the novels he had read, executions take place at dawn.

But he was wrong. He was brought to the station and pushed into a freight car filled to capacity with people.

Alexander looked around. On the two-story bunks, under the bunks and everywhere on the floor, prisoners lay and sat. The train started moving. Will he really have to stand the whole way?

“Hey, friend, come here,” he heard someone’s voice.

An old man was lying against the wall. He made room, sat down and gave up some space.

- Sit down, friend.

“Thank you,” Pozyvay answered and sat down next to him with pleasure. The beaten body ached.

-Where are you, friend? - asked the old man.

“At my mother-in-law’s for pancakes,” Alexander sighed and tried to smile with broken lips.

“Then you and I are like brothers-in-law.” I visited there too. He barely survived.

Alexander looked closely at his face. No, he's not an old man. On a gaunt, exhausted face, thickly overgrown with a light red beard, clear blue eyes shone youthfully.

“We’ll get to know each other,” said the neighbor. - My name is Lenya. Leonid Orlov.

“Alexander,” answered Call. -You don’t know where they’re taking you?

“I know,” Orlov smiled sadly. - To a slow death. To Buchenwald.

The hope of salvation disappeared like smoke. Alexander frowned. The gloomy glory of Buchenwald, one of the largest death camps, was known far beyond the borders of the Nazi Reich.

Chapter Five

Fourth day of travel, fourth day of torment. During the day it is hot and stuffy, and at night there is the trembling light of flares, the clatter of forged boots on the iron roof, and gunfire from machine guns. And with every shot, people flinched and listened. What's there?

Usman became very ill. Andrei did everything he could for him, everything that was in his power.

“Burzenko,” Ivan Ivanovich reminded, “it’s your turn.” Go.

Andrei wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, climbed down from the bunk and carefully picked up his friend’s limp body in his arms. Stepping over people lying on the floor, he carried him to the door.

- What are you doing? Are you giving up your air again? – the narrow-faced soldier with a hooked nose shook his head in amazement. - Ay-ay-ay... Take care of yourself, but this one... won’t last long...

Andrei looked at him so much that he immediately bit his tongue.

Ivan Ivanovich helped Andrey better position Usman near the door. The Turkmen could not sit and fell on his side. Andrey had to take him under the armpits with his right hand, and with his free left hand he had to lean Usman’s head close to the crack. A stream of air hit my face. Usman came to his senses and put his weak hand around Andrey’s neck—it was more comfortable to sit that way.

“Thank you...” he repeated, “sog bol...”

The train suddenly began to slow down. With each push, the Turkmen's head hit the door. Burzenko stuck his palm between his comrade’s cheek and the heated boards of the door, softening the blows. After several shocks, the train stopped. In the ensuing silence, sharp commands from the guards were heard. Then everything became quiet.

There is tense silence in the carriage.

An hour passes, then two.

Peltser rises from his bunk and quietly suggests:

- Let's sing, shall we?

Nobody answers him.

From the direction of the locomotive one could hear the clinking of forged heels on the asphalt and abrupt words in German.

Everyone turned to Pelzer at once:

- Translate...

The old man listened for a long time, leaning his ear against the crack of the door, and said:

- They will unload.

In the far corner someone gasped. The sailor stood up.

- We've moored...

Time passed slowly. Every minute seemed like an eternity. Then again commands were heard, shouts in German, the clanging of doors opening, dull blows, screams...

“Well, comrades,” said Ivan Ivanovich, “get ready to get acquainted with foreign countries.” Remember, you are Soviet people. Hold this title high!

The lock clicked and the door swung open with a bang. A shaft of sunlight hit their faces. The sky shone bright blue. The heady freshness of the air made my head spin...

- Come out!

This order is executed instantly. Andrey, holding Usman, carefully descends to the ground.

Prisoners from other carriages were already pouring onto the freight area.

How nice it is to stand on the ground! Stand, feeling the warm firmament, walk, run. And it’s even more pleasant to breathe, to take a deep breath of heady fresh air.

Squinting from the sun, Burzenko looked around. To the right he saw a gray station building. The pointed roofs of the houses gleamed with red tiles right in the greenery of the gardens. To the left were massive stone warehouses. And around, encircling the city, mountains rose. They were dark green. Their sloping tops, covered with coniferous forest, seemed to Andrei like the backs of porcupines, which bristled and looked menacingly at the captives.

“Everything is foreign, unfamiliar. Here it is, Germany, thought Andrei, here those who came to our country with fire and death were born and raised. Here it is, the homeland of monsters, the lair of the enemy!”

The prisoners were lined up. We recalculated.

A German officer, clean-shaven, pink, in a clean gray uniform, cursed and climbed into the carriage. But he immediately jumped back, clutching his nose with a handkerchief.

- Russian Schwein! – he swore and ordered the corpses to be taken out.

A red-haired corporal with a square chin approached the prisoners and poked the sailor and Sashka Pesovsky with his machine gun:

Kostya and Sashka carefully carried out the corpses. The officer ordered them to be put on their feet and supported. Then he counted the prisoners again and, satisfied, chuckled - everything was in place.

Vehicles specially equipped for transporting prisoners arrived, with blunt noses and high iron sides. Entrance to these cars was only through the driver's cabin.

Landing has begun. The Nazis, pushing with their butts, hurried. The officer ordered the dead and those who could not get into the car on their own to be thrown into the iron body of one of the trucks.

Burzenko held Usman in his arms. Finally it was their turn. But they didn’t let him take his comrade. An officer approached.

“This is my brother,” Andrey began to explain, “he is sick.” Allow me...

But the officer did not listen. With a habitual movement, he grabbed a flexible whip from behind his patent leather boot. A wave of his hand - and a crimson stripe lay on the boxer’s face. At that same second, two soldiers jumped up to Andrei. They reeked of wine fumes. The soldiers roughly snatched Usman from him. Laughing, they grabbed the dying Turkman by the arms and legs and swung him light body and thrown over the side of the car.

"Beasts!" – I wanted to shout to Andrey.

Commands were heard again. The cars purred and set off one after another.

The iron body is cramped. The prisoners squat, pressed tightly against each other. No one knows where they are taking them. High sides do not allow you to look to the sides. The clear cloudless sky blinds the eyes. Andrey doesn't hear anything. And in impotent anger he bites his lips: “Bastards! The man is still alive... Eh, Usman..."

Cars, swaying on springs, climb the mountain. On turns or descents, prisoners manage to see the top of the mountain, overgrown with bright green coniferous trees, and patches of fields.

After about half an hour, the cars stopped.

“We’ve moored,” said Kostya.

“And that’s not bad,” noted Sashka Pesovsky. “Maybe they’ll feed me some more today.”

- Come out! Schnell!

The first thing the prisoners saw when they were dropped off was a tall monument. A shapeless block of mountain stone rose on a cement pedestal. There is an inscription carved on the stone.

– “Constructed in 1934. Heil Hitler! – Peltser read aloud.

Near the monument, the prisoners were herded into a column. The corpses were stacked separately. Andrey tried to take the half-dead Usman, but a hail of blows fell on him.

From the monument the road went up the mountain. On both sides, in the greenery of the gardens, dark brick houses with long narrow windows and sharp roofs were visible. Ahead, almost at the very top, the barracks rose like large boxes. Next to them a garage and a soldier's kitchen were visible. She was recognized by her fragrant smell. Sashka sniffed and determined:

- Roast. And with pork. I bet.

But there were no willing bettors.

A platoon of soldiers approached, clearly beating their steps with their horseshoes. Well-fed, big-faced. Kostya nudged Andrey with his elbow: keep your ears open - SS men! Many of them led gray shepherd dogs on long leather leashes. The dogs rushed towards the exhausted people, growling threateningly.

“You can’t cope with something like this right away,” thought Andrey.

The SS men began to rearrange the prisoners and divide them into separate groups. Many prisoners did not understand the orders. They were hit with batons.

Lieutenant Colonel Ivan Ivanovich was not included in Andrei’s group.

The prisoners, in a column of five abreast, were led to the camp along a wide road paved with white stones and lined with trees. A strange hillock was darkening ahead. When they got closer, Andrei got shivers down his back: it was a huge, the size of a three-story house, heap of worn-out wooden shoes, boots, and women's shoes. The prisoners became silent. Everyone realized that the shoes belonged to those who were no longer alive...

The road ended at a large arch lined with black and pink marble. When they came closer, Andrei looked at the stone image of an owl on the arch: the coat of arms of Buchenwald. An inscription was visible just below. Andrey quietly pushed the old Odessa resident:

- Translate.

Peltser raised his head and read quietly:

– “Whether you are right or wrong, it does not play any role for our state. Himmler."

The prisoners looked at each other.

“This is their “new order,” Andrey grinned evilly.

“Hush,” Kostya tugged the boxer by the sleeve, “don’t fidget, otherwise they’ll catch you on the hook.”

The arch was supported on both sides by squat brick buildings with tiled roofs. The one on the left has small windows covered by the claws of bars. Everyone understood - a punishment cell. The building on the right has tall windows. Apparently, the office. Above the arch, connecting the buildings, rose a square two-story tower. On its lower floor, the blunt muzzles of machine guns and a rapid-fire cannon peered out of the windows. On the second floor there is a large clock. The tower was topped with a conical roof, above which a spire protruded. An SS banner with a swastika fluttered lazily on it. What else did Andrei see? The same as in other concentration camps: rows of reinforced concrete masts, between which a thick mesh of barbed wire is stretched; tall watchtowers; control strips strewn with yellow sand; dugouts, and again barbed wire.

The command to take off the hats followed:

- Mützen ap!

At the same moment, the SS officer knocked off the hat of the prisoner in front with a blow of his whip. Andrei and other prisoners tore off their hats. The officer, baring his sparse yellow teeth, shook his whip:

- This is my translator!

Tired and hungry people pulled themselves up and caught up.

Peltser slowed his steps for a second and read the inscription on the iron grate:

– “Edem das zaine” – “To each his own.”

Burzenko, although he did not understand racist theory, correctly understood what the fascists wanted to say with this saying: they, the Nazis, the “superior race,” must rule the world, and all other people are the “lower race.” For them - eternal slavery, lifelong hard labor, death behind barbed wire...

Three people came out onto the small porch of the camp office: Lagerführer SS Captain Max Schubert, convoy chief Fischer and Kushnir-Kushnarev. The prisoners became silent.

Lagerführer Max Schubert smiled, took off his high-crowned uniform cap and wiped his sweaty bald head with a white handkerchief. She sparkled in the sun. And Andrei noted to himself that the bald head of the SS captain, like an early Fergana melon - a shackle - was yellow and small. The second bestial officer has long arms and a low forehead. Hair seemed to begin to grow from thick eyebrows. If he gets caught like this, he won’t let him out alive, Burzenko decided. The third one, the one in the striped convict uniform, was endearing. In him, in this old man, Andrei saw something familiar, Russian. Baring his large teeth in a smile, Kushnir-Kushnarev went to the prisoners. Andrei, when he looked closely, did not like the small sunken eyes with an inquisitive, cold gaze. They did not fit in with the good-natured smile glued to his wide mouth. And with these eyes, as if with hands, the old man quickly felt each prisoner, as if trying to guess the most secret things, to get into the soul.

- Countrymen, my compatriots! – he began in an insinuating voice. – Thank God for your fate, you are very lucky! Believe me, old man. It is a sin to lie before God, especially when you are preparing for a date with him. I have been here in Buchenwald for a long time, and the captain sometimes uses me as a translator. You are lucky to be in this camp. Buchenwald is a political camp and, like all such camps, is characterized by cultural treatment and good conditions. It is under the control of the International Red Cross. Here, among your future colleagues, there are many prominent people from Europe. There are Czech ministers, members of the French parliament, Belgian generals and Dutch businessmen. Noble society!

The prisoners listened gloomily.

“And so that you do not repent, I warn you, my compatriots and fellow countrymen,” the old man continued in the same soft, insinuating voice, “I warn you that this camp is not like those you had to visit.” There is no close front and no cruel orders. And if you remained, praise the Lord, alive, then now your well-being is in your hands. Buchenwald has strict rules and all people live according to their rank. Separate quarters and appropriate care for senior officers and ministers. For officers, and commanders and even commissars are equated with them, there are separate officer houses, a separate kitchen. The West, my compatriots, sacredly observes and respects social status. In the West there is no, as you call it, leveling. No, that's all - don't blame me! As they say, don’t meddle in someone else’s monastery with your rules, but rather obey the one there. So I am informing you about this and asking commanders, political workers and other leaders not to be shy, to identify themselves and move to the left. And there are so many such cases - at first they are afraid of something, they hide their rank and position, but a week or two will pass, they will settle down and begin to write petitions to the commandant, saying, I am such and such, I am supposed to live with the officers , and I was placed in the general mass of commoners. And, mind you, only Russian prisoners of war behave this way. It's just ugly! Think about it, my fellow Americans. Once again I announce: commanders and commissars, retreat to left side. Here,” the old man pointed to a place next to him, “they will be registered separately.”

Several people were out of order.

A short soldier pushed his way from the back rows and, adjusting his duffel bag as he walked, turned to Kushnir-Kushnarev:

- Dad, can the elders also go to the left?

The old man turned to Schubert and exchanged a few words with him in German. Then he answered the soldier:

- Herr Lagerführer says that a sergeant major is not an officer, but if you were in a command position with that rank and are a communist, then you can.

The soldier took off his cap, wiped his forehead with it and smiled good-naturedly and happily:

- Thank you, dad. I'm just like that.

Then he awkwardly stomped around and, decisively throwing the bag off his shoulders, handed it to his friends:

- Take it, guys, there's something here. Divide and do not remember badly. Don't think I'm selfish. No,” he wiped his sweaty forehead again, “I’ll start a campaign among the officers and organize support for you regarding food and other underwear.”

Andrei, with his hands in his pants pockets, closely watched Kushnir-Kushnarev and the SS men, then spat:

- This is nonsense.

Sashka raised his eyebrows in surprise. Andrey whispered hotly to Kostya, peppering his speech with curses:

“I don’t believe it, whatever you do, I don’t believe it.” The fascists, the bastards, will always remain fascists, damn them by the leg and against the wall.

Of the entire group in which Andrei was, fifteen people stepped forward. Burzenko saw how the second SS man, the one with the low forehead, smiled wryly and made a sign with his hand. The commanders were immediately surrounded by soldiers and taken past the gates of Buchenwald. Some of those who remained watched them with open envy. People are lucky... No one even suspected that they were leaving on their last journey.

Andrey quietly pushed Kostya: look, the fascist is about to speak. Kostya raised his head. Lagerführer stepped forward. The sailor tugged Pelzer's sleeve:

- Listen more carefully.

He nodded his head.

But Lagerführer Max Schubert spoke in broken Russian.

- Russian soldiers! The cultured country of Großdeutschland loved order and discipline. You need to know this. Buchenwald has a healthy spirit. No need to run. I don’t advise you, mom will cry,” and Schubert imitated a pistol with his fingers, “poof-poof!” No one has ever escaped from the political camp Buchenwald. Our slogan: Arbeit, Arbeit und discipline. Forshtein?

“Compatriots, be prudent,” Kushnir-Kushnarev added to Schubert’s words, “Herr Lagerführer is giving you good advice.”

The SS officers left. The old man hurried after them with a cat-like gait.

“Skin,” Andrey spat with relish.

- Golden days are beginning...

- Hold on, brothers!

Hunger and fatigue made themselves felt. The prisoners looked around anxiously. Have they really been forgotten? They have been standing in front of the office for more than two hours. The sun is burning mercilessly. People were completely exhausted, they were exhausted.

Andrei felt his legs begin to tremble. My head is spinning. He clenched his teeth. Be sick. There seems to be no end to this torture...

Here and there in the frozen column of prisoners desperate cries and the dull thud of a falling body are heard. Those who have fallen are not allowed to rise by the soldiers. The unfortunate people lie on the warm stone pavement, waiting for their fate to be decided. But they are already doomed. The crematorium awaits them.

Beginners don’t even realize that “natural selection” is taking place. With cynical composure, the Nazis carry out this terrible test: the weak and infirm - they are of no use - must die, and the strong, strong must still work for the Fuhrer, give up their last strength, their health.

Finally an officer arrives and, looking at his wristwatch, commands:

The prisoners run wild.

- Faster!

Out of breath, people run to a large square. On it, according to new orders, they make a circle.

Running becomes more difficult with every step. Many people can’t stand it and fall...

It’s not easy for even Andrey to run, but he knows how to regulate his breathing. Four steps - inhale, four - exhale. My heart is pounding so hard that it feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest.

Peltser is running nearby. As he walked, he took off his heavy jacket and hat, which he had never parted with before. The old teacher understands that it is not things that need to be saved, but lives. His face became sallow gray. Large drops of sweat covered his entire face, leaving a dirty trail. The old geography teacher somehow absurdly waved his arms and, as if he had become entangled in his legs, swayed back. But he didn’t have time to fall. Strong arms Andrei supported him.

- Breathe deeper, deeper! More!

After the third circle, the SS man raises his hand:

Swaying as if drunk, the prisoners stop. The column has noticeably thinned out. And on the parade ground lay exhausted people.

Supporting Pelzer, Andrei looked around. From here, from the square, the entire camp is clearly visible. It is located on a rocky mountainside. Five parallel streets run down from the square, flanked by rows of wooden and stone barracks. To the right, a hundred meters from the gate, is a low stone building, fenced with a high wooden fence. There is a square pipe above the building. Black smoke comes out of it...

Again the command “Run!” This time - to the bathhouse. The bathhouse is a low, dark room. The floor, walls and ceiling are made of gray cement. “A stone bag,” thought Andrey.

- Take off your clothes!

Then - to the hairdresser. Prisoners in dark blue uniforms deftly operate electric machines. On their chests, Andrei noticed insignia - green or red triangles and four-digit numbers on a white square. Hairdressers quickly cut their hair, leaving a strip of hair from the forehead to the back of the head. And for older people who were starting to go bald, they left all their hair, cutting a path from the back of the head to the forehead. The terrible hairstyle gave the prisoners a creepy look.

In the next room, prisoners were forced to go into a swimming pool and plunge their heads into a dirty brown liquid - a disinfectant solution.

Andrey hesitated a little. At that same second he received a strong blow to the neck with a rubber hose:

- Schnell! Run!

Andrei plopped into the pool and, spitting out the disgusting liquid, hurried to the opposite edge. My eyes watered, my armpits stung, my body itched and burned.

But they are not allowed to stop. They always adjust:

- Hurry up! Schnell! Schnell!

After swimming in the pool, we found ourselves in a long room – a shower room. They crowded under the shower installations. There is no water. The minutes pass agonizingly. The solution corrodes the skin. There is terrible itching all over my body.

Finally, the water gushed out - and the prisoners jumped back to the walls screaming. Boiling water poured from the watering cans with hissing and steam... Many were scalded.

The boiling water suddenly gave way to ice water. Then again boiling water. Someone was having fun.

Andrei and Kostya the sailor were nearby. They both stood under the icy water, trying to quickly wash the disinfectant solution off their bodies. Andrey drew attention to the tattooed chest of the sailor: a three-masted ship was rapidly rushing across the sea. The wind has filled the sails, and the bow of the ship cuts through the oncoming waves.

“This is a memory,” the sailor explained. - I had a friend. Died in Sevastopol... Cool artist!

From the washing room the prisoners were driven along a long corridor. There are several windows along the left wall. Striped pants, jackets, hats, and boots with wooden soles were thrown out of them. The prisoners caught their clothes as they walked and quickly dressed.

They lined up the yard again. An officer approached. The corporal gave his report. The officer walked leisurely along the line, giving orders.

The prisoners were again divided into small groups. None of his friends from the carriage were included in Andrei’s group. The Jews were lined up separately. Peltser walked quietly, bent over, as if his shoulders were pressed down by a heavy load.

Kostya waved goodbye:

- Be strong, Andryukha!

Then they took me to the office - arbeitstatistik. After a short interrogation: where he came from, what prisons he was in, etc. – they gave everyone a white piece of paper with a number and a red triangle. Andrey looked at his number 40922. For the third time he was forced to forget his first and last name. How long will he go by this number? Will you be able to break free? Andrey knitted his eyebrows. Be that as it may, we will fight as long as we live. After all, we are Russians!

And the abrupt phrases of the red-faced corporal sounded in my ears:

- This is your passport. Number sew jacket und pants. Those who don't have a number go to "backlash".

And the fascist pointed expressively at the square pipe. At that moment, a crown of flame flared up above her and thick smoke began to pour out again. A specific sickening smell of burnt meat and burnt hair spread throughout the camp, but here it was especially strong. The corporal's gesture was eloquent: the word "backlash" - air - acquired a specific, terrible meaning.

Chapter Six

The twelfth barrack, or, as they said in Buchenwald, block, occupied an advantageous position. It was located between the shoemaker's workshop and the new forge. Next came the laundry, warehouse and luggage room. The proximity of the kitchen was considered especially important.

Due to renovations, no one lived in the twelfth block. The huge wooden building was empty. The Greens were quick to take advantage of this circumstance—that’s what German criminals, murderers, and repeat offenders were called in the concentration camp. They wore a distinctive sign on their chest - a green fabric triangle. The Greens seized, so to speak, the twelfth block and set up something like their residence in it.

The concentration camp commandant treated recent bandits and repeat offenders kinder than other prisoners. He openly patronized them. And not because criminals somehow impressed him. No, the reasons were deeper. Political prisoners knew that Karl Koch, long before Hitler came to power, often spoke out about the need to create grandiose concentration camps with a system of physical and moral extermination of people. This “system” was based on the “law of the jungle”: prisoners must destroy each other. Koch proposed dividing the prisoners into separate groups, creating tolerable living conditions for some and giving them some power within the camp. Such inequality, according to Koch, should cause hostility between prisoners. A fight will begin in the camp. It must be artificially supported, inflamed, encouraged. And the prisoners, in the face of starvation, will begin to mercilessly kill each other for an extra piece of bread. Thus, responsibility for the murder will fall on the shoulders of the prisoners themselves.

Koch outlined his misanthropic ideas in the notorious brochure “Bokegamer Documents,” which he published in 1929. In it, the future commandant of Buchenwald, with cynical frankness, revealed the program for the extermination of all opponents of Nazism.

With Hitler's rise to power, Koch's extravagant plan becomes a reality. He is tasked with organizing a number of concentration camps, including the Estergen camp, near the Dutch border. Thousands of people die behind barbed wire. The Koch system became widely used by the Nazis. Its author gets a promotion. In 1937, SS Colonel Karl Koch was given a government task: to create the largest political concentration camp in Europe, Buchenwald.

He comes to Buchenwald with his young fiery red-haired wife. A luxurious commandant's villa, a spacious arena, and a stable are being urgently built. The terrible period of undivided dominance of the Kokhs begins.

From the very first day of the founding of the new concentration camp, Koch, remaining faithful to his system, created tolerable living conditions for German criminals and gave them power within the camp. Recent bandits and repeat offenders became the first assistants of the SS men. The criminals were “forearbeiters” - foremen, “kapos” - overseers, served in the camp police, and were appointed barracks elders. They received additional food and almost all parcels from the Red Cross, because, with the consent of the commandant, their distribution was also in charge of a former criminal. In addition, German criminals enjoyed a special privilege: they were allowed to wear civilian clothes. But they still forced me to cut out a square on the jacket and sew in a green patch.

To maintain their privileged position, the Greens zealously followed the instructions of the SS men. The bandits mercilessly beat prisoners for the slightest offense, forced them to work twelve to fourteen hours a day, terrorized political figures, and hunted Jews. For each Jew discovered in the Big Camp, by order of the commandant, a bonus was given: four loaves of bread. This amount of bread was considered the greatest wealth. Anything could be exchanged for it, because the prisoners, doomed to a slow death by starvation, received only three hundred grams of bread and a bowl of rutabaga gruel per day. This amounted to approximately 300–380 calories, and hard labor consumed 3500–4000 calories. People walked like shadows.

The Greens kept the entire camp in fear for a long time. However, since the autumn of 1941, when transports with Soviet prisoners of war began to arrive in Buchenwald, the situation in the camp changed dramatically.

The political ones, or, as they were called, the Reds - unlike the Greens, they wore red fabric triangles on their chests - began an active fight against the Greens.

The Reds were actively helped by state hostages - former members of the Czechoslovak government, who in Buchenwald were used as translators and served in various departments of the camp chancellery. But the Russians waged a decisive open fight against the criminals. In the winter of 1942, Soviet prisoners of war fought back against the Greens for the first time in the history of the death camp.

Here is how it was. Tens of thousands of prisoners worked in the quarry. The January fifteen-degree frost and the usual bone-chilling wind for these places shook the starved prisoners like grass. It was especially hard for the group of Russians, where the forarbeiter was the criminal Sterk. This bandit did not give even a minute of rest. His long stick was constantly walking along the backs of the prisoners. He beat those who straightened their tired backs a little, beat those who, as it seemed to him, worked without the proper energy, because someone looked askance at the forarbeiter.

– My stick is a heating compress! – Sterk explained, grinning maliciously. - She helps you work your blood better!

Four Russians and Georgians Kargidze, beaten by the forarbeiter, remained lying on the ground. Then Sterk ordered the unfortunates to be taken to a pile of stone and laid there:

- Let the wind caress a little!

But the prisoners, led by Vasily Azarov, did not comply with this order. They carefully brought their half-dead comrades to a place protected from the wind and, having collected some dry leaves, laid the prisoners on them. Then the wife of Oberscharführer Belvida came running, whose dacha was located about a hundred meters from the edge of the quarry. The German woman, waving a pistol, screamed hysterically:

-Where is this pig capo? Where is he looking? I will not allow my children to look at the Bolshevik infection! Get this manure out of here now or I'll shoot!

Vorarbeiter Sterk, who had gone to warm up with the SS men, came running to the cry. The bandit, not understanding what was going on, unleashed his anger on the first person who caught his eye. The victim was the quiet and shy boy Malkin, whom everyone loved. He had a good voice and often sang soulful Russian songs.

Green attacked the innocent young man. Malkin only had time to open his big blue eyes wide in surprise when a blow fell on his head.

The young man fell. But this was not enough for the monster. He grabbed a huge stone and crushed Malkin, who was trying to rise from the ground, with it.

This murder shocked the prisoners. They quit their jobs and, without hiding their hatred, looked at the forarbeiter. The bandit was taken aback for a split second, but immediately pulled himself together. Breathing heavily, he waved his stick:

- Arbeit! It works!

But the prisoners slowly moved towards the green, clutching heavy shovels and picks in their hands. He darted his eyes frantically. The living ring slowly, like a noose around his throat, narrowed around him. Sterk dropped his stick in fear and screamed hoarsely:

- Save me!

Picks and shovels flashed in the air. And a few minutes later the Russians continued to work as if nothing had happened. Only on the ground, next to Malkin’s body, lay the mutilated corpse of the forarbeiter Sterk.

But Sterk’s cry was heard by the SS men from the external security detail. They ran to the scene of the massacre, lined up the Russians and demanded that the instigators be handed over.

The news of the reprisal against the hated Sterk instantly spread throughout the quarry. Thousands of prisoners stopped working in solidarity with the Russians. Everyone was anxiously awaiting punitive action. For the murder of a forarbeiter, the prisoners faced cruel punishment. And a group of Russians, without letting go of their shovels and picks, were preparing to sell their lives dearly. At this tense moment, a brave soul was found who protested to the guards’ faces. It was Vasily Azarov. He, without breaking ranks, told the officer on duty:

– We, Russian soldiers and officers, demand humane treatment from criminal prisoners working as supervisors and foremen. We protest and warn all criminals: if any of the bandits touches even one Russian, he will be killed with a pick or shovel!

The collective performance had an effect. The officer on duty, seeing the determined faces of the prisoners, did not dare to carry out massacres.

This was the first serious victory over the Greens. The commandant of Buchenwald, fearing a riot in the concentration camp, removed several criminals from brigade leadership and removed the most zealous bandits from some administrative posts.

The criminals began to wait for the right moment to take revenge. And it came.

A large batch of Soviet prisoners of war was brought to Buchenwald - there were more than two thousand of them. They were driven on foot almost across Germany. Exhausted by bullying and hunger, the prisoners could barely stand on their feet. They were driven into separate barracks and surrounded by barbed wire. This is how a camp was created within a camp, which later received the name Small Quarantine. The prisoners found themselves in double isolation.

On the very first day, risking their lives, the Germans, Czechs, and French began to establish contact with their Russian comrades. They held a food collection in the camp - each politician broke off a piece of bread from his meager ration for his Russian brothers. With the help of Soviet prisoners of war who arrived earlier, food was transferred to exhausted friends.

All this was carried out in deep secrecy. But the head of the concentration camp, criminal Joseph Oless, immediately concocted a denunciation.

Having learned about the solidarity of the prisoners, the commandant of Buchenwald became furious and announced punishment: he fined the entire camp for three days. For three days, tens of thousands of prisoners did not receive food. But no measures could stop the rapprochement of anti-fascists of various nationalities.

Oless did not calm down on this. According to his new denunciation, the political prisoners he hated - sixty-two people - were sent to the punishment team. None of them returned.

The Greens raised their heads again. The bandits took revenge on the political ones. The struggle within the camp took open forms. But the Greens, with all their efforts, were unable to regain their lost positions. This time the political ones showed decisive resistance to them. The hospital became the most terrible place for the greens. The bandits summoned there did not return. They died “unexpectedly”. This circumstance seriously alarmed the Greens. They guessed what was going on, but they gave in to medicine. They could not expose the doctors. There was a lack of basic knowledge. Science was an area that you couldn’t get into with a master key.

And when the head of the surgical department, prisoner Helmut Tieman, entered the warden’s room, Oless became wary. His whitish eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose: political people don’t come in vain...

Helmut Tieman, a stocky and tall German with large features, walked around the room and, making sure that they were alone, stopped in front of Oless. Having looked at the headman unkindly, Helmut began the conversation in a quiet, surprisingly calm voice, but every word struck the headman’s ears, and an unpleasant coolness ran down Oless’s broad back.

“I came to warn you, dear Lagerelteste.” You and your accomplices must stop these vile deeds. Remember that for every politician we will send two green ones to the crematorium!

Oless got up from the table. A sweet smile appeared on his fox face:

– Can’t we really agree? We Germans are a great nation and should live in friendship among ourselves.

“We are different Germans,” Helmut answered dryly.

The camp leader did not sleep all night. Tossing and turning on his straw mattress, the bandit thought. The position of the Greens, to use Oless’s language, was becoming “motley.”

The decision came naturally. In the morning, Oless summoned Trumpf and Groelz, his faithful assistants and bodyguards:

“Our affairs are taking an unpleasant turn.” Political threats. For every person we kill, they promise a crematorium. In their hands, a hundred devils, is the hospital. And among our guys there is not a single one who could replace political doctors. We need to gather the leaders tonight. Enough anarchy! From now on we will act together. It's time to break off the political ones!

By the scheduled hour after the evening check, bandits began to gather in the twelfth block. The green leaders came alone and in small groups, bringing with them two or three friends - bodyguards. Everyone has kind smiles on their faces and knives in their pockets. The Greens were at enmity with each other, and had a grudge against each other, kept “scores” and “tied knots.” Among the Greens there were criminals of different nationalities.

The bandit Yusht, having crossed the threshold of the block, stopped, pulled out his glasses from his pocket and placed them on his long duck nose.

- Salute to Johnny the Professor! – Oless, smiling widely, hurried to meet him.

Yusht earned the nickname “Johnny the Professor” because he knew how to drive the victim to madness with beatings and abuse. The Greens were also afraid of him. The SS men came to him to learn from their “experience.” Johnny the professor was accompanied by three big-faced guys. He sat down by the window, spreading his sharp knees wide, and looked at the crowd with a feeling of complete superiority.

Hans the jeweler, “a man without any special external features” - this is how detectives from the largest cities in Europe wrote about this specialist in the seizure of jewelry - came alone. He sat down in the corner and looked gloomily at the camp leader. Oless stood with his back to the “jeweler” and, talking with Trumpf, scratched bottom part backs. Hans hated Oless. He remembered how those predatory fingers pulled a black diamond ring from his breast pocket. Now this ring was on the finger of Lagerführer Gust. Oless gave it to Gust along with a denunciation in order to receive the lucrative position of camp leader.

Augustus Skautz, nicknamed the Bruiser, arrived with sparkling eyes and polished shoes. Having crossed the threshold of the block, he grinned:

- Ha, yes, there are our own people here! Just keep your pockets tight... - and, noticing Paul Friedman, he stepped towards him: - It’s nice to meet fellow countrymen. Come on, Black Fiend, bring a pack of cigarettes.

They were immediately surrounded.

- Guys, our word is law. Said - done, lost - give back. Paying off a gambling debt is a debt of honor!

“I didn’t lose at cards,” Friedman answered, “and you yourself saw that he died.”

“No, no, he died later,” the Brute called on everyone present to be judges. - Let's be open. You and I had an argument. So? For a pack of cigarettes. It was in a quarry. We stood at the top. What did you say?

“That I could smack a political figure with a stone, and I did.” You saw it yourself.

- But not the first time. You finished him off later. It turns out he lost. Bring a pack of cigarettes.

- I can’t get away from you! – The Black Fiend reached into his pocket and pulled out cigarettes. - Come on and get off!

Skautz opened the packet:

- Light up, guys!

The Pole Bula, with a crooked boxer's nose and a massive jaw, joyfully greeted Georges the boxer, like an old friend. They knew each other for a long time from meetings in the professional ring.

- You seem to be training? – said Bula, feeling Georges’ shoulders.

Georges laughed and clapped Boula on the back:

- I saw you warming up.

– Is this a warm-up? Lousy political ones are worse than a sack - before you have time to hit it, it’s already falling.

Odessa thief Sokolov shifted from foot to foot next to Bula. Not understanding the conversation, he nodded his head and smiled. His thin mustache stretched, and his oblong eyes became even narrower. Bula's partner Pospeshish looked blankly at those around him and was silent. He was used to explaining himself more with his hands than with his tongue.

In the adjacent room, final preparations were underway. Clubfoot Paul and Little Schultz were cutting a thick circle of homemade sausage sent from Normandy to Abbot Enoch, Trumpf diluted denatured alcohol with water in an aluminum soup pan. He took samples every minute, which made his eyes become more and more nightish.

- Lunch! Cognac... It completely hits the brain. Once - and you're done!

Clubfoot Schultz could not stand it.

- Give me a spoon.

But he didn’t have time to try denatured alcohol. The door opened, and someone shouted in a trembling voice:

- Gust is coming!

The meeting with the Lagerführer did not bode well. Trumpf grabbed the pan and rushed around the room. Finally, Oless pushed Trumpf into the toilet:

And he hurried to meet the Lagerfuehrer.

The bandits tried to look casual.

Lagerführer Gust appeared accompanied by non-commissioned officer Fritz Rey. The son of a Prussian kulak, Fritz Ray, recently graduated from the University of Munich. He was a typical representative of the new Germans brought up during the years of Hitlerism. Among the SS men, Fritz Ray was known as the “sportfuhrer” and no one could compete with him in ingenuity in terms of new tortures. Tall, with a bull-like neck and bulging dull gray eyes, the non-commissioned officer was considered the threat of the Small Camp.

Gust, tapping his lacquered leggings with a flexible transparent glass, looked around at the elongated green ones with a piercing gaze. Noticing the Pole Bula and the Russian Sokolov, the Lagerführer silently stepped towards them and waved his stack. A black diamond sparkled on his little finger. Bula and Sokolov cowered.

They rushed to the doors.

“The Lagerführer will only talk to the Germans,” explained Fritz Ray.

A few minutes later, only German criminals remained in the twelfth block.

- Chair for the Lagerführer! - Oless shouted.

Sitting down on a wide stool, Gust said:

– Reichedeuchi – Germans of Greater Germany! You have committed grave sins and are serving a well-deserved punishment. But we, the command, understand your sad situation. We come to meet you halfway, wanting to ease your lot. The commandant of Buchenwald, Standartenführer Karl Koch, conveys his German sympathy to you and asks you to inform you that each of you has the opportunity to earn money. You must identify active political ones and destroy them. The commandant of Buchenwald, Standartenführer Karl Koch, promises to pay twenty marks for each killed activist!

“It’s just us,” the Brute roared enthusiastically, “just count it!”

– How will you pay, by the piece or by the dozen? - asked Johnny the Professor, estimating future profits in his mind.

Oless silently scratched the back of his head. He remembered the words of Helmut Tieman: “Remember, for every politician we will send two green ones to the crematorium.” Here, it seems, you will earn your neck...

- Calmly! – Fritz Ray raised his hand. - Lagerführer has not finished yet.

“They will bring you boxing gloves,” Gust continued, “the job must be done without unnecessary noise, cleanly.” Organize some sort of sports competition. Prove the superiority of the strength and spirit of the supreme Aryan race!

“This seems like an idea! – Oless grabbed the Lagerfuhrer’s thought. - You can’t dig in here anymore. Well, hang in there, political ones!”

Chapter Seven

If the Big Camp of Buchenwald was called hell, then the Small Camp, located on the northern side, could be called a hell within hell. This camp was considered a quarantine camp. Captives from all European countries were brought here. Some were sent from here to other camps, others were left in work teams, and others were destroyed. Thousands of prisoners died from hunger and disease.

Andrei ended up in the sixty-second block of the Small Camp. Burzenko had already visited three concentration camps, but the sight of this barracks made him shudder.

The four-story bunks were divided by vertical posts into compartments slightly more than a meter wide and high. Each cube contained five or six people. People lay pressed tightly against each other. The typhus patients were raving loudly, the crazy were screaming hysterically. There was a suffocating smell of sweat and rot in the air.

The newcomers, looking around, crowded into the center of the block.

- Here they are, the new guys!

Burzenko turned around. Three prisoners in striped clothing stood in the doorway. They had green badges on their jackets. Andrei immediately noted that they were not as exhausted as the other inhabitants of the block. Andrei was amazed that one of them had a thin, well-groomed mustache dark under his humped nose. Apparently this guy had the ability to take care of himself. The blond big man standing next to him said something quietly to his partners, pointing at Andrei, and then shouted:

- Hey, galoshes, swim here!

Andrey did not move from his place. The three walked towards him. The blond man, unceremoniously feeling Burzenko's jacket, clicked his tongue with relish. The guy with the mustache - it was the Odessa thief Sokolov - thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, casually nodded to the blond one:

- Kilya, take off this mackintosh.

The fair-haired man, looking at Andrey, answered deliberately languidly:

– He doesn’t fold.

Sokolov with a lazy movement reached into his side pocket, pulled out a rag, which obviously replaced a handkerchief, and with the same lazy movement brought it to his nose. Andrei noticed that a knife blade flashed in the rag. Looking up at Andrey, Sokolov asked:

- Why doesn’t he chip in?

- There seems to be a person in it.

- Kilya, shake him out.

Andrei realized that verbal explanations would not lead to a peaceful result. The impudent people will not give up. Having made up his mind, he took a sharp step towards Sokolov.

The blow was so lightning fast that no one had time to see it. With an absurd wave of his arms, the bandit plopped down on the floor. The knife flew to the side. Both Sokolov's partners rushed to the door.

The prisoners, hiding on their bunks, joyfully looked out of their cages.

- This is what I gave!

Sokolov, with a distorted face, crawled on all fours towards the exit. Wooden shoes flew at him from all sides. Someone threw a bowl after him:

- Take it, you bastard!

The prisoners looked at the newcomers with sympathy.

“Hey, lad,” they called Andrei from one of the cells, “come here.”

Burzenko approached.

- Climb, lad, there is a place!

There were already four people in the compartment. They made room and made room for Andrey.

Burzenko stretched out on the hard, stinking mattress: how tired he was that day!

Questions rained down: where were you from, why did you end up in Buchenwald, where did you fight? The black-eyed, high-cheekboned guy lying next to him smiled friendly:

He shook Andrey’s hand and, poking himself in the chest with a finger, said:

- Slavko. Partisan. Yugoslavia.

– Do you know who you hit? – Parkhomenko asked. - This is the Odessa thief Sokolov. He recruited a gang that runs here. They bully me, they take away my bread, my clothes...

Parkhomenko spoke with a Ukrainian accent. Andrey drew attention to the left ear of his new acquaintance. It was half cut off.

“This is the Gestapo... for refusing to work for the Germans,” Parkhomenko explained, catching Andrei’s gaze.

Ivan Parkhomenko, a mechanic from Dnepropetrovsk, ended up in Buchenwald for organizing sabotage and sabotage at a factory being restored by the Germans.

Slavko and Parkhomenko are not newcomers; they have been in the barracks for a long time and willingly talk about the camp order. An hour later, Andrei already knew that all Buchenwald prisoners wore distinctive triangles. They are sewn on jackets on the left side of the chest and on trousers. And above them is a piece of white cloth with a number. The color of the triangle indicates the “corpus delicti”: green – criminals, red – political, black – saboteurs, purple – representatives of religious cults, etc. And the letters on the triangles denoted nationality: “R” - Russian, Soviet, “F” - French, “P” - Poles... Only Germans wear pure triangles, without letters. And for Jews, two triangles are sewn on, forming a six-pointed star.

“The worst thing, lad, is to be a “flugpunkt,” said Parkhomenko. “They will sew a white circle with a red apple in the middle on your chest and back.” This sign—they call it a “rose” here—is worse than the Jewish one. You become a living target. And they beat you for no reason, and they shoot you for fun.

– Who gets this sewn on?

– Penalties, those who escaped from concentration camps.

Andrei’s heart was relieved: he escaped twice, but, apparently, the office did not know about this.

Burzenko learned that the block foreman, Otto Gross, was a political prisoner, a German communist. About Block Fuehrer Feldwebel Kreger Parkhomenko said that he was a real Satan.

“But even more terrible,” Parkhomenko continued, “Unterscharführer Fritz Ray.” He was on the Eastern Front, and our people hit him near Smolensk... It’s a pity that they didn’t finish him off. Oh, and a beast! We called him Smolyak. Look, lad, he loves to interrogate newbies. And if he hears the word “Smolensk”, he will beat him to death. He, the scoundrel, sent many to the next world...

In the evening, when the dim electric light came on, a prisoner approached the bunk, having apparently appeared here from another block. His face seemed remarkable to Andrey: high forehead, penetrating eyes. The striped jacket has a red triangle on it. He was not from the sixty-second block.

At the sight of him, Parkhomenko instantly jumped to his feet. Andrei noticed that the Ukrainian behaved with the newcomer, although friendly, but somehow smartly, as if with a commander. They stepped aside, and Burzenko had difficulty following their conversation.

- Ivan, how is the professor?

- An interesting person. Just look, Sergei Dmitrievich, he’s just ruined the university here,” said Parkhomenko, pointing to a large group of prisoners gathered around the table.

Only then Andrei noticed a table at the end of the barracks, and prisoners around, and a gray-haired, skinny man in the center. It was obvious that tired, hungry people were listening to this particular old man with big glasses.

- This, Ivan, is a wonderful person. World famous scientist! The Germans gave him the estate. They offered the institute - they wanted to buy it! But it didn't work out. That's what he is! And you say – interesting.

They went to the professor.

Spurred by curiosity, Andrei jumped off the bunk and followed them.

The prisoners listened attentively to the professor. What did he do to captivate these hungry and downtrodden people? Burzenko squeezed closer to the table. Over the heads of the prisoners, he saw that the professor was drawing something with an aluminum spoon. Taking a closer look, Andrey recognized the contours of the Caspian Sea.

– My friends, as you already know, the Caspian Sea is one of the most ancient bodies of water on our planet. Yes, sir. People constantly settled along its shores. It couldn't be otherwise. After all, the sea provided everything necessary for life. People loved the Caspian Sea, and each nation gave it its own name. It turned out that the sea has gone through a huge number of names. Over its centuries-old history, the name of the sea has changed more than fifty times! I already told you about this. It received its last name from the tribe that lived on its banks. The people of this tribe called themselves Caspians.

- May I interrupt you, dear professor? – said Sergei Dmitrievich.

The scientist adjusted his glasses, looked carefully at the speaker and, recognizing him, smiled joyfully.

- Oh, Comrade Kotov! I'm glad, very glad!

The professor stood up and shook Kotov’s hand:

- How are you, young man? What's new, sir?

- What could be the matter, Pyotr Evgrafovich? Just came to check on you.

Kotov addressed the prisoners who were waiting for the lecture to continue:

- Guys, give Pyotr Evgrafovich a rest. Why are you exploiting him like that?

The prisoners began to disperse, smiling. And the professor desperately protested:

- For mercy, comrade Kotov, no one is exploiting me! No no! On the contrary, dear young man, on the contrary, I am exploiting it! Yes, sir!

“You shouldn’t overwork yourself, dear Pyotr Evgrafovich.”

– I’m not complaining about my health, dear. I am like everyone else. Yes, sir.

Kotov took the professor’s arm.

“Greetings to you,” he said when they walked away.

- From whom, may I ask?

– From the French, Pyotr Evgrafovich. Professor Mazo Leon, MD Leon-Kindberg Michel bows to you. And yet, Pyotr Evgrafovich, a new prisoner recently arrived, a doctor of theology, professor of history at the University of Antwerp Leloir. He knows you, he has read your works in French. Leloir really wants to meet you.

Kotov took a paper bag from his inner pocket and put it in the pocket of the professor’s striped jacket.

- Young man, you offend me. No, no, no! I don't want handouts. Yes, sir. I'm like everyone else!

Kotov, shaking hands with the professor, said to him authoritatively and affectionately:

- You are an eccentric, Pyotr Evgrafovich. The French asked to convey. They love you. Well, what's wrong if good friends shared the package! They are sent from home.

Andrey approached Parkhomenko and asked, nodding towards Kotov:

- Who is this?

Parkhomenko was silent for a minute, looked searchingly at the newcomer and answered, smiling good-naturedly:

- Everything has its time. You'll know a lot, lad, when you grow old. Let's go to sleep better.

Chapter Eight

Alexey Lysenko brought the stool to the bunk. Standing on it, he wanted to rise to his place. But he barely lifted his leg when a grimace of pain distorted his face. Damn it, the wounds haven't quite healed yet.

Alexei climbed onto the bunk and lay down with his stomach down. He cursed silently. It's been almost two weeks since he's been sleeping like this. You can’t lie on your side or your back...

He visited the "goat". The prisoners called the whipping machine “goat.” I came across it by accident. By mistake.

This happened after the evening check. The SS officer on duty began to use a piece of paper to name the numbers of the prisoners to be punished. Suddenly Alexey heard his number. From surprise, he was momentarily confused. Is it really him? Alexey felt Drapkin’s hand on his shoulder. He was standing nearby.

- Hold on, Lesha.

Alexei bowed his head. For what? Neither today, nor yesterday, nor in general recently has he attracted the attention of the fascists. Worked like everyone else. The overseer never shouted at him. And suddenly a flogging... Was he really betrayed?

Lysenko silently stepped forward and, under the sympathetic glances of his comrades, headed towards the center of the square. The others also converged there. They looked rather pitiful. People walked as if to execution.

- Faster, pigs! - shouted Lagerführer Gust.

The prisoners, clattering their wooden soles, quickly lined up.

The officer on duty, calling out the prisoners' numbers, told them in a monotonous voice the reasons for the punishment. Alexei almost let out a sigh of relief. An error has occurred! He is punished with twenty-five strokes for breaking a drill in some complex machine in an optical workshop. He's saved! You just need to explain, calmly and convincingly. Alexey looked around for the commander of the boiler room. He stood in a group of SS men. He will definitely confirm Alexey’s words.

Lysenko raised his hand.

- Allow me to address you, Herr Commandant.

“What do you want, you scoundrel,” the Lagerfuhrer turned to him.

- There was a misunderstanding here, Herr Commandant... I work in the boiler room... The boiler room commander can confirm this.

- Be silent! - the SS man on duty barked.

- There was a mistake! I didn't break the drill...

The SS man on duty was nearby in two leaps.

“You, dirty pig, dare to reproach the Aryans?” You, mangy dog, dare to accuse me of lying?

Alexey realized that it was useless to make excuses. The SS men, these “supermen”, are not mistaken.

Lagerführer Gust, his patent leather boots shining, walked along the line. The prisoners watched him with bated breath. Everyone knew that the first ones would get more. The tired executioners tortured the last ones without anger and without ardor. The latter were easier.

The Lagerführer stopped in front of Alexei.

- You, rascal, will be the first. This is a great honor for the Russian pig! – the fascist grinned. - Bring the machine quickly!

The flogging was carried out in public. A prisoner sentenced to punishment was also subjected to moral humiliation; he must install the spanking machine himself on a pile of rubble so that everyone can see the punishment procedure.

Gritting his teeth, Alexey lay down on the cold boards of the “goat”. The latches clinked and he felt his feet being squeezed into the stocks at the very ankles. Then they tied my hands with belts. Don't move. At that moment, he remembered how, even before the war, he had read in a book about the atrocities of the White Guards, who flogged captured Red Army soldiers with ramrods. It seems that one of the heroes of the story advised his friends not to tense up, to relax their muscles. This supposedly makes it easier to withstand blows, especially if they hit with a “stretch.”

Alexey tried to relax his muscles. But it turned out to be not so simple. The blows burned my back. I wanted to shrink, shrink, become smaller, so that the pain would fall on a smaller area. Alexei bit his lip to keep from screaming...

- Count, you bastard! Why don't you think so?

It was as if Alexei had been doused with a tub of water. How did he forget? After all, the doomed person must count the blows himself! Now everything will start all over again. Having mentally cursed the Nazis with the last words, Alexey began to count out loud:

- Ain!.. Zwei!.. Drai!..

There was a young blockführer. He had only recently joined the Thuringian regiment of the Death's Head division and was incredibly happy. Of course, instead of the damned Eastern Front, he had the good fortune to serve in such a place! And he tried in every possible way to curry favor and win the favor of experienced SS men.

On the twenty-second blow, Alexey lost his way. He forgot how to say “twenty-two” in German. It slipped my mind and that's it. Then Alexei shouted in Russian:

- Twenty two!

The Blockführer laughed. He knew a little Russian, but did not recognize it. Besides, this was an excellent excuse to start the beating again from the beginning. After all, the lousy Russian was given only twenty-five blows! And the blockführer kicked Alexei:

Alexey didn’t hesitate anymore. He knew that those who lost count several times in a row were beaten to death. He had seen more than once how such prisoners were removed from the bench by corpse bearers from the crematorium team. Alexey did not want to go to the crematorium. He wanted to survive. Survive at all costs. To survive so that later you can pay back these executioners. Pay for everything. For myself. For fallen comrades. For the desecrated native land...

After the fifteenth blow, the blockführer was replaced by Martin Sommer, the head of the punishment cell.

– This is not how you should beat Russians.

Sommer swung his whip. It was woven from several thin cables and studded with nuts. The Gestapo surrounded the machine. Now Sommer will show his class!

The prisoners froze in their places. The guy has disappeared. Everything went dark before Alexei’s eyes. Cold drops of sweat rolled down his face. He thought about one thing: just not to lose consciousness. By an effort of will he forced himself to count. The blows seemed to penetrate right through. But he withstood them. He counted to the end.

Sommer cursed and walked away. They clicked the locks, removed the stocks, and untied their hands. But Alexey could not get up without outside help. They pulled him aside and doused him with water.

My comrades helped me get to the barracks. According to Buchenwald laws, prisoners subjected to flogging were not released from work. They are required to be in the ranks of their team the next day. Alexey was in such a state that there was no question of any work. After the evening check, Drapkin met with Mikhail Levshenkov. And that same night, the underground fighters transported Alexei to Revere, the Buchenwald hospital for prisoners.

Alexey lay on a hospital mattress for more than a week. Friends did everything possible to help him recover quickly. Levshenkov visited him several times. Alexey knew Levshenkov as his leader in the underground. It was Mikhail who gave him the task of thinking about assembling a radio receiver.

Each time Levshenkov brought him a ration of bread.

- Get better, friend.

When Alexey got a little stronger, he was transferred to a barracks, and from his friends he received a “shonung” - a certificate of temporary release from work. The Schonungs were taken out by German comrades from the outpatient clinic.

Lysenko, lying on his bunk for hours, thought. Not about the vicissitudes of fate, not about the prisoner in whose place he was “on the goat.” He felt neither anger nor hatred towards that unknown camp comrade.

When Zheleznyak told Alexei that his French friends were asking the Russian soldier to apologize for the fact that he had to accept punishment instead of their comrade Julien, Lysenko just waved his hand.

- Okay... You never know what happens...

- They ask for forgiveness.

- It’s not worth it. In this damned death camp, everything is possible, everything is permissible.

- So what should I tell them?

Alexey was about to say: “Why are you attached to me,” but, looking at Zheleznyak’s serious face, he restrained himself. Then he said:

- Say thank you.

- Thank you?

- Well, yes, thank you. It's good that I only got away with a spanking.

“Okay, I’ll tell you,” Zheleznyak moved closer. - And they asked again. This same Julien wants to meet you, shake your hand.

“It’s not worth it,” Alexey answered. - Why attract attention? You better tell this Julien to be careful. You have to skillfully damage machines. Otherwise you’ll have to go to the crematorium instead. But I don't want that.

During the day, the barracks are quiet and empty, Alexey, lying on his bunk, looks out the window, watching how the prisoners from the team of masons sort out the stones of the pavement, in this team they are mostly green. They have a green fabric triangle sewn under their number. Their work is simply paradise compared to the quarry. One of the green ones is “on duty”, watching the gate. The rest are turning over. “Cleaning up” means resting, dozing in the sun.

Alexey looks at the green ones and thinks about his own things. Many different people ended up in Buchenwald. They say that there are people here from almost thirty different countries. Next to the political ones, with the anti-fascists and communists, behind the barbed wire you can find bandits, thieves, deserters, Vlasovites. Recently Alexey saw an Italian priest. Over his striped robe he put on a black cassock and a cross on his chest. Wonderful. The priest walked and whispered prayers as he walked. Does he really believe that God will help him escape from this hell?

Once behind the barbed wire, people were transformed. Their faith in the future and their nerves, their will and muscles underwent a severe test, a test that lasted for years. And when the cold darkness of the grave blows into your face, it is difficult to remain calm. Life is such a thing that it is not so easy to part with. And people tried to survive in different ways. Some, broken, began to servilely serve their executioners and were ready at any moment to sell and betray their comrade. Others, like radio master Lochmann, withdrew into themselves, into their shell and asked in every possible way “not to get them involved.” Still others struggled.

Alexei knew that in the army of thousands of prisoners, in the multilingual crowd, there were his like-minded people, they were fighting, fighting secretly. Among them, undoubtedly, there are radio operators. But how to find them?

Chapter Nine

In the morning, when the prisoners greedily swallowed a mug of ersatz coffee with a piece of black ersatz bread and collected crumbs from the table, Unterscharführer Fritz Ray appeared in the barracks.

- Come out and build!

In a clean, ironed uniform and polished boots, the clean-shaven Smolyak slowly walked along the line. In his right hand he clutched a thick whip made of ox sinew. The handle of a pistol loomed menacingly from the unbuttoned holster. Smolyak walked around, singing a fascist march:

If the whole world lies in ruins,
Fuck it, we don't care...

Then he stopped and addressed the newcomers, who were lined up in a separate group, in broken Russian:

– You are a German prisoner, a Bolshevik. The Bolshevik is an infection. The infection must be destroyed. But we are Germans, a humane nation. We won't kill you. You need to work. We pay the worker well. You must work...

- Take a bite! – someone’s ringing voice was heard on the left flank.

The pomposity and arrogance written on Smolyak’s face seemed to have been blown away by the wind. He turned around with a jerk and jumped to the left flank.

– What is “bite and bite”? Who will translate?

The system was silent. Fritz Ray slid his evil eyes over the pale faces of the prisoners.

– What is “bite and bite”?

He did not know this Russian expression, but he caught the impudent intonation.

Having received no answer, Smolyak waved his hand with his usual movement. He hit their faces and shoulders with a heavy whip, hit them furiously, repeating:

- There’s a “bite to bite”!

Pleased with his resourcefulness and having beaten a dozen defenseless people, the non-commissioned officer calmed down. A smile appeared on his red face.

He said something to the guard. He saluted and ran towards the office and soon returned with a bicycle.

“Well, lad, hold on,” Parkhomenko whispered to Andrey, “Smolyak will go with us...”

They drove to the quarry for work. Stone was mined there for the construction of SS barracks. The sun was already high when the column of prisoners, surrounded by SS men, left the concentration camp. Smolyak was riding nearby. The stone-paved road wound along the mountainside.

Andrei, walking in the same line with Parkhomenko, carefully examined the area, trying to remember every turn, every hillock. “So as not to wander at night,” he thought. The thought of escaping did not leave Andrei for a minute.

A strange procession appeared ahead. A dozen or two dwarfs were pulling a huge racket loaded with white stone. An SS man sat on the rattletrap and constantly lashed him with a long whip.

“Like Repin’s barge haulers,” thought Andrei, remembering the famous painting by the great artist. - Only it’s worse here. Unhappy dwarfs... Why are they being tortured?”

When the car approached, Andrei gasped. It is not dwarfs who are harnessed to the rattle. These are kids! Each of them was barely ten or twelve years old. Large-headed, thin as matchsticks, with eyes bulging from tension, they, staggering, with difficulty dragged a huge cart up the mountain. Heavy wheels, forged with iron, rolled loudly along the pavement.

Burzenko's heart sank. Children, like adults, are dressed in striped convict attire. The long sleeves of the jackets are rolled up. Many people have their pants buttoned at the chest. Apparently, they were given clothes from the general clothing warehouse. Just like adults, they have white squares with numbers sewn on the left side of their jackets. Just like in adults, fabric triangles turn red, indicating the degree of the crime. The fascists already consider Russian boys to be dangerous political criminals!

Andrei guessed that in front of him were children whose fathers were fighting on the Eastern Front and in partisan detachments. Children of Red Army soldiers, commanders, party workers. Children whose parents the Nazis have already destroyed. But Andrei had no idea about the main thing - for what purpose they were thrown behind the barbed wire. The Nazis, convinced of their victory, prepared well-trained slaves in advance. These Russian boys had to forget their native language, forget their first and last names. Only one thing was required of them: the ability to unquestioningly and accurately carry out the commands and orders of their masters.

Behind the first one, a second one appeared. The SS man, having unbuttoned his uniform, lazily dozed on a pile of white stone. The first in the harness was a red-haired teenager. Hanging his thin arms, he leaned his boyish chest onto the strap. A three or four year old child walked next to him. He held the older man's hand and, quickly mincing with his little legs, tried to keep up. The child was also wearing a striped jacket that hung down to the ground like a dress. Black curly hair, round, button-like brown eyes on a thin face. What sadness there was in them!

The red-haired man walked first and, apparently, set the rhythm of the movement. Looking up to him, two dozen boys, pale and thin, straining, dragged the rattle.

- Hey, Vasykom! – someone shouted in a squeaky voice from the back rows. – Do these guys look like Russians?

The redhead raised his head. Andrei saw a simple Russian face with a slightly snub nose, all covered with freckles. Only in the eyes, prickly like blue pieces of ice, did childish seriousness shine through. Vasykom looked around the column of adults and curled his lips mockingly.

- You, Rooster, were mistaken. Russians are not like that... They don’t surrender!

The prisoners walked in silence. Someone gritted their teeth, someone sighed heavily. Parkhomenko, bending his head, looked at his shoes, Andrey bit his lip. A curse! He felt guilty that somewhere at the moment of intense struggle he wavered, did not believe in his strength, gave in, then retreated, allowed the enemy to take over, allowed him into his home, onto his land, gave up women and children to be mocked...

The sun was hot. It was a hot summer day. But Andrei Burzenko did not feel the heat. My heart was cold and it brought me to tears. It's a shame for yourself, for your comrades. It was a shame to look at my past, at the bitter moment of shame... You are right, boys! We despise ourselves.

Andrey remembered his childhood. With what admiration he looked at the heroes of the civil war, who defeated all enemies and established their own people’s power on one sixth of the earth! And how much joy there was when he, together with the same boys, managed to walk along the dusty street at the tail of the Red Army column! And here he is a soldier himself, but a captured soldier... Oh, if he only knew then, in the days of unequal, desperate battles, if his comrades in the company, in the regiment, in the armies knew what torments awaited them in captivity, what bloody tortures they would have to endure they would have to endure what humiliation and mockery they would have to suffer - then all the inhuman difficulties, deprivations and dangers of the front would seem to them like paradise and happiness!..

Suddenly a desperate cry was heard. Andrey became wary. There are buildings for service dogs along the road. There were about a thousand shepherd dogs in this kennel. They are all huge, trained, angry. And here, onto the site, fenced with barbed wire, the SS men pushed a dozen prisoners. One of them, young, blond, did not want to go. A tall German jumped up to him and hit him on the head with the butt of a pistol. The young man fell down. They immediately took him by the arms and legs and threw him onto the platform. At the same second, the tall dog breeder let the shepherds down. They rushed at the unfortunate people.

The prisoners began to rush around the fenced area with cries of despair. But there was no salvation anywhere. The angry dogs overtook their victims in two leaps, knocked them down and sank their teeth. Heartbreaking screams, the angry growls of dogs and the wheezing of the dying merged into one long, terrible roar...

The column of prisoners wavered. Many have seen terrible pictures of torture before, but this was the most brutal.

Andrei clenched his fists in rage. Powerless anger bubbled in his chest. One of the prisoners, Pole Benik, Andrei’s neighbor in the bunk, could not stand it. Gasping, he clutched his heart with his hand. He felt sick. Smolyak noticed this.

- Break down! - he ordered the Pole.

Slapping his wooden soles, Benik walked out to the edge of the road.

- March to the kennel!

The Pole trembled.

- Sir officer...

The fascist raised his pistol.

End of free trial.

“People, stand up for one minute,
Listen, listen! -
It flies from all directions.
This is heard in Buchenwald
Death knell...

CHAPTER FIRST

SS Major Dr. Adolf Gauvin smoothed his pomaded light brown hair with a small palm, pulled down his jacket and stepped into the reception room of the commandant of the Buchenwald concentration camp. The lower ranks jumped up and stood up. The major responded to the greetings with a casual nod and walked to the adjutant's desk. The adjutant, who had long since outgrown the lieutenant's age, but still wore the shoulder straps of an untersturmführer, thirty-five-year-old Hans Bungeller, looked at the major with an indifferent glance and pointedly politely offered to wait.

- The Colonel is busy, Herr Major.

And, making it clear that the conversation was over, he turned to Gust, a clean-shaven, healthy SS senior lieutenant.

The major walked arrogantly around the wide reception area, hung up his cap, sat down in a chair by the open window, took out a gold cigarette case and lit a cigarette.

The adjutant was saying something to Gust and looking askance at the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. The major saw that the Untersturmführer was busy not so much with the conversation as with his hairstyle. Bungeller was proud of that. that he had some resemblance to Hitler, and was constantly concerned about his appearance. I dyed my mustache twice a week. I styled my hair, shiny from brilliantine, every minute. But the hard forelock did not lie on the forehead, like the Fuhrer’s, but stuck out like a visor.

Gauvin despised Bungeller. Cretin in an officer's uniform! At this age, men of even average ability become captains.

The doctor made himself more comfortable in the chair. Well, let's wait. A year ago, when work at the Hygienic Institute, of which he, Major Gauvin, is the head, was just getting better, when threatening telegrams arrived from Berlin one after another, demanding the speedy expansion of the production of anti-typhoid serum, and a call to the commandant did not foretell anything joyful, then Adjutant Hans Bungeller He greeted the doctor with a kind smile and let him in without any queue to see the colonel. And now... Success always causes envy, thought Gauvin, and even more so if a woman contributes to this success, and even one like Frau Elsa. The colonel's wife treated him favorably, everyone knew that, as for Gauvin, he was not indifferent to her. And not only him. In the entire SS division “Totenkopf”, which guarded the concentration camp, there was not a German who, upon meeting the mistress of Buchenwald, would not lose his composure. And this capricious ruler of men’s hearts was always inventing and commanding something. At the whim of Frau Elsa, thousands of prisoners built a playpen for her in a few months. Soon she got bored of prancing around on a stallion dressed as an Amazon. A new hobby has appeared. Elsa decided to become a trendsetter. She saw tattoos on the prisoners, and it occurred to her to make unique gloves and a handbag. Such that no one in the whole world has! Made from tattooed human skin. Major Gauvin, without flinching, undertook to fulfill the wild fantasy of the eccentric mistress of Buchenwald. Under his leadership, Dr. Wagner made the first handbag and gloves. And what? I liked the new product! The wives of some important officials wanted to have exactly the same ones. Orders for handbags, gloves, lampshades, and book covers began to arrive even from Berlin. I had to open a secret workshop in the pathology department. The patronage of Frau Elsa elevated and strengthened the position of the major. He began to communicate freely and almost independently before the commandant of Buchenwald, SS Colonel Karl Koch, who had a direct telephone connection with the office of Reich Commissioner Himmler himself. The name of Koch awed all of Thuringia, and he himself was in awe of his wife.

The major turned his gaze to Gust - and with the professional eye of a doctor he felt the tight muscles of the triangular back, the trained biceps of the senior lieutenant, his muscular neck, on which his blond head proudly rested. Gust listened absentmindedly to the adjutant and lazily tapped his flexible transparent riding crop on his patent leather boot. And with every movement of his right hand, a black diamond sparkled on his little finger. Gauvin knew the value of jewelry. Boy! Robbed and boasts. Puppy!

Gauvin looked at his watch - he had been waiting for an appointment for fifteen minutes. Who sits with the colonel for so long? Isn't Le Clyre the head of the Gestapo? If he is, then damn, you'll sit for another hour.

The doctor began to look out the window. Lagerführer SS Captain Max Schubert is walking along the sunny side of the road paved with white stone. He undid the buttons of his uniform and took off his cap. The bald spot sparkles in the sun like a billiard ball. Walking nearby, with his head slightly bent, is the tall, red-haired SS lieutenant Walpner. He sticks out his chest, on which a brand new first class iron cross gleams.

Gauvin chuckled. This cross is awarded to front-line soldiers for military merits, and Walpner earned it in Buchenwald, fighting defenseless prisoners with a stick and fists.

Schubert stopped and beckoned to someone with his finger. Gauvin saw an old man in the striped clothes of a political prisoner, bending obsequiously before the Lagerführer. It was Kushnir-Kushnarev. The doctor could not stand this hired provocateur with a flabby face and the dull eyes of a drug addict. Gauvin knew that Kushnir-Kushnarev was a tsarist general and held the post of comrade minister in the Kerensky government. Thrown out by the October Revolution, he fled to Germany, where he squandered the remains of his fortune, fell into disrepair, and served as a doorman in a famous brothel. was bought by British intelligence and captured by the Gestapo. He led a miserable life in Buchenwald before the war with Soviet Russia. When Soviet prisoners of war began to arrive at the concentration camp, the former general became a translator, and then, showing zeal, became a provocateur.

Kushnir-Kushnarev handed Schubert some piece of paper. Gauvin, noticing this, listened to the conversation taking place outside the window.

“There are fifty-four of them here,” said Kushnir-Kushnarev. – There is material for everyone. Lagerführer scanned the list and handed it to Walpner.

- Here's another penalty command for you. I hope it doesn't last more than a week.

The lieutenant hid the paper.

- Will be done!

Schubert turned to the agent.

Tense seconds pass, and the hairs in the lamp glow. The quiet characteristic noise of a working radio was heard. It seems to be working!

The friends looked at each other happily. Alexey hastily puts on his headphones. There is a noise. Some crackling noises can be heard. Alexey turns the tuning knob. Now he will hear Moscow! But the noise doesn't stop. Lysenko strains his hearing, but the receiver does not pick up anything other than noise. From Alexei's gloomy face, his friends understood everything.

“Give it to me,” Zheleznyak nervously puts the headphones to his ear. Turns the tuning knob. He listens for a long time, but nothing resembling human speech or music comes from the ether. Vyacheslav, sighing, hands the headphones to Leonid. - On the…

Drapkin waved his hand.

- No need…

There was a gloomy silence. The receiver just beeped treacherously. The prisoners looked at the apparatus for a long time, and each thought hard. Yes, the receiver, despite all their efforts, did not come to life, did not “speak.” This means there was an inaccuracy in the assembly. Something was set wrong, incorrectly. But what is the mistake? Where is she? None of them could answer this painful question...

The fatigue accumulated over five sleepless nights suddenly fell on my shoulders.

Having hidden the receiver, the friends silently went to their barracks. The return journey, for the first time in five nights, seemed endless to them.

In the washroom, before going to their bunks, Lysenko said:

- But it still works. We just need to find a radio operator. The real one.

SS Major Dr. Adolf Gauvin smoothed his pomaded light brown hair with a small palm, pulled down his jacket and stepped into the reception room of the commandant of the Buchenwald concentration camp. The lower ranks jumped up and stood up. The major responded to the greetings with a casual nod and walked to the adjutant's desk. The adjutant, who had long since outgrown the lieutenant's age, but still wore the shoulder straps of an untersturmführer, thirty-five-year-old Hans Bungeller, looked at the major with an indifferent glance and pointedly politely offered to wait.

- The Colonel is busy, Herr Major.

And, making it clear that the conversation was over, he turned to Gust, a clean-shaven, healthy SS senior lieutenant.

The major walked arrogantly around the wide reception area, hung up his cap, sat down in a chair by the open window, took out a gold cigarette case and lit a cigarette.

The adjutant was saying something to Gust and looking askance at the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. The major saw that the Untersturmführer was busy not so much with the conversation as with his hairstyle. Bungeller was proud of the fact that he bore some resemblance to Hitler and was constantly concerned about his appearance. I dyed my mustache twice a week. I styled my hair, shiny from brilliantine, every minute. But the hard forelock did not lie on the forehead, like the Fuhrer’s, but stuck out like a visor.

Major Gauvin despised Bungeller. Cretin in an officer's uniform! At this age, men of even average ability become captains.

The doctor made himself more comfortable in the chair. Well, let's wait. A year ago, when work at the Hygienic Institute, the head of which he, Major Gauvin, was just getting better, when threatening telegrams arrived from Berlin one after another, demanding the speedy expansion of the production of anti-typhoid serum, a call to the commandant did not foretell anything joyful.

Then Adjutant Hans Bungeller greeted the doctor with a kind smile and let him see the colonel out of turn. And now... Success always causes envy, thought Gauvin, and even more so if a woman contributes to this success, and even one like Frau Elsa. The colonel's wife treated him favorably, everyone knew that, as for Gauvin, he was not indifferent to her. And not only him. In the entire SS division “Totenkopf”, which guarded the concentration camp, there was not a German who, upon meeting the mistress of Buchenwald, would not lose his composure. And this capricious ruler of men’s hearts was always inventing and commanding something. At the whim of Frau Elsa, thousands of prisoners built a playpen for her in a few months. Soon she got bored of prancing around on a stallion dressed as an Amazon. A new hobby has appeared. Elsa decided to become a trendsetter. She saw tattoos on the prisoners, and it occurred to her to make unique gloves and a handbag. Such that no one in the whole world has! Made from tattooed human skin. Major Gauvin, without flinching, undertook to fulfill the wild fantasy of the eccentric mistress of Buchenwald. Under his leadership, Dr. Wagner made the first handbag and gloves. And what? I liked the new product! The wives of some important officials wanted to have exactly the same ones. Orders for handbags, gloves, lampshades, and book covers began to arrive even from Berlin. I had to open a secret workshop in the pathology department. The patronage of Frau Elsa elevated and strengthened the position of the major. He began to communicate freely and almost independently before the commandant of Buchenwald, SS Colonel Karl Koch, who had a direct telephone connection with the office of Reich Commissioner Himmler himself. The name of Koch awed all of Thuringia, and he himself was in awe of his wife.

The major turned his gaze to Gust - and with the professional eye of a doctor he felt the tight muscles of the triangular back, the trained biceps of the senior lieutenant, his muscular neck, on which his blond head proudly rested. Gust listened absentmindedly to the adjutant and lazily tapped his flexible transparent riding crop on his patent leather boot. And with every movement of his right hand, a black diamond sparkled on his little finger. Gauvin knew the value of jewelry. Boy! Robbed and boasts. Puppy!

Gauvin looked at his watch - he had been waiting for an appointment for fifteen minutes. Who sits with the colonel for so long? Isn't Le Clyre the head of the Gestapo? If he is, then damn it, you'll sit for another hour.

The doctor began to look out the window. Lagerführer SS Captain Max Schubert is walking along the sunny side of the road paved with white stone. He undid the buttons of his uniform and took off his cap. The bald spot glistens in the sun like a billiard ball. Walking nearby, with his head slightly bent, is the tall, red-haired SS lieutenant Walpner. He sticks out his chest, on which a brand new first class iron cross gleams.

Gauvin chuckled. This cross is awarded to front-line soldiers for military merits, and Walpner earned it in Buchenwald, fighting defenseless prisoners with a stick and fists.

Schubert stopped and beckoned to someone with his finger. Gauvin saw an old man in the striped clothes of a political prisoner bending obsequiously before the Lagerführer. It was Kushnir-Kushnarev. The doctor could not stand this hired provocateur with a flabby face and the dull eyes of a drug addict. Gauvin knew that Kushnir-Kushnarev was a tsarist general and held the post of comrade minister in the Kerensky government. Thrown out by the October Revolution, he fled to Germany, where he squandered the remains of his fortune, went downhill, served as a doorman in a famous brothel, was bought by British intelligence and captured by the Gestapo. He led a miserable life in Buchenwald before the war with Soviet Russia. When Soviet prisoners of war began to arrive at the concentration camp, the former general became a translator, and then, having shown diligence, “received a promotion” - he became a provocateur.

Kushnir-Kushnarev handed Schubert some piece of paper. Gauvin, noticing this, listened to the conversation taking place outside the window.

“There are fifty-four of them here,” said Kushnir-Kushnarev. – There is material for everyone.

Lagerführer scanned the list and handed it to Walpner.

- Here's another penalty command for you. I hope it doesn't last more than a week.

The lieutenant hid the paper.

- Yavol! Will be done!

Schubert turned to the agent.

“No way, Herr Captain,” Kushnir-Kushnarev blinked his eyes in surprise.

“Then tell me, why did you come here?” Buchenwald is not a holiday home. We are unhappy with you. You're not doing a good job.

“I’m trying, Herr Captain.”

-Are you trying? Ha-ha-ha...” Schubert laughed. – Do you really think you’re trying?

Sunday, which the criminals were looking forward to, turned out to be unusually warm and sunny. At the appointed hour, at the far end of the camp, near a group of beech trees and a giant oak, the inhabitants of Buchenwald began to gather.

In the first rows around the makeshift ring, the green ones sat down right on the ground. They felt like they were masters of the situation. Today they will show, so to speak publicly, in front of thousands of prisoners what the superior, Aryan, race is. Strength is strength. And the nation possessing this superpower is called upon to rule the world. And those who do not bend before her will be broken.

And thousands of Soviet prisoners of war and prisoners of other nationalities came here to see an unknown Russian daredevil who decided to fight with criminals, to fight with his death.

The judge, political prisoner Frenchman Charles Ramsel, one of the old-timers of Buchenwald, was busy in the makeshift ring. In his youth, he boxed in professional rings for several years and acted as a judge.

The first to enter the ring was Georges, whose appearance was greeted by the Greens with deafening applause. The criminals were afraid of him and respected him for his strength. He was their idol. They claimed that Georges was the German champion.

Georges, showing off, walked across the entire ring to his corner. He did not sit down on the stool helpfully placed by the second, and, raising his hand, bowed to the audience. The professional boxer was in his element. It was impossible not to admire them. Broad-shouldered, slender, young. Under the delicate satin-white skin, obedient muscles roll in bulges. Each of them contains a reserve of explosive energy. Looking at his sleek, trained figure, thousands of prisoners were once again convinced that Georges and others like him were right in choosing Buchenwald instead of the Eastern Front.

Georges sincerely believed in the fascist theory of supermen, considered himself a purebred Aryan, born to rule over representatives of a lower race. He was in good standing with the SS men and served them conscientiously with his heavy fists.

He ended up in Buchenwald almost voluntarily, not wanting to go to the front. However, no one could blame him for cowardice, because Georges was not afraid of death. The reasons for desertion were deeper. The athlete, paradoxically, was not afraid of death, but of injury and injury. And not without reason. What awaited the one-armed boxer or the legless runner after the war? Georges thought all night and by morning he decided that behind the barbed wire he would be able to preserve both his hands and his health. Having come to this conclusion, Georges, as he put it, “broke the trouble.” In one of the Nazi committees, he attacked his leader, a major fascist sports figure, and beat him. But, giving vent to his fists, the boxer overdid it. The victim made a big noise. Georges was tried. Instead of the expected light punishment, he was given “politics,” as he said, and sent to life imprisonment in Buchenwald. But, despite such a harsh sentence, Georges cherished the hope of an amnesty after Hitler’s victory in the war.

Georges appeared in the ring wearing black silk shorts with a wide light rubber belt. The panties were decorated with an emblem: a black fascist swastika inscribed in a white circle. Georges had white leather boxers on his feet. He performed in this outfit at many famous matches.

Andrey entered the ring, thinking sadly. Three years ago, before the war, he passionately dreamed of joining the national boxing team of the Soviet Union and competing in international competitions. It seems his dream has come true. But did he dream of such an international match?

The Greens greeted Burzenko's appearance coldly. But the back rows, where the political ones were seated, applauded unanimously, and the noise of applause, growing, rolled towards the ring in a wide wave.

Andrei previously had no less beautiful and trained body than Georges. He is still broad-shouldered and slender, but rows of ribs are clearly visible on his powerful chest. Under the thin tanned skin, oblique stripes of muscles were visible - dry, dense and so prominent that you could at least study human anatomy from them. Thinness and exhaustion seemed to make Andrey shorter and weaker. One of the green ones shouted:

Georges, be careful, otherwise the skeleton will fall apart!

Go Go go! Ha ha ha! - swept over the first rows.

Andrei looked at his opponent, at his massive hands, carefully bandaged with an elastic bandage and gasped: “Oh, my head is in the garden, I was in the hospital, but forgot to ask for bandages... What now?”

Kostya Saprykin insistently squeezed his way to the ring from the back rows.

They made noise and tutted at him, but he stubbornly climbed.

Skip, skip...

As soon as Georges entered the ring, Saprykin noticed bandages on his hands. But he didn’t get them for his ward. Kostya immediately ran to the hospital.

Seeing that it was still impossible to get to the ring, Kostya handed the bandages to those sitting in front:

Tell the Russian boxer!

The bandages floated over their heads. Soon they were handed over to Andre's second, Harry Mittildorp. He quickly began to bandage his comrade's hands. Burzenko nodded his head to him with gratitude.

Judge Charles Ramsel tried to observe all the etiquette of international competitions. In the center of the ring, he laid out a white towel and put two pairs of boxing gloves on it. Then he called his seconds over and, after tossing a coin, played out the right to choose gloves. It went to Georges' second. He felt the gloves for a long time, wrinkled them and finally took one pair. Harry gave the second one.

Ramsel carefully checked the lacing of his gloves, making sure that the laces were tied at thumb- this is what the rules require. Then he turned to Georges' second:

Is the boxer ready?

The boxer is ready,” answered the second.

First round! - Charles solemnly announced and immediately the sound of a “gong” was heard, which was a piece of iron hanging on one of the stakes. A timekeeper sat next to him with an hourglass taken from the SS dispensary.

Georges, burying his head in his shoulders, rushed forward like a battering ram. Lights sparkled in his small eyes. He longed for a fight, wanted to quickly repay this Russian who dared to fight him. Georges promised his friends to show “real boxing class.”

And he showed it. The fighters met in the middle of the ring. As soon as they got close, Georges immediately, without preparation, without reconnaissance, launched a whole series of attacks on Andrei. These were not the random attacks of a beginner, nor the attack of an athlete who had lost his composure. No, Georges launched a complex cascade of combinations that were thought out and worked out over many years of training, each of which included a series of five or six different strikes. The gloves flashed in the air like black lightning.

Georges threw into battle, as the athletes say, his main forces. Advancing rapidly, he took into account that the enemy knew tactics and had high technical training, but was poorly prepared for the match - the hungry diet had done its job! This is what the wolf was counting on professional boxing. This was his main bet. Georges sought to demoralize his opponent with a stormy onslaught, break his will, and force him to retreat in disorder. Then, without giving him time to come to his senses, he chased him, drove him into the corner of the ring and several with strong blows suppress any attempt at resistance.

Andrey understood all this. Georges' onslaught was stunning, his hands worked like the levers of a machine gun. Andrey barely had time to defend himself, exposing his gloves, shoulders, and forearms to heavy blows. He defended himself with great skill and kept a close eye on Georges. By the barely noticeable movements of his shoulders, the rotation of his body, the rearrangement of his legs, Andrei guessed the moment of the next blow and instantly took measures to protect himself, he “drew” under the striking hand, skillfully crouched down so that the enemy’s glove passed right over the top of his head, barely touching his hair, he deflected into side, forced Georges to miss, or instantly transferred his body weight to his right leg, as if leaning back, and the enemy’s fist, aimed at the chin, beat the air.

Andrei waited for the attacks to end any moment, for the enemy to run out of steam. Minutes passed, the whirlwind of blows did not weaken, but seemed to increase. Individual blows sometimes began to break through the defense. Taking blows on oneself, pretending to be insensitive in order to deceive the enemy, was risky. Once upon a time, Andrei repeatedly used this, far from brilliant, but effective technique. But then everything turned out differently, and Burzenko was different. Now there is no time for effect. Responding to a flurry of blows with rare straight left blows, only one left, Andrei sought to slip out of the battlefield. Continuing to stay within striking distance became dangerous.

Georges understood Andrei's retreat in his own way and rushed after him. Burzenko retreated with quick sliding steps. It seemed to everyone that he was avoiding getting closer, avoiding battle.

The Russian is a coward! - the green ones screamed.

Finish him off!

Beat the goner!

But retreat in a fight in the ring is not flight, but a tactical technique, a maneuver. The Russian did not move back, but to the side. He walked away so that behind him there were not ropes, but most of the ring, free space, a wide field of actions and maneuvers. And Andrei skillfully maneuvered, slipped away, and made Georges often miss.

The audience had little understanding of the intricacies of boxing art. They saw Georges advancing, Georges attacking. This means that he is the master of the ring, he is the master of the situation. There was noise in the ranks of the green ones. The bandits exuberantly expressed their joy and shouted encouragement to their boxer.

The politicians watched in silence and “rooted” for Andrei. Kostya Saprykin was especially worried. When Levshenkov, Simakov and Küng approached and asked how the battle was going, Kostya hopelessly waved his hand.

And only a few prisoners who understood boxing sat spellbound. Before them, in this primitive ring, unfolded one of the most beautiful fights that they had ever seen, even at the largest international meetings. Two fighters, different in appearance, temperament and character, represented different boxing schools. Temperamental and persistent in achieving his goal, Georges was a typical representative of Western professional sports. His strategy was based on a clearly developed battle plan, which was based on strictly selected tactical elements, consisting of a number of well-practiced and automatic series of blows. Hands, trained for years, worked like the levers of a machine. The brain played the role not of a leader, but rather of a controller, who ensured that all parts of the machine worked smoothly, clearly, rhythmically and strictly carried out the accepted plan. No deviations, no changes. And, it seemed, woe to those who fall under these levers of a living machine gun!

Andrey represented the Soviet sports school. In contrast to Georges, he was deeply convinced that success in the ring, just like victory in a chess match, comes to those athletes who, during the battle, in the course of constantly changing situations, are able to unravel the opponent’s plan and oppose them with their own plan, more effective. Andrei believed that boxing is an art, the art of combat. And, like any art, it does not tolerate templates, imitations, or even pre-prepared schemes.

Maintaining composure as much as possible in battle, Andrei already knew all the enemy’s tactics and his technique of constructing serial strikes by the middle of the first round. They alternated with each other and were continuously repeated. In a stormy cascade of blows, Andrei saw what he had read about in boxing textbooks, in the books of memoirs of ring veterans, he saw what coaches had repeatedly talked about: Georges acted in a formulaic manner. Having started a combination, he always tried to carry it through to the end, regardless of whether the blows reached the target or not.

Burzenko took advantage of this. He quickly adapted to Georges' style, guessed the beginning of the next series of blows and instantly found the most advantageous defensive counteraction. Thus, retreating, taking steps now to the right, now to the left, he prevented and neutralized almost all of Georges’ blows. And at the same time, while defending himself, he managed to strike himself. They were rare, but accurate.

The sound of a gong separated the fighters. Georges, smiling at the audience, went to his corner and did not sit on the stool. Leaning his hands on the ropes of the ring, he did several squats. He didn’t even pay attention to his seconds, who began hastily fanning his face with a towel and running a damp sponge over his sweat-slick chest. He seemed to demonstrate his high fitness and endurance.

“He’s showing off,” Kostya Saprykin nodded angrily towards Georges.

No, this is not an act,” corrected Levshenkov, “but a mental attack that gets on your nerves.” “Look how I am, no amount of fatigue takes me!”

Burzenko sat on a stool, leaning his whole body on the corner of the ring. He put his tired hands on the ropes. A short minute. Only one minute - so little time to rest, to recuperate! Andrey half-closed his eyes, exposing his face to the fresh breeze. Harry Mittildorp waved the wet towel in rhythm with the boxer's breathing. How pleasant is his touch on the heated body!

Keep Georges at a distance,” whispered Harry, “exhaust him...

Andrey smiled. It's easy to say - exhaust! He only defended himself, avoiding exchanging blows, and how tired he was! Oh, if only he had met Georges not today, but two years ago. Then he would show real Russian boxing! And now the treacherous dizziness and nausea begin again. But only one round passed, only one...

Andrey opened his eyes. Directly in front of him in the corner is Georges. Powerful back, big hands. And Andrei hated him even more, his opponent, his enemy - well-fed, healthy, strong.

The sound of the gong raises Andrey. Georges hurries towards him with long strides. The first round did not satisfy him. Although outwardly, it seems that the plan is being carried out: he is chasing this Russian around the ring, he is continuously advancing. But he attacks without feeling like he is in control of the situation. He attacks, but not as much as he would like, he hits, but almost all the blows go in vain. The enemy keeps escaping. What the hell does that mean?

In the second round, Georges decided to drive Andrei into a corner at all costs: “It’s time to finish”... Covering his chin with his raised left shoulder and putting out his heavy fists, Georges rushed into a decisive attack.

Andrei hit him crosswise, hit him in the head with his left hand, from bottom to top. And then, as if after his left hand, he threw his right fist forward.

Georges' face turned red. The eyes were bloodshot. He stopped for a moment, as if perplexed, and rushed forward again.

Bravo! - the green ones screamed.

Andrey, turning pale, stepped towards Georges. They grappled in the center of the ring, clashed at mid-range, showering each other with a hail of blows. Georges hit more often. It seemed that he had turned into a hundred-armed man: his blows rained down from all sides.

But Andrei did not back down. Didn't leave. He fought! And this was enough for the political ones to finally express their feelings.

Pound the green ones!

And everyone understood: the decisive moment had come. Andrey has changed. He is completely collected, stingy in his movements and, at the same time, acts quickly, accurately and calmly. He is the will. He is one clenched fist. And, despite the blows that more and more often broke through the defense, Andrei stubbornly increased the pace of the battle. The pace increased every second. Thus, two oncoming waves collide and, without retreating, foam, boil and rush each other upward.

The audience noisily expresses their feelings. Both political and green people are worried, shouting, arguing. There is a continuous roar over the clearing. Twice the judge in the ring shouted “break” (“step back”) and shook his finger at Georges. He, violating the rules of the competition, hit Andrey with an open glove, elbowed him, pushed him, and even tried to kick him.

Punish him! - the political ones demand.

Down with the judge! - the criminals yell.

The atmosphere was heating up.

And Georges began to lose his composure, to lose control over his actions. His brain still accurately recorded what was happening, but did not have time to understand: what was happening!? Why does the Russian, who was running cowardly throughout the first round, not retreat, but goes towards his heavy blows? And why the hell don’t Georges’ fists hit the target? After all, the Russian’s chin is almost there...

The machine gun, trained for years, could not think or analyze the course of the battle. Especially in a battle with an extremely high tempo. Georges began to get angry. And the Russian “goner,” as Georges contemptuously called him, felt like a fish out of water. He found himself either to the right or to the left of Georges and was still in the center of the ring. Didn't back down. Didn't give in. And he invariably fought at a medium distance, at a distance that seemed advantageous to Georges and not advantageous to him, Andrei. What's going on? Which one is attacking? Who is defending himself? Who the hell is fighting?

Georges was momentarily confused. And he tried to leave the battlefield to look around and understand the situation. But I didn’t have time to do this.

The ability to wait in the ring is the basis of tactics, one of the foundations of the art of combat. Andrei, straining all his will, gathering all his energy and calmness, in a whirlwind of attacks, patiently waited, waited for this moment. I waited for Georges to forget about caution for a tenth of a second, to forget about protection. And this moment has come!

Before Georges could take a short step back, a blow to the body caught up with him. Georges instinctively lowered his hands down - he was used to Andrey striking with paired blows. But this time the blow to the body was a “feint” - a deception. As soon as Georges' hand slid down, at the same second Andrei's right glove drew a short semicircle of a side blow to the chin. Andrei put all his strength and hatred towards the enemy into this blow.

The blow was so fast that the spectators could not notice it. And for them it was completely unexpected and incomprehensible that Georges, absurdly waving his arms, began to fall to the ground...

Silence reigned in the clearing. It became so quiet that you could hear Andrei breathing heavily. He stood alone in the ring, his tired arms hanging down. Then, when Charles, waving his arm widely, counted out nine seconds and shouted “out,” the audience exploded. The Greens jumped up from their seats. How? The German champion, albeit a former champion, but still Aryan, German, the national pride of Buchenwald, lost to some Russian “goon”?!

But the whistles and shouts of the criminals were drowned in the applause of the political ones. They were celebrating!

They hugged Andrei, kissed him, and shook his hands. Friends and complete strangers congratulated him. Yes, it was a real victory, one of the most significant, perhaps the most important in his sports biography....

Boxers behind barbed wire

The basis for the image of the hero of G. Sviridov’s novel “The Ring Behind Barbed Wire” was the sports and combat fate of the boxing champion of Uzbekistan Andrey Borzenko. He was an artilleryman. He was captured seriously wounded. He ran three times and was caught. In Buchenwald, Borzenko became a member of an underground organization and participated in the preparation of an uprising in the death camp. And when the camp was liberated, he went to the front again. Andrei ended the war as he began, as an artilleryman. Later he became the chief surgeon in one of the Tashkent hospitals and a judge in the all-Union category.

From 1935 to 1938, the title of USSR flyweight champion was held by a student at the Moscow Institute of Physical Education Leon Temuryan. During the war, he, a company political instructor, was captured seriously wounded. He was tortured in the Dachau concentration camp, where Temuryan, along with other prisoners, continued to fight the Nazis.

Victor "Young" Perez(French Victor Young Perez, real name - Victor Younki (French Victor Younki). Born October 18, 1911, Hafsia, Tunisia, Tunisia, died March 21, 1945 in the Gleiwitz concentration camp.

Tunisian professional boxer who competed in the flyweight weight category. He is the WBA world champion.

Born in the Jewish quarter of the city of Tunis. From the age of fourteen he trained in the boxing section of the local community sports club "Maccabi". 1931 World Super Lightweight Boxing Champion. Since the 30s he lived in Paris. On September 21, 1943, he was captured by the Nazis and, as a foreign subject of Jewish origin, was transported first to the Drancy transit camp, and from there to Auschwitz. Killed on January 21, 1945 in the Gleiwitz concentration camp. In 2013, the film “The Cruel Ring” about the fate of a Jewish boxer was released on world screens.