October 1944 - Sevvostlag Labour Camp, Magadan Oblast (6419 miles from Moscow)

"Kuryakin, you have a visitor."

"Me?" Viktor blurted out to the guard that had addressed him, unsure if he had heard correctly.

"Yes, you. Don't keep him waiting," the guard snapped out. He roughly grabbed Viktor's arm and propelled him forward.

Six years in the camps had packed muscle onto Viktor's lean frame, but the punishments, lack of food and long months of biting cold were starting to take their toll. He had nine more years to survive.

He was allowed to write to his wife once a month, which he did so care of his friend Ivan. He had never yet received a reply. He feared for Yagoda and Illya. He feared that they too had been sent to the camps or had perished on the unforgiving streets of Moscow. Yagoda was the granddaughter of a Politburo officer and had always lived the privileged life of a party member. As such, she was well educated, but had never known the bite of hunger or the exhaustion of working twelve-hour days. Neither had he until he arrived at the camps.

His son, Illya, was never meant to experience such hardship either. Illya had excelled at his studies. At just eight years of age he was on his way to becoming a chess champion. Mathematics came easily to him. His future should have been bright, a university degree, followed by a career in his chosen field, physics perhaps, or mathematics. Then into politics. Illya should never have known a day of hunger. The boy would always be shunned, tainted by his father's alleged treason. He would be lucky to get work at all.

Viktor was pulled from his musings when he was roughly halted near the camp gate. He looked up as a man stepped out of the guard house.

"Thank you, soldier." The man said, dismissing the guard. As he stepped closer Viktor recognised him.

"Major Kuznetsov!"

"Comrade Kuryakin."

"You have come to see me?"

"I'm afraid I have come to convey bad news," Kuznetsov took a step closer. "Your wife died six months ago."

Viktor stared in open mouth horror as the words slowly sunk in.

"I only found out myself last month," he heard Kuznetsov continue.

"How? How did she die?" he choked out.

Kuznetsov hesitated for a moment. "The doctors concluded it was a brain tumour. "

Hot tears rolled down Viktor's cheeks as he fell to his knees on the frozen earth.

"Illya? My son? Is he all right? Is he safe?" he begged.

Kuznetsov crouched down in front of him, his hand disappearing into his overcoat for a second, before coming back into a view holding a photograph.

"He was sent to an orphanage, but I have had him moved to the academy. He is settling in well." He held out the photograph to Viktor who took it with shaking hands.

Illya was no long Viktor's happy carefree young boy. A sullen face stared back at him. More man than boy now. Viktor brushed a thumb over the photograph, more tears welling in his eyes as he noticed the ugly, vivid red scar near Illya's right eye. Viktor could not bring himself to ask how Illya had been so cruelly injured. His heart ached for the gentle young boy that he had condemned to a lifetime of hardship and shame.

"He is already six foot tall," Kuznetsov said. "The doctors say he will grow taller."

"He is doing well in his studies?" Viktor asked.

"He is excelling in all his studies. He is an admirable young man. He will be a credit to his country."

Viktor knew that was the highest compliment a man like Kuznetsov could give. Illya was destined to serve his country as a soldier. It was not the future Viktor would have hoped for his son. But at least Illya had a future.

Kuznetsov stood up and Viktor followed suit. The cold had seeped painfully into his knees. He reluctantly held the photograph out to the other man.

"No. It is yours to keep. I will try and send you more."

"Thank you. For this," Viktor indicated the photograph. "And for telling me about my wife."

"I managed to retrieve some items from your wife's former … home. I will pass them onto Illya when he is of age."

"You have been very kind to my family. Why?"

Kuznetsov smiled. "Some NKVD officers do also have a heart. Your son, given the right opportunities, will be a credit to you and his country. He will regain the honour of your name."

With a nod Kuznetsov turned and walked back to the guard house. He spoke to one of the guards for a moment and then the gate was opened and he disappeared. A few moments later the guard approached Viktor and he was escorted back to the barracks.

Kuznetsov was true to his word and Viktor received a new photograph of Illya at the beginning of each October. They were left unmolested by the guards.

August 1952 - Sevvostlag Labour Camp, Magadan Oblast (6419 miles from Moscow)

"Kuryakin. You have a visitor."

Viktor turned watery eyes towards the guard as he painfully took another breath. He was dying. Cancer, the doctor had told him. At least he would die in a bed in the infirmary and not on the floor of the barrack with a hundred bodies fighting for an inch of extra space.

The guard disappeared from his bedside and a familiar face replaced it.

"Comrade Kuryakin."

"Major Kuznetsov."

"It is Colonel now," the other man smiled.

"I'm dying," Viktor stated bluntly.

"Yes, I know. I had informed the camp commander to notify me if such an event should happen."

"How is Illya?"

"Illya is a member of the Special Forces now. His commanders are very pleased with him. He is also continuing his studies when his duties allow."

Viktor nodded. "He is a good boy."

Kuznetsov pulled a photograph from his jacket pocket and handed it to Viktor. "I would have brought him with me, but he is currently on a mission. I do not know when he will return."

Viktor looked at the photograph and smiled. It showed Illya playing chess, his face a study of concentration as he contemplated his next move. His opponent looked somewhat harried.

"He won the game?" Viktor asked.

Kuznetsov nodded. "Easily. It has been difficult finding him challenging opponents."

"May I ask a favour, Colonel?"

"Of course."

Viktor reached under his pillow with some difficulty and pulled out a watch. He handed it to Kuznetsov.

"Will you give this to Illya? It is all I have to give him." He huffed out a hoarse laugh. "My wife gave it me, just before Illya was born. I have fought to keep it safe from my fellow prisoners, from the guards, from being broken. It has served my sentence alongside me. It knows my pain and sorrow, but also my happier days."

Kuznetsov carefully placed the watch in his pocket. "I will ensure he receives it at the earliest opportunity." He promised.

"Thank you for all you have done. The photographs have meant everything to me. It was good to see him grow into such a handsome young man."

"He is also taller than you now, Comrade. His height has been declared at six foot five."

"Tell him I thought of him every day. That I wished I could have seen him grow up." Viktor wheezed out.

Kuznetsov leant forward and patted his arm. "He has always known this."

Viktor fell asleep a few moments later and when he woke Kuznetsov was gone.

Viktor Kuryakin died four days later.