The road came to an abrupt end near Sossienki.
From the center of the district, it stretched here like a dusty, battered ribbon, winding between ravines, plunging behind thickets, then, near the old fir forest, seemed to hit an invisible wall and disappear. Beyond it began only narrow paths—forest trails, animal trails, partisan trails.
The cart in which Arkhip Petrovitch was traveling jolted constantly over the roots. The old, wrinkled coachman remained almost silent the whole time. It was only when the first blackened rooftops of the village appeared in the distance that he spat to one side and said in a low voice:
— You’re wrong to come here, good man. This is no longer a good place.
Arkhip did not reply.
He stared straight ahead, and his heart sank uncomfortably.
Sossienki had once been his home.
Seven years earlier, he had left here for Minsk and joined the criminal police. At the time, the village was completely different: in the morning, you could smell freshly baked bread, the forest smelled of resin, children shouted in the street, and the young investigator was greeted by almost the entire village.
Today, a heavy, almost deathly silence reigned between the izbas.
The wind was blowing shreds of dry hay along the road.
Somewhere far beyond the river, a muffled explosion rumbled.
The earth barely trembled beneath the horse’s hooves.
« They’re bombing the fuel depots again, » muttered the coachman, crossing himself. « Third night in a row. It’s like they’re setting their watches. »
Arkhip adjusted the old satchel resting on his knees.
Inside, under the lining, was hidden a document bearing the seal of the Special Section.
It stated that Morozov Arkhip Petrovitch was going to the area of the village of Sossienki to carry out a special mission, and that all military and civil authorities were required to facilitate the task of the bearer of the document.
Below was a short note from Major Belkine:
« Find the man emitting the signals. Deadline: fourteen days. Any delay will cost lives. »
The name Morozov was incorrect.
In reality, Arkhip’s name was Chapovalov.
But only the oldest inhabitants could still remember him. And they probably believed him to be dead somewhere near Viazma.
A simple legend had been prepared for him.
Back after an injury. Concussion. Determined to restore the old family beehive near the Tchauve stream.
The apiary definitely existed.
Admittedly, the beehives had been empty for a long time, and the courtyard was overgrown with nettles up to the waist.
But for a cover, it was perfect.
« Stop here, old fellow, » said Arkhip, touching the coachman’s shoulder. « I’ll continue on foot. »
The old man held his horse, looked at his passenger with a displeased expression, but did not argue.
A few minutes later, the cart disappeared around the bend.
Arkhip remained alone.
The silence immediately became almost tangible.
He walked slowly down the street, carefully observing the few people present.
We were staring at him surreptitiously.
Some, it seemed, genuinely recognized him.
An old woman in a black headscarf, seeing Arkhip, crossed herself in fear, as if a ghost had just appeared before her.
Near the well stood an auxiliary police officer.
Arkhip immediately understood who he was dealing with.
The black German-pattern uniform hung on the man like a sack. A rifle was leaning against the well’s edge.
The policeman was tall, broad-shouldered, with a heavy lower jaw and cloudy eyes — either from drinking or chronic lack of sleep.
It was Makar Jiline.
Noticing the stranger, he suddenly sat up and came to meet him.
« Halt! » he barked. « Who are you? Where did you come from? »
« Morozov, » Arkhip replied calmly. « Beekeeper. My farm is near the Tchauve stream. I’ve come back to restore the farm. »
— A beekeeper, then…
Jiline gave an unpleasant snicker.
— And does the beekeeper have papers? We’re at war, after all. Who knows who’s hanging around here. These days, all sorts of woodland visitors like to pretend to be honest folk.
He burst out laughing, and Arkhip smelled alcohol.
Without hurrying, he took out the certificate he had prepared in advance.
Jiline examined it at length, ran her finger over the lines, then handed it back.
— Go. But remember this, Morozov: if you get caught doing anything, I’ll kill you myself. I won’t even argue.
The policeman grabbed his rifle and strode away.
Arkhip followed him with his eyes.
Everything about Jiline’s attitude seemed overdone.
The scream.
The threats.
The drunkard’s grin.
Like a bad actor trying too hard to play the villain, for fear that the audience won’t understand his role.
Arkhip took a few more steps.
And suddenly he heard a child’s voice behind him, weak:
— Uncle Arkhip… is that really you?
A red-haired boy of about twelve years old appeared from behind the fence.
Covered in freckles, thin, in a faded shirt.
Arkhip didn’t recognize him right away.
— Timochka?
The boy approached cautiously.
When Arkhip left the village, he was still just a small child.
« Alive, then, » smiled Arkhip.
« Alive for now, » the boy replied gravely. « But you’d better stay away from Uncle Makar. He’s nasty now. Especially when he’s been drinking. »
— Does he drink often?
Timochka glanced around him.
— Almost every day. But there’s something strange…
He moved closer.
— When Uncle Makar is completely drunk, shouting, chasing his wife around the yard, frightening everyone—at our house, it’s usually quiet. The Germans don’t come. But if he’s sober for two days and walks in silence—then, disaster strikes soon. A raid, or someone’s taken away.
Arkhip felt something stir with suspicion within him.
Too precise a regularity.
This could not be a coincidence.
— Thank you, Timofei.
He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
— Just don’t tell anyone that you know me.
– Understood.
Timochka instantly disappeared behind the fence.
Arkhip looked towards the forest.
Behind the trees was his old farmhouse.
The sun was already setting, and long shadows crossed the road, like the dark bars of a huge gate.
The fire on the old bell tower.
The farm welcomed Arkhip with a smell of dampness and abandonment.
The house was leaning, the roof shingles had blackened, several windows gaped open, empty. In the yard, among the weeds, stood abandoned beehives.
About fifteen.
Cold.
Empty.
Dead.
Arkhip chose the room where the stove was still standing, dragged some straw into it and threw his greatcoat over it.
Compared to the trenches near Smolensk, the conditions were almost luxurious.
He had no intention of sleeping anyway.
When the village was finally plunged into darkness, Arkhip left the house and, through the forest, returned to Sossienki.
He wanted to see everything with his own eyes.
The moon was low and yellow.
Such lighting made observation easier, but also made it easy to be spotted.
Arkhip walked along the edge of the forest, using the shadows of the trees, until he reached a hill covered with hazel trees.
From there, the village was almost entirely visible.
Sossienki was asleep.
Only the lamp in Makar Jiline’s house was lit.
Arkhip took out his binoculars.
The windows were covered, but light filtered through the gaps.
After a while, a woman’s scream rang out.
Then a dull thud.
A silence followed.
The door opened suddenly.
Jiline went out onto the porch.
No cap, shirt unbuttoned.
He staggered, grabbed onto the railing, and doubled over.
Then he got up, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, shouted something incoherent and disappeared back into the house.
Arkhip frowned.
Too strong.
Too ostentatious.
Too convenient for those who were supposed to see an ordinary drunkard and a domestic tyrant.
A comedy.
He pointed his binoculars towards the other end of the village.
There stood a half-ruined church.
The roof had collapsed in several places, the cross had been leaning for a long time.
And suddenly, a shadow passed near her.
A woman.
Small in size.
In a dark headscarf.
Arkhip recognized Klava, Jiline’s wife.
She glanced behind her several times, then slipped inside the bell tower.
A few minutes later, a faint glow appeared at the top.
She blinked.
Three brief bursts.
A pause.
Two long ones.
Three more briefs.
A signal.
No doubt.
Arkhip froze.
We were transmitting coordinates.
Shortly afterwards, far in the night sky, a low, heavy rumble arose.
Airplanes.
Arkhip tightened his binoculars.
Now, the picture seemed clear.
The policeman.
His wife.
The signals from the bell tower.
German aviation.
But one detail gave him no peace.
Why did Jiline let his wife do that?
Why was she doing it, quite simply?
Money?
Fear?
Blackmail?
Arkhip had worked as an investigator for too long to be satisfied with the first convenient explanation.
Especially when it seemed too simple.
The rumor that was supposed to work.
For the next three days, Arkhip conscientiously worked to play the role of the beekeeper.
He repaired beehives.
He was hitting things with his hammer.
He was mowing down the nettles.
He was repairing the roof.
He even found some families of wild bees in the forest and tried to transplant them into the old hives.
Soon, the courtyard was truly filled with the scent of honey.
In the evening, however, he would walk around the village.
He asked one of them for salt.
From one match to another.
Water to a third party.
He was talking.
He mostly listened.
There was a lot of talk about Makar Jiline.
He was hated.
We feared it.
But sometimes, strangely, people felt sorry for him.
Makar’s eldest son, Piotr, had disappeared at the very beginning of the war.
The younger brother, Vania, had been taken by the Germans to a camp, somewhere near Baranovitchi.
After that, the locals said, Makar had changed a lot.
He had started drinking.
Then, suddenly, he had gone to serve in the police force.
« The man has lost his way, » whispered old Fekla. « He has forgotten God. He has forgotten his conscience. All he does now is go to the old church. That’s where, it seems, he hides his bootlegged alcohol. »
Arkhip pricked up his ears.
The church.
This same church.
Gradually, a plan took shape in his mind.
Dangerous.
Rude.
But he saw no other way to verify Jiline.
Timochka could help again.
The boy came to the farm, and Arkhip settled him near the beehives, giving him a small piece of honeycomb.
— Listen carefully. I have a case for you.
Timochka immediately stopped chewing.
– Which ?
— Tomorrow, you will go to the miller’s. You will say in passing that, last night, you saw armed men near my farm.
— Supporters?
— Don’t say that. Let them decide for themselves.
Arkhip paused briefly.
— Then you will add that these men went towards the old church.
Timochka is thinking.
— And why?
— Because we need to see who’s going to worry.
The boy nodded, although he clearly didn’t understand everything.
— And another thing. If they ask you what people were carrying, say it was some kind of crate.
– Which ?
— Maybe a radio.
— So there was a radio?
– No.
Arkhip looked him in the eyes.
— But in twenty-four hours, the whole village must be convinced that she is here.
A cunning malice appeared on Timochka’s face.
This time, he understood the mission.
— I will do it.
By the following evening, the rumor had already taken on a life of its own.
Some claimed that there was a radio station under the church.
Others spoke of a secret arms cache.
A third man swore that there was an underground tunnel leading directly to the forest.
At noon, a mysterious man from Moscow arrived, supposedly to command all the partisans in the region.
Arkhip was watching Jiline.
The policeman had changed.
He did not drink that day.
His face was somber.
He hardly spoke to anyone.
And he kept looking towards the church.
Towards evening, Arkhip already knew what he would do the following night.
When the trap closed,
it was cold and damp in the old church.
Arkhip had already set up camp on the remains of the wooden platform.
From there, the room was clearly visible.
In the darkness, the observer himself was almost impossible to spot.
In his pocket was a captured pistol.
Next to it was a small lamp whose slot he had narrowed with paper.
An hour passed.
Then another one.
Arkhip was starting to freeze.
And suddenly, the front door creaked, barely audibly.
He was instantly on his guard.
Someone had entered.
The steps were cautious.
The person was walking straight towards the altar.
A second later, a flashlight lit up below.
A narrow beam slid across the floor, the old planks, the broken icons.
Then he stopped near the place where, according to widespread rumor, the radio was located.
Arkhip lit his lamp.
— Stop!
He jumped down.
The figure turned around abruptly.
And Arkhip froze.
Jiline was not standing in front of him.
Klava.
She curled up, covering her face with her hands.
She had no shoes on her feet.
A torn old fur coat was thrown over his shoulders.
« Don’t shoot, » the woman murmured. « Please… »
Arkhip slowly lowered his weapon.
— Why did you come?
Klava fell silent.
— Why are you sending signals from the bell tower?
She suddenly raised her head.
In the lamplight, Arkhip saw his face.
One cheek was swollen.
The split lip.
A huge blue mark under the eye.
But even more terrible than the blows was his gaze.
This is how people who have long since stopped waiting for salvation see things.
« You don’t understand anything, » the woman murmured. « If I stop, it will all be over. »
— What will be finished?
She began to tremble.
He will kill him…
— Makar?
– No !
Klava almost screamed.
— Makar is not guilty!
Arkhip grabbed her by the shoulders.
— So who?
She looked at him for a few seconds.
Then he uttered, barely audibly:
— The Gestapo.
Tears streamed down the woman’s face.
— They have our Vania. Our youngest son. They are keeping him in a camp near Baranovichi.
Arkhip did not interrupt him.
— When Makar was forced into service, they told him: do everything you’re ordered, and the boy will stay alive. Then a German officer came. Kramer. He said that for every precise signal, Vania would receive bread and medicine. And if the coordinates turned out to be wrong…
Klava covered his mouth with his hand.
– What ?
— They threatened to cut off one of his fingers.
Inside the church, the silence became so profound that Arkhip heard water dripping somewhere beneath the floorboards.
He slowly released the woman.
Everything that had seemed clear before suddenly collapsed.
A traitor.
A police officer.
A drunkard.
The man whom the whole village cursed.
And a father whose child was in the hands of the Gestapo.
— Makar knows that you’re sending out the signals?
Klava shook his head.
— He can’t. When he understood what was expected of him, he wanted to shoot himself several times. Then he forced me. And he beats me in front of people on purpose.
Arkhip looked at her abruptly.
– On purpose ?
— So that everyone thinks I’m just a drunkard’s battered woman. So that no one links me to him.
Suddenly, a shout in German rang out from the street.
Dogs barked.
The roar of engines could be heard.
Arkhip rushed towards the window.
Two motorcycles were passing through the village.
A heavy vehicle followed behind.
Germans.
« A raid, » he murmured.
Klava turned pale.
They know…
At that moment, the temple door flew open.
Makar Jiline appeared on the threshold.
Behind him stood armed Germans.
« There he is! » shouted the policeman, pointing at Arkhip. « I told you so! A partisan commander! He even recruited my wife! »
Arkhip raised his pistol.
Klava grabbed his arm.
— Don’t shoot! Please! Vania…
Arkhip understood everything in an instant.
Jiline continued to play her role.
Even now.
Underground,
there was no time to think.
The Germans were already entering.
Arkhip grabbed Klava and dragged her behind the altar.
He remembered the words of old Fekla.
The underpass.
What, just the day before, seemed like a village invention might well be the only chance.
Arkhip pushed away a rotten plank.
Below it was indeed a dark pit.
— Jump!
Klava went down first.
Bullets struck the wall above Arkhip.
He jumped in turn. They found themselves in a narrow, damp passage.
Probably the remains of an old cellar or drainage system.
Everywhere there was a smell of earth and mold.
Water was dripping from the ceiling.
Arkhip lit his lamp.
Klava was sitting next to him, breathing with difficulty.
— Let’s go.
They entered the tunnel.
After a few minutes, Arkhip asked:
— You said that Makar hated himself.
– It’s true.
Klava advanced, bent over.
— The day he was given the uniform, he sat all night under the old oak tree. He had placed his rifle in front of him and was looking at it. In the morning, he came home drunk and said, “Now I’m an executioner, Klavka. Even if God curses me—so be it. I’ll only save my Vania.”
— Did he kill someone?
– Person.
Arkhip turned around.
– Really ?
— No. On the contrary. He warns people.
Now Klava spoke faster, as if she had carried this truth inside her for too long and could finally say it.
« His drunkenness is a sign. If Makar walks through the village drunk, shouting and provoking fights, it means there will be no danger in the coming days. People will work peacefully. The partisans know they can come and get supplies. »
— And if he’s sober?
— So everyone has to hide. That means we’re waiting for the Germans.
Arkhip remembered Timochka’s words.
That made sense.
The policeman who was thought to be a traitor had actually devised an alert system for the entire village.
— And what about air raids?
Klava stopped.
His face changed.
— That’s a sin.
She leaned against the wall.
« You can’t wash that away. » Makar refused for a long time. Then Kramer showed a letter from Vania. And he said: a precise signal—an extra ration for the boy. A mistake—beatings. A refusal—death.
— Is that why you’re sending out the signals?
— Makar couldn’t.
She closed her eyes.
— But he forced me to do it too.
Behind them, the noise could be heard.
The Germans had finally gone down into the underground tunnel.
Arkhip quickened his pace.
After a while, Klava suddenly said:
— He has a grenade.
— Makar?
— Yes. He always wears it under his shirt. He says it’s his last ticket.
Arkhip stopped.
— Which ticket?
— When he realizes that Vania can no longer be saved, he’ll blow himself up with Kramer. Or with the commander. Whoever he can.
Now, many things became clear.
Jiline had not given up.
He was living on the edge.
Each day.
Every hour.
Arkhip saw before him an intertwining of roots.
The passage was ending.
— Help me.
They began to move aside the earth and branches.
A few minutes later, they emerged into the open air.
It was a deep ravine behind the village.
Above them, the stars twinkled.
There was no prosecution yet.
Arkhip looked towards Sossienki.
From now on, events could no longer be cancelled.
After spending the night in the church, the Germans were going to comb the entire region.
We had to act first.
« I’ll take you to the farm, » he told Klava. « And tomorrow morning, I’ll find Makar. »
The woman looked at him in horror.
— Are you going to kill him?
Arkhip put away his pistol.
— No. First, I’m going to offer him a choice.
The last chance.
The morning was cold and grey.
Arkhip hadn’t slept a wink.
While Klava slept near the stove, he remained seated at the table, writing with a chemical crayon on a scrap of paper.
It was a plan.
Risk.
But realistic.
Based on conversations and his observations, Arkhip already knew the location of the German posts, the time of the shift changes, the roads, the emergency exits, and the fuel storage locations.
Klava provides him with another important detail.
On Sunday night, a convoy of injured people was to be transported to the Baranovichi region.
Part of the guards would go on an escort.
For a certain period of time, the camp would be significantly less well protected than usual.
If we struck at that precise moment, there would be a chance of freeing the prisoners.
Including Vania.
Arkhip wrote his instructions, folded the paper and sealed it.
In the morning, he woke Klava up.
« Your husband has reached the end, » he said. « There are now two paths. Either to become definitively who people believe him to be, or to do what he has endured everything for. »
The woman turned pale.
— What do you intend to do?
— Give him the opportunity to choose.
Arkhip found Timochka not far from the village.
The kid looked like he had aged several years in twenty-four hours.
Arkhip handed him an envelope.
— You will hand it over to Jiline in person.
— What should I say?
— “From the beekeeper.”
— And that’s all?
— That’s all. Now leave immediately.
Timochka hid the envelope under his shirt and ran away.
The waiting began.
Klava prayed almost all day in front of the blackened icons found in a corner of the old house.
Arkhip went out into the courtyard several times.
He was looking at the road.
Person.
A day passed.
Then came evening.
Night fell.
It was only around midnight that there was a soft knock at the door.
Arkhip grabbed his pistol.
– Who ?
– Me !
He opened it.
Timochka stood on the threshold.
The kid was barely breathing after his run, but his eyes were shining.
— Uncle Arkhip! He agrees.
Klava jumped up.
— What did he say?
He said, « Tell the beekeeper that I will do everything as ordered. »
Timochka caught his breath.
— And then he added: “And tell him… if he can, to forgive me.”
Klava turned away and began to cry.
This time, not out of fear.
Sweetness and bitterness.
The plan was set in motion at night. Through a liaison officer, Arkhip transmitted the information to the partisan detachment.
The men took up positions in the forest.
They were all waiting for the hour.
Meanwhile, Makara Jiline put on a clean shirt.
Under his clothes, he hid that famous grenade.
Then he calmly went to the Kommandantur.
The official reason was irreproachable: important information about the location of a large partisan detachment.
The Germans let their policeman pass without suspicion.
It was about three o’clock in the morning.
Arkhip was located on the old bell tower.
Through the scope of his rifle, he could see the courtyard of the Kommandantur.
He saw Jiline enter.
Kramer was in the office.
This was the very man who kept Makar’s family on a leash.
Arkhip obviously couldn’t hear the conversation.
He could only see silhouettes in the lit window.
Kramer asked a question.
Makar replied.
The German took a few steps towards him.
And suddenly, Kramer’s face changed.
Jiline suddenly opened her shirt.
Arkhip understood everything.
The next second, the night was torn apart by an explosion.
The windows of the Kommandantur shattered.
A fire broke out.
Panic erupted.
Almost simultaneously, the partisans attacked from three sides.
The machine guns choked off in short bursts.
The Germans did not have time to organize their defense.
The confrontation was violent, but brief.
The element of surprise made a big difference.
By dawn, the resistance had been broken.
The fuel depots were set on fire to deprive the enemy of the opportunity to quickly organize a pursuit.
The fire rose high into the sky.
A purple glow illuminated Sossienki.
The inhabitants hurriedly gathered their belongings.
The old people.
Women.
The children.
They all headed towards the forest, where the partisans’ bases were located.
Arkhip found Klava at the edge of the woods.
She was on her knees, looking towards the burning Kommandantur.
Tears glistened on her cheeks.
She wasn’t screaming.
She wasn’t complaining.
She was simply watching.
« He did it, after all, » the woman said softly. « He kept his word. »
Arkhip approached.
— Klava.
She raised her head.
— Vania is alive.
For a few seconds, the woman seemed not to understand what had just been said.
– What ?
— The camp has been taken. The prisoners have been brought out. Your son is among them.
Klava covered his face with his hands.
Arkhip continued:
— We managed to get this news to Makar before he entered the office.
The woman slowly lowered her palms.
— Did he know?
– Yes.
Now, in her eyes, there was both sorrow and relief.
A terrible mix.
« So he died a free man, » she murmured.
Arkhip did not reply.
Klava got up.
— I want to go to my son.
— Go ahead.
She left for the convoy.
Arkhip remained alone at the edge of the forest.
When day broke, he returned to the farm.
The job was finished.
The apiary was no longer necessary.
Nor the legend of Morozov.
He slowly crossed the space between the beehives.
Some had turned black with soot.
Only one stood slightly apart and had almost been spared.
Arkhip opened the lid, without really knowing why.
Inside, among the empty frames, a small piece of shelf remained.
He took it out.
Wedged between the wax cells were dry strands of mugwort.
Arkhip shattered the beam.
Thick, golden honey flowed over her fingers.
He tasted a drop.
First, he felt the softness.
Then came a strong bitterness of grass.
It stayed in his mouth for a long time.
Arkhip began to think.
That was the whole story.
At first, everything seemed simple.
A police officer.
A traitor.
A drunkard.
An abusive husband.
A man hated by an entire village.
They were cursing him behind his back.
People turned away from him.
The mothers used to frighten their children with him.
No one would have imagined that his drunken scandals were a warning of danger.
That his ostentatious violence served as a mask.
He lived each day torn between fear for his son and self-hatred.
Of course, that didn’t erase anything that had happened.
The signals from the bell tower were real.
Bombs too.
Moreover, war rarely provides clear-cut answers.
Arkhip had searched for a traitor for too long and had discovered a man who could both be accused and understood.
He was looking for a scoundrel — and he had seen a father.
And he understood how dangerous it is to judge a man by only knowing the part of his life that he is forced to show to others.
The truth is rarely all black or all white.
Most often, it resembles this honey.
Gentle at first.
Then bitter.
Arkhip wrapped the honeycomb and packed it in his satchel.
Where, not long before, the secret warrant had still been located.
Paper was no longer necessary.
The mission was accomplished.
There would no longer be any signals from the bell tower.
The village was heading towards the forest.
Vania was alive.
And the man whom Sossienki had considered for months to be the main traitor had died, annihilating with him the one who kept his family in fear.
Arkhip stepped out onto the road.
In the grey morning mist, a new day could already be discerned.
He cast one last glance towards Sossienki, adjusted his satchel and set off towards the east.
And behind him, on the road, small golden drops of honey remained for a while longer.
Soft.
And bitter like mugwort.