The day was coming to a close when General Rebrov decided to inspect the progress of the dam. There had been setbacks with the availability of construction materials and Rebrov was becoming frustrated.

Overhead, the weather was threatening to turn again. Damned rain. This part of the river seemed to be trapped in a permanent cloud. The crops were stunted – as were the locals – and Rebrov was eager to return home to Moscow.

His car bumped along the uneven gravel road. Lighting a cigarette, he looked outside at the rows of prisoners digging. Traitors to the people, they were redeeming themselves by helping to build the dams along the Volga-matushka. They were tools now, no different to a hammer or a sickle, and to be discarded when blunt.

When he reached the dam, the head engineer, Sokolov, was running towards his car. Rebrov tightened. This could only mean some complaint, some new failure about to be expounded. Even Rebrov’s driver made a comment, to which the general grunted in dismay.

“What is it now, Comrade Sokolov?” Rebrov asked, stepping out of the car.

Sokolov was a squat, sweaty, hairy mass of a man. He was undoubtedly clever but possessed a ‘common stupidity’ many intellectuals seemed to be cursed with.

“The cement in part of the dam has crumbled. There was too much sand used by the workers. I am trying to repair it now, General.”

Rebrov put his hand on Sokolov’s shoulder to calm him down and asked that the engineer show him the section in question.

Arriving at the base of the dam, Rebrov could see a hole the size of a small bedroom. Sokolov was explaining that he lacked adequate materials to plug the cavity.

Rebrov looked around and called over a soldier overseeing the cement crew. The general ordered the man to bring his workers.

The workforce were a pathetic bunch, half-starved into complicity. They bowed their shaved heads in the reverence of the general.

“Here are your materials, Sokolov,” Rebrov said, motioning to the soldier.

Everyone understood the general’s words. The lowered heads of the prisoners raised up, their faces awakening to the shock of Rebrov’s statement.

The soldier hit and pushed the desperate souls forward. One by one they were crammed into the hole to plug the gap. They did not wail nor did they complain.

Sokolov could hear some begging for breath as they were squashed in, bones broken as bodies were compressed into the tight space. The engineer turned pale and Rebrov noticed.

“Bring more!” Rebrov shouted. “I still see gaps.”

In the end, Sokolov counted thirty-eight people stuffed into the dam. Their eyes, alive with terror, bore into the engineer’s heart.

Rebrov had the remaining workers begin to seal it up with cement. No sound came from the imprisoned. They had been brutalised for too long to understand the futility of complaining.

Rebrov stood beside Sokolov, placing his arm around him.

“Any other problems, comrade? Present or future?”

Sokolov shook his head.