Authors: Ben Pastor
Bora, who’d been listening with a wary ear, became stock-still.
“If you have come into possession of this reel, to be safely placed in Kharkov by a trusted and anonymous comrade from the glorious days, it stands to reason that you have reconstructed at least part of the story. In summary, it entails the destiny of Makhno’s Black Army war booty, which Gleb Platonov and I found in the heady days of the Revolution in Makhno’s local refuge, a
kurgan
in the woods of Krasny Yar near the Udy River.” Khan’s general officer gruffness, surely meant for those filming him, was belied by a certain ironic quality of his voice and by artful pauses. “The rebels’ raids against local gentry and churches yielded a significant collection of Russian and foreign currency, bank drafts, stocks, precious metals and jewels. The gold alone came to ten
pud
of weight, the silver to forty. Platonov and I differed on the destination the booty should have. Our arguments made me painfully aware of his truly bourgeois idea of money and its value: he was Robespierre, I was Danton.” (Pause.) “During the NEP we frequently visited the Kharkov Oblast, and at least once a year I travelled alone to the Krasny Yar woods, by my orders marked as an off-limits military area. There, in a place most people already avoided for its scary reputation, Makhno’s ill-gotten gains functioned as my carefully disguised private lending institution, in my judgement well suited to afford small frivolities and socializing for deserving comrades.
“In 1926, just before the NEP came to an end, it reached my ears that Platonov had revealed the site to a foreigner by the name of Stark. He was a well-connected former journalist, a horse enthusiast then working for the German–Russian Transportation Agency Derutra. No doubt Platonov meant to expose me as a profiteer through the foreign press, thus ending my career and my life. Was he – the eternal number two – ambitious to surpass me, or was he so livid in his small-minded morality that he’d have the enemies of the Revolution profit from his betrayal? I wonder to this day. Thankfully Stark was more interested in Makhno’s booty than in an international scoop, and besides, I
had most foreign journalists in my back pocket in those days. Platonov’s plan miscarried. Soon we were all too caught up in politics to pay attention to Krasny Yar. All the same, I had Stark shadowed by trusted comrades, and learnt he went back several times to the Yar before foreign businesses lost Stalin’s support and shut down.”
The densely written page was turned over, allowing Khan to read from its reverse.
“In the following years, the chess game between Platonov and myself continued: he blackmailed me by threatening to talk; I played along, allowing him to feed on his ambition. Soon I had an additional reason to keep him on my good side, having begun to work for Germany under the codename
Baba Yaga
. We were in the Thirties: times were dangerous. It was the end of the October Revolution as we who fought for it knew it. Anybody could fall for a negligible reason, or for no reason at all. I and so many others had not fought to replace the tsar with a tyrant from Georgia: thus died my allegiance to the Soviet Union. I could have easily pushed Platonov into the pit where thousands fell, from Alksnis to Zinoviev. I did not: after all, I wouldn’t want him to accuse me to save himself. After his arrest during the Purge, I followed events with trepidation, but Platonov never talked. I will not give him credit; he must have kept the secret because he felt he was too compromised by his association with the matter of Krasny Yar.
“In fact, I had long before taken steps to protect myself. At the time of the XV Party Conference of 26 October 1926, which occupied Platonov as head of security, I flew to the Kharkov Oblast under secrecy. Due to Stark’s unauthorized withdrawals, two
pud
of gold were already missing. One by one, with the help of naive
besprizornye
squatting in the woods, I emptied the crates of their contents, carted these out, replaced them with ballast and then used a small explosive charge to cause a cave-in that would more effectively conceal them under the
kurgan
: a long labour that sadly could leave no living witnesses. Shortly
thereafter snow came; time and nature would do the rest. Even today, 21 April 1943, Platonov and Stark believe that Krasny Yar still holds Makhno’s booty.
“For the past week, ever since Platonov was shot down in the Kharkov area and taken prisoner, I have been worrying that he might decide to talk: any revelation about me at this time, just as I am about to cross over, would mean my death at the hands of the Red Army. It seems that thus far Platonov has maintained his silence, but there’s no guarantee. As for Alfred Lothar Stark, the extraordinary efforts he has made from the beginning of the war to be assigned specifically to the Kharkov Oblast, renouncing a
Gauleiter
’s post and other career perks, speak volumes. You may or may not be aware that throughout the 1930s he was – and still is today – in the Soviets’ employ, codename
Zhestianik
. Check your documents: you’ll find ample confirmation. I am convinced he is waiting for the time of summer operations to draw nearer: he will then attempt a
coup de main
on Krasny Yar, and defect as soon as possible. Platonov’s captivity in the Kharkov area, and soon my own presence, will be in Stark’s eyes impediments to protecting his identity and securing the booty.”
A second page, only partially filled, was begun.
“Hence, Colonel Bentivegni, my insistence to be kept in
Abwehr
custody and well away from Stark. As a chess player, I scented him as my most dangerous adversary once I’d waded across the Donets. I realize that I defy destiny by requesting to be escorted to Kharkov upon arrival, but I am a gambler; and besides, a smattering of Makhno’s booty is located in Kharkov. If I live, I mean to lay my eyes on it once more.
“This, on the other hand, may well be a posthumous statement on my part. If Stark or someone representing him has meanwhile killed me to ‘get to the goods’ – well, he won’t ‘get to the goods’. He’ll only think he did. Seven
pud
of gold and thirty-five
pud
of silver – nearly 700 kilos of precious metals – will no more profit Chancellor Hitler than they will Chairman
Stalin. In 1928, Makhno’s booty was worked into the steel of the first Red Army tanks built at the Kharkov Komintern Locomotive Factory.” It was the first time in the reading that something vaguely resembling a smile lightened Khan’s Soviet frown. Looking straight at the viewer, Komandir Tibyetsky became Terry Terborch for the time needed to add, “Living large, Colonel Bentivegni, has long been my philosophy. I do not intend to reveal where the remainder of the booty is kept. I will only add this: despite its gloomy reputation and deaths, what a beautiful nook Krasny Yar,
the beautiful ravine
, has been all these years!”
Bora remained standing by the projector long after the screen ran black with the occasional flashing white number and then flipped with a snapping sound off the spool. He was somehow less bewildered than he was impressed.
Through a glass, darkly
… His mind reeled at the thought of how many times the alloy of steel and precious metals had been reforged through the years, until gold and silver were no more than particles throughout the Red Army’s tank corps.
Had he understood the hint to the cinema’s name right away, when Khan had first placed his orange drink on the photograph, he could have – what? Not avoided Khan’s death – things were already moving too fast – but understood long ago who, having already disposed of Gleb Platonov, plotted to kill the tank commander. Waiting for Bentivegni, Khan had chosen not to share things with him, only that minor hint. “Do you play chess?” he’d asked. Far from being
too impulsive
, as he’d answered, Bora felt now he’d been much too slow.
Zhestianik – Tinman
: well,
Tinman
’s identity had baffled German counterintelligence for years, although as far as he knew his activity had decreased ever since the start of the Russian campaign – a fact that made perfect sense now.
The rectangle on the wall glared blinding white; the spool kept whipping the loose end of the reel. Bora clicked the projector off.
The morning of Khan’s death, when I walked into his office, Stark took a phone call and seemed to forget everything around him. He said something like “Good. Only if you confirm.” For all I know, Weller was reporting in after the murder. What do I do now?
Solve the problem and tidy up afterwards
. If Geko Stark opened the crates, he’s aware he risked all for nothing. If he hasn’t, he’ll guard them tooth and nail. In either case, he can count on
Totenkopf
engineers keeping mum – what the hell, he’s clearly manoeuvred more people than I can count within the SS, at the Kharkov switchboards, at the Medical Inspectorate; in the RSHA, for all I know. He’s got access to Oberstgruppenführer Simon. None of them know enough to accuse him of anything, if they ever would.
Daylight returned when Bora walked to the window and rolled up the blinds. Darkness, light, flickering images: it was all metaphorical of his present state. Until the twenty-seventh, Stark could have counted on Weller’s absolute silence: not now, necessarily. Now that he felt trapped in Kiev, the medic could just as well burrow into a hole or become a loose cannon. It was imperative to reach him before the Commissioner did. Yes. Even if Stark felt sure enough of the crates’ contents to ship them off directly, he couldn’t avoid making that one move: eliminating Weller as soon as possible. Bora replaced the film inside its cardboard case and walked out of the office.
He’ll deal with me next. Christ, he dared me with the letter to the Medical Inspectorate, knowing I would open it: urging Weller’s repatriation on behalf of Oberstarzt Mayr, who actually had nothing to do with the request. He knew I’d either fall for it, which at first I did, or be frightened by the implications. Even with the film in my possession, a district commissioner of the Reich is much too large a mouthful for a newly appointed regiment commander.
When I went to him looking for a kilo of butter on 20 May, he stopped writing at the mention of an old woman who eats it by the mouthful. As one of the opportunist guests in Larisa’s house back in the NEP years, he’d remember the detail. He turned around on the swivel chair to hide his discomfort, not his laughter. And there I was, first talking about Arnim Weller and then about Larisa’s favourite treat. Forget the
random shot from the
Leibstandarte
marksman: that was probably just to teach me respect. Stark must have decided on 20 May to dispose of me: after all, someone rigged my vehicle with a timed device the following day. It’s a classic: he’s aware I’m aware, and vice versa. He does
not
know about the film reel. How do I get it to Colonel Bentivegni, with or without Arnim Weller in tow? If Stark gets to Larisa and she talks, I’m done for. I can’t let her do that.
At the mess hall, where he stopped to thank the communications officer, the pilots invited him to sit with them. Bora foresaw good-natured razzing about the film from home, and answered that he had no time. But he was hungry, so he accepted a glass of wine, and a sandwich on the go. He left the airbase, munching on the sandwich as he drove.
There’s no film negative
, he thought.
I can’t have copies made of it.
Rolling fields and ravines alternated on both sides of the road. At the checkpoint near the Tractor Works, Bora showed his papers indifferently. Every ounce of his brainpower was engaged in thinking over, planning; it was as if Khan Tibyetsky were sitting next to him with his mouth damnably shut. Or maybe not.
Khan said the gold in Makhno’s hideout came to eight
pud
– that’s about one hundred and thirty kilos. The gold that ended up at the Tractor Works – then the Komintern Locomotive Factory – was seven
pud
. Where did the missing sixteen-plus kilos of gold go? They’re “located in Kharkov”. And Krasny Yar does mean “beautiful ravine”, but it’s a dismal little wood: why did he compare it to a beautiful nook? Why a “nook”? Is it a generic expression? In Russian, “beautiful nook” translates as
krasny ugol
– “beautiful nook; beautiful corner”. Which is also how Russians refer to the spot in the house where holy images are kept. Holy images. Icons.
Icons?
Maybe Larisa Malinovskaya’s father did sell off or lose his sacred art collection at the gaming table to “those two upstart merchants Ostruchov and Tetryakov”, whoever they were. Is she clever or naive? Sinister or forgetful? Fuck; I can see why Friedrich von Bora had to get away from her in the end. Maybe the “smattering” of Makhno’s booty that didn’t go into tank steel is hanging in Larisa’s house to this day, one whole
pud
of solid gold and precious stones!
Past the hospital across from the military graveyard, Bora did a U-turn in the middle of the road. He’d just taken Staro–Moskovskaya to return to Merefa, but he now reversed and sped across the Kharkov River to Pomorki. A puzzled Nyusha, hanging sheets out to dry, told him there’d been no visitors after his visit more than ten days earlier.
To Bora, it meant that Stark probably knew Larisa’s town house address from the 1920s, not the present one, and that if he couldn’t find her in the compulsory German census of Kharkov dwellers he didn’t recall her name.
Still, there’s no trusting the fat old witch in her parlour
.
If she talks she’s dead; but I’ll be in trouble
. Bora waited for Nyusha to go back inside. Then, instead of leaving the garden, he took the sniper rifle from the GAZ and concealed it in the thickness of creepers and shrubs, next to the leaning wire fence.
As he pulled out in reverse on to the corduroy path, Bora checked the fuel gauge. Even by his own judgement, he was wasting an inordinate amount of gasoline; how long Bentivegni’s special permit would hold up before the general shortage he’d find out sooner or later. Back to the city limits, he crossed Kharkov once more.
There’s no film negative, that’s true. I can’t have copies made of it. But I can record the soundtrack as many times as I want.