by CW Hawes
A cheer rose up from the people around the table. Mikhail then asked for each leader to report on his or her part of the battle. In turn, the speakers described the fight, casualties incurred, equipment loss, and damage sustained. The Soviets had caught the Czarists by surprise, but the Whites, as they’ve started calling themselves, defended ably and repulsed the attack, inflicting heavy losses on the Red Army.
While the reports were being given, I took in everyone’s face. This was a group committed to their cause. Not a single person displayed a lack of interest. The person I was most interested in was Neratoff and apparently he was interested in me. His black eyes, pools from the River Styx, were fixed on me. When I looked at him, he smiled and a shiver ran down my spine. For from those lips and dark eyes an icy cold radiated.
NINETEEN
And Give Our Love To No One But A Maid
Saturday, April 4th. The past week has been exceedingly busy and hectic. We relocated some two hundred and fifty kilometers to the northeast of Moscow, between the towns of Savino and Voskresenkoye. The countryside is comprised of woodlands, meadows, and swamps. The house is a modest one of twenty rooms. The underground bunker, an expansion of an old White Russian complex, consists of another thirty rooms for living quarters with additional rooms for fuel, food, weapons, ammunition, and equipment.
The Red Army launched another attack on the old dacha three days ago. Two hundred fifty soldiers and two old MS-1 tanks made the assault supported by four autogyros and two monoplane fighters. The minefield slowed the army’s advance. The tanks attempted to clear a path for the troops but hit anti-tank mines and were disabled. Two autogyros and a fighter were shot down before the anti-aircraft gun was destroyed by a missile. The machine guns on the dacha’s roof took out the remaining autogyros and after a cat and mouse duel with the plane, knocked it out of action when a burst hit the engine. Trailing thick, black smoke, it disappeared over the trees to the west.
Count Neratoff took a force of partisans outside of the dacha through a secret passage and caught the Soviet company by surprise from behind. The Reds were caught between the minefield and machine gun nests and Neratoff’s force cutting off their retreat. After a brief but fierce fight, the Reds surrendered. Our forces took ninety-two prisoners, seventy-three of whom were wounded. I wasn’t told where the prisoners were taken. My guess is none of them are alive today.
I voiced my suspicion to Dunyasha.
“Dearest Dru, why do you insist on torturing yourself?”
“Because I’m involved in this fight and I have no say as to how it is conducted. I must simply write what I’m told to write. I’m not writing news. I’m writing propaganda.”
“You must decide what you want, Dru. Right now I hear you telling me you want the cake and ice cream without paying for it. When has that ever happened? Tell me.” She exhaled smoke from her cigarette.
“I know. The piper must be paid.”
“Precisely. If you want Mikhail, you must be his propagandist. If you want to write the truth – whatever that is – then you will probably lose Mikhail. You decide. What do you want?”
“What about having Mikhail and no writing?”
Dunyasha laughed. “And how do you propose not to write? You might as well stop breathing.”
I sighed. She was right. I cannot not write. And to be realistic about the situation, Mikhail wants me and my writing. There is nothing complex here. About that Dunyasha was also right: I write what Mikhail wants and I keep him. I write what I want and I lose him. I’m either a non-voting member of his cell or I’m a prisoner. The choice is mine.
Dunyasha touched my hand. “Dru, I know you have strong feelings on this issue. But war is hell. It always has been and always will be. We can make all the rules we want to try and make conflict civilized. Some will follow the rules and some won’t. It isn’t much different from trying to stop men from playing the field or from trying to stop women from using sex to get what they want. Some play fair and some don’t. I think you are on the losing side of this argument.”
“Sadly, I think you are right. I saw the same thing when I was a war correspondent in the Italo-Yugoslav war. The Italians bombing villages, shelling Yugoslav positions with mustard gas, shooting wounded Yugoslav soldiers, and raping Yugoslav women. I saw wounded Italian soldiers who’d been decapitated and others hung upside down until they died. I saw Italian prisoners who’d been dragged through the streets until they were nothing but hunks of raw flesh. Seeing all that carnage does something to you. How can it not? I reported atrocities committed by both sides, hoping international pressure would be brought to bear to stop it.”
“And?”
“The international community protested. League of Nations’ observers were sent in. But nothing much changed.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Here the situation is different. I’m part of it. And I don’t want to be. I’m condoning what shouldn’t be condoned.”
“I’ll talk with Mikhail.”
“No, Dunyasha, this is my battle. I will get evidence his command isn’t being followed and then I’ll talk to him.”
Thursday, April 9th. But talking to Mikhail didn’t happen. He was not at the complex and no one seemed to know where he was. Neither were Neratoff or the man code named Vikenti. They were conducting guerilla operations north of Moscow. Dunyasha and the man code named Vitya were in charge of the complex. Dunyasha of the house and bunker and Vitya of the perimeter defense. I got a steady stream of reports from Neratoff and Vikenti, which I rewrote for the newspapers.
Tuesday a courier arrived with a letter for me from Mikhail and news that Mikhail was in Italy with Prince Gabriel Constantinovich carrying on negotiations with Mussolini. Mikhail’s letter indicated he was optimistic Il Duce would decide to side with the Czarists. He was less certain the Italian dictator would provide material support.
War is a funny thing. Once it has started it’s like a bag of marbles emptied out on a hillside. They roll where they will and can’t be controlled. Nor can their paths be predicted. In my campaign to stop the Czarist killing of Soviet prisoners, I found an unlikely ally: the Soviets themselves. Today Klara read a story to me from the newspaper. The Soviet government acknowledged “dissidents were at work trying to undermine the State” through a campaign of terror. They cataloged the atrocities they claimed the dissidents had committed to date and appealed for sympathy from the world community.
I found Dunyasha and said, "I told you so."
“Yes, I read the article. It was bound to happen eventually. The Soviets aren’t going to let us upstage them on the propaganda front. The war of words has begun.” And then with an uncharacteristic vehemence she said, “And while the propaganda writers twist, shape, and omit – men lose their lives. Their blood darkens the ground.”
“Are you okay?”
“No. No, I’m not. I just found out a young man I was fond of died three days ago.”
I took her hand in mine. “Oh, Dunyasha. I’m so very sorry.”
She nodded. “I am too. He wasn’t even thirty. Sensitive and kind. I was hoping, maybe something…” She left the sentence trail off, but I knew what she was trying to say. “He wrote poetry. They found this in one of his pockets.” She read the poem in Russian and then translated it for me.
Amongst the trees of this muddy spring
I sit foxhole deep and zeal fades away.
Again the rain so gently falls today
And to this gun, a babe to the breast, I cling.
We wait, listening for the word he brings
Which tells if we shall go or we shall stay.
And yet, it matters not. We just obey,
Day in, Day out, the orders of our King.
Foxhole deep in mud I sit thinking thoughts
Of her and all the choices wrong I made
Which put me here and left her, longing, there.
The things we do for love of king, I swear
We should think ov
er again the things we were taught
And give our love to no one but a maid.
Tears were in my eyes by the time she finished the poem. “That’s beautiful, Dunyasha.”
“Yes, it is. The last poem he wrote.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. In between the sobs, she choked out, “This goddamn fucking war.”
I took her into my arms and held her while she cried.
Dunyasha, Klara, and I sat together drinking tea. We didn’t say much. Dunyasha was off somewhere in her mind. The reality of the conflict was too much with us and light chit-chat seemed out of place. And so we just sat drinking tea, smoking, and taking comfort from the presence of each other.
At ten, a yawning Klara excused herself and went to her room.
Dunyasha stubbed out her cigarette and finished her cup of tea. Tears were running down her cheeks. “May I stay with you?” she asked. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you, Dru. I love you. You are my best friend. At least this fucking war brought us together. I just hope it doesn’t rip us apart.”
“I love you as well, Dunyasha. We are very fortunate to have each other. Nothing will separate us.”
She nodded. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.” She took off her clothes and climbed into bed. I tucked her in, kissed her, and she was asleep before I could join her.
TWENTY
Buddies
Friday, the 10th of April, began with a chill rain. Klara brought breakfast for Dunyasha and me. She also brought a negligee and bed jacket for Dunyasha and built up the fire for us. We sat on the sofa before the fireplace, ate our breakfast of buckwheat porridge, and drank our tea.
“Do you know when Mikhail will return?” I asked.
“No. I assume when he and Prince Constantinovich have completed their talks with Mussolini. Neratoff and Vikenti are on their way back. The Soviet government is beginning to take our insurgency seriously. To date, we’ve shot down eight fighters, fifteen autogyros, and four airships. We’ve destroyed one hundred fifty-seven kilometers of railroad track and two supply depots. We’ve destroyed seven tanks and many heavy trucks, as well as captured a tank and fifteen big trucks. Our forces have killed six hundred and forty-two soldiers, seventeen MGB agents, ninety-seven police officers, and taken three hundred and eight prisoners.”
“Where are the prisoners being held?”
“I don’t know. They haven’t told me.”
“Tomorrow’s breakfast says there are no prisoners. They’ve all been killed.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. I do know we have two army officers here. They’re being held for interrogation.”
“May I talk to them?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll take you to them after our breakfast.”
We finished eating, bathed, dressed, and descended to the bunker below the house. Dunyasha led me to a small room measuring eight feet high and ten feet square. A small, dim light bulb provided a dull, yellowed illumination. There was a chamber pot and nothing else in the concrete room. Not even a blanket or a mat to sleep on. The two men in the room were chained to the walls.
In Russian, Dunyasha introduced me and told the men I wanted to talk with them. Their names were Ivan Rutkovsky, a lieutenant and tank commander, and Viktor Voskresensky, a major in the army.
“Tell me how you’ve been treated since you were captured,” I said.
With Dunyasha translating, the Lieutenant said, “Worse than dogs.” The Major added, “We would have given you a blanket at the very least.”
“Do you get enough to eat?”
Major Voskresensky answered, “We get porridge and water for breakfast, hard rye bread and water for our dinner, and a bit of meat and potato in a thin gravy for supper. What do you think?”
To Dunyasha I said, “Do you think these men could at least get blankets and maybe a little more meat or at least beans for protein?”
“I think so. I’ll catch hell for treating them softly, but a blanket and a little more food would be good.”
“We are the ones with white hats, remember?”
She laughed. “What I wouldn’t give to be back in the States watching a western in a movie theater right now. Yes. We are suppose to be wearing the white hats.”
I asked the officers, “Have you been tortured?”
Again, Major Voskresensky answered, “Is this the Hotel Moskva?”
“No, it is not. I mean have things been done to you other than being in this cell and the food?”
“No,” the Major answered. The Lieutenant shook his head.
“Do you know how many resources the army is committing to stop the civil war?”
“No,” the Major said. I found his not questioning my use of the term “civil war” interesting.
“Are you, Major, a good Communist?”
“Yes.”
“And you, Lieutenant?”
“Yes.”
“Would either of you consider changing sides?”
The Major said, “No,” and the Lieutenant shook his head.
“What do you like about the Soviet Union?”
“Everything,” the Major said. The Lieutenant agreed.
“Did you lose family in Stalin’s purges?”
The Major said nothing. The Lieutenant, however, said, “Yes. My mother and father were sent to the gulag because of lies our neighbors told the NKVD. My mother died there. My father died six months after serving his ten year sentence.”
“Why are you in the military?”
“To show everyone my parents were good people, loyal people. Who raised a son good enough to serve the Motherland.”
“Perhaps you might want to join those opposed to the people who treated your parents unfairly?”
“No. My parents were loyal, even if wronged, and I am loyal.”
“How old are you, Lieutenant?”
“Twenty-five.”
“I hope you live to see a better world than the one in which you grew up. A world of trust and no fear.”
The Major laughed. “You are an idealist. There is no such world.”
“Oh yes, there is. The one I grew up in.”
Dunyasha nodded and said, “Da. Amerika.”
I said, “Da. Britaniya.”
The officers said nothing. I told Dunyasha I was finished and we left.
“Very clever, Dru. Perhaps we should make you our interrogator.”
I smiled. “Give them blankets and good food. The young one might switch sides.”
“He might. He just might at that.”
“Converts are always the most zealous.”
“I’ll remember that.”
After supper, Dunyasha and I sat before the fire in my workroom smoking and drinking wine which had been confiscated from some minor party official’s home. I didn’t ask his fate. I didn’t want to know. The wine was Bulgarian. Serviceable. She also brought a bottle of Romanian plumb brandy.
I asked her, “Can you tell me what our losses have been? I meant to ask earlier when you were cataloging Soviet losses.”
Dunyasha thought a moment. “I was told to say nothing. If anyone finds out…”
“No one will, but if you don’t wish to say anything I understand.”
“You’re my dearest friend, Dru. I know I can tell you anything and you’ll keep my confidence. I just want you to understand.”
“Maybe it’s best if you don’t. What if they ruin my manicure and I end up confessing?”
Dunyasha burst out laughing. “Oh that is rich, little kitten. Yes that would drive any girl to confess.” She sobered. “Our losses haven’t been light. We’ve had forty-seven killed, sixty-three wounded, and two are missing. Our salvation thus far has been the avoidance of major battles with the Soviets and their use of secondary troops and equipment. Most of our casualties came from defending the dacha and Mikhail doesn’t want to do that again.”
“Makes sense.”
“His goal is t
o avoid major battles with the Red Army. He’s committed to small, highly mobile paramilitary groups whose actions against the state can form a focal point for popular discontent.”
“In other words,” I said, “he wants to instill courage in those who are dissatisfied with Communism in the hope they will rise up against the Kremlin.”
“Exactly.”
“Then it is counterproductive to kill innocent civilians.”
“Right again. Assuming of course they are part of the discontented masses.”
“If they are too cowed they won’t rise up against the State, so their loss is acceptable,” I said, not happily.
“In theory. Of course one can’t always tell who is one of the discontented or one of the cowed.”
“I’d think those in the city are easier to watch and the most likely to be among the cowed. Those in the rural areas are more likely to be independent.”
“So now you know, dearest Dru, why we are out in the middle of nowhere instead of Moscow.”
“Makes sense.”
“Good. Now how about some of that plum brandy.”
“Sounds good to me.”
The next day, with Dunyasha’s permission, Nestor drove Klara and I around the countryside all day. My goal was to talk to the peasants and try to find out where their sympathies lay.
I interviewed the mayor of a small hamlet. According to him, the Communists were wonderful and the partisans were bad. When I asked if he had family who had been killed or imprisoned in the purges, he said, “Two cousins. They were traitors and are a disgrace to the family.”
On the other end of the spectrum, I found an old woman who told me, “The Czar was bad. But Lenin? He was wicked. And Stalin? He was the Devil himself.” She spat on the ground. “May his soul rot in hell where it belongs.” She paused, looked around, and said quietly, “Long live the Czar and may he soon return.”
