Tin Sky

by Ben Pastor

  His lucidity, the lucidity von Salomon envied in him, was polished like a mirror (or a sheet of ice); Bora did not allow the smallest speck of dust to rest on it. It was an extreme process of scouring that removed with acid all blemishes and flaws.

  3

  MEREFA

  Past midnight. Bora was still unable to sleep. Platonov’s demented offer to buy him off – with what? What could he consider as even remotely attractive to a creed-bound German officer? – still agitated him. Has he misconstrued my leniency so far? Have I somehow given the impression I’d be open to personal gain? I don’t see how. He spoke of a major’s pay, so it’s money he had in mind, or other valuables. He doesn’t seem the kind of officer who’d try bribery. Or did he already try that card during the Purge and get massacred for it? The only concession I made, against my better judgement, was that his wife will be informed she is to meet him. My plan was to have the women collected and put on a train without explanations (we owe them none), but this is a small compromise. Tomorrow, before they arrive, I’ll make him keep the rest of his bargain. How do I feel? Three-quarters done; to think the Kiev Branch had given up on Platonov. But partial victory tastes bitter after his offer to buy me off.

  Fever contributed to his restlessness. In a twilight state, images overlapped before him in a confused reel: Platonov stealthily offering a handful of gold, the sealed envelope from home containing money instead of a letter, even Colonel von Salomon telling him he’d have to pay in marks for his unit’s mounts. Bora sat up in his cot to drink quinine in half a glass of stale water from his canteen. He’d better put Platonov out of his mind if he wanted to remain level-headed with him in the morning.

  He stood to empty his pockets. Out came keys, cigarette lighter, a few coins. Last of all, the button from Krasny Yar. Hand-carved from hardwood, it was the sort of large fastener on a Russian peasant’s coat. Did the latest victim lose it during the struggle that ended in his brutal beheading? Had he not used the butt of his cigar Khan could have stuck it in his mouth to conceal his accent before the SS, but knowing it came from a corpse would be irrelevant to someone who had shot his men point blank without batting an eyelid.

  From his trunk, Bora took the cloth-bound, sturdy diary that had survived Stalingrad, and opened it to a fresh page. This diary and the letters to his family were the only things saved from the disaster; whatever few other Russian items he still had dated from before the siege, as he’d left them in this same trunk in Kiev and recovered them since. He sat down at the teacher’s desk, uncapped his gold-tipped fountain pen – Dikta’s gift – and began writing.

  The defector is Hendrick Terborch. No doubt about it, and notwithstanding his many aliases, even though I was five when I last saw him. Obviously, I don’t think for a moment that he absconded here because I serve in this area. He did so in spite of it, possibly because he was assigned along the Donets with his armoured brigade. It goes without saying that I know more about him than I let out, including the role he played early in the great officers’ purge five years ago. Rumours are that he turned in a few colleagues. After all, he came through that ordeal unscathed while throngs of others were lucky (such would be his term) if they received a bullet in the nape of the neck without having to undergo torture.

  Thus, officer corps being what they are, it is little surprise that all those involved knew one another, including Number Five-Platonov and Terborch-Khan Tibyetsky. As a matter of fact, Khan was working for him when Platonov was arrested at Stalin’s orders, and from what I gather he did nothing to succour his commander, although it must be admitted that not many ran the risk during those days, because it meant signing their own death sentence. Whether or not Khan went as far as supporting the imputations or merely sat by, watching Platonov go down at the trial, can only be conjectured.

  In any case, it is prudent to keep them apart and unaware that they share the same building. The risk is that Platonov might be blinded by pride and clam up again. As for Khan Tibyetsky, I’ll be glad when they take him off my hands; security-wise we aren’t nearly as well organized in Kharkov as we ought to be.

  Questions: what made a Hero of the Soviet Union change his mind about Russia, given that back in ’19 he burnt all his bridges behind him? Did he have enough? Has he seen the error of his ways, as they say? What does he want from us? What else has he to offer other than the tank model Scherer drools over? It’d have been awkward and possibly unadvisable, but why didn’t he pick up on the line I tossed him, mentioning my relative? He can’t have thought me so dense that I wouldn’t have recognized him, having also admitted to studying his daring feats. I, on the other hand, couldn’t very well openly admit that this apple falls closer to the tree than is comfortable for either of us, as officers and members of our class and family. Clearly he sees no advantage in revealing himself to his sister-in-law’s grand-nephew, a young major who can in no way be of use to him.

  Tomorrow I’ll stop by to see how he is faring, as soon as I give a last push to Platonov. Should the old crank play games again, I’ll have to threaten his women’s well-being, and I’m perfectly able to make it sound credible.

  These Russians are exasperating. Tonight, far from going away as he was told, that dingbat priest gave me an earful about the dead in Krasny Yar for another half-hour. It’s an odd thing, though. The place apparently does have a dark connotation. Only because they’re desperate for food and fuel do the locals venture into it, seldom alone: those who were killed had risked it because they had no one to accompany them for whatever reason. If I’m to believe Father Victor, of the 6 adult victims recovered (there were others, children, who except for one never were found), two were bludgeoned to death and had their eyes put out (older men), while three women (ranging more or less from 18–35) suffered multiple stab wounds. All were identified as living in an area that goes from Ternovoye to Selionovka, including the farms known as Kusnetzov and Kalekina. The last victim, whose head is missing, remains unknown; according to the 241st Company he was in his 60s at least. In every case particular ferocity seems to have been exerted. A maniac, one would think, or a totally clumsy blunderer. What is the rhyme or reason to such crimes? How are they linked? The priest doesn’t know whether anything was stolen, but given the times, it’s unlikely the victims carried valuables. That’s why I think of a maniac, or a desperate fugitive, like the Rex Nemorensis we read about in Roman mythology: a condemned criminal let loose in the woods until another felon is sent to try and take his place.

  When I first heard about the matter last month, I enquired at the 161st HQ whether a search could be organized to stop rumours (and killings) once and for all. The reply wasn’t encouraging: I was told to ignore what happens to civilians, and Russians to boot. Additional reasons: Krasny Yar isn’t strategically relevant (true, but what’s strategically relevant when our biggest headaches at the moment are partisan bands, for whom two rocks and a log are shelter enough?) The woods are partly mined – by us or by the Reds, I don’t have that detail, and don’t really have a clear idea of the contours of the risk zone. The non-com I met there would have told me if there was danger. Seems we haven’t yet decided whether we’ll clear them or finish mining them in weeks to come. Most importantly, no German soldier has been harmed in or around Krasny Yar.

  Should the official disinterest surprise me? When we first arrived at Merefa, I reported to the German War Crimes Bureau that we’d discovered the bodies of executed German soldiers in this schoolyard, along with the corpses of many civilians. The 161st Division judge promised to “send someone”, which in time I have learnt to suspect is another way to say that nothing will happen. In nearly four years of war we’ve all grown overwhelmed with the sheer amount of violations from all quarters. Back in Poland and even at the start of the Russian campaign we had a system going: reports regularly flowed from the field through divisional command, and we even had “flying judges”, unattached to specific units, sent directly from Germany to investigate. I haven’t given up on t
he “Merefa Schoolyard” case, as I call it, all the more since there are two or three other important pieces of news I hope to report if the right counterpart comes about. Krasny Yar isn’t one of them exactly, but if a judge arrives and looks half-interested, I’ll add it to the list. Lt. Colonel von Salomon tells me I’m “too picky”, a strange choice of words under the circumstances, because I think myself thorough but not fastidious. 20 German soldiers and at least twice as many Russian nationals fatten the earth where Kostya’s hens scratch for grubs: it isn’t picky to urge for a fair enquiry.

  Enough. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. If I belonged to my older relatives’ generation (and had a bed at my disposal), I could say And now to bed, as Victorian diarists used to do. But a camp bed is what I have, too uncomfortable to honour with a diary line.

  WEDNESDAY 5 MAY

  Something nagged at him the moment Bora opened his eyes, a kernel of foreboding that something negative lay just around the corner. Not waiting for him directly – it would be useful if warnings came that way; his destiny would be manageable then – but in relation to him, involving him somehow. He lay staring at the ceiling trying to tell himself it wasn’t so, that anxiety trailed behind other, less admissible feelings. Towards dawn he’d dreamt of his wife. Dikta slowly, lovingly taking his clothes off, in a room whose ceiling was so low over them it nearly touched the bedposts. They’d never lain in such a room, but she’d more than once undressed him – though always in great haste. As a rule, Bora made himself not think of her, because it was difficult enough as it was. Being away, not lying with her, having to make do. Making do implied a few unalterable rules: cold showers, long hours, staying well away from Russian girls. Dreams he tried not to have, or to forget immediately. Starting the day with Dikta on his mind, aching for her, was absolutely no good. He’d rather worry.

  Kostya, who’d already left for the Komarevka station in a two-horse droshky, set aside a pail of icy well water ready for him every morning. In his shorts, Bora stepped barefoot into the cold shade outside the school building, and emptied the pail over his head and shoulders. Nitichenko is starting to spook me, damn him. I’ll kick him from here to Losukovka if he shows up again. He shaved, dressed, drank a tin of coffee and headed out of Merefa towards Kharkov with a painful sense of tightness at the pit of his stomach, his typical mode of transferring stress to the body, where he could clench his jaw and bear it.

  7 a.m. At this time, Kostya would be picking up the babushkas who’d do the regiment’s wash. The day promised sunshine, despite a few flesh-coloured clouds from the endless east (it was Russia, Russia and then again Russia, all the way to the Pacific Ocean). Bora mentally reviewed what he’d tell Platonov in case he balked at completing the questionnaire – I swear I’ll threaten to kill his women if he crosses me – but in fact was still thinking of Dikta. In the dream (or else in his elaboration of it), she knelt on the bed wearing a satin garter belt and nothing else. Rose-pink satin, the colour of clouds and all the slippery or lacy things she wore under her clothes, meant to exalt rather than cover, like sea froth between Venus’ thighs. The last thing, the last thing he should be thinking of.

  Meanwhile, he’d reached the Kombinat. In the grassy patch in front of Stark’s office, Russian prisoners were hauling water from a trough. They froze when the German vehicle came to a screeching halt nearby. Without a word Bora jumped off, grabbed the bucket from one of them, set it on the trough’s edge and dunked his own head into it. Coincidentally, District Commissioner Stark was stepping out of the door for a smoke, and remained there, open-mouthed, with the cigarette in his hand. He was still staring when Bora restarted the engine and sped away.

  Nothing’s about to happen. He kept drumming the thought into his mind while he crossed the temporary bridge over the Udy. There’s nothing unusual, nothing’s about to happen. Nothing unusual at the checkpoints, at the corner of Novomirskaya, past the railroad tracks, entering the Velikaya Osnova district. Yet the moment he turned into Mykolaivska, Bora knew things were wrong, despite the usual appearance of the street.

  As soon as he set foot inside the special detention centre, he heard Mina’s furious barking at the foot of the stairs. “We just phoned the hospital, Herr Major,” the guard on the ground floor informed him. “Number Five really took ill this time. Will you go and see him at once?”

  Bora didn’t need to be told; he was already climbing the steps two at a time. With a first-aid kit over his shoulder, Weller overtook him at an even faster pace, grabbing the handrail to speed himself up. “Surgeon’s coming,” he shouted, and ran ahead.

  Platonov’s door was wide open. The general lay on top of his bedcover, fully dressed, grey in the face, eyes closed. The sergeant heading the centre and two guards stood by while the medic felt for vital signs and started preparing an injection at once. “Usually this brings him around,” he said, barely turning his face towards Bora. “This time, I’m not sure. It’s his heart, I think.”

  “The men thought he was sleeping,” the sergeant volunteered, “but he wouldn’t move when they shook him.”

  After giving the shot, Weller renewed his checking and tapping: quick, neutral motions that might equally suggest hope or impending failure.

  Bora was trying not to let his anger get the better of him. Finding anything that resembled a responsibility for what had happened seemed the only way to cope with his disappointment. “What did he have to eat?” he pressed the guards.

  “Nothing, Herr Major. We were about to bring him his breakfast.”

  “Did he take any medication? Weller, did you give him any?”

  The medic shook his head without looking. “The Oberstarzt specifically forbade that he be handed any medicine to take on his own.”

  “Sergeant, how did he seem last night?”

  “Other than that he hardly touched his dinner, Herr Major, he slept through until midnight. At 02.00 hours we checked on him and he was pacing back and forth, talking to himself. At four he lay down again and had nightmares, because we heard him cry out in his sleep like he always did. An hour ago he started groaning, but that was no news either. Then he went quiet, and we only realized we ought to send for help when he wouldn’t wake up.”

  Weller, who’d been crouching by the bed, stood up when he heard the heavy steps of the army surgeon from Hospital 169 clattering up the stairs. He walked in, nodded to Bora, sent out the guards and launched into some expert, thorough auscultation and work of his own. Another injection, more searching for life signs, and, finally, a pause.

  “He’s gone.”

  Fuck, Bora thought, without reacting openly. Before he could think of what to say, the surgeon – a weary-looking man who seemed in need of medical attention as much as any patient of his – confirmed, “Myocardial infarction.”

  “Are we sure?”

  The surgeon’s eyes, bleary and yellow with jaundice, blinked twice. His pallor – like von Salomon’s obsessions, like the stubbed, blackened thumbnail on Weller’s hand as he put away the useless medications – was a sign of the times. Details stood before him so starkly as to become symbols. Bora waited for an answer with heart in mouth. We are all bruised, inside and out. Those of us who didn’t die, that is; who didn’t lose fingers and toes to frost, who weren’t blinded or maimed. War marks us all, sooner or later. Other than by fever, I wonder how I am marked.

  “There was hardly anything that could have been done, Major. A quick but natural process.”

  The disappointment was nearly too much to take. Bora suppressed the thought that Platonov’s wife and daughter were arriving by train within the hour.

  “He’s the first prisoner I’ve ever lost.”

  That was not strictly true. It did not take into account the prisoners executed after Bora had failed to make them talk, or those who had told what they knew, but had been taken away just the same and shot against his will. He was reacting badly not only because of what else he could have learnt from Platonov with the lure of his womenfolk; it al
so seemed to him that the old man had purposely, perversely succeeded in silencing himself forever before his last surrender.

  “Yes?” The surgeon sounded unmoved by Bora’s statement. “Well, Major, he was a sickly man. I saw him when they first brought him in, and whatever happened to him in years past has undermined his health. He bore signs of repeated forms of stress and abuse.”

  “I want a post-mortem.”

  Before them, Platonov seemed unnaturally long and narrow on the bed, as if death had stretched him out at both ends. Sourness, and the contempt with which he must have spat out his last breath, remained stamped on his face. The surgeon stared at Bora. “I don’t think we need to look for blame. This was bound to happen whether you, I or the medic were here or not; probably even if the prisoner hadn’t been kept under pressure lately.”

  “I want a post-mortem, Herr Oberstarzt.”

  Bora’s resentment failed to get a response. The surgeon dropped his shoulders: he’d obviously long ago learnt not to fight useless battles. “As you wish. But it will confirm what I’m telling you.”