“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.
“To assist you in your work, we have maps of the camp,” he said. “We enlisted a detainee to help survey Parnaas prior your arrival.” Jaros gestured to the guards at the door. They stepped out and returned with a terrified man in their grasp who looked like he might have been a desk clerk in his regular life. He was painfully thin, balding, and short, his face cast down to the floor. The guards shoved him forward, and the man fell to his knees. Everyone stepped forward to help him, but stopped when the automatic weapons came up.
“Stand,” Jaros ordered. The man got to his feet without lifting his face, extending several rolled-up maps to the foreigners. Jaros gestured Sophie forward.