“The grandson of Count Brasov.”
“He is wealthy?”
Lisle smiled. “Considerable wealth.”
Etienne shook his head with amazement. “You do find them.” He pushed to a sitting position, swinging his legs from her bed. “You will marry him?”
Lisle snatched his shoulder, her fingers massaging Etienne. “He is a boy who needs training to be a man.” She leaned in close to his ear. “I have trained men my entire life.”
“He will enjoy it.”
“As will I.” Her tongue flickered along the edge of his ear. “He may be the one who outlives me.”
Etienne would remain for the entire afternoon; Grigori the seventeen year old missing a scintillating experience. It ended when Lisle rolled off of him and they lay beside each other and quietly smoked, a low haze soon drenched the room.
“We can do this even with Grigori,” Lisle declared, curling her lips into an “O” and trying to blow smoke rings, frowning at the result.
Etienne was more practiced, pointing out his best efforts. “Grigori does not care?”
“Grigori does not know. He is in love.”
“Russians. They are worse than the Americans. They think love is for only one.”
“We know what love is,” Lisle said, adding to the haze.
They continued, finishing their first then second smoke. Having soothed his nerves, Etienne raised the subject he had avoided the entire afternoon. “I need aid.”
“Fiorenza?” Lisle raised up. “She wants what?”
“No.” Etienne stubbed out his cigarette in a glass. “You can help me.” He avoided her eyes. “The German.”
“I did not think you knew.”
“He is in the Germany army?”
She worked her lips, amused but worried. “Help from the German?”
“Information.” Etienne gulped, suddenly sounding too much like the American before hurriedly adding. “It will help me and France.”
Lisle cocked her head. “You,” she smiled. “Yes.” A pause. “France?” The smile disappeared and she shrugged.
Etienne frowned at the lack of patriotism but did not argue. “You will.”
“For you.” She touched both of his cheeks then kissed him full on the lips. “Spying.” She giggled.
“Not a spy, don’t say that.”
Lisle, though, was lost in her fantasy. “My German will talk.” She touched his stomach. “What must he tell me? Secrets? Hitler’s girlfriend?”
Etienne suddenly worried that he had made a mistake. “The Germans and the Russians are going to war.”
“Oh.” Lisle wrinkled her nose, geopolitics less interesting than Hitler’s bedmates.
“Be careful. He must not know what you are doing.”
Lisle shrugged. “He will never know,” she slid her arms around his neck, and pulled Etienne to her. “You never knew.” She slipped on top which ended all conversation for the afternoon.
17
April 10, 1940
Alexander Grotnov sagged, body propped against the shovel he had been driving into the rocky soil. He had been conscripted into the Red Army in February, 1940. While resting he thought of Marina the most beautiful girl in his zveno or work brigade. At fifteen Marina was in full blossom, unscarred by annual harvests and missed quotas.
Barely 17, Alexander, known as Sasha among family, friends and Marina, had spent 11 years at the Kolkhoz, part of the collectivization of the peasants. He was too young to recall the war on the land holding Kulaks but learned enough in school to hate them with the fury of a good Bolshevik. His life, filled with work, was made bearable only by his dreams. His master plan included marrying Marina, avoiding the People’s Court for inadequate labor production and tending to the small plot of land he would be permitted to cultivate on his own. Marina would bear him children and though his life as a kolkhoznik was hard and tedious, Sasha was optimistic.
The Red Army interrupted his plans. The past two years he had spent winters far from Barysaw. Less than two months earlier he had lived in a Soviet collective or kolkhoz some 150 kilometers northeast of Minsk Belorussia. He felt they had had accomplished little and doubted anyone would attack the motherland. That certainty ended when the fascists roared over Poland within kilometers of where Sasha leaned on his shovel.
One day as his work detail rested, he watched the tanks being driven into place, Sasha listened to the army officers talk about hundreds of T-18 and T-24 tanks buried as part of the Stalin Line. He struggled with the Tankovaya ognievaya totshka concept. The T-26 were placed behind concrete blocks it turret fired at approaching Germans. He could not understand why a moving machine would be ripped apart so soldiers could hide but he had learned in the Kolkhoz not to ask questions.
Working around the soldiers, Sasha tried to understand their training. Labor battalions were mere slave labor, many of the men older and incapable of serving in the military. Other battalions were composed of criminals, chained together and beaten when they did not work as commanded. The only excitement, beyond breathing in the diesel fumes and admiring the soldiers’ uniforms, was nearby Slutsk. A small city primarily populated by Jews, Slutsk was unpopular with other members of the battalion who had little use for the Zid. Taught to hate religion, Sasha ignored the Russian Orthodox traditions of his family and did not understand the dislike for the Zids. Slutsk was his first chance to witness them as there were no Jews in his zveno.
A whistle warned Sasha and the entire battalion to continue working and he bent, trying to drive the shovel through the stubborn rock. The jolt of metal jamming unmovable earth produced a twinge in Sasha’s back. Unwilling to show weakness, injuries were considered unpatriotic in work battalions, Sasha caught the eye of an older worker. Igor slid into the depression and pulled the younger man from it before he took his place. With the strength of a grown man he wrestled the recalcitrant rock from its place. Sasha tried to thank him as he stumbled from the pit but received only a brief toothy smile, the yellow and cracked mouth and made Sasha shiver.
Sasha’s next task was hiding his injury from Sergeant Stukinhov, a middle aged slave driver who spent most of his time laughing with the officers, while stroking their egos as the pace of work slowed and his battalion threatened not to meet its quota. It had been a wet spring; many days spent in rainstorms. They had worked the muddy ground in the day only to have much of their effort washed away at night. The rain eventually stopped but with the sun came the humidity and with the standing water came the flying pests. The heat and the endless harassment of mosquitos and other insects had driven some of the men to the edge of insanity. Sasha did not mind. Inured to the bugs, which seemed to ignore him in their quest for blood, he worked through the mud, the heat and the humidity. Only the earth slowed him; the ground around Slutsk unlike the fertile soil at his kolkhoz where a shovel would slide easily in and out of it.
Sasha welcomed the heat, having barely survived the winter. He shuddered at the memory of the kolkhoz family, who were discovered frozen to death in January, after one coldest nights in the history of the Minsk Voblast.
Sergeant Stukinhov assembled the workers as the sun pierced the top of the trees, marking the end of their day. “Tonight we will stay in the crew dugout. Food is being brought up within the hour.”
Sasha displayed little emotion even as he was overjoyed. The dugouts or “pillboxes” were designed for five and there were eight in their crew, but the shelter protected them from the frequent thunderstorms that came with the end of each humid day. His only worry was the short distance from the Polish border where the German barbarians were camped. There was talk of a fascist attack, but Sasha dismissed them. The battalion’s Party Commissar reported the Nazis would never attack the enormous and motivated Red Army. The Nazis needed Soviet food and oil while the Soviet Union was not hapless Poland. With those words ringing in his ears, Sasha prepared to rest his back in preparation for another long day at work.
II
April
27, 1940
The news from Yugoslavia was sweeping the diplomatic corps, reaching as far as Countess Baronyi’s ball and Exner’s ears. At first the future ninth lord of Braxtonshire worried he had misunderstood the reports, and then worried when transferring the information given him by the Hungarian colonel he had mixed the numbers of the various armies. Self-doubt was replaced by confusion as news seeped from Belgrade.
The Yugoslavia government had fallen. A coup in Belgrade backed by Hungarian and Bulgarian troops seized control of the country three weeks after Exner passed his information. The very armies mentioned in the Colonel’s letter, those supposedly loyal to the monarchy, had been spread far from the capital and easily disarmed by the foreign invaders. Three days after the coup the country was quiet.
Exner struggled to understand the reports, foreign names rushing past him, Ustashe, Banat, Dubrovnik, Dalmatia, the latter reminding him of the dog breed. None of it affected the countess or her guests even though the remnants of the Yugoslav Royal family would be joining them in Sofia.
Yugoslavia plagued Exner’s dreams. He feared the information he delivered was used to overthrow a pro-British government and replace it with a pro-German government. It did not seem the proper duty of a junior adjutant to the British embassy. Only a conversation with Kingsley Abbot would calm his fears. Their meeting did not go well. The mention of Yugoslavia had Kingsley out of his seat, closing his office door and pressing his finger against his lips. A meeting was set for the little park across from the multi domed Alexander Nevsky cathedral. Exner arrived first and settled on a flaking wood bench. A stiff wind from the Carpathians made him shiver. Kingsley was late and as the minutes passed, Exner’s discomfort grew. Then came the unexpected.
“Lord Updegrove.” It was the Marquess of Wallachia, a mink coat buffeting her against the wind. “You are not orthodox.”
“I am enjoying the sunlight.”
“I will enjoy it with you.” She slid onto the seat beside him, fur brushing against his arm. “You are unhappy.” She touched Exner’s chin, raising his head.
“It does not matter.”
“I missed you two nights ago at Count Krasicki’s ball.” She pulled his head in her direction. “I enjoy your presence.”
“I could not come,” he mumbled. “There are things – the embassy, work.”
A look of horror flashed across the Marquess’ eyes at the thought of mere work preventing an English lord from his societal responsibilities. “What about Maria, will we see her?” Her fingers began stroking his arm. “You are all alone. She cannot expect you to remain without companionship in a far land.”
Exner sucked in a deep breath, shaken by an image of the Russian princess making an unannounced visit to Sofia and finding her husband in the arms of the young coquette. He swiveled his head, silently cursing his friend for leaving him in an exposed area.
“You are offended?”
“No, no,” Exner protested. “No offense taken.”
A pause, the Marquess studying his face. “You do not have a mistress.” She tittered, as she squeezed his shoulder. “You have no mistress.” She rubbed his neck. “You poor man, what have English gentlemen become?”
It was a question Exner would not have to answer as Kingsley Abbott approached; pace quickening when he noticed his friend, then slowing upon seeing the Marquess. Exner motioned, ensuring his escape from adultery as his friend stopped a few feet from them. Abbott eyed the Marquess, wary but intrigued. He was soon enveloped in fur, the Marquess finding a new prey and cooing at the embassy official.
Exner introduced them, attempting to explain her presence but the Marquess interrupted him, offering her titles, a tongue twisting barrage that ended with a flourish as she extended her hand for Abbott to kiss. “The Countess speaks of you, the one who can get the traveling visa for London when she seeks a week at Marks and Spencers.”
Abbott nodded. Exner noted the twist of his mouth and slow reddening of his ears that signaled irritation. His decision to foreswear his roots for a government job did not make him a commoner even as the Marquess’ words placed him several steps below his birth.
“What of Lord Smythton Randall?” She turned. “The countess said he would be attending St. George’s feast ball.”
Exner knew nothing, but Abbott twitched with his knowledge. The Marquess pressed him. “Is he visiting?”
Abbott avoided her eyes as he nodded, head bowed, lower lip hanging. The Marquess squealed and Exner jumped at the noise. She bowed to him. “I will leave you your secret meeting,” she giggled. “With all of your secret plans for taking over the world.” She was off, out of sight but not out of mind for Kingsley.
“What did you say to her?”
Exner’s eyes widened. “Nothing, nothing. I was waiting here and she came to me. I said nothing.”
“The Marquess likes you.”
“She is too young and there is Maria.”
“Odd how your wife is second on your mind.”
“Maria is never second on my mind.”
A quick glance about them, revealed the park was empty except for a stray dog and an elderly couple who could not hear them even if they shouted. “Yugoslavia,” Kingsley said. “You are concerned.”
The worries tumbled from Exner’s mouth. “The names, the armies I passed onto you.” He clutched at his head. “The colonel wanted to stop the Germans not aid their seizing another country.”
Abbott smirked. “You have remained the same boy I recall at Oxford.”
Exner’s confusion deepened.
“I could not reveal your actual mission.” Another glance about the park. “Enemies.”
“Enemies?”
“They were watching you at the ball. If they attempted to seize you or steal the information for your safety I could not reveal the meaning of the letter.”
Exner’s mind was swimming. “You lied to me.” Only in Sofia could a social engagement become part of an incomprehensible muddle.
“For king and country, that is why you agreed.”
Exner nodded.
“The colonel provided a list of armies who supported the Germans.” Exner opened his mouth but did not know enough to form a question. “The king was to turn Yugoslavia into a German satellite. The coup prevented it.”
“The government is not pro-German?”
Abbott held up his hand as a dog walker strolled by. He tipped his hat then continued on his way. “The government has portrayed itself as favoring the Germans but they are supportive of British policy.”
“But Bulgaria and Hungary, they attacked. They are German allies.”
“They invaded to disarm the pro-German armies.”
Exner took a moment to digest his friend’s explanation. It made little sense; a pro-German government that was pro-British, an invasion that wasn’t an invasion and one of his closest friends lying to him. Kingsley was quick to curb his friend’s doubts. “Your safety was paramount and you performed a great service to the empire.” A quick nod and Exner was convinced, nodding in return.
“You leave first. If there is an inquiry we did not talk.”
Exner nodded; a conversation that did not occur, he was beginning to understand diplomacy. He was off in the direction of his hotel suite, without noticing the return of his friend’s smirk.
“Same old Exner.”
III
April 29, 1940
“Frida.” One of the typists, a woman of extraordinary tightness – face, hair and clothes stretched to the breaking point – stood in the doorway of Frida Essert’s office/former closet. “Director Meyer wants to see you.” It was a desultory command and the woman turned before Frida could thank her. Frida’s promotion had set off a round of gossiping among the female typists as they chewed over all possible explanations for her sudden rise. They eventually reached the least likely possibility, an intimate affair between her and Meyer.
Frida paid little attention to them, her days too busy and her night consumed w
ith thoughts of the comely Tersten Holbricht and plans for returning to Leipzig. She had acquired his address, penning three letters in two months to him and receiving the same number in return. His responses eased her concern that his words on stage might create trouble but the SS had not appeared and he remained available, a few hundred kilometers from her.
Since her work on the Entartet Kunst, Director Meyer had kept her busy with more relevant tasks. She tracked experts who would sign up to help settlement of the newly captured eastern territories in what had once been Poland. She traveled throughout Berlin then the familiar haunts of Frankfurt and Hamburg but never to Leipzig. Keeping with Meyer’s view of women Frida had not been allowed to talk to the experts. Instead she merely delivered the offers, the messenger an attractive female rather than a plain envelope became the means to convince the men to join the Rosenberg crusade.
Squeezing from her office – barely four meters wide – she strode to the director’s office. Meyer was hunched behind his desk, glasses seemingly thickened or eyes receding further into their sockets. He nodded as she entered – the closest he would come to recognizing her presence – and launched into her next task. She held her breath hoping it would be Leipzig.
“The Fuhrer has decreed the creation of a Ministry for the Occupied Territories.” Meyer was suddenly on his feet, striding across the office to a framed map. Frida followed him, squinting at the heavy red lines splitting territory into easily digestible pieces. Closest to them was Poland, swept under by a wave of panzers and Stukas. It had been split into three pieces, the parts around East Prussia and Silesia annexed to Germany, central Poland including Warsaw designated as the general government and a small section bordering Russia and Rumania labeled “Eastern Territory.”
“These are the new additions.” Meyer jabbed at the map then made a face as he bent a fingernail. “The new land will be part of an experiment in preparation for the settlement of further eastern territories.”
Frida frowned until adjusting her focus from the thick red line dividing German and Russian lands. Meyer’s map continued eastward, far to the east, the Black and Caspian Seas to the south, Leningrad and the Arctic Circle in the north. Blue lines, lighter, had been drawn and named – Ostland, Ukraine, Tatar, Volga Germans – scribbled onto it.
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 25
