Mission Homo Liberatus. PROLOGUE

(illustrations are AI-generated)

Evening, March 22, 1943. Belorussia*. Less than an hour has passed since the 118th Schutzmannschaft Battalion, having completed its grim task, left Khatyn. In the chilling silence of twilight, amidst the whiteness of bare birch trees and wet snow, a dark stain of ash looms on the ground ominously — this is what the executioners had turned the village into. The charred remains of peasant homes are blazing, sending tendrils of acrid smoke into the air. Over one of the ruins hangs a persistent stench of burnt human flesh. It lingers in the windless forest. The only sound on the street, which was bustling with life just the day before, is the crackling of smouldering wooden beams, breaking the unbearable silence.

Leading away from that barn are several trails of human footprints. At the end of each trail lies a corpse sprawled in the snow, arms outstretched, backs riddled with bloody bullet holes.

Suddenly two figures materialise out of thin air — a young man and woman, short and well built, immaculate, as if they just stepped out of a fragrant bath. They are barefoot and dressed in light green Greek-style tunics. Their finely sculpted silhouettes look as though someone has cut them out of paper and cynically tossed them in ashes. The strangers bear no resemblance to the fair-haired locals or the blond Aryans. Instead they are dark-skinned and black-eyed, like Gypsies. Yet their faces, unlike the restless, troubled expressions of Gypsies, radiate an unearthly calm against the charred, bloody carnage that lies before their eyes.

For several minutes, hand in hand, they survey the scene of devastation. Then the girl's thoughts ring out like a scream.

“Such inhuman cruelty! Could we really not have stopped this?”

“This is precisely human cruelty, my dear. It cannot be stopped. At least not yet,” the man answers. His boundless sorrow washes over his companion. “Let’s focus on finding him. I’m starting to fear he didn’t survive.”

“I believe he did! He’s your son, after all!”

The man casts her a grateful look. “He’s so little… If only I had known this would happen today, I would have taken him with me when I left for the Unity! But I felt sorry for Polina and wanted them to have as much time together as possible. Foresight isn’t my strong suit… I just hope this hasn’t cost Yasik his life.”

They approach that barn. The smell of burnt flesh is overwhelming. The charred bodies lay naked, with only a few shreds of melted clothing clinging to their remains. Among these blackened corpses, twisted in their final expressions of terror, it seems impossible to recognise the beautiful Polina, the village herbalist.

“Look, Simon, some of the women are lying face-down. We need to turn them over.”

“Why? Haven’t you seen enough?” the man replies with disgust.

“Just do it!”

Without moving, he stretches out his hand toward one of the female bodies and slowly turns his palm upward. The corpse rolls onto its back, revealing beneath it an almost unburned infant, suffocated to death.

“Now do you see?” the girl insists. “The mother tried to save his life. Come on, we must hope! Look over there!”

She points where the barn door once stood. A charred female body is petrified in a grotesque pose as if she died on all fours. Simon moves closer and extends his hand beneath her torso, finding what first appears to be empty space. Yet at once he feels the warmth of his child.

“Yasik! Don’t be afraid, it’s Papa!”

An invisible bundle morphs into a three-year-old boy. His dark, tangled hair and piercing black Gypsy eyes peek out from under Polina’s corpse. The child appears more surprised than frightened but makes no sound and doesn’t even reach out to his rescuers. Simon frees the small body and holds the boy against his chest. Casting one last mournful glance at what remains of the woman he loved, he turns away.

Meanwhile, his companion flips over all the other face-down bodies and finds one more barely alive child. She vanishes into thin air with the baby, only to return moments later empty-handed. Approaching Simon, who still clutches his miraculously surviving son, the three of them dissolve into the damp air of the March night.

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