Tatiana and Alexander (36 page)

“Didn’t you hear what I told you? My men will never surrender to the NKGB. Besides, do you have any idea what’s ahead for you if you continue onward?”

“Yes. The Germans will get trounced. Maybe not by us on this fucking hill, but everywhere else. Have you heard about the second front? Have you heard about Patton? We’re going to meet the Americans on the Oder river near Berlin. That’s what’s ahead. If Hitler had any sense he would surrender and spare Germany an unconditional humiliation for the second time this century and maybe save a few million lives in the process.”

“Does Hitler seem like the kind of man who would unconditionally surrender? Or care about saving one life, or a million? If he’s going down, he’s going down dragging the whole world with him.”

“He’s certainly doing that,” said Alexander, and was about to whistle for Ouspensky when Pasha put his hand on Alexander to stop him.

“Wait,” Pasha said. “Let’s think this through for a minute, shall we?”

They sat down on a log and lit their cigarettes. “Alexander,” said Pasha, “you’ve really done it by not killing me.”

“I have, haven’t I?” Alexander smoked. “One way or another we need to figure it out immediately. Or you and I won’t have any men left to command.”

Pasha was quiet. “And then just you and me in the woods?” he asked.

Alexander glanced at him. What was he saying?

Leaning in, Pasha said, “I will have my men surrender if you will guarantee not to give them up to the NKGB.”

“What do you propose I do with them?”

“Absorb us into your unit. We have arms, we have shells, we have grenades, mortars, carbines.”

“I was going to take your weapons no matter what, Pasha. That’s what the vanquished do—they surrender their weapons. But your men? Are they going to switch and fight for the other side now?”

“They will do what I tell them to do.”

“How can they do it?”

“What do you suggest? Dispersing?”

“Dispersing? Disbanding? Do you know what that’s called? Desertion.”

Pasha was silent. “Alexander, there is no hope. There are five hundred thousand men over that hill.”

“Yes, and thirteen million men are coming over that hill to kill them.”

“Yes, but what about you and me?”

“I need your unit’s arms.”

“So you’ll have my arms. You’ve got nineteen men. What on earth are you thinking?”

Alexander lowered his voice to a whisper. “Don’t worry about what I’m thinking. Just…”

“Just what?”

“Pasha, I need to get inside Germany. I need to live long enough to do it.”

“Why?”

Because the Americans are coming to Berlin. Because the Americans are going to liberate Germany, and they’re going to liberate the POW camps, and eventually they’re going to liberate me. But Alexander didn’t say any of this.

“You’ve lost your mind,” said Pasha.

“Yes.”

Pasha stared at Alexander for a long time, in the crackling, wet, absorbing woods, standing miserably next to him, his cigarette burning bleakly to ash between his ravaged fingers. “Alexander, don’t you know about the Germans? Don’t you know anything?”

“I know everything, but I still have hope. Now more than ever.” He glanced at Pasha. “Why do you think I found you?”

“So you could torture a dying man?”

“No, Pasha. I’ll help you, too. Just—we’ve got to get out of here. You and I. You have medical kits?”

“Yes, plenty of bandages, plenty of sulfa, morphine, even some penicillin.”

“Good, we’ll need it all. What about food?”

“We’ve got canned everything. Dried milk even. Dried eggs. Sardines. Ham. Bread.”

“Canned bread?” Alexander nearly smiled.

“What have
you
been living on?”

“The flesh of my men,” replied Alexander. “Are most of your men Russian?”

“Most of them, yes. But I have ten Germans. What do you propose we do with them? Certainly they are not going to go on your side and fight their own army.”

“Of course not. That’s unimaginable, isn’t it?”

Pasha turned away.

“We’ll take them prisoner,” said Alexander.

“I thought the penal battalions had a no-prisoner policy?”

“I make my own policy here in the woods,” replied Alexander, “having been abandoned by my suppliers. Now, are you going to help us or not?”

Pasha took a last smoke, stubbed out his cigarette and wiped the wet off his face, a useless gesture, Alexander thought. “I will help you. But your lieutenant will not approve. He wants to kill me.”

“You let me worry about him,” said Alexander.

Ouspensky was not easy.

“Are you out of your mind?” he whispered hotly to Alexander, when Alexander outlined his plan for the absorption of Pasha’s unit.

“You have better ideas?”

“I thought you said Gronin was coming with supplies?”

“I lied. Get me my troops, please.”

“I say we kill the commander, and then lie in wait in the woods until we get arms and men.”

“I’m not killing the commander, and I’m not waiting for anything. They are not coming.”

“Captain, you are not acting according to the rules of engagement. We cannot take the Germans prisoner. We have to kill their commander.”

“Lieutenant, get me my men and stop this foolishness.”

“Captain—”

“Lieutenant! Now!”

Ouspensky, his face full of squinting suspicion, turned to Pasha, who stood by Alexander’s other side, untied. Ouspensky and Pasha glared at each other for a few moments. “Captain, you’ve untied him?” Ouspensky said in a low voice.

“Why don’t you worry about what you have to worry about, and let me worry about everything else. Go!”

Alexander, Ouspensky and Telikov had fourteen privates and two corporals under their command. With Pasha’s battalion, they would have over sixty men, not including the German prisoners of war. He motioned Pasha to come.

Pasha said, “My men need to know it’s me when I call to them.”

“Fine,” said Alexander. “I’ll stand by you, you yell. They’ll know.”

Ouspensky stood in Alexander’s way. “With all due respect, sir, you are not headed toward the firing line.”

“I am, Lieutenant,” Alexander said, moving Ouspensky out of the way with his machine gun.

“Captain,” Ouspensky said, “sir, have you ever played chess? Do you know that in chess you will often sacrifice your Queen to take the opponent’s Queen? His men will kill you and him both.”

Alexander nodded. “All right, but
I’m
not the Queen, Ouspensky. They will have to do better than kill
me
.”

“They kill you, they win the game. Let the bastard go by himself. He can stop the bullets with his teeth for all I care. But if something happens to you, we’ve got nobody else.”

“You’re wrong, Lieutenant. We’ve got
you
. Now look. We are under a direct order to plow through the woods.” He lowered his voice. “And I’ve finally figured out why. It’s because of them—the Vlasovites. Stalin wants his Soviet dregs—us—to kill his Soviet dregs—them.” Pasha was standing nearby. Alexander didn’t want him to hear. He led Ouspensky away. “We have only one directive—to go forward—and only one responsibility—to save our men. We’re nearly all out. To save our men you’d save Metanov’s life, wouldn’t you?”

“No,” Ouspensky said. “I’m going to shoot the motherfucker myself.”

“Nikolai,” Alexander said quietly, “if you touch him, you’ll die. Just so you understand my position and won’t accidentally fly into patriotic fervor, I want you to know your life is at stake. Anything happens to him, anything at all, I will blame you.”

“Sir—”

“Do you understand?”

“No!”

“That man is the brother of my wife,” said Alexander.

Something appeared on Ouspensky’s face. Alexander couldn’t quite place it. Some clarity, some understanding, some completion, almost as if Ouspensky had been waiting for something like this. Alexander couldn’t tell, the expression in the eyes was too fleeting. Then Ouspensky said, “I did not know that.”

“Why would you?”

Alexander and Pasha began their mission. It was mid-afternoon. Quiet in the woods except for the sound of drizzle on the evergreens. Disturbing, unexplained quiet. A burning branch broke and fell to the ground. It burned reluctantly, dampened by November. Pasha
Metanov stood ten meters away from Alexander and yelled, “This is Commander Kolonchak. Can you hear me? Bring me my Lieutenant Borov immediately.”

There was no sound from the woods. “Hold your fire! And bring me Borov,” he yelled.

A shot rang out. It narrowly missed Pasha. Alexander closed his eyes and thought, this is crazy. I’m not putting him in front of the firing squad before my own eyes. He called Pasha back, and sent for a corporal to shield Metanov next time he called out for his lieutenant. There was no more fire from the other side. Soon they heard a voice calling, “Commander Kolonchak?”

“Yes, Borov,” said Pasha.

“What is the password?”

Pasha glanced at Alexander. “If they asked you, would
you
know?”

“No.”

“Would you guess?”

“Don’t play games. This is for the lives of your men.”

“No, it’s for the lives of yours.”

“Give him the password, Pasha.”

“The Queen of Lake Ilmen,” yelled Pasha Metanov, waving a white handkerchief.

After a pained silence, Alexander said, “Well, I’m sure your sister would appreciate her name being summoned in the heat of battle.”

Borov walked forward from behind the gray trees not thirty meters away—that’s all that separated the two enemy battalions. In one hour this would have turned into hand-to-hand combat. Alexander had been in the woods too many times, up on hills, in the mud, in the marsh, shooting at phantoms, at shadows, at branches falling. He bowed his head. He was glad that at least for now the fighting would be over. He heard Pasha speaking to Borov, who was disbelieving and reluctant. “Permission not to surrender, sir.”

“Permission denied,” said Pasha. “You see a way out?”

“Die with honor,” said Borov.

Alexander stepped forward. “Tell your men to lay down their arms and come forward.”

“Captain!” Pasha cut in. “I’ll handle this.” He turned to Borov. “And the Germans are to be taken prisoner.”

Borov laughed. “We’re surrendering
them
? They’re going to love this.”

“They will do as they’re forced to.”

“What about the rest of us?”

“We’re going to fight for the Red Army.”

Borov stepped back with a look of disbelief on his face. “Captain, what’s happening? This is impossible.”

“What’s happening, Borov, is that I’ve been taken prisoner. And so you have no choice. This is for my life.”

Borov bowed his own head, as if he truly had no choice.

A little while later Pasha explained, “Borov will always be loyal to me. He is to me what Ouspensky is to you.”

“Ouspensky is nothing to me,” said Alexander.

“Ah, you’re joking.” Pasha paused. They were walking back to the Soviet camp, their men in front of them, the ten Germans with their hands tied. “Alexander, do you trust him?”

“Who?”

“Ouspensky.”

“Inasmuch as I trust anyone.”

“What does that mean?”

“What are you getting at?”

Pasha coughed. “Do you trust him with personal things?”

“I trust no one with personal things,” Alexander said, looking straight ahead.

“That’s good.” Pasha paused. “I don’t know if he can be trusted.”

“Oh, he’s proven his loyalty to me over the years. He can be trusted. Nonetheless, I don’t.”

“That’s good,” said Pasha.

Alexander was right about many things. Soviet reinforcements did not come. And there were no Red Army Imperial uniforms for Pasha and his Russian soldiers. Though he had lost many more than forty-two men himself, he buried his dead in their wet and bloodied resplendent velvet garb. Now he had forty-two men in German uniforms with German haircuts. Alexander ordered them shaved, but they were still in German uniforms.

Pasha was right about many things. German reinforcements moved to the foot of the mountain looking for their Russian battalion, expecting to find Pasha’s men and instead found Alexander’s battalion and not a Vlasovite in sight. Though their shells and grenades were more plentiful than Alexander’s, Alexander had the advantage, for the first time in
his military career, of being at the top of the hill. The German artillery unit was repelled, with difficulty, then an infantry unit was repelled with ease, and his men moved down the mountain, having lost only five soldiers. Alexander said he would never fight again unless it was from a great height.

Pasha said maybe the first time the Germans had sent in a handful of troops to block Alexander, but next time they would send a thousand, and the time after that ten thousand.

Pasha was right about many things.

On the other side of the Holy Cross mountains was more forest and more fighting, and another day brought a heavier artillery, heavier machine-gun fire, more grenades, more shells, less rain, more fire.

Alexander’s battalion was again reduced by five. The next day brought more Germans, and the battalion became three squads. No bandages, no sulfa helped. His men had no time to construct defenses, pillboxes, trenches. The trees covered them but the trees were felled by mortar fire, by grenades, by shells, and his men were, too. Nothing could sew back their severed limbs.

After four days, two squads remained. Twenty men. Alexander, Pasha, Ouspensky, Borov and sixteen foot soldiers.

One of Alexander’s men was bitten by something in the woods. The next day he lay dead. Nineteen men. Back to where they were before Pasha. But they had eight bound prisoners to barter their lives with.

The German army was not advancing. It certainly wasn’t retreating. Nor were they sitting still. Their singular purpose seemed to lie in finishing off Alexander’s battalion.

Alexander managed to hold out for a fifth day. But then there were no more bombs, no more shells and the guns were nearly empty. Borov had been killed. Pasha cried when he buried him in the mud under wet leaves.