Tin Sky (50 page)

BOROVOYE, 4.18 P.M.

First off, Lattmann shared with Bora his informants’ report about Krasny Yar. It was much as Nitichenko had told it, except that the body count came to a dozen.

“All males. The oldest must have been seventeen or eighteen. Malnourished: they looked like something the cat had dragged in. Your usual Russki band of young savages, given up for dead by their families and now dead for good. Why they’d rather hole up in the woods rather than staying in the farms
they came from is more than I can say. The older ones might fear conscription, but the rest?”

In the afternoon heat, Bora rolled up his sleeves. During breaks from listening and wiretapping, Lattmann always had music on, from a powerful little radio of his.
I
–
have
–
no need
–
for
–
millions
, went a happy, jazzy tune from another life. “It’s a form of juvenile delinquency like any other,” he agreed, “complete with initiation rites and redress for interlopers. The priest tells me Krasny Yar saw a recurrence of the phenomenon. The first, in his memory, were followers of Makhno’s Black Army, left over from the civil war and eventually either shot by the Bolsheviks or rescued by Makarenko for his state factories. The woods remained a place to run to over the years. Father Victor is convinced most murders were committed to frighten outsiders or to keep gang members from tattling – even though he sees the devil’s hand in it, and would like us to torch it.”

“Well, according to my informants the six crates hauled onto trucks looked like old ammo boxes rather than the devil’s work. Whatever is in them, they – rather than the
besprizornye
– were a reason for the operation.
Totenkopf
spared you having to flush them out of the Yar yourself by going in with the regiment.”

“I still plan to do it, as an exercise.” Bora took the film reel out of his briefcase. “Speaking of the crates at Krasny Yar, Bruno, give me a hand with this. Never mind how I came by it, it contains a potentially explosive statement by Khan Tibyetsky.”

“It does?” Sucking on his pipe, Lattmann contemplated the cardboard Tobis–Degeto case in Bora’s hand. The song went,
I’ve only need of music / and only need your love
… “I’ll be damned. If he’s the same fellow who shot his tank crew point-blank to roll across the Donets, I don’t want to know what happened to those who filmed it. But then again, a man needs to sweep up after himself.”

Solve the problem and tidy up afterwards.
“It’s the way Khan saw it,” Bora agreed. The scent of Blue Bird tobacco made him long
for a cigarette, a need more psychological than physiological. “I’m not sure you should view the film. I’ll leave it up to you, though: there could be consequences.”

“I’m all grown up and have received all my shots, Martin. If you need a witness, I’d rather know what it’s about.”

“I do need a witness. But even more than that, I need to lay my hands on a projector. I don’t want to go asking the Air Force again. Also, there ought to be two copies made of the soundtrack. I’ll keep one. The other, should anything happen to me, you’ll do well to forward to the International Red Cross. Failing that, to Senior Army Chaplain Father Galette, in private.”

No comments followed, called for as they were. Lattmann nodded. “Hm. So you need a projector
and
a tape recorder. The second I can help you with, it’s part of my bag of tricks – a high-fidelity reel-to-reel Magnetophon that works like a charm. The projector isn’t so easy.”

“Well, I have to have it today.”

It took a friend’s positive attitude to accommodate Bora’s testiness. “I’ll see what I can do. Let me think. The Propaganda Branch feeds films to the locals in the old
kolkhoz
projection hall at Konstantinovka. That’s only minutes away, but they don’t let the equipment out of their sight. What do you have to swap?”

“On me? Only my Ray-Bans, and I’m not giving those up… Well, I also carry a twenty-five-litre can of gasoline.”

“They’d rather take the fuel, I’m thinking. Have you got enough to drive back?”

Bora shrugged. “On a wing and a prayer. But my thieving
Hiwi
keeps me well stocked, so I’ll be fine once I’m in Merefa. Better borrow a propaganda film too, Bruno, so they don’t wonder what we’re watching. Say, do you have a ball of string and an adjustable spanner on hand? And the tarpaulin out there: do you need it?”

Lattmann rummaged around. “Shit, you’ll ask for my underwear next. Here’s the spanner, but I want it back. This is all the string I’ve got. The tarpaulin you can keep. Anything else?”

“It’ll do for now.”

They decided to put five litres in the GAZ, and sacrifice the rest of the fuel to their immediate needs. Lattmann returned with the projector within three-quarters of an hour, after which the bona fide work began.

MEREFA

The setting sun cut across the fields in a merciless line, setting the heads of grass, buds and corollas on fire. Indistinct sour yellow blankets lit up in bursts where sunflowers crowded the hollows: from them, Bora had to remove his eyes to avoid feeling nausea rise in his throat. Film and recorded reel lay under his seat in a canvas bag; spanner and string he carried in his briefcase. On the back seat, he’d laid out the tarpaulin, bags of chicken feed on top of it.

Before they parted ways, Lattmann – much sobered by the dramatic contents of Khan’s reel – had said, “Do you really think that’s who Tin Man is? It’d be
huge
. He gave away our stuff for years!”

In one of his tight-lipped moods, Bora had only answered, “Right.”

“For Christ’s sake, Martin! What are you going to do about it?”

“Don’t know.”

Which was not true. He had to deflect Stark’s attention. Once in the schoolhouse, he set aside the odds and ends he’d secured at Borovoye, took a quick shower and then telephoned the
Kombinat
with a compelling offer of forced labour. He feared Stark would be gone for the day, but he was still at his desk and answered the call directly. As always, the commissioner sounded positive; to a trained ear, only his breathing came a little laboured, like one who’s been exerting himself or has to keep a lid on strong emotions. Bora took note of this.
Has he found out Khan deprived him of the booty?

“Good evening, Herr Gebietskommissar, Bora here. I have four squads’ worth of Russian labourers available if you have use for them, hale and fit to do some heavy hauling.”

“Yes? Fine. Excellent. Ah – their gender and age, Major?”

“Males, ranging from seventeen to early twenties, I’d say. Fresh from surrendering to us.” Officiously Bora read from his notes. “The exact head count is 123. Where do you want them? They’re at our Bespalovka camp at present.”

“Let’s see… I could use them at Smijeff.”

“Will you pick up, or shall I send them over?”

“Have them ready first thing Tuesday morning at the Bespalovka rail station.”

“They’ll be there.”

“Smashing.” In the course of the brief exchange, Stark had regained full control over his intake of air. “One good deed deserves another, Major Bora. Your Karabakh will be here the day after tomorrow.”

Bora had foreseen the counter-offer, and yet his own feelings were so conflicted at this moment that his reaction came a little slow. He scrambled to make his pause sound like astonishment. “I’m overwhelmed, Herr Gebietskommissar. In the morning I’ll stop by to leave a harness and saddle. I’ll also need to trouble you for some delicacies again.”

“Really? Come early, then: I’m expecting General District Commissioner Magunia at nine.”

After the phone call, there was still much to do before he could go to sleep. Bora pulled the drapes across the screened windows and made himself busy for the best part of an hour. To make room, he emptied the briefcase of all that was in it, including his diary. This – along with the film reel, Dikta’s letters, photographs and a few other personal items – he placed inside a simple, handy rucksack of the type artillery troops used, and stuffed it in the rafters of the school’s back room. Lattmann had instructions to retrieve it from there if needed. Too familiar with Bora to enquire past a certain point, his colleague no
doubt suspected a great deal but kept it to himself. He knew what to do and what role to play, should circumstances call for it.

On severe, high-quality Spicers stationery (a gift from his Ashworth-Douglas grandmother) he began to write a letter to his wife, superstitiously planning to complete it on the following night.

My beloved Benedikta,

Yes, I did receive the fine studio portrait you sent via your stepfather. My darling, how could you imagine I would need it in order to have your beauty before me? Our hotel room in Prague is all I can think of; how we checked the time over and over to see how much we had left to keep doing what we were wonderfully doing; how everything that ever befell me in life was ransomed by those hours spent with you. All in you I love: so much so that your photograph is nearly painful to me in our separation. You are with me always, regardless!

The days here are those of men at war. My new regiment is coalescing and behaving well: I trust it will live up to its promise and honour the traditions of German cavalry. Peter and I were briefly together for the Knight’s Cross ceremony (film to follow for Father and Nina); he’ll tell you all about it when he gets home to see his new child.

Thank you for being such a good friend to Duckie, darling, and thank you for lending your horsewoman’s expertise to the training of our remounts. It might make you laugh that I envy them, lucky beasts.

Do you remember the night we met, when you asked me why I was so tanned, and I couldn’t answer that I was on furlough from the Spanish front? You probably considered me another dumbstruck dance-floor admirer of yours: how many officers were there trailing you with their eyes? In fact, from the moment we walked outside in the garden I told myself I had to conquer you or die in the attempt. Well, I didn’t have to die: you chose me, and not because – as you say – I am perfect. I’m not perfect, Dikta. I’m not. I am anything but perfect.

12

MONDAY 31 MAY

Bora shaved with unusual care that morning, calmly meeting his own eyes in the army-issue folding mirror.
With her scandalous autobiography, Larisa Malinovskaya meant to embarrass my mother. It was 1915: for all its commercial vim, Leipzig was and is a small place. Recently widowed as she was, Nina had to put up with her society friends’ false sympathy and sneers. What do I owe my father’s discarded lover? Nothing. On the other hand, in less than half an hour I’ll meet with Stark, and have to keep a close eye on him. He’s on my tail but has no proof against me yet:
Abwehr
or not, for all he knows I could merely be stupid or foolhardy. If he is or has been a Soviet agent or double agent he won’t visibly betray his emotions. Still, he ought to be foaming at the mouth if he’s discovered the crates contain nothing but ballast. Likewise, if he hasn’t disposed of him already, he’ll be extremely nervous about Arnim Weller scared and loose in Kiev. Most of all, even if he doesn’t know about Larisa’s icons, he’s aware she’s his last bet to learn about Khan’s movements around Kharkov in the old days. So, considering I can’t leave witnesses behind…

Beautifully white clouds sailed with the ease of galleons across the sky. They’d dissolve when it turned warm later on, but at 8 a.m. their fleet was still complete. Bora, who hadn’t been in the habit lately, said a Hail Mary before leaving the schoolhouse.

A battleship-size national flag hung from the third-floor window of the
Kombinat
, nearly to the lintel of the building’s entrance. Russian prisoners were placing potted plants at the
sides of the door, and a Persian runner in tones of red and blue covered the length of the hallway floor. Stark’s office was definitely preparing for SA Oberführer Magunia’s three-hour visit. Lattmann had been able to give Bora that detail, along with the time of departure from Rogany – twelve noon – of the high official and his retinue, due for lunch with Field Marshal von Manstein at Zaporozhye.

On the district commissioner’s wall, a street chart of Kharkov and its environs, 1941 edition, flanked the map of the
Reichskommissariat Ukraine
. Stark sat speaking on the phone. Even before Bora was announced, he glanced at him as he set saddle and harness on the floor in the office across the hallway. He gestured for him to enter without lowering the receiver from his ear. The time needed for the typewriters to engage in a stormy duet upstairs sufficed for him to conclude his call. “Yes, yes, goodbye.” And then, because the Knight’s Cross around Bora’s neck could not go unnoticed, Stark raised his eyebrows. “Well! Where did
that
come from?”

“Stalingrad and Kiev, in that order, Herr Gebietskommissar.”

The match was on. Stark sat back in his swivel chair. “Oh, yes – the award ceremony in Kiev. I read about it in the bulletin.” He took a pencil in his hand firmly, avoiding playing with it.

Bora added nothing to the subject. He lifted from his briefcase the name list of the prisoners bound for labour duty. “Here they are, one hundred and twenty-three of them. Fifteen received slight gunshot wounds, nothing that’ll keep them from shovelling dirt.”

“Are you sure?”

“They’re a hardy lot: you’ll be pleased.”

“Good help is hard to find any more.” His eyes on the top sheet of Russian names, Geko Stark snorted. “We’d have machine-gunned the lot in the early days – now we make do with partisan dispatch riders and hangers-on.”