Chapter 628: Better

Kukov was a Soviet Red Army prisoner of war. When he arrived at the concentration camp the Germans had prepared for him in Poland, he could hardly believe his eyes. The barracks were clean and tidy, the main street straight and neat. When he saw a convenience store sign written in four languages, he even felt that surrendering his rifle to the Germans had been a very wise decision.

Of course, as an ethnic Russian, his original situation had not been very good. On the way, he had personally seen some prisoners, just like himself, being taken off the train to work in a filthy, chaotic coal yard. But he was lucky. Because he had been an apprentice in a factory in Ukraine, he was assigned to serve his hard labor sentence in the Polish concentration camp factory, which had the best conditions.

Here, he wore a Soviet military uniform that already had several patches on it, though the identifying insignia had been removed. There were weekly disinfection inspections where everyone had to strip naked and gather in an iron cage to be tormented by water hoses and white lime. If it weren’t for the machine-gun towers equipped with searchlights every few dozen meters, life might have been a bit better.

What made Kukov feel less than satisfied was the constant presence of patrolling SS soldiers with purebred German shepherds, their tongues lolling out menacingly. These soldiers wore SS uniforms with the red national flag armband, and carried Mauser 98k rifles on their backs, looking imposing and majestic.

The guards were always new faces. He had heard that the old guards were all transferred to the front lines, and the ones here were all new recruits who had just finished their training. They would be sent to the front after getting accustomed to military life for a few months.

If only I could have received proper military training, then I wouldn’t have been in such a sorry state on the battlefield, right? Thinking about how he had run out of ammunition, then ran around in chaos with the others, and finally became a prisoner, Kukov felt a little ashamed. He had been here for two months and a dozen days now and was no longer a newcomer in this concentration camp.

This factory was internally designated by the Germans as Plant 402 and was responsible for producing accessory parts for certain equipment. In fact, Kukov himself probably didn’t know what he was producing, because it was impossible to guess the original form of the complete equipment from the parts made here. Only a few managers and the head of the guards knew that this place produced the windshield frames and fixed skid-type landing gear for the German Crusader helicopter.

The midday sun was scorching. At this time, Kukov and all the other workers here had a one-hour break. Some went to eat at 11:30 and returned to work at 12:30, while others went to eat at 12:30 and returned to work at 1:30.

As a reward for their production efforts, every worker here who met the required output would receive “wages.” If you didn’t have any bad habits like gambling and weren’t extorted by the tough guys in your dormitory, you could save up for two months and exchange the scrip issued by the camp for a pack of cigarettes at the convenience store.

Kukov had just received his second officially stamped slip. He wasn’t in a hurry to save up 20 slips to exchange for a quilt, so he rushed to the convenience store to trade for a pack of cigarettes that could bring him some spiritual comfort.

For a chain-smoker to be able to enjoy a cigarette even in a prisoner-of-war camp was a heavenly pleasure. With his grease-stained hands, Kukov clumsily opened the simple white pack of low-quality cigarettes, which only had the German word for “cigarettes” on it. He caressed it like a soldier caressing his steel rifle, like a man in love caressing his beloved.

These low-quality cigarettes were all produced in Germany. In the days of material scarcity, they were originally supplied to ordinary German civilians. Although the quality was low, because there were no other options, they had remained on the German market for several years. But in the past year, as the German army had been invincible on the battlefield and had conquered enough territory to provide Germany with better materials, these cigarettes had been withdrawn from the German market.

After all, the cigarette supply in Germany had now returned to normal, and the common people could smoke decent-quality, standard German cigarettes. Some officials and discerning families were now even enjoying French cigarettes with finer tobacco and a better taste. As for these cheap, low-quality cigarettes in simple white packaging, along with their production lines and remaining stock, they were all sent to Poland to be distributed as second-class goods.

Shrewd Jewish businessmen and some German concentration camp contractors saw the profit in this and introduced these cigarettes into the camps. Thus, Kukov had the opportunity to puff away in the concentration camp, and this moment of happiness as he looked at his cigarette. In the Soviet Union, the quality of cigarettes was about the same as these low-grade German ones, so the Poles and Soviet prisoners of war didn’t mind the poor quality at all. As long as they had these cigarettes to satisfy their craving, they were content.

So, Kukov worked hard every day, never caused trouble, and rarely even spoke to those around him. Every time he bought cigarettes, he would respectfully give two to the most powerful Ukrainian kapo. He had been living an ordinary life like this all along. In the eyes of those around him, he was considered the most law-abiding and model inmate in this concentration camp.

Kukov carefully borrowed a light from the German soldier in charge of matches at the smoking area and blissfully enjoyed his happy life in the wire-meshed corridor designated for smoking breaks. He gazed into the distance, feeling that not having died on that terrible battlefield in Poland was already a very satisfying thing.

Suddenly, a German officer in a brand-new uniform walked towards him from the opposite direction. He was talking to a man in a sharp suit beside him. Because smoking was forbidden in other parts of the camp, the two of them had come here to satisfy their craving with the prisoners. Neither of them was looking where they were going, so as they passed each other, Kukov bumped into the officer in the new uniform.

The man, an SS officer, was knocked off balance. After all, he was slightly smaller than Kukov. But this man, who was two centimeters shorter, clearly didn’t rely on his height to get by, because on his shoulders were the rank insignia of a major.

“Bastard! Don’t you have eyes when you walk?” the officer cursed, looking at the grease stain on his arm and the twisted red national flag armband, before glaring at Kukov.

With a clatter, as the officer shouted, Kukov saw the two guards behind the officer sling their rifles from their backs. Some of the surrounding German soldiers on patrol even worked the bolts of their rifles. His face turned pale with fright, and he quickly knelt on the ground and raised his hands high. “I’m sorry! Sir! I… I didn’t mean to!”

His action startled the officer, but he still had no intention of letting Kukov off. He had already raised one arm. With one forceful downward chop, the kneeling Soviet prisoner before him would be riddled with a dozen holes. Here, the most valuable things were materials and profit. The least valuable was human life.

“It’s just a new uniform. A few coins to have it laundered,” the man in the suit standing next to the officer finally spoke. He was of medium height, about 1.8 meters tall, with short blond hair and a pair of very charming eyes. This man was very handsome and wore a warm smile.

“Frank! I know this is your concentration camp, but the SS cannot be violated. We represent the Führer…” the officer said, looking at the man in the suit, his words unforgiving, but his raised arm remained in the air.

Frank Alston, the administrator of this concentration camp and the actual owner of Plant 402. His factory here was responsible for producing helicopter parts, and near the German border, near Frankfurt an der Oder, he had his own privately-funded helicopter assembly plant, which provided the German army with many Crusader helicopters of various models every day.

It was said that this handsome man had connections that reached the heavens. He had met with the Führer Akado several times and was said to have dealings with both Krupp and August. He was one of the most successful entrepreneurs among the new nobility. The new nobles of Germany who had broken away from the Junkers vaguely considered him their spokesman. And his own maternal uncle was the great Jewish merchant in Poland known as “Jesus.”

“Every prisoner here is my property, and I’ve heard of this Russian prisoner, Kukov. He’s very obedient and has created a lot of profit for me,” Frank Alston always spoke with a smile, but those who knew him knew that he killed with a smile, played with women with a smile, and slapped his own face with a smile. He was a German businessman with half-Jewish blood. “The helicopter parts you need most, he can produce 70 a day.”

“This matter can’t just be dropped like that!” the officer said, lowering his arm. Kukov felt as if he had come back to life, as at least a dozen rifles were no longer pointing at him. Although he couldn’t understand what the two Germans were talking about, he knew that the incredibly handsome man in the suit had saved him.

“I have a gold ring in my office, taken from a prisoner’s corpse. It looks like a 17th-century piece. I hear you’re very interested in such things,” Frank Alston immediately stated his price. He was a businessman. As long as there were more profits and greater benefits, he would do business.

“Is he worth it?” the officer laughed, seeming to have forgotten the earlier unpleasantness.

“Of course! He’s a role model. With him, the others will work even harder,” Frank Alston said with a smile. He took out a pack of French cigarettes from his pocket, shook it twice, and tossed it to Kukov, who was still kneeling on the ground. He said in broken Russian, “You, are good. I want you, to be better!”

Published: 2025-09-12T04:02:29.000+00:00
Last Edited: 2026-01-28T16:35:46.000+00:00
URL: https://www.patreon.com/caleredhair/posts/mtr-c628-better-138711841

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