Tin Sky (31 page)

Bora’s hostility, like all else about him, had a polite, reclusive quality. His friend was aware that it could border on cruelty, not least against himself. It was impenetrable, too. Alcohol or not, a Bora who didn’t want to talk was a lost cause for a meaningful conversation. Lattmann knew he’d gone as far as he could with him. He drank a swig directly from the bottle. “So you plan to trek through mined woods?”

“I plan to trek through woods where minefields are marked. I’m not studying this map to entertain myself. Bruno, I’ve got two weeks before every waking moment I have will be spent with the regiment. By the end of May I must be able to report fully manned and equipped, so anything else I mean to do, I must do now. When did you see Peter?”

“Yesterday, when we stopped for refuelling at the Poltava airfield. He’s there, conferring with his KG55 colleagues – working overtime and hoping against hope, depending on the start of the campaign, to snatch a two-day pass in Leipzig when his child is born.”

Bora was copying data into a small pocketbook, letters and numbers that meant something for him alone, to overlap on the topographic map as keys to dangerous spots. “I bet he makes it. Kempf is moving to Kharkov, but I see no sign of us moving ahead before the second half of June. What do you have for me regarding the Insurgent Army and Tibyetsky?”

“One interesting titbit: leaflets circulated in Poltava, Zaporozhye and Kiev were worded exactly like the Soviets’ claim to having executed Khan in German custody. They are clearly derived from it. We still don’t know when his presence in Kharkov became known. It’s possible the Gestapo raid on the detention centre, in full daytime, alerted the UPA or NKVD. Both groups are using the defector’s death as a piece of internal propaganda, but they can’t
both
be behind it. Either the Soviets did it, or – not having done it – beat the Ukrainians to their official claim. And I have another piece of news: Odilo Mantau got his ass fired over Tibyetsky’s death. Courtesy of Kharkov
Gestapo chief Hans Kietz, who shipped him to Kiev with his marching orders. They were celebrating at our Branch Office, because it’ll be a while before he’s substituted.”

“That’s good news. I wonder how long before they sack me over Platonov’s heart attack?”

“I don’t think they will, once they see what you got out of him. They’d given up on learning anything from the old man.”

“Anyhow, it isn’t as if I haven’t got another job apart from interrogating higher-ups.” Bora held the bottle out to Lattmann. When his colleague said no, he corked it and put it away. “We go by what Russians and Ukrainians claim regarding Tibyetsky, but there’s a third possibility: we could be wrong in supposing the existence of an organized enemy plot. The killer could have acted alone, or, at most, on someone’s commission. Listen to what a little fellow called Tarasov told me yesterday, standing right where you are now.”

It took a little over ten minutes of summary, after which Lattmann didn’t appreciably change his views. “Why, he sounds delusional! And you plan to execute him?”

“It’d be merciful. He’s at the last stage: coughing blood and so haggard you can see through him. I don’t know; I haven’t made up my mind on how to keep my part of the bargain according to military rules, so I gave him three days to come back and ask to be spared.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“I might turn a blind eye and leave him to his natural destiny. But if he’s tattled in Merefa about his extravagant claim and he’s believed, I’ll have to make an example of him.”

“An example. Right; of course.” Lattmann looked away from Bora’s stern face. “How many times have I heard that? And now from you, too. I’m no philosopher, Martin, but if there’s normality somewhere, none of this is it.”

“We didn’t sign up to lead a normal life. You volunteered for the East as I did. We
chose
to fight ‘those who wear their shirts
out of their pants’. Now it’s consistency and not normality that we must strive for.”

“Oh yes?” In his summer uniform, faded khaki shorts and ankle boots, four out of five fingertips bandaged, Lattmann gave the incongruous impression of an overgrown Boy Scout, despite being married and a father of two (and a cousin to Peter’s wife). “I wish I had your coolness, Martin. Sometimes I wonder. Well, I might as well say it. I wonder how we’ll go back to our families after all this.”

“Those of us who go back will have to deal with it.” Bora smiled, to lighten the conversation. “And to prove to you that I am more prudent than you make me out to be: before long I am going to thoroughly reconnoitre Krasny Yar. I snatched an authorization from divisional command to proceed; I doubt Lieutenant Colonel von Salomon even read what he was signing this morning. It’s a limited area, three kilometres per side, so I’ll use the spider-web approach, because even though German troops have met no trouble in that area thus far, six dead civilians point to some kind of hostile activity, and counter-guerrilla methods are justified. If we find nothing, it’ll have been good practice.”

“Why; do you expect to find somebody or something there that will explain Khan Tibyetsky’s death? However the assassination was planned, it didn’t originate in that patch of woods!”

Bora resumed writing in his small notebook. “I won’t know until I understand more about the place. That blockhead Mantau swore by his babushka’s guilt. I don’t. And speaking of women, I’m going to spend some time with Larisa after all.”

“It’s about time.”

“Yes, and something else I can’t write home about.” Bora gave him a piece of paper with the SS surgeon’s name on it. “See if you can run a quick check on this officer; whether he’s all he says he is. And please keep looking into the matter of that Weller fellow, the army medic. Anything might help. Mayr, the surgeon at Hospital 169, won’t drop the subject. Wait – check a little deeper on him, while you’re at it. His previous assignments,
citations, recent and upcoming furloughs and suchlike. See if he’s really got his neuralgia and jaundice. He claims a high exposure to suffering, et cetera, which in his profession and while at war is inescapable. I may be way out of line, but – look into
rumours.
”

“What sort of rumours?”

“I don’t know. Stress, combat fatigue… Mercy killing.”

Lattmann took notes and pocketed the scrap. “I hope you’re barking up the wrong tree, Martin.”

Soon Lattmann and Bora were driving together to Borovoye. From there, Bora continued on to Bespalovka, where he’d interview more prospective components of the regiment and plan the Krasny Yar operation.

Monday 17 May, near Bespalovka, 4.30 a.m.

Two intense days with the regiment. Nagel is here! I could have embraced him, I was so happy to see him. As it was, we warmly shook hands for half a minute. Thank God for Nagel. I’d put my life into that man’s hands ten times over. He’s sure to build a cadre of non-coms I can lead through a ring of fire. If it weren’t for Sergeant Major Nagel, I’d have had my head blown off a couple of times in Stalingrad alone. Turns out he’d heard the regiment was in the making, and was taking steps to ask for admittance at the same time I was looking for him.

He and I agree we should impress upon all applicants that our task is not going to be a picnic. Most of us who have anti-guerrilla experience are aware that the dangers for us are higher than on a regular front line. If there’s anyone among us (officer, non-com, trooper) who for any reason has had enough, or – worse – anyone whose nerves have given way before, better get rid of them now. This is not going to be for them.

Newcomers who labour under the illusion that partisan = bandit = improvised fighter had better be disabused quickly of
the idea. I circulated diagrams of the typical partisan regiment, as tightly organized and hierarchically arranged as any unit but wholly disinclined to observe the rules of fair fighting. I explained how squads similar to
Einsatzkommandos
come in tow, with leeway to exterminate as necessary. This isn’t to say I haven’t had occasion to negotiate with partisan leaders: some of those who come from the regular army are not bereft of decency. Yet this summer, as we move out, the regiment needs to be prepared for unpleasant duty. I mean to keep civilians out of the mess as much as possible (it’s good policy, and morally preferable), but if we’re to keep the flanks of our advancing army safe, we’ll have to be equal to anything. The evangelist Matthew writes
Estote parati;
and ready we must be.

As I write, my officers are informed that the entire unit will carry out an exercise next week. I calculate it will take 2 mounted platoons patrolling the river side of the woods, with 3 stationary machine gun positions; the other two sides of Krasny Yar will require 1 squadron each, plus machine gunners every 60 m. The entry side, where I’ll go in, will involve 2 squadrons, plus 2 platoons. Technically, this means that each of us will “cover” about 11 m
²
of the woodland: unless the killer is a troll or a creature who lives in the bowels of the earth, we ought to be able to flush him out. If not, we’re sure to find evidence of his having been there.

For now, I’m due to go back to Merefa, where Kostya is to give me an update about Taras Tarasov: has he shown up to ask for mercy in the last two days? Time’s up. Taras Tarasov has a rendezvous with destiny (or with Martin Bora, who plays that role as far as the little accountant is concerned).

Five kilometres out, at the crossroads by the Diptany farm, Bora met a Security Service patrol and had to stop. Armoured cars and half-tracks, with
Leibstandarte
and Army trucks in tow, clogged the dusty fork in the road. Dark mud clung to their tyres. Had there not been smoke rising from the north-eastern horizon, that alone would have said they were back from some mopping-up operation or other on the banks of the Mosh River.
“Where are you headed? We’re not done,” the Hauptsturmführer in command told him, adding, “Why are you alone, Major?”

Bora answered the first question; as for the second, he pointed to the sub-machine gun he kept to hand. It annoyed him – as it did every time, no matter how many times it happened – when his papers were taken a few steps away and pored over. Unfailingly, they were given back with a nod, as happened now.

“Very well. Keep left, at your own risk.”

Open fields, undulating terrain and grassy ravines led to the river. “To my
left
?”

“That’s what I said. Wait here if you’re afraid, Major.”

Bora stepped on the gas, and headed in the direction indicated. As soon as he was out of sight beyond a rise and a dip, he turned right at the very next crossroads. The morning breeze carried the smell of smoke from the burning sheds, whiffs and ravels of odours – lumber, charred grain, ticking. Shooting still sounded from less than a kilometre away, in short bursts of machine-gun fire. Marksmen’s rifles, sniper rifles cracked at intervals from beyond the river, as it seemed. Slowing down to a halt came as easy as it was foolish. Bora took out his field glasses to look. It was all a green haze while he focused the lenses, and then the clarity of motion as soldiers became visible, stealthily approaching a cluster of farm buildings. Whatever was going on, no one on either side was paying any attention to him.

Which was interesting, because a shot was aimed straight in his direction. Bora felt it, heard it glance the metal frame of his windshield at the top left corner, missing him where he stood behind the wheel by a span at most. He froze for the stunned instant needed to run a mental check and make sure he hadn’t been hit. Somehow he managed not to react outwardly by lowering his field glasses.
Not a Tokarev, not a Mosin. Nothing Soviet. And they’re not firing from the farm, or from across the river.
The thought was still taking shape in his head as he turned slowly and refocused his field glasses on the rise he’d climbed and driven down to reach this spot. The steadiness of
his hands seemed strange even to him, because he was enraged. And although he couldn’t make out the sharpshooter, he did see the trembling heads of fescue where he lay in the grass.
He’s keeping me in his sights as I look his way. Won’t fire at me now that he knows I’m on to him, and he wouldn’t have fired in the first place had I not stopped to look.
At my own risk:
is this what they meant? I could go back to the Diptany fork and call his commander to account, but it’s enough to have shown them I’m not in the least “afraid”. I have stacks of more important work to do.

He was understandably put out when he reached the Merefa schoolhouse. There, Kostya made things worse by reporting that Taras Tarasov, far from coming with cap in hand in the last two days, had been bragging all over Merefa. Bora didn’t need to hear what about.
I’ll shoot the bastard myself; I’ll drag him out of the house and shoot him myself
. And whether or not in town they knew that today was the day of reckoning, once there Bora couldn’t find a soul in the streets to tell him where Taras Tarasov lived. His anger increased in the process of banging on doors and demanding a response. Seeing Father Victor Nitichenko stroll over from the road to Ozeryanka effected the incredible result of making Bora’s wrath peak and at the same time returning him to a measure of calm.

“It’s over there,
povazhany
Major: the house down the street with the faded shutters.” And given that Bora was already stalking toward the place, the priest added (out of spite, or relief, or as an apology?), “But you’re late,
bratyetz
. Taras Tarasov had a gush of blood overnight and died a sinner, as he lived. My mother, sainted woman, is there washing him for burial now. We thought you’d have been here earlier to have him shot for what he claims he did.”