First to the Front by Lorissa Rinehart

Author:Lorissa Rinehart
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

20

Imprisonment

DICKEY’S BOOTS SLOSHED through the same canal for a third time. The icy wind cut through her overcoat. In the clear night sky to their left, Ursa Major told them they were still traveling east. But north or south of where, Zoltan no longer knew. Somehow he had missed a major landmark that should have directed them onto the railroad tracks. They were undeniably lost.

Rocket bursts searched at random for wayward refugees. The flaring magnesium falling slowly to earth illuminated a tiny hamlet of thatched-roof homes ahead. They’d have to find a haystack to hide out in during the day, edging ever closer to the horizon. But there might be danger in this too.

“If I were a Red patrol sent out to comb these fields for people trying to escape,” Zoltan whispered, “I’d stay behind that haystack to keep out of the wind. I’ll scout the far side of the stack, you two wait here for a minute.”

Dickey and Ferenc watched him run into the darkness until the ragged pink stars of a tracer rocket exploded directly above them. Her feet involuntarily left the ground. Midair, she remembered her Marines training and fell flat onto her stomach. From twenty yards away an automatic rifle screamed its bullets toward them. Ferenc, who had not fallen, stepped forward toward the Soviet guns.

“Stoi!” shouted the submachine gunner. Russian for Stop.

Ferenc put his hands on his head. Dickey stood, now caked in mud, and followed suit. The guards walked them for another five miles, prodding their backs with gun barrels when their steps faltered. Dawn broke in slashes across the horizon. She had been walking for nine hours. At last they reached a farm that had been converted into an infantry command post. Dickey and Ferenc were thrown into an empty barn surrounded by barbed wire. One of the soldiers tossed two thin blankets on the ground before bolting the door. She and Ferenc shivered together, eating the chocolate bars and oranges they had brought with them.

Eventually, Dickey’s adrenaline crested and pulled back, dragging her into an uneasy sleep. The light seemed the same when she opened her eyes again. Cold and gray. Another guard brought them enamel plates of mashed potatoes, sausage, and sauerkraut. Dickey made herself eat as much as she could, well aware this might be her last meal for a long time.

Different guards entered. Unlike the skittish border patrolmen fresh out of basic training, these men carried themselves with disconcerting ease. The insignia on their uniform was one Dickey hadn’t seen.

“They are like your military police,” Ferenc whispered.

Again at gunpoint, Ferenc and Dickey were marched across an isolated field. The setting sun cast their shadows ten feet in front of them. It occurred to her that this would be the ideal location for an “administrative execution,” a term used for the extralegal murder of refugees by border guards. On the other hand, Dickey continued to speculate, they might be headed for the Soviet slave labor camps. Though this seemed unlikely given her American passport and the long distance to the nearest gulag.

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