“Drive forward slowly to the gates.” He gave Sophie an uneasy glance. She smiled back. The blockade moved aside, and they crept forward. They traveled half a mile and crested a rise to find the Parnaas camp spread out beneath them.
Acres of barbed wire fencing surrounded the massive encampment. Armed pickets patrolled outside, and Sophie could see tanks farther on. A cluster of rough administrative buildings stood to the left, inside the compound. Then beyond that, as far as she could see, stretched an ocean of makeshift shelters. Miles of them, on a scale she’d never before witnessed.
Beside her, the Rev crossed himself. Sophie saw bodies lying face down outside the gates, a skim of snow over them. It wasn’t enough to cover the fact that they’d been shot. Escapees, their corpses left to freeze. She resisted a horrible impulse to run to the bodies and turn them over. If she started looking for his face now, she’d never be able to stop.
They left their vehicle with their guard, taking the translator with them. Inside the administrative building, it was blessedly warm. They could hear the hum of a generator nearby. A jovial figure awaited them: an older man with salt and pepper hair, thick around the waist, his watery blue eyes sparkling with excitement. He had a wide smile.
“Welcome!” he boomed in Russian. “Welcome to the Soviet Republic. I am Commandant Vasily Jaros.” He beamed at them like they were neighbors joining him for a backyard barbeque. Sophie kept her features carefully neutral. She could hear the translator murmuring to Dave in the background. Jaros spoke Russian, but Sophie had no doubt he’d be fluent in English as well.
“Thank you for seeing us, Commandant Jaros. My name is Sophie Swenda from the Refugee Crisis Coalition. This is my colleague, David Bryson.” The Commandant’s face showed momentary shock at Sophie’s mastery of the Russian language, then clasped his hands together in delight.
“Such a beautiful young lady speaking the language of my country so well,” he marveled. “Truly a pleasure. Does your colleague also speak Russian?”
“No, but our translator here, Georgs, will assist.” Georgs translated for the Rev as the Commandant’s eyes crawled over Dave and Sophie. “Commandant, we are eager to begin work, but we have many things to discuss first. Shall we?”
It took two days of negotiation before both parties reached agreement on how they would operate. All the ground they’d covered with the Soviet representatives before leaving the US was revisited. Whether the team could use a helicopter to bring in the heavier equipment. Security protocols. Allowing refugees to play a role in the organization of Parnaas. On this last point, Commandant Jaros had a hard philosophy.
“You may use the detainees in this camp for menial labor, if you wish. Waste removal, digging of sanitation facilities. But they are not permitted to do tasks of responsibility.” The friendly fa?ade dropped for a moment, his eyes stony. “No detainee leaves Parnaas unless they are being carried to the burial trench for disposal.” The smile returned. “I cannot have you removing my country’s newest citizens, can I? They are safest here, yes, where I can protect them.”
Agreement in hand, the coalition began moving their equipment from Kaliningrad to the Orlisian border. They commandeered what appeared to be an abandoned military establishment on the Soviet side of the border as their headquarters. Then the exec team – seven people, representing the largest coalition partners – got their first tour of Parnaas. Sophie heard someone behind her in the Jeep mutter “Warsaw Ghetto” as they crawled along the muddy tracks between the shelters.
The refugees were crammed ten to a shelter, bodies packed wall to wall for warmth. Every possible material had been pressed into service – plastic sheeting, household possessions, vehicle parts, fence posts, pine boughs. No running water. No electricity. No heat. Just icy mud, the choking haze of manure fires, and thousands upon thousands of Orlisians living in the dead of winter under the most brutal conditions.
“There were a few cases of cholera early on, but it’s been contained,” Sophie yelled to her colleagues. “The positioning of the latrines on this side of the camp helped keep the water supply from contaminating. However, they’ve got an infectious pneumonia now that’s killed about a half dozen people in the last few weeks. All elderly or very young. That’ll be high on our priority list.”
They returned to the administrative building, grim faced. Commandant Jaros awaited them, all smiles.