Tin Sky (22 page)

“I was working in a dismal wooded place near Smolensk from early April until last week. Let us say that Poland’s case is best left alone for now.”

Smolensk? Bora had heard rumours of a massacre when he’d gone through that area in 1941, from Russian switchmen interrogated after taking over the railroads during the invasion. He’d passed the report along without comment, as had his colleagues, noting merely that the prisoners had mentioned the Polish uniforms worn by those supposedly led to their deaths. So it had taken two years to find the spot, or maybe even to look for it. It made sense, given all that had happened in the interim. On a scale of one to ten, what the judge was telling him registered about a six, which these days was rather high for a response from Bora, but still far from wonder, or astonishment. Bernoulli avoided looking at him, playing with the leaf; he studiously tore it to ribbons, following the fibres lengthwise. “The question is whether it’s more egregious to abstain from the Convention or to violate it systematically.”

“A sin of omission versus a sin of commission?”

“For us Catholics, at least, Major.”

With something between annoyance and fascination Bora watched Bernoulli accurately tearing the leaf into equal strips, truly a lawman’s overcritical attempt to coerce nature, an imperfect and ultimately futile endeavour. Beyond the single mounds of earth beneath which he’d buried the soldiers, to the left of the mass grave, the unpaved road breathed dust, impalpable and the colour of face powder, at every waft of wind. His wife, his mother used such pale colour on their skin; he had an urge to feel it under his fingertips, close as he was (with different kinds of affection) to both of them. “The trench just beyond is where we found our men,” he said. “We left the civilian corpses there because they were in a state that precluded handling, other than a minimal search and approximate count. We unloaded a truckful of quicklime on them, and shovelled clean earth from the rise by the road, over there. If it isn’t enough, by the summer we might have to dig everything up again, or else pour cement over it.”

By the summer the entire region could be securely back in German hands all the way to the Don, or else be lost as far back as the Dnieper. Bora mentioned summer as if they could predict that they would all be here four weeks or forty months from now. “Badges and identification discs were removed from our soldiers before death,” he went on, “so it is laborious work trying to reconstruct what units they might have belonged to, or how long they’d been in Soviet hands. I believe I wrote that in my report.”

“Indeed. Some of our soldiers captured early in February were kept in a Kharkov temporary camp, you said.”

“In the Yasna Polyana district, as far as we know. Our forces rushed there even as the city was being recaptured. It’s useless to add that they got there too late.” Bora turned and gestured without pointing directly to the school building. “Our soldiers were shot with 7.62 calibre Soviet rifles there against the wall, which I purposely have neither painted nor stuccoed over.” When the judge turned slowly to look, he added, “When I arrived on 10 April, my impression was that the wall had been used before
for the same purpose, and for a larger group of people – possibly the three dozen civilians whose bodies already half-filled the trench. Our soldiers were covered with snow and debris, mixed with a veil of dirt from the recently dug mass grave. Excess soil from the trench had been scattered in the expanse between the fence and the canal over there, but was unreachable at the time because of the snow cover. Our divisional medical chief was unable to establish the amount of time elapsed between executions as it had been unseasonably cold prior to the most recent use of the grave.”

“I read he had suggested five to six weeks. How could anyone dig a trench during the hard freeze?”

“The trench had been dug much earlier for defensive purposes. The field beyond was mined.” Bora watched the judge drop what remained of the leaf, and take off and wipe his spectacles with small circular motions. “According to official sources, the Russian units holding this sector belonged to the 179th Armoured Brigade. Shafarenko’s 25th Rifle Guards certainly held out against our forces south of here on the Mosh River. I don’t know why coups de grâce were not administered after the execution. In any case, torture seems to have been applied at the Yasna Polyana prison camp.”

“I saw the photographs you took there.”

Bora knew his next sentence would sound dismissive, but did not modify his tone. “I only arrived when
Das Reich
vacated it after using it for a week.” Disregarding the judge’s curious stare, he stepped past the individual burial mounds to the edge of the mass grave. “Regarding the civilians, there’s a detail I didn’t include in my written report, because it’s based on hearsay and I couldn’t find eyewitnesses. The schoolmaster, Janzen by name, was of Mennonite descent, and there’s a strong likelihood the others were ethnic Germans as well. From what I can gather, their community in nearby Alexandrovka – already decimated by Makhno’s Black Army during the civil war – disappeared at the end of January.”

An imperceptible sign of uneasiness, a narrowing of eyes, was all that came from the judge. “Out of the ordinary, a peace-loving Mennonite wearing war medals.”

“The Tsar rescinded their exemption from military service over seventy years ago. Those German Protestants who didn’t leave the country had to adapt. Like other German minorities, Janzen and his men might have been scheduled by
Reich
authorities for transfer to the Warthegau/Warthe District and executed by the Soviets during that first week in February when they retook Kharkov.”

A stubby cross reading
Cornelius Janzen and others known only to God
was the sole identifier on the long mound of beaten earth. Bernoulli did not encourage further comments. “Have you retrieved evidence from the civilian bodies?”

“What I could: shreds of paper items, cartridge parts. Here: I carry a couple of spent shells in my map case.”

Hefting the metal casings in his hand, for a moment the judge resembled a buyer dissatisfied with the change he was given. “These aren’t…Soviet rifle shells have bottleneck cases, Major.”

“Yes, sir. 7.62 calibre, 76.6 mm long.”

“And aren’t these Mauser 7.63 mm, only 25 mm in length?”

Bora remained expressionless. “As you know, the 7.63 can fit most Soviet Tokarev handguns.”

“Surely you don’t mean to tell me the holes on that wall were produced by single pistol shots?… Major Bora? I asked you a question.”

“Yes, Dr Bernoulli. Then it could have been our own M712
Schnellfeuer
. It shoots in rapid-fire bursts of ten to twenty.”

Bernoulli pocketed the metal bits, retrieved the briefcase and turned around to leave the graveside. “Let’s go inside.”

In the classroom, with the sun having been up for two hours, it was already warm. Through the open window, a ghostly sliver of moon showed as it arced down to set. On the bank of the canal, well out of earshot, Kostya was tending the droshky’s draught horses.

“Tell me, Major Bora, which German units were operative in this particular location during the retaking of Kharkov?”

Bora chose from a selection and partly unfolded a large map marked M-37-X-West, smoothing it out on the teacher’s desk. “Well, SS General Hausser raised a battle group from a
Das Reich
regiment, a
Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler
regiment, plus one motorcycle battalion from either division. Kharkov was in our hands until 2 February, when the Soviets took it and held it until 16 March. We began our counterattack the third week of February, and by 10 March Hausser, who’d been energetically pushing north this way, was already back in Merefa. Our soldiers had apparently been shot one to two days previously, but in the thick of battle their burial went undetected. By mid-March, all of Kharkov was reconquered.”

“So, if our soldiers were executed around 8 March, the lower estimate given by your divisional medical chief for the civilians’ deaths gives us a date around 1 February. The higher estimate would go back one week, to 24 January or thereabouts.”

Bora refolded the map. “It must be said that in the first three months of the year units of all kinds were roaming this countryside, both ours and theirs.”

Lost in thought at his side, Bernoulli stood with his face low, pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “Are you aware of any special units attached to Hausser’s battle group?”

“Not directly.” As he said the words, raising his eyes to the window, Bora watched his orderly vigorously brushing the horses by the water. Suddenly he realized he’d forgotten all about the anti-personnel mine on the canal bank. The thought went through him like whiplash. From here he was unable to tell whether Kostya was drawing close to the explosive charge or not. The doubt split his attention between here and there, indoors and outside. As if someone else were speaking in his place, he heard himself say, “SS
Einsatzkommandos
are constantly being created and disbanded ad hoc, Dr Bernoulli. Informants
told me a patrol took time in mid-March to search this area for the last
Dorfjuden
, but I have no confirmation whatever.”

“‘Village Jews’? I thought they were long since disposed of.”

“Right.” It was curious how he could make sense when he was no longer paying attention to the conversation. Bora couldn’t turn his eyes away from the window. Alertness bordering on panic, and an odd, sluggish inability to turn it into action nailed him where he was, fascinated by the sight of man and animals in harm’s way.
Where did I see the mine? Where was it?
He felt as at times he did in dreams, rooted to the spot despite his anguished need to move. “All I can say is that hereabouts they don’t care for Jews much, and, if anything, they’d help search for them. It could be true, or not.”

“Is this informant available for further questioning?”

“Yes.”

The mine was more to the right of where he’s standing. Or maybe not. If Kostya leads the roan down that way, where the young tree bends to touch the water… That’s where I saw the mine, less than a foot down the bank
.

“Major, is there something of interest outside?”

It took a direct question for Bora to snap out of his entrancement, sprint to the windowsill and call back the oblivious orderly along with the horses. “There are unexploded charges still lying around,” he said to justify himself, summarizing things to a puzzled Bernoulli. (
Why didn’t I move right away? How could I even think the mine “belonged there”?
) “I can’t afford losses.”

“Yes, of course,” the judge agreed. “If I am not mistaken, you were speaking of paper items from the civilian layers…”

Bora was eager to dispel any notion of negligence on his part. “I was.” From the desk drawer he promptly took out a battered tin box. Inside he’d collected blackened, rotted bits of printed paper, which he carefully laid out on the wooden surface. “The shreds definitely belong to a Protestant Bible, and this scrap – I believe it’s relevant. Someone had time to pencil on it a few words in
Plaudietsch
. It’s a Low Saxon dialect,
and all I could make out is
lot dien Rikjdom kome
, ‘Thy Kingdom come’. Perhaps Janzen and the Mennonites were rounded up and killed to keep them from being transferred to Germany.”

“By whom?”

“That, sir, depends on whether it happened while the Red Army had Merefa or not. I do not possess that information.”

Frowning, Bernoulli studied the remnants of soiled paper. “But we’re not talking about
Dorfjuden
here: it’s ethnic Germans, our own people. You say the Mennonite community disappeared at the end of January: Kharkov was ours then. For all your
Abwehr
methods of relating data without interpreting it, Major Bora, you’re suggesting the possibility that the Soviets shot and buried our soldiers in a grave dug for ethnic Germans executed by German troops! Why would German troops —”

“As the teacher’s medals suggest, the Mennonites’ Russification comes to mind as a reason, but it’s guesswork. I gave you the evidence I have, sir.” A pause between them, where flies slowly circling in the room could be heard, threatened to become an uncomfortable silence. Bora would not allow it. Out of the same tin box, he retrieved two cases of film roll. “Taken near the gully known as Drobytsky Yar, and in the Pyatikhatky woods, north of Kharkov. It’s best if I don’t keep them here.”

Bernoulli seemed to slump a little. “I see.” He sat down in the only chair, looking at the metal cylinders on the palm of Bora’s hand. “And
why
did you photograph those two places?”

For the next ten minutes or so, he listened without interrupting to what Bora had to say, running his eyes across the thickly written notebook pages laid one by one in front of him. His long-fingered, nervous hands, joined in concentration, reminded Bora of priests who’d heard his confession through the years. He leant across from the judge with his elbows on the desk, so as not to have to raise his voice to be heard. And although there was no penance given, a formula was followed when their conversation was through.

“Major,” Bernoulli told him, “there’s no time now to take a detailed, extensive deposition from you. Technically, I should not administer the oath until our written protocol is signed, but the instances you relate are potentially very serious, and – although I in no way doubt your sincerity – I wish to warn you about the consequences of perjury.” He rose to his feet. “You will please raise the three oath fingers of your right hand and repeat after me:
I swear by God the Almighty and All-knowing, that I have spoken the pure truth and withheld nothing. So help me God
.”