Cold-Blooded.

19Mar08

There was much whispering going around the KGB training compound that November morning. Molotov had been awoken two hours early by Major Shtolnisky, who claimed she was needed, that it was the final day of her training. In the auditorium, Molotov sat grumpily, listening to the Chief Marshal’s official morning address. Mere moments after he left the room, she was yanked into a closet by her father.

“Devotchka,” her father started, using the closest to a term of endearment he ever had. Molotov instantly knew that the day would not be particularly pleasant. “You cannot refuse what you will be ordered to do. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Then go brush your teeth and meet me in the courtyard.”

Molotov scrambled out of the closet, and back to her bunk. Down the hall, a radio was playing – a woman cheerfully singing about the joys of love. The happy tone of the music was in direct contrast with the compound’s overall mood.

Molotov did not like it one bit.

After brushing her teeth and pulling her hair back, she sped to the courtyard, where her father, and all the high-ranking officials were standing in the snow. They were arranged in a circle, backs towards her. She could not see what they were surrounding.

“Here I am,” she called hesitantly. All of the men turned to look at her, and a soft rumble emerged from the circle. They were excited, she could tell.

Shtolnisky stepped out of the circle and stood in front of her. Shtolnisky had personally trained Molotov, had become family to her, but his normally jovial face was set in a grim expression.

“Molotov Aleksandrovna,” he said loudly. “Today is your last day as the daughter of Aleksandr Ivanovich.”

She glanced at her father, his green eyes staring down at her from his place in the circle.

“If you pass your final test on this morning,” Shtolnisky continued. “You will become a daughter of the party. Do you understand?”

Molotov nodded stonily.

“Then we proceed. Your final test is one of loyalty – loyalty to your country and to your government.”

He handed her a gun. The circle opened. On the ground knelt three people, clearly a family: mother, father and child. They wore black hoods.

“These people have been convicted of crimes against your nation. You are to execute them.”

The hoods were removed, and a soft gasp escaped her. The family was that of her former gymnastics coach. His daughter, who was looking pleadingly up at Molotov, had been a teammate.

“Molotov, on the count of three,” the Major announced.

She stared at the people on the ground, people who had taken her in and treated her as one of their own.

She aimed her weapon.

“One.”

The girl kneeling on the ground let out a sob behind her gag.

“Two.”

The muffled pleading was growing. Molotov felt a twinge of adrenaline surge through her.

“Three.”

And within seconds, there were three matching trails of scarlet staining the snow. The officers who were standing behind the family glanced at their shoes, checking to make sure that there was no blood on the shiny leather.

As Molotov lowered her weapon slowly, cheers of congratulations and happiness rose through the group of military men, who came to surround her, to pat her on the back and head and tell her how proud they all were.

Molotov stared at the holes in her friends’ heads.

“Are you all right?” Shtolnisky whispered in her ear. Her father was across the courtyard, grinning at the men who were loudly telling him what a fine daughter he had.

Molotov returned her eyes to the Major. “I’m hungry,” she announced calmly. “Let’s go eat.” Shtolnisky smiled at her, and they walked together to the cafeteria.

She was sixteen, and had just become one of the youngest full agents in the KGB.

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