by CW Hawes
We came across three young women in their twenties, or so I’d guess. They were cautious and non-committal. As well they should be, given no one really knows what the Kremlin might hear.
Two middle-aged women I talked to had lost their husbands in the purges. I don’t think they were happy with the Communists, but they didn’t want to voice any discontent.
There had been no military action in the area and therefore no chance for either side to conduct any excessive butchery.
With sunset an hour away, I told Nestor to take us back to the compound. He’d been quiet the entire day and spent most of his time in or around the car, while Klara and I searched for people to interview. But driving back to the compound, he asked through Klara, if he could speak to me.
“Certainly,” I replied.
With Klara translating, he said, “My lady, I hope we can be friends. I know I am a servant, but you are a stranger here and I think you can use a friend.”
“Thank you, Nestor,” I replied. “I would like very much if we were friends.”
He smiled. “Good. No more shoes, pistols, and typewriters.”
I laughed. “Da. No more shoes, pistols, and typewriters.”
He continued, “Count Neratoff is not your friend. He does not believe your heart is with the cause.”
“Why won’t he let me go? He wanted to before.”
“He wants to control what you write. If you go now, he can’t control you.”
“He told me he was only following orders. Captain Turbanev’s orders.”
“The Captain doesn’t want you to leave either. But for different reasons. Many of us want you to stay. You’ve made the Captain a warmer person. A counter-force to the Count. And for this he is not to be trusted. He wants every Communist dead and you are now standing in his way.”
“So it seems.”
“Be careful. Even though the Captain is obviously taken with you, he and the Count go back very far. No one has yet separated them.”
“Thank you, Nestor. Your words are our secret.”
We arrived at the compound and Nestor stopped before the front door of the house and let us out of the car.
Gregor met us at the door and informed me, in French, the Count arrived in my absence and wished to meet with me upon my return. Klara went to her room and Gregor guided me to the library. He left me there and soon Count Neratoff entered.
“Good evening, Lady Hurley-Drummond.”
“Good evening, my lord. You wished to see me?”
“Indeed. As you may be aware, the Soviets are up to their old tricks once again. You’ve heard of their lies?”
“Which ones?”
“The ones accusing us of massacring villagers loyal to the State. As though there were any.”
“I’m aware of them.”
“Good. Tomorrow I will show you proof they are the ones doing the massacring and you will set the record straight.”
I took a cigarette from a pocket, fitted it into my cigarette holder. The Count was gracious enough to light it for me. I inhaled smoke and exhaled it toward the ceiling.
“What makes you think I want to set the record straight?”
“You must be joking?”
I shrugged and took another drag on my cigarette.
“Lady Hurley-Drummond, the Soviet lies directly hurt Captain Turbanev and his attempt to get aid. Surely for his sake, you will write and tell the truth.”
“How do I know you tell the truth?”
“I know we have some how become opponents. Let me assure you we have much in common. Devotion to Captain Turbanev for starters. We should be, pardon the term, comrades in arms.”
“Perhaps we could if you treated me as the lady I am.”
He bowed. “Please forgive me. Will you please accompany me tomorrow to the scenes of Soviet barbarity? Captain Turbanev himself requests you to write exposing the Soviet lies.”
“Very well, my lord. I will accompany you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Lady Hurley-Drummond. You will see who the real monsters are. Now if you will excuse me.”
Neratoff left. I waited a little bit and then walked to my little suite of rooms. I laughed a bitter little laugh. The gall! He confines me to my room like a bad little girl and then wants to be buddies.
I looked into the fireplace and watched the flames leap and crackle. Both Dunyasha and Nestor had tipped me off about Neratoff. Despite his asking forgiveness, we aren’t buddies. We’re enemies with one thing in common. Mikhail.
TWENTY-ONE
Fool
Sunday, 19 April 1953. The time is a little before midnight. I am tired and sick of this enterprise in which I got myself involved. The only things of benefit are Dunyasha and Klara. Even Mikhail is wearing thin. I’m sure he loves me. I’m sure he’ll marry me. Even so, I won’t have him with me. This goddamn cause, just like Karl’s wife, will make me the fifth wheel once again. For once, for once in my life, I want to be number one and not the afterthought.
A week and no word from Mikhail. The Soviets have tightened the border security and he is having difficulty entering the country. Which leaves Count Neratoff in charge, something akin to the wolf guarding the hen house.
Five days ago, I went to interview Rutkovsky and Voskresensky and found they were gone. No one knows, or is telling, what happened to them. Neratoff flat out told me their whereabouts was none of my business. I have no doubt they were executed. I need to make friends amongst the White soldiers and thereby get some informants. And maybe even some protection.
This past Sunday and Monday I accompanied Neratoff in his big Daimler, with Nestor driving, to the sites of three demolished villages. The first village we stopped at I could smell a half-kilometer away. The odor of burnt wood and flesh hung in the air. When we pulled into the ruins of the village, there was a new smell added to the mix: the coppery tang of blood. And the brown dried pools were everywhere.
“The Soviets hit this place two days ago,” Neratoff said. “They were looking for partisans. Didn’t find any, killed everyone, burned the place to the ground, and then blamed us.”
There was ample evidence the Red Army had been there: shell casings; a multitude of boot prints, the pattern matching Soviet military issue; a Soviet knife left in a body; a dead soldier whose body was missed when the army pulled out. Neratoff made sure photographs were taken.
I took copious notes on everything I saw and also made notes on the smell of the place.
We came upon the second village only there was no village.
“This was the first village,” Neratoff said. “The Soviets came here three weeks ago looking for us. They shot the men and boys. The women and girls were carted off to Siberia. They then bulldozed the place. This is the village of Dennitevskya.”
“This” was nothing but a mound of bare dirt. A third of a square kilometer of nothing. “How many?” I asked.
“Between eighty and ninety males. Close to a hundred females,” Neratoff said.
“How many in the other village?”
“About the same.”
Close to four hundred lives no more valuable than that of the ants I might step on walking down the sidewalk. There was an awesome stillness about the place. Abandoned by birds and even insects.
The third village, Gorkov, we saw the next day. The fires had stopped and the dead had been buried. There was little evidence of Soviet involvement. But Neratoff assured me his men had found ample evidence before they buried the dead. Gorkov had been attacked a week and a half ago.
Those three decimated villages once again pressed upon my mind the monstrous inhumanity of man to his fellow man. We are killers. There is no way around it. We love killing. And yet fear death.
I wrote the articles, setting the record straight who the monsters really were in this struggle for the right to rule over the Russian people. And after they were dispatched to be smuggled out of the country I received a slap in the face that was the price of my naivete to trust the untrustworth
y.
Late Friday night, the seventeenth of April, Gregor came to my door and asked, in French, if I would be willing to visit Nestor in the garage. The intimation was quite clear Nestor thought the request important. I told Gregor I would but I’d need to dress and I’d be there in about twenty minutes.
When I arrived in the garage, Klara in tow to translate, Nestor was there and a man I’d guess to be in his thirties. Through Klara, I had the following conversation.
“Good evening, Lady Hurley-Drummond,” Nestor began and I responded in kind. He continued, “Pyotr would like to talk to you, but what he has to say could get him executed.”
“I will say nothing to anyone,” I replied. “Pyotr, your secret is my secret.”
“My life depends on everyone here keeping silence,” Pyotr said.
“We all understand,” I said. Klara and Nestor affirmed they would keep his secret.
“You were at the village of Gorkov,” Pyotr said.
“I was,” I answered.
“I was also, when you were there. It was my second time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was part of the group that destroyed the village. The people were hiding two MGB spies. Count Neratoff surrounded the village and demanded they turn the spies over to him. The villagers refused and all two hundred thirty-four were shot dead.”
“Children as well?” I said.
“Yes. Everyone. The Count got his spies. We then burned the village and made it look as though the MGB did the destruction.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“I love Russia. I hate the Communists for what they did to my family. I didn’t join this revolution to kill my people. I joined to get rid of the Communists and now it is turning into a blood bath. We are no different than the Communists.”
“What do you want me to do with this information?”
“Remember, the Count will do anything to overthrow the Communists – even to what he shouldn’t do.”
“I’ll remember, Pyotr. Be safe. And please, keep this to yourself.”
“I will, my lady.”
Klara and I returned to the house and, unlucky sod that I am, ran into Count Neratoff.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said and bowed.
We curtsied and I returned his greeting.
“You’ve been out?” he asked.
“Yes. A walk to get a little fresh air,” I said.
“A very dangerous thing to do,” Neratoff said.
I pulled my Colt revolver from one pocket and the Sauer pistol Dunyasha gave me from the other.
Neratoff’s thin smile gave me the impression he was humoring me. “Unfortunately they won’t be of much use against submachine guns and assault rifles. The guards shoot first and ask afterwards.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said. “I’ll duck first and then say, ‘Long live the Czar.’”
“This is not a joke.”
“I suppose not. Then again if it was I doubt you’d laugh. You lost your funny bone somewhere.”
Once more the thin smile. “You have been warned.”
I curtsied. “Thank you, Your Illustrious Highness.”
He clicked his heels together, bowed, and departed. When he was gone Klara and I burst out laughing. “Pompous prig,” I said and we went to our rooms.
The biggest surprise, though, of the week came yesterday in the newspaper. Klara was reading it to me after breakfast and had pretty much finished when she said, “How very interesting, my lady. What do you make of this?” She showed me an advertisement. The text was in English. I read:
Whither have I wandered?
The plans, the voyages again, the expeditions;
Again Vasco de Gama sails forth.
I have been one acquainted with the night
If you will let me sing
O soul thou pleasest me, I thee
We drenched the altars of Love’s sacred grove
Boats of mine a-boating –
Where will all come home?
I could scarce believe my eyes and said, “Oh my God.”
“What is it, my lady?” Klara asked.
“It’s from Karl. My journalistic partner.”
“What does it mean?”
“He’s looking for me and wants me to contact him.”
“That will be difficult, my lady.”
“It will, indeed. I need to think this through.” What I didn’t tell Klara was the rest of the message. The coded message read:
Where are you?
I’m looking for you.
I’m sorry.
Give me another chance.
You and I forever.
We love each other.
Contact me.
Karl. My Karl. My soulmate. And here I am in the middle of this god forsaken wilderness chasing a dream. I could be very happy with Mikhail, but Dunyasha was right: he is married to the cause. I haven’t heard from him for many days now. The border issue is undoubtedly the reason; nevertheless, what will change if he wins and becomes Czar? Then the country and the government will be his mistresses. I don’t doubt he loves me. But never has Karl been harsh. On occasion quite cool. Yet staring me in the face is his love for me. I cannot deny it. I threw him over for another and even abandoned him and what do I see? He’s looking for me, confessing his love, asking me to get in touch with him.
“That, my dear Dru, is devotion,” I said out loud.
Klara looked at me with a question on her face.
“I might as well tell you,” I said. “Before I met Mikhail, Karl and I were lovers. But he is married and I reached a point where I was tired of being the other woman. I met Mikhail and, well, here I am. But even now, I’m still the other woman. This revolution is his true wife. I think, Klara, I have been a supreme fool.”
And so, here I sit late at night, alone, watching the fire and realizing some dreams are better left undreamt.
TWENTY-TWO
Planning
All day Monday I pondered how to get a message to Karl. The compound had no telephone. One less opportunity for the Soviets to trace where we were. No matter how I twisted and turned the matter over in my mind, I saw no option but to go to a town and from there try to telephone or send a telegram or mail a letter. But how far away would be safe enough? What distance wouldn’t draw attention to the compound? Logically no distance. If the Soviets pinpointed the source of the phone call or telegram or letter to Karl, then they just had to search in ever widening circles until they found us. In other words, I couldn’t get a message to Karl without endangering us all.
But maybe the time had come to stop all of this before more lives were lost. Given what I’d seen Mikhail’s movement was small. In actuality, what chance did it have of succeeding? He and the Count were convinced. Prince Constantinovich was convinced. I think Dunyasha less so. My guess was Vikenti and Vitya were diehards. To endanger everyone’s lives, though, was reckless and foolhardy. So I was back to square one. I saw no way to respond to Karl’s message. Unless I just asked.
Monday night, after supper, I asked Neratoff.
“Absolutely not!” he said. “What would be gained?”
“My friend would know I’m alright.”
“No. It is out of the question.”
“You might think you can evade the Soviets, but you will never evade Hall Media. They will find you even if you stymied God.”
He gave me his thin smile. “I’m sorry, Lady Hurley-Drummond, it is out of the question. I will see to it a letter is gotten to him which cannot be traced. You are persona non grata. The Soviets do not want you here. They are looking for you more than they are looking for us. For your own safety, you cannot leave here. For all of our safety, you cannot communicate with Monsieur Weidner.”
“Once again, I’m a prisoner.”
“Lady Hurley-Drummond, as I, you have cast your lot in with Captain Turbanev. You know the saying of Caesar’s? Jacta alea est?”
I nodded.
Neratoff left and I remained standing in the library. Dumbfounded. I was a prisoner and according to my gaoler I’d put myself in my own cell. Of course there was truth to his position, but not the whole truth.
“Dru,” I told myself, “face it. They aren’t letting you leave.”
I returned to my rooms muttering along the way, “Would have been better to do it and ask for forgiveness. Asking for permission got me nowhere.”
When I entered I found Dunyasha sitting by the fire.
“There you are,” she said. “Was your chat with the Count productive?”
“Not in the least. I’m leaving, Dunyasha. Come hell or high water, my time here is over.”
She exhaled cigarette smoke. “You can’t do that, Dru. Not with the MGB looking for you. You leave here and they will find you.”
I sat next to her and put a cigarette in my holder. Dunyasha gave me hers to light mine. When the tobacco was burning, I returned her fag to her and took a deep drag on my own. I inhaled the smoke, held it for a moment, then exhaled it towards the ceiling.
“God, that’s good,” I said.
She smiled. “Amazing. Isn’t it? Seriously, Dru. I’m your friend. I’m not four flushing. You can’t leave. We are too far from Moscow. Too far from anywhere.”
Suddenly, I felt so defeated. I felt so alone. I started crying and like a child blubbered, “I want to go home.”
Dunyasha slid over and put her arms around me and kissed me and mothered me with all those sweet silly words and sounds a mother gives her hurting child. After a long time I calmed down, stood, and walked to the window. There was nothing to see. The dark night was a picture of my soul.
