Tin Sky (42 page)

Besprizornye
or not, I plan to enter the Yar at the head of the regiment, without indicating the possible presence of youngsters to the officers and the men, as if it were a regular mopping-up operation. It can at the very least be an excellent exercise.

Note: Unless I’m mistaken, the FED camera factory in Kharkov, where Taras Tarasov worked for a time under educator–entrepreneur Anton Makarenko, employed rehabilitated waifs. I should take another look inside the little accountant’s suitcase, to see if there are references to
besprizornye
from Krasny Yar in the 1920s–30s labour force.

Addendum, written later on the same evening: I went through Tarasov’s musty old papers again. And because once in a while I must get lucky, I did find the carbon copy of a letter from Makarenko himself, dated 1928, where he indulges in a nifty bit of self-serving propaganda for his Labour Commune. He claims ever since 1920 to have returned “several youngsters” to civilized living, to the Soviet Union, and to dedicated manual labour from many (11) locations in the Kharkov region, including “the desolate patch of woods lately a refuge to them, and before them to the enemies of the Revolution and the State”.

He doesn’t mention the name of the place, but I’m willing to bet it’s Krasny Yar. The same process possibly took place in the 1930s, when the famine occasioned another round-up of waifs on the part of government agencies in Ukraine. Why couldn’t there be yet another batch of wild boys who took to the woods when we invaded this region?

It does not solve my problems – that is, it doesn’t tell me what was concealed in the Yar, and whether
besprizornye
have had or have anything to do with it. Nor does it help me solve Uncle Terry’s murder or disprove or confirm my suspicions about Platonov’s own timely death; much less understand who might want to blow me to kingdom come. At any rate, I should send a thank you note to the SPW half-track crew, whose nudge off the road saved my hide.

Shortly before midnight, when he was unsuccessfully trying to get to sleep, Hospital 169 called in. It was Dr Mayr, the last person Bora expected to hear from.
Egregious times
, Judge Bernoulli would say. The army surgeon sounded no friendlier than he’d been when they’d stormily parted ways in the morning.
It’s interesting that he’s calling
, Bora thought.
He’s either very clever or very dull: if he’s behind it, asking about the car accident would give him away, so he won’t. On the other hand, there was an ambulance at the wreck; he might pretend to have heard about it from its driver
.

Mayr premised that he was calling out of a sense of duty, and nothing else.

“I appreciate it, Herr Oberstarzt.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“Whatever it is, I appreciate your calling at such a late hour.”

“I’m on duty, Major.” In the dark, with rain falling outside, the surgeon’s tone came distant, resentful. Lightning caused static; sounds surged and waned. What he said next wholly surprised Bora. “An hour ago, when I went to pick up some glucose from my office cabinet, on a hunch I checked its other contents. As you know, we’re working at this building and local labourers have been coming and going for weeks. The glass cabinet in my office – I don’t know if you noticed – has no key, and doesn’t lock. Yes, it’s true of most of the furniture we inherited when we moved in. No keys, and locks that don’t work.” Mayr paused, but Bora didn’t step in with any observations of his own. “Well, a container of Russian-produced aconitine nitrate is missing from my personal supply.” Again, Bora kept silent. “This afternoon work began to install new windowpanes in my office. I was at my desk, but must admit I stepped out when the noise became particularly loud. You may be aware that I suffer from neuralgia; in any event, loud noises bother me. In the hallway, I never stood more than three steps from the door while the labourers hammered the old shutters out of their hinges. All the same, tonight I discovered the aconitine nitrate was gone.”

Bora breathed in.
A risky move: he’s more cool-headed than I thought
.
True or not, the story allows him to come across as an innocent and helpful bystander, while in practice it doesn’t make any difference to my understanding of Platonov’s end.
“Is anything else missing?”

“A nearly empty pack of cigarettes, which I’d left in the pocket of my gown on the clothes stand.”

“I mean from the cabinet, Dr Mayr.”

“Nothing else.”

“And when was your last neuralgia attack?”

“My last – somewhere in mid-April. Here, I marked the date on my desk calendar: 17 April.”

“Actually, then, there’s no telling how long the substance has been gone from the cabinet. Am I correct?”

Mayr’s answer, coming through in waves, at times drowned out by low crackling noises, only partially agreed. “The cigarettes were taken this afternoon. It’s a fact that we’ve had native workers in the hospital for nearly two months. A few odds and ends have gone missing. Searching the men when they leave for the day is of little use: in other cases, we surmise they must have dropped what they’ve stolen out of the window, to a pal waiting below. After all, aconitine nitrate may be dangerous, but remains a valid antineuralgic, especially these days.”

Bora felt it useless to comment. It was all too timely and one-sided, this announcement that of all the medications in the cabinet, only aconitine had been taken. For all his brusqueness, an edge in the surgeon’s voice revealed his anxiety to make up, when in fact it had been Bora who had asked questions beyond the limits of good grace.
He’s sounding me out. Pretending that he had nothing to do with Weller’s repatriation isn’t enough, and he’s adding weight to the scale. Was he counting on the well-placed explosive, and doesn’t know what to do now? Mayr fears I’ll put a crimp in his protégé’s Sunday homecoming – something which I am already actively pursuing. All the more since his own upcoming furlough to Germany follows a week from that date.

Keeping on the vague side was preferable at this time, and Bora excelled at it. He said, “Well, Herr Oberstarzt, I do thank you for the information. Good night.”

“Good night my foot, Major! Is this all you have to say? You dropped a rock in the pond this morning with your conjectures, and can’t pretend indifference now.”

The thunder was becoming loudest on the side of Oseryanka, as the storm pivoted counterclockwise around Kharkov, its centre. Bora listened to the rain.
If he wants to play, I’ll play, but he’ll regret it.
“Why didn’t you tell me you asked District Commissioner Stark to write to the General Army Office Medical Inspectorate so that Master Sergeant Weller would be repatriated?”

“I wouldn’t have asked you to track him down if I knew he would be travelling home!”

“Unless you had an interest in keeping quiet about your request.”

“That’s nonsense! I was hoping Weller would remain under my wing so that I could help him recover from his Stalingrad trauma. I have no confidence they’ll be able or willing to assist him once he’s back with thousands of others as traumatized as he is. If he’s to enter a medical career, he needs to stay in the field with a good mentor, not flee home and indulge his melancholia – which I know is a temptation for him.”

“Herr Oberstarzt, your name is specifically mentioned in a letter sent to the Medical Inspectorate.”

The confused stammer at the other end of the line had nothing to do with the bad connection. Mayr was searching for words, or thinking out loud. The only intelligible phrases that came Bora’s way were, “You’re free to think what you will. I have nothing to do with this, and I’m not even pleased Weller is home-bound.”

“Forgive me if I doubt you, Dr Mayr. You’re speaking to someone who was in Stalingrad from start to end. I’ve seen colleagues, including a surgeon, kill themselves. I have friends whose kin were left to die in their filth when their units withdrew. Few sights were spared those of us who survived, whether or not we served in the sanitary corps. And I’m sure it’s a hell of a lot better to have medical personnel put you to sleep than to rot in your own pus and excrement. There will be an investigation, Herr Oberstarzt, so you might as well tell me. I’m more capable
of silence than most.” Static filled the lack of response on the surgeon’s side. Bora counted to ten in his mind before saying, “Let me rephrase the question for you, Dr Mayr: did you send Weller back to Germany because he discovered that aconitine nitrate was used on my prisoner?”

Some of Mayr’s words were inaudible. “…Why are you doing this? Weller is a fine medic. Being desperate to go home – I admit he is, and has been for a long time – he’d never behave so as to get in trouble, and risk being sanctioned. Would he have helped me, had he known I’d contravened the rules of good practice out of mercy? Yes. Did he do it? No.” Static followed the pulsating bursts of lightning outside. “I don’t know what kind of case you’re building here, Major Bora, but I strongly advise you to leave me
and
Master Sergeant Weller out of it.”

Unrequested advice, like threats (or even car bombs) had the peculiarity of obtaining the opposite result with Bora. “Sorry. I can’t do it.”

Mayr slammed the receiver down.

10

BOROVOYE, SATURDAY 22 MAY

It was still raining in the morning, from clouds stretched thin like haze and about to exhaust themselves. Humidity was high: rock piles and the few paved stretches of the road steamed in the heat as soon as the sun filtered through.

Bruno Lattmann came to the doorstep of his radio shack bare-chested and in army shorts.

“Jesus, Martin, how can you wear breeches and boots in this weather – is the General Staff coming to visit? Oh, you
rode
here. Why?”

Covering his bruises under cloth and leather would keep Lattmann from enquiring, and himself from explanations. “I went off the road,” Bora said indifferently. “Car’s demolished.”

Inside, the reek of pipe smoke was strong. Bora said nothing, but his colleague volunteered, “I picked up the vice for Eva’s sake, so that I’ll have some fingernails left when I go home.”

Bora laughed. “A hard choice for a wife: nailless or with a pipe in his mouth. Bruno, Nagel’s coming to pick me up: do you mind if I wait here? There’s something I need to figure out.” While honouring Bernoulli’s request not to mention him personally, he recounted his phone conversation with Mayr, and his suspicions. “Nothing definite, you understand, and I know I’m sticking my neck out. But somebody has to do it.”

Officiously Lattmann reached for a packet of Blue Bird, and began filling the Bakelite bowl of his pipe. “Will you do the
same thing with the SS surgeon on Sumskaya, or limit yourself to locking horns with the army medical corps? Yes, I
am
being sarcastic, Martin.”

“The SS surgeon promises to be a tougher nut to crack, even with the best effort. When I stopped by Sumskaya yesterday, you could tell they’d have gladly kicked me down the stairs if they thought they’d get away with it. As I found out at our headquarters soon thereafter, it appears their head surgeon was transferred to the Army Group Centre, in Mogilev.”

“Well, excellent. He’ll work for that beastly Franz Kutschera: a marriage made in heaven.”

“Whatever, he’s conveniently out of my reach. At headquarters I also saw Lieutenant Colonel von Salomon.”

“Good news or bad news?”

Bora unhooked the collar of his tunic, the sole concession to the discomfort he felt in the hot room. “A mixed bag. First of all he gave me a spiel about Oswald Bumke, who is his new messiah. He’s head of psychiatric and neurological services at
Wehrkreis
VII, and was even called to consult on Lenin’s health in the early 1920s. The colonel is thoroughly fascinated with schizophrenia at the moment, and he wouldn’t even broach military subjects before lecturing me. The disappointing news is that the regiment will not be going into Krasny Yar at this time, as I hoped. We’re to patrol the Donets instead. On the positive side, they’re officially conferring the decorations awarded at Stalingrad, so – provided that my schedule allows it – I’m off to Kiev for the ceremony next Thursday. Generaloberst Kempf is purposely flying there from Poltava. The best news of all is that Peter volunteered to be his pilot, so if I make it we’ll get to see each other.”

Unsuccessfully puffing to light his pipe, Lattmann wasted one match after another. He said, “Dinner’s on you the next time we’re in a civilized restaurant. Along with losing one’s virginity, the Knight’s Cross is a big achievement for a man.”

“Yes, if I don’t stop to think how many had to die in Stalingrad for a handful of us to be decorated. What’s worse, it tickles
my pride. Here, in anticipation of dinner.” Bora took a bottle of pepper-flavoured vodka and a round tin of caviar out of his briefcase. “Smoked sturgeon, I couldn’t find.”

“Why, that’s neighbourly.” Lattmann perked up. “Shall we try it? Store-bought Pertsovka, no less!”

Bora amicably shook his head. “
Z pertsem
in Ukrainian. No, thank you. Enjoy.” The sticky weather made the cuts pull and sting; the friction of cloth over them added to the unease he more or less successfully concealed. “There’s something I need to get done quickly, Bruno, and that’s to find a way of keeping Sanitätsoberfeldwebel Arnim Weller in Ukraine until I have a chance to question him about Dr Mayr, in reference to Platonov. On Thursday I contacted the personnel branch of the Medical Inspectorate. Unlike the first time – when they said they knew nothing about it – they confirmed Weller is in fact billeting in Kiev, from where he’s due to leave tomorrow. The regular channels are no help in such cases. I approached Lieutenant Colonel von Salomon, but he doesn’t want to hear of ‘out of the ordinary interventions’ regarding scheduled transfers, and turned me down.”