French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  This was the first dry day in a week, which was a hopeful sign for Ianu that spring was settling. Picking his way along the edge of the road, skipping holes while dodging the mud tossed by hooves and wagon wheels, he barely avoided the horse remains oozing from one of many ruts. His father hated the odor of horses and forced Ianu to display his shoes before entering the store to ensure none of their scent would be left on the creaky wood floor.

  Ianu was late in arriving, an unforgivable event except his father had granted his permission. Saloman would open the shop, a task he had left to Ianu through the winter. His sudden interest worried Ianu as his father’s presence meant happenings. Ianu tripped along the boards leading past the stores along Letcani’s main street. He arrived and opened the creaky door only to find his father and Drago Gropeano standing at the front counter. Their heads were close together, voices low, neither noticed Ianu’s arrival. He approached only to have his shoulder grasped. It was his uncle.

  “Ianu,” Liviu grunted. “You are here.”

  “Yes, uncle, you are here.”

  “You should not be here.”

  Ianu laughed. “This is where I work.”

  “You should not be here.” Liviu turned Ianu toward the front of the store. “This is not for you.”

  Ianu resisted. “Why must I leave, I am a man, I run this store.”

  The raised voice made Saloman and Drago turn toward Ianu, his father grimaced then motioned to his brother. “Let him in Liviu. He should also hear this.”

  Ianu joined them. The four men gathered around the counter. Ianu was sweating, his heart beating rapidly at the grim expressions on the older men’s faces.

  “War is coming,” Liviu said. “They have closed the Prut bridges, the army has taken them over for their supplies.”

  “War,” Ianu murmured, knees weakening, forcing him to lean against the counter.

  Saloman nodded. “The Germans, they want war with Russia and Rumania -.” He broke off as a face appeared outside the store. “Harvath,” he murmured.

  Ianu turned slightly and spotted the town ruffian, a man of ill repute, bulky, loud mouthed and one of the first residents of Letcani to join the Iron Guard. After a glimpse into the Cohnescu’s store, Harvath moved down the street, his officious steps sounding on the wooden planks.

  “But Rumania, why us?” Ianu asked.

  Liviu frowned at the question. “The Germans are here, we border Russia, and Antonescu is their man.”

  Saloman had more immediate problems in his mind. “Drago is familiar with some diamond dealers in Roman. We can trade out Lei for them, they are easier to carry on our bodies to bribe the police if we must.”

  Drago nodded. “I have sent Iosef to trade our Lei, the money will soon be worthless but the diamonds.”

  Liviu, believing himself more world wise than his shop keeping relatives, was not convinced. “The police are easily purchased with Lei. Who is your constable?”

  Drago and Saloman exchanged glances, Ianu’s father slowly shaking his head at the question. “Bubrik is not capable of fighting the Iron Guard. He is old.”

  Liviu eyed his brother. “I am old and I have fought the Iron Guard.”

  The sound of footsteps on the planks outside drew the eyes of the Cohnescu’s to the window. It was Harvath again, his green shirt puffy, oversized for the smallish creature inside of it. Ianu smiled at the sight. Joni had sneered at the self-important Harvath, “A giant cucumber” she had called him, a moniker that had stuck. “Cucumber,” Ianu said, nodding at his father.

  Saloman squinted and raised his head for fear his son’s voice had carried outside. Harvath lacked a sense of humor, one of the requirements of the Iron Guard, and would not take kindly to being ridiculed. The footsteps continued, though, “Cucumber’s” ears not picking up the insult.

  Liviu was dismissive of Harvath and his ilk. “The Iron Guard can do nothing now that King Carol is gone. Antonescu will prevent any pogroms.”

  Ianu watched his father. Saloman was knowledgeable of his adopted country’s politics. “The army,” he murmured, head shaking.

  Liviu turned toward the door, unaccustomed to being contradicted. He approached Ianu and halted within a meter of his nephew. “Your brother, Nelu, requires help with his daily tasks. Iasi is a day’s journey, you could visit your father.” He leaned in close, an odor of cologne threatening Ianu’s sinuses.

  Ianu glanced at his father, Saloman struggled to appear disinterested but his son knew different. “Uncle,” he sniffed to clear the odor from his nostrils. “I cannot leave at this time. Father needs help against the Iron Guard.” It was a presumptuous statement as Ianu had little to offer Saloman in keeping Harvath and his ilk away from them.

  Liviu straightened, mouth working until it formed a smirk. “He is your son,” he said to Saloman. “And he will follow closely in your footsteps.” Liviu narrowed his eyes at his nephew, the comment less than a compliment. Nodding at his brother, Liviu left with the horse drawn transport awaiting to return him to Iasi.

  “He is angry with me,” Ianu said.

  “Success has changed Liviu.” Drago had been friends with the Cohnescu brothers since fleeing Russia. “He sees only money, not freedom.”

  Saloman cocked an eyebrow, long having tired of speaking of Liviu or the divergent paths taken by the two brothers. “What of our money. Can you turn it into gold or diamonds?”

  “The more Lei we bring him the better price we will receive and the sooner.” Drago ran the toe of his shoe along the edge of the floor planks. “If the pogrom begins we will be unable to reach him and his price will rise. Once Jews are unpopular he will not want to pay us he will simply wait for others to take what we have.”

  Ianu suddenly felt dizzy. “Pogrom?” The word had always been uttered with a whisper around the Cohnescu household. Saloman had consigned it to the past in Russia.

  His father waggled a finger at Ianu. “There will be no pogrom. We must be careful what we say and what we do.” He nodded at Drago then headed around the counter and to the rear of the store. Ianu approached his father’s oldest friend.

  “Will there be a pogrom like in Russia?”

  The sound of boots on wood halted the answer, Harvath marched past the store windows, this time more slowly, hand cocked at his forehead as he peered inside the darkened room. Ianu felt the older man stiffen beside him, fear in his face. The “cucumber” halted outside the entrance, Harvath hesitated as if prepared to enter for the first time. The brief pause was followed by the sound of his boots as he marched down the planked sidewalk.

  “Yes,” Drago hissed out of Saloman’s earshot.

  Ianu’s father returned holding a cloth bag, drawstrings tied. It clanked when he set it on the counter before Drago. “This is the money for our inventory.”

  Ianu blinked. The inventory fund allowed them to restock the store. Saloman protected the money in the sack with his life, and instructed his son to do the same. Surrendering it to Drago so quickly set Ianu to thinking.

  “Iosef will visit in a few weeks with the money we collect from others.” Drago took the bag and grabbed Saloman’s hands between his. “It will work out friend, we will be safe.” A flicker at the end of his mouth was the only sign of doubt. A nod toward Ianu and Drago was out the door, looking carefully for Harvath before hurrying out of sight.

  “The inventory fund,” Ianu said. “Where will we get the money to stock the store?”

  His father turned, also unaccustomed to being questioned, and left Ianu to consider their future as the sound of Havarth’s heavy footsteps sounded.

  III

  May 9, 1940

  Another regimental meeting. Rudi moaned as the last month had been consumed with meetings on the Russian defenses, concrete, steel and blood had begun to wear on his mind. He had experienced the same when war with France had beckoned during the Czechoslovakia crisis. At the time it was the Maginot Line that became their focus; a more complex system of defenses than the Russ
ians had built. While the French constructed a continuous front of fortifications, the Russian line had significant gaps, which according to Red Army deserters, were to be filled with infantry divisions.

  The intelligence briefings were pieced together from deserters who filtered across the border to escape punishment or the harsh work regimen of the Red Army. There were also the overflights by German aircraft, never challenged by the Soviets. The flights had photographed the lengthening gashes that cut through the Russian soil.

  Rudi had sat through hours of demonstrations as intelligence officers demonstrated the depth of the defenses using large scale models. He watched as they identified the pillboxes and bunkers, the buried tanks and camouflaged trenches, all of it blocking their path to Minsk.

  As he sat, Rudi realized the meeting was not about the theoretical Stalin line but the real one. Lieutenant Schmidt rose before his men, his voice pierced the early spring heat.

  “We must avoid any display of compassion. The Bolshevik state has been organized by the Zionists to destroy Germany. It must be annihilated and removed from Europe. Greater Germany will gain the lebensraum to which it is entitled. Men, you must be ruthless. Political commissars are not soldiers but criminals and must be dealt with as criminals. All resistance must be crushed with vengeance. Bolsheviks, Jews, partisans and saboteurs must be hunted down and eliminated without mercy.”

  Schmidt was waving his left arm as he grasped the official orders with his right. He lost his balance for a moment and nearly toppled from Helga’s engine compartment “Men, this is our hour. This is our moment in history to achieve Germany’s greatness. Heil Hitler!”

  The lieutenant was rewarded with an enthusiastic chorus of return Heil Hitlers by the assembled platoon. He hopped from Helga’s engine compartment and shook hands with the Panzer crews.

  Rudi was not among them; instead he climbed onto Helga and watched the platoon’s reaction from his perch on the turret. He tapped the freshly painted Balkenkreuz national insignia on the turret’s side with the heel of his boot. Someone higher in the command chain had decided that the solid white crosses that adorned the Panzers during the Polish campaign were unsuitable. They were painted over and replaced with a white outline of a cross over the grey hull.

  Once the men scattered, Rudi caught Schmidt, “Lieutenant, could you explain our orders.”

  “Explain?”

  “Are we to shoot all Communists and Jews we capture?”

  “Sergeant Kleime, we are to follow our orders. Speed is the key to victory. We cannot slow down for prisoners.”

  Rudi frowned as the lieutenant swept his arm around his shoulder, “You are troubled by what happened with the SS back in Poland. You must think of the greater good, of ensuring the living space for our people and elimination of a mortal threat to the Fatherland. We have some difficult days ahead. Concentrate on our breaching the Stalin Line.” He pointed east toward the border. “Our task is to meet the Panzers attacking from the North behind Minsk. Think of nothing else.”

  “Danke, Herr Lieutenant,” replied Rudi, trying to sound convinced even as doubts bubbled inside him. The two parted and Rudi looked east, to the border, toward the Stalin Line.

  IV

  May 9, 1940 13:00

  Colonel Yuri Tarkenov squinted at his watch, the hands barely visible in the flickering light of the room’s single bulb. It was eleven o’clock, though it seemed the night had just begun for the handful of Red Army officers who had been joined by an equal number of women. The women were unusual; the officers in Slutsk usually forced to drink themselves into oblivion without the company of the fairer sex.

  Tarkenov raised his glass to join another toast by Major Kuznetsov, organizer of the gathering, “To the Red Army! Let the Fascists tempt us!” The colonel slammed back another glass of vodka even as the major’s wish violated their orders.

  The men stationed in front of Slutsk were a Potemkin force, merely for show, unable to act if a German attack occurred and expected to follow strict orders only to take the defensive. The colonel did not care, satisfied to keep his Region quiet. His loyalty was enforced by the political commissar, Oleg Mogilov, who seemed a greater threat than the Nazis. Mogilov held the power of life or death over the heads of every officer and soldier under his “command.”

  Tarkenov knew that power well. A mere thirty-four, he had shot through Red Army ranks because of the commissars. Charges of treason in the Red Army reached to the highest level, Marshal Tukachevsky. Suspicion swept over all; the colonel recalling the brother of one general who was denounced for wrapping fish in a newspaper bearing Comrade Stalin’s image. The brother, the general and the remainder of the family disappeared into the NKVD maw.

  As talent and initiative became liabilities, those lacking both rose through the chain of command. Tarkenov avoided the purges, his one redeeming characteristic, an acute survival instinct, ensured his name rarely appeared on any papers and his face went unremembered which earned him neither friends nor enemies, the former as dangerous as the latter.

  By 1940 the purges had calmed and men like Tarkenov assumed responsibilities along the border. The 63rd Fortified Region served as his fiefdom, the colonel spending his days compiling reports on the progress of constructing defenses for the sector. This day had been no different as Tarkenov pretended to focus on anti-tank weapon positioning. His knowledge was limited having visited his men once month over an eight month period. He preferred to remain in his office, flirting with the typists who transformed his disconnected thoughts scribbled on scraps of paper into reports that would impress those in Minsk and Moscow. The arrival of Commissar Mogilov had not changed the routine as the political officer was no more interested in the front than the colonel. Having avoided Mogilov for four days he was forced to face the commissar when he demanded the colonel lead him on a front line examination of the defenses.

  Mogilov, forehead crinkling and sweat creeping along the ridges, sneered at the colonel, who was certain he had “not effectively communicated to every man in the fortified regions the imperative of not provoking a fight and starting a war because of a local misunderstanding.” To guarantee Moscow’s orders were being followed Tarkenov would tread on uncertain ground, joining Mogilov at each bunker and each artillery casement in his command.

  Tarkenov tried to delay, assuring the commissar that “our men will implement the orders as given.” He mumbled about an expected shipment of the tank turrets from Smolensk demanding his attention but Mogilov was not to be diverted. His stubbornness worried the colonel who knew that the commissar was following the orders from Moscow. He worried that his own laxity might have earned the attention of some officer who saw the displacement of a colonel as quickest means to advancement.

  The commissar offered an explanation. “There are reports of increased German activity, enemy planes spotted over Soviet territory and several recent deserters warning of an incursion.”

  The colonel forgot himself, challenging the commissar. “The reports I have seen say the fascists will never attack. The Red army is too strong, and the Germans are dependent on our food and metals.”

  Mogilov’s boots scraped on the wooden floor “Do not make me question your loyalty.” He poked a finger at the colonel’s face. “I hope for your sake that the men of this command have been properly ordered and that the defenses have been completed. We shall see what you have been doing with the People’s money.”

  Tarkenov backed away, agreeing to the 0700 hour time for their meeting to get Mogilov out of his office. Once the commissar left, the colonel sagged against the wall bearing a picture of Comrade Stalin. To prevent a total breakdown Tarkenov dipped into his personal supply of vodka, though his real savior was Major Kuznetsov, who greeted him outside the headquarters and invited him to the night’s celebration.

  Mogilov had become a foggy memory for Tarkenov by 2300. The “tonic” having the promised effect, the colonel staggered off to sleep. He pushed hard with both hands on the arms of h
is chair and wobbled to his feet as his belly threatened to topple him.

  “Leaving so soon Comrade Colonel?” It was Kuznetsov, gesturing with a half filled bottle of vodka.

  “It is almost midnight major and we have a full schedule tomorrow.”

  Kuznetsov wiggled his finger in the direction of a young blond and whispered, “I think the music teacher would like to get to know the Colonel.”

  Tarkenov was unmoved. The last girl to fall for him was his wife. She had remained in Minsk, far from Slutsk, an opportunity for Tarkenov to relive his recent youth, but the colonel declined. He needed alcohol not women to calm him. He returned to his chair and accepted another glass of vodka which seemed less dangerous than Commissar Mogilov.

  19

  May 10, 1940 0330

  Sasha woke as if the devil had grabbed his testicles. Thunder sounded above followed by thick clouds of smoke which sank over the forward defense area. Lacking a gas mask or a weapon to battle the invader, Sasha cowered in his dugout and waited.

  The last few days Sasha sensed trouble was approaching as their work schedule was stretched from before sunrise to past when the sun dipped below the horizon. He had seen more uniforms in the past week than during any of his tour of duties in the labor battalion.

  Igor grasped his friend’s shirt. “Sergeant Stukinkov has run away, we must get out of here.”

  Sasha eyes burned as he stared at her. They were alone, the others having fled the dugout along with Stukinkov at the first sound of attack. Sasha followed Igor out of the dugout. Stumbling into the morning darkness they saw the western sky, red, glowing and dangerous.