Authors: Ben Pastor
Had I not been submitted to three hours of accordions last night, and had the Ukrainians not used the same as an accompaniment blared at full volume, I believe I would have taken things in my stride. As it was, I stormed out of the schoolhouse, halted the
procession and commanded that the instruments be turned in. They’ve learnt by now that if my holster is unlatched, there’s no discussion. I got the elders to pile up the accordions in the middle of the uncultivated field flanking the road, and told them to go. They didn’t; or rather, they walked until they were far enough away to dare to stop and look what would happen. The priest, holding a good-sized icon, was stationed midway between them and the place where I was.
Having prepared things quickly and efficiently, I set the Russian mine from the canal bank in the nice hollow formed by the bellows and the right-hand keyboard of the nethermost instrument. I then packed it with pebbles and dirt, removed the pin from the fuse and paced to a convenient distance from it. By this time, unlike his flock, Father Victor understood what was afoot, dropped the icon and went scampering after the others. It took me a single gunshot to blast the pile sky-high and make even the least dismembered of the accordions incapable of ever working again.
What will the Merefa peasants think of it? It isn’t as if I care. Don’t they know that according to the May ’41 Führer’s decree, paragraph 4, “suspicious elements are to be brought before an officer as soon as possible”? It is up to me as a German officer to decide not only who is suspicious, but also what is suspicious and how to dispose of it. The sentry has no doubt seen worse retribution visited on Russians, because he didn’t blink an eye. As for Kostya, he’s not one to question officers or Germans. Besides, he wasn’t present. I’d sent him to the village to scout out someone who had actually visited Krasny Yar and lived to tell the tale.
Speaking of suspicions, when he gets back from the Kiev Branch Office Lattmann may be able to provide me with an update regarding the newest claim by UPA, the Ukrainian Insurgent Army. As things are, I secured one of their freshly printed leaflets at the Kombinat, where I met with Commissioner Stark for a few moments after returning from Kharkov with the evidence. He had himself arrived from the city shortly before, begrudging – as he said – having had to authorize the police operation “before
having the opportunity to look into the wisdom of such measures.” Uneasy lies the head, etc… I did two things. Kept my mouth shut about his comment, and remarked that there’s no lack of official and clandestine presses in town, so that the Security Service have their work cut out for them in tracking the leaflets to the right printing place. He didn’t bring up Khan Tibyetsky’s death, and neither did I.
It intrigues me that the UPA claim keeps the specifics of the assassination (we’re all assuming it is such, but it remains to be seen) under as much silence as its Russian counterpart did. And it follows rather than precedes the Soviet claim. Genuine in the sense that it must originate in UPA circles, it mentions the Prussian-backed coup d’état against the 1917 Ukrainian National Republic, and promises to visit upon General Skoropadsky – who in his younger days headed the coup – the same fate suffered by Khan. This is an obvious reference to the fact that Skoropadsky is at present in Germany, although it should be said that he chose his residence after falling from power.
At the end of the day, when it comes to responsibilities for Khan’s death, Mantau enjoys an embarrassment of riches. From his point of view it is only right to target Ukrainian and Russian Kharkovians alike, so that no culprit goes unpunished. The fate of the babushkas still in SD custody is not to be envied: the risk is that they’ll say whatever they think Mantau wants them to say.
A last note: at divisional headquarters there was mail for me. A letter from Dikta, come through the usual army post channels, and an envelope hand-delivered to me by Senior Army Chaplain Father Galette. I’m still sitting on both messages, because I’m not in the right mood to hear from my wife or from my former teacher, Cardinal Hohmann.
A postscript. The Security Service must think me less equipped for certain eventualities than my training has made me: I carry around spare licence plates, and I’m changing them first thing in the morning.
THURSDAY 13 MAY
First thing in the morning, the Merefa peasants came to pick up the pieces of their accordions. Bora’s animosity had considerably abated, so he told Kostya to distribute handfuls of
karbovanets.
Money being scarce, Kostya returned with the message that if there were other instruments the Major wanted to blow up, they had concertinas and fiddles available as well.
After changing the licence plates, Bora was rinsing his hands in a dainty washbasin left behind by the Russian schoolteacher. He said, without smiling, “Never mind that. Anyone in the village who might be able to tell me about the Yar?”
“
Da-s i nyet-s, povazhany
Major. Yes and no. There’s a man from Schubino to see you.”
Bora raised his eyes at the mention of a village near Krasny Yar. “Schubino? It’s thirty kilometres from here.”
“He said he’s from Schubino but lives in Merefa now.”
Setting aside the enamelled bowl, graced by sprigs of red flowers around the rim, Bora slowly dried his hands with the cloth Kostya held out to him. “And he’s here to talk about Krasny Yar?”
“He didn’t say that, sir.” Kostya picked up the washbasin, avoiding the officer’s stare. “I think he might make you mad, though.”
Taras Lukjanovitch Tarasov didn’t even have to open his mouth to annoy the German officer. He’d dressed in his holiday best and worn the Soviet Badge of Honour reading
Proletarians of the world
,
unite
! Civilians were shot for much less.
Bora sized up the bony little man who introduced himself as a
rakhivnik
, finding the idea irresistible of a consumptive-looking accountant who dared to confront an army of occupation. “Well, Tarasov,” he began, “you lived in Schubino. That’s close to Krasny Yar. Are you here to tell me about the woods?”
The question seemed to annoy the visitor. “The woods? No. I’m here to turn myself in for killing the traitor Tibyetsky.”
Concealing all that went through him at once (surprise, doubt, disbelief, amusement) forced Bora to exercise self-control so it wouldn’t seem artificial.
Old fool, take your place in line: there are others ahead of you
was what he wanted to advise, but in all seriousness he said he appreciated the gesture. And nothing more.
The grey-faced Tarasov stood there awkwardly, with a look of expectation and fear. He watched the German take out a blank sheet of paper from the drawer, and also the UPA leaflet he’d got from Stark, rotated on the wooden surface so that it was readable to the man facing the teacher’s desk.
Bora waited. He’d learnt not to indulge in small gestures that could give away puzzlement or impatience. No drumming of fingers on the desk, no playing with his wedding band, no open stare. He sat straight in the chair, looking unconcerned at the place between Tarasov’s chin and his chest where the badge pinned on the old suit, nearly three inches across, showed a young couple against a flutter of banners bearing Marx’s call to arms. He scented fear in the sickly man, and some other emotion less overt and understandable. A fly lightly settled on the leaflet where a line in bold read
Slava Ukraini
: Glory to Ukraine.
Sensing that a justification for his claim was called for, Tarasov wet his lips. “As political commissar at Kharkov Factory No. 183 and then at the FED photographic camera firm until my retirement, I have a direct ideological share in the moulding of the patriots who carried out the people’s vengeance.”
Again, silence. The fly took off from the leaflet and landed on Tarasov’s right shoulder. Fear, yes. Bora expected that. The other emotion was – what? Not hostility, not arrogance. Not self-delusion, either. Resentment? Hopelessness?
Wouldn’t Odilo Mantau give an eye tooth to be in my place
. Bora savoured the strangeness of the moment, whether or not it would lead
anywhere. He placidly took the fountain pen from his breast pocket and uncapped it. Holding the nib close to the blank sheet, he asked, “And who are
the patriots
? Names, please.”
Tarasov swallowed the need to cough. Between fifty and sixty years of age, hard to tell on an emaciated frame, he seemed confused by this odd reception. “I do not intend to betray my fellow Russians.”
“Ah. Not
Slava Ukraini
, then.
Slava Rossii
. The excellent Soviet partisan leaders Sydor Kovpak and Semyon Rudniev, who I understand made general a month ago.”
“Major, I thought —”
“Why come to me?” Ready to write, Bora’s pen stayed firm, a hair’s breadth away from the sheet. “There are other German authorities to whom you should have turned yourself in.”
Tarasov gave him a frustrated look. “I’m a Merefa resident. You’re the German military authority in Merefa. To whom should I go? This is really – not acceptable.”
“
Not acceptable
? I don’t care a fig for what is acceptable to you. I asked for information about Krasny Yar, and you strut in with claims you can’t support, presuming that a tin badge will cause a German officer to react! Didn’t you hear it’s the woods I’m seeking information about?”
A fit of hollow coughing shook Tarasov. Disturbed, the fly left his shoulder and sought the ceiling in an undulating semicircle. “I heard.” He spoke hoarsely when he regained his breath. “That’s what prompted me to come in the first place, but – it gave me an idea to – the opportunity to —”
“Play the braggart over Commander Tibyetsky’s death? Do not offend me, accountant.”
Unexpectedly the little man struck the desk with his fist. “Well, do not offend
me
, Major! After all, I was a comrade of the traitor Tibyetsky!”
Bora did not move a muscle.
And I was just trying to save this idiot’s life
. A suspended wordless pause, very different from the previous silence, went by before he capped his pen and put it
away.
Whatever he’s up to, whatever he’s done or not done, now we’re getting somewhere
.
The conversation with Taras Tarasov lasted over an hour and a half. Bora listened with absolute attention, jotting down a few sober, indicative notes that would become an extended memorandum as soon as the accountant left the room. He wrote furiously so as not to leave out a hint, a comment, filling out several sheets on both sides. Had he not promised to report what news he had about Sanitätsoberfeldwebel Weller to Mayr at Hospital 169, he’d have continued to ponder Tarasov’s “confession”. But first there were service errands in Kharkov and the matter of Khan Tibyetsky’s post-mortem, his exchange goods for the day.
At the hospital, hammering, sawing and refitting continued behind closed doors. While he waited for the surgeon to finish his rounds, Bora took his diary out of the briefcase and retrieved Dikta’s letter, placed between the pages as a bookmark. Leaning with his shoulders against the wall, he opened it with trepidation. It was short, because Dikta did not indulge in effusions; she’d sooner send three short letters than a long one. And although she’d received the best in Swiss education, she seldom elaborated in her correspondence on what she certainly felt about him (or others; or the world). For a twenty-six year old, there was always something immature in her words, an adolescent impatience to be done with the writing chore.
Past the affectionate greetings at the start, she wrote:
We’ve become fast friends, your brother’s wife and I. The doctor told Duckie she must walk, so I take her to concerts, lectures, art exhibits, charity fairs…and shopping, because nothing fits her any more. In the evening we sit on the bed in her room to talk and we giggle like little girls, she in her nightgown and myself in a bra and frilly undies, a new set I had Mamma send me from Paris that is really quite indecent but you will love. If Papa Sickingen saw me wearing it! With three women in the house he’s exasperated;
doesn’t know what to do with himself. Imagine: he who doesn’t like dogs takes Wallace every day for a constitutional in Rosenthal Park or goes to pout alone in the smoking room, under those nasty glass-eyed trophies and the balalaikas.
It’s amazing how many things Duckie is ignorant of about her own body. She blushes, but she’s very curious about the things experienced married people can do. I think she’s a little envious of us. She asked me if any of it is a sin, the dear Duckie. I answered her that I wasn’t raised Roman Catholic but you certainly were, and that none of it seems to be a problem for you. I believe that as soon as the baby is born and she gets back in shape Peter will be quite grateful for our girlie talks.
By the way, Mamma, your mother and I have volunteered to break horses for the Army; who better than girls like us, with our riding skills and charm that even the dear animals understand?
I miss you – miss you – miss you! Come back soon, my darling Martin, and all in one glorious piece.
Dikta
P.S. Did you receive the Ziemke Studio photo? I was actually looking at a pair of your riding boots Ziemke told me to place on the carpet near me. Of course I adore the man inside those magnificent boots.
Mayr’s voice from the end of the hallway startled him. “Major Bora, weren’t you here to see me? I haven’t got all day.”
Bora squirrelled away the letter. Flustered as he always was after reading his wife’s messages, in the few steps separating him from the physician’s door he regained a polite aloofness, sealed over and to all appearances storm-proof.