[GK]Skin

I arrived in Manchuria just in time. Missed the entire war, but managed to catch the consequences.

Before the final curtain fell, a Soviet guard escorted me to a train. "We're going home," he said. I had to admire his sense of humor. It soon became apparent he meant his home. The temperature plummeted. The trees thinned out. Shortly after, I reported to the authorities as a guest of the Siberian Internment. According to the daily broadcast from the loudspeakers, this was where I would be reborn as a New Man.

This incredible process, however, involved a great deal of taiga and very little food or clothes. I learned from a fellow inmate how to make clothes and shelters from birch skins. I even learned to sip its sap. But I knew those weren't the reason why I could make it to the next spring, unlike a significant number of my fellow inmates who had completed their reforming classes and graduated into corpses. It was more likely owing to a miracle, that I had not. I'd seen Death's face on the darkest nights, and he'd chosen to wear the brightest aurora as a disguise. I knew I wouldn't survive another one.

One day, my partner and I were scouting for ideal sawing locations. We got lost. It seemed as good a time as any to grab such a chance. My companion agreed. Our new venture led us across a boundary that was, apparently, inadvisable to cross in the hindsight. The local proprietor was an old man in the woods—grumpy, allegedly insane, and damn good at shotting. He demonstrated this by shooting my partner in the head and me in the leg.

I fled my way back to the camp, just barely. The doctor, patching my leg, confirmed the local folklore. Yes, there was talk of an old hunter. A former Shtrafbat soldier in the Great Patriotic war, she said, someone who had got out of the Gulag but not entirely. Her advice was simple, that a man who survives both isn't a man you should cross path with. She finished stitching by hinting that my chances of survival were statistically better inside than out in the wild.

Yet, curiosity is a persistent parasite. I figured a way to justify my return trip. I had to retrieve my late companion's remains. He'd mentioned that his wedding ring should be sent to his wife. Very sentimental, but not where my heart laid on. I was more touched by the fact the ring was made of gold.

A week later, I wandered back to the same location. Although I found no decaying body or fresh grave, just a trail of unnatural flourishing where blood had soaked the soil. It led me to a small log cabin.

My pulse quickened. That must be the old hermit's lair.

The camp's stories resurfaced. Someone said his face was a horror, as if a cannon had gone off in it. They whispered that a nurse’s child once saw him washing hands in the river, caked with redness so thick it wouldn't rinse. He came to town every few weeks to trade furs. The procurement officers were men of legendary greed, but they never dared to ask him for a "brokerage" fee.

The fur trade, I reasoned, was a money-spinning business. And what does a lone man in the woods spend all his rubles on? Vodka. And more vodka. I knew the gold ring alone wouldn't buy my way home, but with the old man's fortune, it might just reinvent the odds.

Why I even wanted to go home was another question. I didn't have any relatives alive, or any method to make a living in the bomb wrecked homeland. Perhaps the answer could be simple as the fear of not surviving the brutal nature here.

I didn't charge the cabin right away. If the old hunter was inside, he'd simply add me to his collection of woodland pests. So, for the next few days, I conducted reconnaissance.

Although time was running out, as our work was nearly finished here. Once the forestry was cleared, we'd be moved. Rumors said we could be sent to railway construction site, where conditions were worse, and guards were tighter. My window was closing.

Finally, I found a pattern. The old man hunted early in the week, went to town on Wednesday, and barricaded himself in his cabin for the remaining days. What he did in there, no one knew. I didn't care. I just needed him out.

The following week, just as I was about to slip into the tree line after my shift, a voice called my name. It was the kindest doctor. She had procured a penicillin shot for my leg. I was astonished. Such medicine was never wasted on someone of my station. She explained it was no great favor in the Soviet Union, as the society they were building would be abundant and inclusive for all. I could smell the ideological conditioning, but I thanked her. Internally, I cursed the missed opportunity.

Departure was imminent. I could not afford another week.

Two windows of opportunity presented themselves. Tuesday afternoon, before the old hunter returned from the woods. Or Wednesday, though that was market day, and my functional Russian skill made me a prime candidate for town errands. I decided I could afford two attempts. If Tuesday failed, I would still try again Wednesday.

That Tuesday, I worked with uncharacteristic speed. My leg, it seemed, had finally decided to heal. By my shift's end, the sun remained obstinately above the horizon. I realized, in the hindsight, that spring had quietly melted into an early summer. I wasn't earlier. The days were simply longer.

I returned my tools and informed the guard of my customary "small walk." He offered a half-hearted nod. They had all silently agreed that a disabled prisoner of war poses no flight risk.

I went to my hiding spot, retrieved the broken axe head I had filed into a primitive but handy tool, and started toward the house.

Excellent. No one home.

A heavy lock sat on the main door. I could likely hack through it with my half-axe, but the resulting noise would be… attracting attention. There was a smaller door nearby, presumably for a home pet, but still too small for an underweight grown human.

I circled the structure. The window, however, was promising. It was latticed, but the lock itself was a simple latch and bolt. A piece of metal wire solved the problem with minimal trouble. I then performed the undignified act of climbing through the lattice.

From the outside, the hunter's cabin had all the charm of a rotten stump. Inside, however, was a different story.

I landed on a solid dining table, disturbing a clay vase of dried flowers. Along the windowsill stood a small menagerie of carved wooden animals—horses, dogs, birds. It was… tidy. This did not align with my image of the old man, whom I pictured steaming in his own filth and alcohol.

Then I remembered why I got here.

The cabin was small, divided into a living area and a bedroom. My eyes began their search. In rural Russia, if anyone was looking for valuables, they should look for an altar. But the Soviets tend to frown on both religion and personal wealth, so just mostly as I expected, I didn't find gilded cross or silver candlesticks. I did note, however, the distinct absence of any portrait of our Great Soviet Fathers. It seemed the old man didn't believe in anything. This might actually be good news for me. It suggested his faith was in cash.

The living area housed a large cabinet, secured by another formidable lock. I tested it. It held. My logic told that most people don't leave their life's savings in the guest room—not that this old man was expecting any company. I decided the cabinet could wait. The bedroom felt more promising.

The bedroom was a cramped, windowless box. I had to fumble for a match and light an oil lamp to see. In the corner sat a small, handmade chest. It looked delicate, but it only took a single blow from my axe to get rid of its lock.

The contents were a bit disappointing. I thought there might be valuable items, judging from the intricate patterns on the chest.

I found a few tarnished medals dating all the way back from the Imperial days. White Army's, even. Possessing them seemed like an excellent way to earn his way back to the re-education camp. Beneath them were a stack of yellowed photographs. I glanced at the strangers' faces before tossing them back. They looked they're having fun, but fun had always had little to do with me.

At the bottom, I found a small, heavy pouch. I opened it. Inside, nothing but gritty, dirty sand. Useless. My pockets only had limited room.

Then, finally, with a surge of genuine excitement, I found the old man's wallet.

It was fat. But not with Soviet rubles. It was filled with Japanese Yen. To be specific, Meiji-era Yen. The paper was so antique that I could barely hold it without breaking it. Technically, it was money. Realistically, it was nothing. Given the inflation, its total value might just buy a stash of paper of the same size.

Frustration set in, but I had to encourage myself to keep looking. I looked under the bed, and it paid off.

I saw a long case. Inside, there's a rifle. Even better, a box of bullets.

I knew for a fact I'm a competent shooter. While I’ve had regrettably few opportunities to use that skill, both before and after the world war ended, the prospect of carrying it on my escape was rather promising.

I lifted it out. I wasn't just surprised at the fact it wasn't a Russian model but an Arisaka, but also the well-preserved status it was in. We still use the type, but this was an earlier model. I noted the absence of the hood designed for the Manchurian climate. I wondered where the old man got it. Given his age, it could have been from the Russo-Japanese War. Though, was the Type 38 even in service then?

So far, I'd found nothing of actual value. I could, of course, sell the rifle. The thought was physically painful. Besides, trying to sell it in any Soviet-controlled shop would be a succinct way to get myself in trouble. And its value as currency was likely less than its value in acquiring currency—robbery, for example, or hunting, if I decided to be more careful. More careful, however, sounded like work. The idea of traipsing through the woods was off-putting. But it did spark a more efficient thought.

I turned to the old man's closet. Another inmate once swore he saw him in the woods wearing his furs, and nearly fainted, mistaking him for a bear. This meant I could simply acquire the furs from his closet, bypassing the entire tedious hunting process.

The lock gave way without much protest. Inside, I spotted the bear skin right away. My fellow inmate hadn't been hallucinating. It was thick, black, and unnervingly warm to the touch, as if the bear’s body heat had yet to dissipate. Someone had lined it with cloth and, in a small pocket, left a few forgotten coins.

I tossed the pelt on the bed. Its weight was concerning for a long journey, but if I could only take one, this was the one.

A search of the other clothes proved the old man had a casual relationship with his money as I soon found a few more coins in the pockets. He also had a collection of thick coats. A shame I hadn't raided the place sooner. If I could have obtained them earlier, I wouldn't have to suffer from the cold. Might have even prevented a few deaths last winter.

Then again, the coats were old. Not just old, but ancient, the kind of relics an old person accumulates because they can't bear to part with anything, even a military coat that clearly predated the Great War.

I held one up. The color was ambiguous in the dim light, somewhere between grey and dirt. The texture, however, was good, solid wool. Not the synthetic rubbish we have now. The old man must have worn it everywhere, through every patch of mud and field of grass. The fine hairs of the wool were all worn away, polished down by a lifetime of use. And there were stains that would never come out. On second thought, that probably wasn't mud at all.

I almost reached for another coat when I noticed another whole set of uniform beneath. Except the uniform looked out of place. I didn't know any Russian troops who wore that color. Marines, perhaps?

I knew I should have moved on, not wasting time on that, but curiosity got the better of me.

I pushed the heavy Russian coat aside. And there it was. Kanji on the lapels.

Well. That was unexpected. A full set of Meiji-era Japanese uniform, tucked inside an Imperial Russian military coat.

I was speechless. The set was complete—jacket, trousers, gaiters, shoes, everything. It was almost in a mint condition, aside from a few holes that had been stitched back together. The old man's own handy work, no doubt, because the sewing was terrible. There were old stains, too. On the jacket, they just looked dark. On the gaiter, the blood stain was clearer, leaving a yellowed ring around a bullet hole.

I checked the pockets. Empty, save for a small pouch of dried herbs. It smelled faintly pleasant, probably to keep the moths out. He'd put considerable effort into maintaining this. It looked like it was still ready to be worn again. Not by him, though. The uniform was far too small for his frame. It would have fit me perfectly, back before the labor camp shaved me down to bone and skin.

Against my better judgment, I started putting on the shirt and jacket. The wool was surprisingly comfortable. I reasoned that my current uniform was not only threadbare but also conspicuous in an open field. But then I reconsidered a full picture of a man with Asian face in a Meiji uniform carrying an Arisaka rifle. The Soviets must connect dots to dots in no time. So I found a folded cloth to tie it around my shoulders like a poncho.

I counted the money I had collected so far. Not nearly enough. If I could find one of the indigenous hunters, I might trade the bear skin. Perhaps for a horse. With a horse, I could reach the railway. Then I could get to Vladivostok, sneak onto a ferry—

And then I would be home.

The thought almost made me smile. A dry, hollow sound, however.

In theory, the route is simple. In practice, I have no papers to get me past a single guard or secret policeman. Even citizens can't travel freely, and what chance does a prisoner of war have?

And even if I did make it back... where would I go?

Before I was drafted, our farm was already gone. Grandfather claimed he was too old to work the land, but we both knew the sale was what paid for my school. Then the house was sold, and he moved to a small cottage, telling me how it suited his love for hunting and fishing in the wildness.

Before I could finish my schooling, a man from the village brought the money from his auction. He hadn't left much. So I left school and joined the army.

If I returned, I wouldn't even have the army salary, however meagre it was.

In the labor camp, rarely anyone could be allowed to write or call home, except once for one man who had bribed his way. When he came back from his call, everyone crowded around, asking how it was.

He looked grim.

"My father said it was an embarrassment that I didn't have the honor to die a war hero," he said, his voice flat. "Or the shame to know better than to keep on living. I should never have called."

He died that winter.

 

 

At least I wouldn't have anyone to disappoint. I supposed.

I did know a few people in high ranks, however impossible as it might sound. It was likely because of my marksmanship. One day when we were still in the Kwantung Army camp, I was called to present myself before a high-ranking officer. A general.

Of course I was sweating, but I managed to hold my pose.

The general didn't speak. He just examined me, the way a man might look at the most peculiar creation. He said something to his deputy in a thick dialect I couldn't understand.

The deputy, an older, calmer man, still had that look of clinical amazement. "Show us, Private."

I never knew if they liked the performance. When it was over, every shot had found its mark. But they never spoke to me again. Even if they had plans to promote a talented soldier, the war's end neatly aborted them.

Here in the camp, our Soviet teachers have been very thorough. Russian language, for starters. But the most important lessons were in the thought correction classes. They told us many things. That the world wasn't created by a god. That the Japanese nation was enslaved by generals and emperors. That it was now enslaved by the Americans. They even showed us pictures from Hiroshima to make the point.

The classes were never comfortable, but I learned to keep my reactions to myself. Then one day they brought in a small box that played moving pictures. Most of the class fell into a grim silence during the trial footage. I just felt detached. It was a long, tedious tape, and after a full day of labor, the struggle was to keep my eyes open.

Then I saw a familiar face. I actually gasped.

"Sorry, sir," I apologized to the teacher. "That's our 7th divisional commander."

So much for my high-ranking connections. I supposed he was lucky not to be important enough to hang. Though I imagined his current situation in an American camp wasn't much better than mine.

I stood before the closet with the Arisaka in my hands, and sighed. I hate to admit it, but at least here I have a roof. It's no mystery why the camp is more… generous to us young, unmarried soldiers. They know there's a fair chance we'll just stay.

The early summer must have gotten into my head. I'd forgotten how cold the winter was.

I tied the bear fur into a bundle and looked for some string. I slammed the closet door shut, and the sound confused me. Like a door being opened just in time to hide within the sound of my own.

Then I heard the distinct metallic click of a safety catch being disengaged behind my back.

I swallowed. And waited for the instruction.

Maybe he'd let me live. Maybe he wouldn't. Either way, it would cause him no more trouble than swatting a fly. Just the way he'd dealt with my partner.

But no instruction came. I knew I hadn't misheard. The presence behind me was a solid, silent weight. I let my rifle clatter to the floor and raised my hands. The axe, still hanging on my back, was hidden by the poncho. I began to turn, very slowly.

The old man was a professional. He didn't flinch as I turned. He just stood there, his hunting rifle's muzzle hovering an inch from my face. I looked past it, refraining from stepping back, and got my first good look at him.

I had my expectations. I was braced for a face barely held together by scar tissues, even exposing bones. The first thing I noticed, however, were the eyes. They were sharp and unnervingly intense, the kind you only see in an animal turning away from domestication or a man from sanity. Then my gaze traveled downward, taking in the rest of the ruin.

He moved then, but only to pull the mask attached to his hat down over his distorted features. He stared at me, and for a fleeting moment, there was a flicker of confusion in his eyes. It vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a slow, resigned shake of his head, as if he was reminding himself of a simple, impossible truth.

He gestured with the rifle, not at me, but at the uniform I was wearing. Of course. He wouldn't want his carefully preserved relics stained with fresh blood. He wanted me to take it off. A request I had no intention of obliging at the moment.

"You're home earlier," I said, slowly, enunciating each word in Russian, just in case my pronunciation was off.

 

 

The old man grunted, a low sound of impatience. I gestured toward the fur. "That's all I took."

He didn't even glance at it. It appeared the expensive bear skin meant nothing to him, not compared to the uniform. He jabbed the rifle muzzle against my chest, eager to have his precious relic back.

And that the precise reason I wouldn't give it back.

I took a few steps back, until my back found the wall, and I began to edge sideways, the rifle tracking my every move. "Why do you want it?"

His mask revealed nothing.

"A trophy?"

I did the math in my head. He must have been very young when he first laid hands on it.

My boot heel came down on something hard. The Arisaka. Another one of his cherished artifacts.

I looked the old man in the eye, allowed a faint, cold smile to touch my lips, and in one fluid motion, I reached behind my back for the axe. I brought it down hard on the rifle's stock.

A raw, choked sound ripped from his throat. He hunched over, his hands frantically scrambling for the broken pieces, completely forgetting the functional rifle he still held.

I didn't. I scooped his Mosin from the floor. It was an old model, but still functional, more importantly, still loaded. I smiled, leveling it at the old man crumpled on the ground.

I could pull the trigger. It would be easy, but that felt like a waste of a perfectly good bargaining position.

"Where's your money?" I said, the words quick and sharp. He could understand. People always understand when the barrel is pointed at them.

The old man understood, but he didn't speak. He just shrugged.

He reached slowly into his jacket. Before I could adjust the rifle, he pulled out a small, grimy notebook and a stub of pencil.

No money, he wrote.

I remembered the nasty gash hidden under his mask. Maybe the man couldn't speak at all. This was getting annoying. It's much harder to tell if someone's lying in writing.

"Don't lie. We saw you trade in the town." I frowned at the way his eyes were fixed on me, absorbing every word with an unnerving intensity. It was uncomfortable, being stared at with that kind of focus. "Where is that money?"

The man nodded and began to push himself to his feet. I noticed the slight tremor in his knees and wondered how old he truly was. Fifties? Sixties? He lived alone, but that didn't mean he was without ties. He might have been sending rubles to a grandson studying in the city, if he had one.

But he kept writing. Hobby.

My eyebrow twitched. It would have to be quite a hobby for a man to sink all his money into it, especially with most vices being prohibited in this reign. I hadn't seen any bottles lying around, contrary to the rumors. His collection of military antiques from both sides of a forgotten war felt too personal to be from any market. I wouldn't doubt if he had peeled them from a body by hand, the way a hunter skins a deer.

The hunter shifted as if to walk, and I immediately adjusted the muzzle. He just waved a dismissive hand and started moving, out of the bedroom and towards the massive cabinet in the living area.

I had no choice but to follow.

The old man fumbled at his belt and produced a chain of keys. He selected a dull, insignificant one and began to work on the lock of the cabinet.

I stood. Whatever his secret hobby was, if these things held any value at all, I might still profit.

There were… rolls of paper.

A profound disappointment settled over me. These weren't the compact, promising shapes of banknotes or land deeds. They were large, cumbersome canvases.

And he didn't stop there. He unrolled one with a flourish, ensuring I saw the pencil doodles scrawled across it. They were not, I noted with a dry internal sigh, the kind of masterpiece that could be converted into food.

 

He held the edges of the paper with undue care and turned to me, expecting my judgement.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Very..." I let my gaze drift over the smudged landscape. A wobbly mountain, a lake, some sickly trees, and a train hidden between the trees. "...unexpected."

The old man peeked at me several times, clearly waiting for a sonnet of praise to fall from my lips. I didn't offer him anything more than silence.

Then he wrote on a scrap of paper. "1000 rubles."

I looked at the number, then at his earnest face, then back at the doodle. He began to roll the sketch up then handed it to me, using his own shitty artwork like some form of banknotes.

I took a step back, as if the paper roll was a loaded weapon.

"How exactly am I to sell this?" I nearly shouted. "Do you think some art-loving philanthropist is just waiting in the street to buy it?"

The old man looked momentarily chastised, as if he'd forgotten this minor logistical detail. He moved to the dinner table, pulled out a chair with unsettling calm, and began to write, utterly unfazed by the rifle trained on his back.

"Dear Boris: I have reconsidered your offer from last month. I cannot part with my most precious child. This one, however, you professed to admire. Give the Japanese boy 1200 rubles, and we may renegotiate. V. V. Pavlichenko."

I didn't care for the "Japanese boy" designation, but my objections were cut short as Mr. Pavlichenko produced a small envelope and began putting an address on it.

"I suppose," I said coldly, "I could ask for a one-hundred percent errand fee."

The old man just shrugged and nudged the envelope toward me. Then he looked up, his expression one of plain, hopeful expectation.

 

 

 

 

And in that moment, the connection snapped back into place. I saw his eyes for what they truly were. They might have once belonged to a cold murderer. But the man before me was now… weak. Pathetically, profoundly lonely. He would be obedient, not merely because of the gun in my hands, but because he had long since lost the thrill that came when his finger curled around a trigger and the sights settled on something fresh and living.

"I'm spending the night here," I declared, gesturing at him with the rifle. "Go cook me dinner."

While he worked, I didn't relax. I listened for patrols, for any sound out of place. The old man himself was no longer a concern. I'd decided that. He methodically skinned a grouse, throwing it into a pot with potatoes and onions.

The resulting stew was a bland, overcooked mush. Old Pavlichenko then proceeded to mash it further, mixing in sour cream until it reached a consistency he could scoop and maneuver into his ruined mouth.

"What happened to that?" I asked, not expecting a coherent answer while he was occupied with the laborious chewing.

He lifted a hand, pinched at nothing in the air, and brought it slowly toward his scarred cheek, making a soft, whistling "pew" sound with his lips. Then his hand snapped to the other side of his face, fingers splaying open with a final "bam."

Very humorous. So, just a bullet, something that could be expected from an old veteran.

He seemed to think his little performance was a grand success, judging by my faint smile. So he smiled back. It was a horrifying sight, the holes in his cheeks stretching, the wrinkles around his eyes and forehead deepening. I hadn't noticed them much before. With his face usually covered, I'd been distracted by his eyes, still a clear, startling blue, peering out from between the grey hair and the mask. Or perhaps it was due to an eternal bachelorship, the man who never became a husband or a father, clinging to a sort of childish carelessness even as he was approaching his deathbed.

After the unsatisfying dinner, the old man produced a porcelain jug and opened it before me. I reached in and grabbed a handful of ring-shaped breads.

He made a series of odd gestures I didn't understand. Then, with an impatient sigh, he grabbed my wrist and threaded bread rings directly onto my fingers, demonstrating that I was meant to eat them right off my hand.

"Thanks... I suppose," I mumbled as he drizzled honey onto a small plate and turned to boil water.

The whole situation felt absurd. I still clutched the Mosin, but the gesture was now purely perfunctory. This man was practically my grandfather's age, and it wasn't entirely out of left field for him to treat me like a child. He even poured my tea, set it on the table, and then just... left the room.

I found him outside, crouched in the dim light, methodically plucking feathers from more birds. Two rabbits and a scrawny fox lay beside him. Not a great haul for two days. I suppose that's how aging works, that everything you were once good at just slowly fades. There's persistent tremor in his hands as he worked.

I gave a dry snicker. "Do you need help with that?"

Pavlichenko had known I was there the whole time. He simply handed me a small skinning knife from his belt—one I'd completely overlooked. Slowly, I set the Mosin on the ground. He didn't even glance at it. His eyes were fixed on my hands as I opened the rabbit. Not a drop of blood was wasted before the fur came away in one piece.

He gave an approving nod.

Feeling a need to explain myself, I said, "My grandfather taught me. He was a hunter, too."

The words were a mistake. One does not bond with a hostage. One does not complicate a straightforward dynamic by involving elderly relatives. They get the wrong idea.

I finished skinning the rest in silence.