by Ben Pastor
Some of Mayr’s words were inaudible. “…Why are you doing this? Weller is a fine medic. Being desperate to go home – I admit he is, and has been for a long time – he’d never behave so as to get in trouble, and risk being sanctioned. Would he have helped me, had he known I’d contravened the rules of good practice out of mercy? Yes. Did he do it? No.” Static followed the pulsating bursts of lightning outside. “I don’t know what kind of case you’re building here, Major Bora, but I strongly advise you to leave me and Master Sergeant Weller out of it.”
Unrequested advice, like threats (or even car bombs) had the peculiarity of obtaining the opposite result with Bora. “Sorry. I can’t do it.”
Mayr slammed the receiver down.
10
BOROVOYE, SATURDAY 22 MAY
It was still raining in the morning, from clouds stretched thin like haze and about to exhaust themselves. Humidity was high: rock piles and the few paved stretches of the road steamed in the heat as soon as the sun filtered through.
Bruno Lattmann came to the doorstep of his radio shack bare-chested and in army shorts.
“Jesus, Martin, how can you wear breeches and boots in this weather – is the General Staff coming to visit? Oh, you rode here. Why?”
Covering his bruises under cloth and leather would keep Lattmann from enquiring, and himself from explanations. “I went off the road,” Bora said indifferently. “Car’s demolished.”
Inside, the reek of pipe smoke was strong. Bora said nothing, but his colleague volunteered, “I picked up the vice for Eva’s sake, so that I’ll have some fingernails left when I go home.”
Bora laughed. “A hard choice for a wife: nailless or with a pipe in his mouth. Bruno, Nagel’s coming to pick me up: do you mind if I wait here? There’s something I need to figure out.” While honouring Bernoulli’s request not to mention him personally, he recounted his phone conversation with Mayr, and his suspicions. “Nothing definite, you understand, and I know I’m sticking my neck out. But somebody has to do it.”
Officiously Lattmann reached for a packet of Blue Bird, and began filling the Bakelite bowl of his pipe. “Will you do the same thing with the SS surgeon on Sumskaya, or limit yourself to locking horns with the army medical corps? Yes, I am being sarcastic, Martin.”
“The SS surgeon promises to be a tougher nut to crack, even with the best effort. When I stopped by Sumskaya yesterday, you could tell they’d have gladly kicked me down the stairs if they thought they’d get away with it. As I found out at our headquarters soon thereafter, it appears their head surgeon was transferred to the Army Group Centre, in Mogilev.”
“Well, excellent. He’ll work for that beastly Franz Kutschera: a marriage made in heaven.”
“Whatever, he’s conveniently out of my reach. At headquarters I also saw Lieutenant Colonel von Salomon.”
“Good news or bad news?”
Bora unhooked the collar of his tunic, the sole concession to the discomfort he felt in the hot room. “A mixed bag. First of all he gave me a spiel about Oswald Bumke, who is his new messiah. He’s head of psychiatric and neurological services at Wehrkreis VII, and was even called to consult on Lenin’s health in the early 1920s. The colonel is thoroughly fascinated with schizophrenia at the moment, and he wouldn’t even broach military subjects before lecturing me. The disappointing news is that the regiment will not be going into Krasny Yar at this time, as I hoped. We’re to patrol the Donets instead. On the positive side, they’re officially conferring the decorations awarded at Stalingrad, so – provided that my schedule allows it – I’m off to Kiev for the ceremony next Thursday. Generaloberst Kempf is purposely flying there from Poltava. The best news of all is that Peter volunteered to be his pilot, so if I make it we’ll get to see each other.”
Unsuccessfully puffing to light his pipe, Lattmann wasted one match after another. He said, “Dinner’s on you the next time we’re in a civilized restaurant. Along with losing one’s virginity, the Knight’s Cross is a big achievement for a man.”
“Yes, if I don’t stop to think how many had to die in Stalingrad for a handful of us to be decorated. What’s worse, it tickles my pride. Here, in anticipation of dinner.” Bora took a bottle of pepper-flavoured vodka and a round tin of caviar out of his briefcase. “Smoked sturgeon, I couldn’t find.”
“Why, that’s neighbourly.” Lattmann perked up. “Shall we try it? Store-bought Pertsovka, no less!”
Bora amicably shook his head. “Z pertsem in Ukrainian. No, thank you. Enjoy.” The sticky weather made the cuts pull and sting; the friction of cloth over them added to the unease he more or less successfully concealed. “There’s something I need to get done quickly, Bruno, and that’s to find a way of keeping Sanitätsoberfeldwebel Arnim Weller in Ukraine until I have a chance to question him about Dr Mayr, in reference to Platonov. On Thursday I contacted the personnel branch of the Medical Inspectorate. Unlike the first time – when they said they knew nothing about it – they confirmed Weller is in fact billeting in Kiev, from where he’s due to leave tomorrow. The regular channels are no help in such cases. I approached Lieutenant Colonel von Salomon, but he doesn’t want to hear of ‘out of the ordinary interventions’ regarding scheduled transfers, and turned me down.”
“The poor bastard needs to grow a pair of balls if he wants to make full colonel.” The pipe was laid aside for good. And so, for the time being, was the liquor. Lattmann dug out a cylindrical can of bread. He opened it, cut two round slices and fished a bit of butter out of a water-filled washbasin, which he spread on the slices. Next came a spoonful of caviar on each slice. “Anyway, do you expect Weller to talk? He’s likely to be loyal to Mayr.”
Bora said no to the offer of food. “And he could be more involved in this than I thought, despite his security clearance. I’m in a devil of a hurry to try to block him here. How would you go about delaying someone’s departure?”
“In less than twenty-four hours’ time? Don’t know. It’s got to come from high up. Hm-m, caviar’s good. Sure you don’t want some? All right, all right, I’m thinking. What about Geko Stark? It was he who forwarded the recommendation in the first place.”
“Yes, but on Mayr’s request, and I only found out because I opened the letter Stark entrusted to me. It’d be tantamount to admitting I tampered with his correspondence.”
“You could tap the Kiev Branch Office for a credible excuse.”
“Such as?”
Lattmann polished off the home-made canapés. “If they agree to do it, they’ll think of one. All you actually need to do is bump Weller for someone else who’s got travel priority over him. I’ll work on it if you want me to.”
“As soon as possible, Bruno.”
“Where is Weller staying in Kiev, do we know?”
“At a lodging in the Solomenka district for transiting members of the armed forces, across from the Hungarian barracks. We should also have someone keep an eye on him, in case Mayr tries to get in touch and alert him.”
Waiting for a radio reply from his “man in Kiev”, as Lattmann referred to his Abwehr counterpart there, Bora had time to contact Odilo Mantau, whose mood hadn’t improved since their last conversation. “Thanks to you, Major, I had an argument with the staff at the SS medical station on Sumskaya. Did you know their surgeon was assigned to Mogilev?”
“Yes. So? Did you get them to admit they sent a medic over to the jail the evening of 6 May?”
“No.”
“Well, either they did or they didn’t. You said he was a Security Service medic —”
“I didn’t say he was a Security Service medic, I said he came from the Sumskaya first-aid station.”
“Whatever. Did you at least get his name from the jail ledger?”
“Interesting that you should ask. The name is Lutz, Karl Albert. Lutz, right. And since you know it can’t be, don’t pretend you’ll make a note of it.”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
“Come on, Major!”
Bora was tempted to strike the radio with his fist. “Christ, Mantau: why not?”
“Because Lutz died during the spring battle for Kharkov.”
“Lutz did what? There’s something wrong with the connection: I thought I heard that he died.”
“As if it was news to you. After you started making a fuss about ‘someone playing with our medics’, I thought I’d double-check the name and ID entered in our ledger. I discovered that Karl Albert Lutz, same rank, date and place of birth, fell on 2 March near Merefa. So I still think you or yours are behind Khan’s death. However you laid your hands on a Sumskaya pass with Lutz’s name on it, you must have.”
“I give up, Mantau. You can’t be made to see reason. We were both tricked, don’t you understand?”
Lattmann nudged Bora, mouthing the words I’ve got Kiev on the other radio, and that communication took absolute priority over an argument with Odilo Mantau.
Bespalovka, 22 May, mess time.
The remounts are excellent: broken in and trained. They range from RI category for officers (one of these goes to Nagel by my specific order – the Spiess is a grand rider) to KR for the troop, plus heavy and extra-heavy horses of the SZK and SSZ class. In addition to the grazing opportunities this land offers, we’re also well supplied with fodder. I checked the quality of our 5-kilo fodder cakes, to make sure the proportions of oats, potato parts, hay and yeast are right.
All this is good and opportune news, as our divisional HQ was requested by the commanders of the 198th and 15th IDs, Generals von Horn and Buschenhagen, to supply armed reconnaissance (and engagement against partisans if necessary) on the right bank of the Donets, where the concave bend of the river forms a wide salient on the Russian side that goes from Novo Andreyevka to the north to Novo Borisoglebsk to the south. Just the sort of operation tailor-made for the regiment. Given our orders, and the discretion I was granted, we’re off in patrols to reconnoitre the vast area (50 km in length, 5 km in depth) assigned to us.
We’ll leave one squadron at a time, at dusk and shortly after dark, with the usual equipment, silenced rifles at the top of the list. Depending on the weather, being five days after the full moon, if it’s clear starting out after sunset on Sunday 23 we’ll have about three hours of complete dark before the moon rises, at around half-midnight. If it’s overcast, as I hope, the hours of dark will stretch to seven all told, because dawn will break by 4 a.m. on Monday. The same pattern will be followed the rest of the week, or however many days it’ll take to achieve our objective. We expect to discover partisan nests and possibly catch some of their units on the move. Whatever we find, we’re to destroy. I’m calling the operation Warm Gates, after the ancient stronghold at Thermopylae.
In other, no less important matters, Bruno was better than his word. I spoke to his counterpart at the Kiev Branch Office, who took it upon himself to delay Weller’s return home on a technicality (we’re very good at technicalities in today’s Germany). The delay buys me only four days, until the next transport (a troop train actually heading for Konotop, where it’ll meet a Fatherland-bound hospital train) picks up the medic in Kiev and takes him out of my reach. There’s little chance I’ll be done with the military operation by next Thursday (which incidentally means I might miss the award ceremony, too), but that’s all I could swing at this time.
And there’s another problem. If Mantau spoke the truth, and whoever was said to come from the Sumskaya first-aid station gave a false name, discovering what really happened to Platonov could be child’s play compared to solving Khan’s murder. I asked Bruno to go the whole hog, as they say, and oblige me by forwarding another question to Mantau I didn’t have time to ask him today, since Nagel drove in with the GAZ vehicle the moment I was done conferring with the Branch Office.
WEDNESDAY 26 MAY
Weather and circumstances assisted Bora’s plan. Acting on a lead from the 15th Division IC officer, on the night of Sunday the twenty-third his advance patrols detected movement from a partisan force heading north after crossing over from the treed area of Zadonetsky Bor. Partly mounted, the Russians advanced stealthily, and then camped without lighting fires. Bora gave orders to hold back. He sat keeping an eye on them, careful not to betray his men’s presence until the following night, to understand what the enemy’s intentions were. Daytime on the twenty-fourth was spent in the woods, lying low under siege by mosquitoes and flies in the weary moisture padding the terrain that overlooked the river. All contact with locals, untrustworthy or inimical, had to be avoided.
After sundown the partisans moved. With a favourably contrary breeze that kept its sounds and odours undetectable, under scudding clouds and broken moonlight, the regiment started out in pursuit, unit by unit. Fanning out, webbing, taking position. No engines, no radios, dispatch riders on horseback and on foot.
At first daylight on the twenty-fifth the partisans huddled again. Boys comprised the mounted patrols they sent out to scout the surroundings; the invisible Germans let them go past. After stopping at the old Tichonov farm, the Russians changed direction under cover of darkness. They took the dirt lane that led through the woods in a due south direction, possibly to a rendezvous point on the banks of the Gomolischa, a tributary of the Donets. Keeping out of sight, Bora’s men followed and skirted the woods from the outside.
His intuition was once more right. Two separate partisan forces were converging to meld men and materiel. The opportunity was so rich, he had to convince his officers not to engage when the enemy exited the woods and to bide their time until the subsequent night. With a waning moon and the occasional overcast, at 2 a.m. on Wednesday 26 May four Gothland squadrons drew near an unsuspected country spot called Kurgan Bischkina, not far from the Donets, at the mouth of an east–west ravine – Semionov Yar. There, the combined partisan body, at least three companies’ worth of partly mounted men, gathered for the night. Having quietly sealed off the head of the ravine, the Germans disposed of those on watch along the rim using Soviet-made silenced rifles, and by the time the Russians realized what was happening, mortar and machine-gun fire confronted them from three sides. Dawn broke on a fierce shoot-out that precluded escape. Trying to battle their way out the trap and backtrack towards Kurgan Bischkina, the survivors ran into Bora’s own squadron, which lay in wait and mowed them down. One by one, stragglers were chased and picked off. The Germans spared the horses whenever possible, and no one else.
As baptisms of fire go, it was a resounding success for Gothland. The only disappointment came with the news that a separate partisan force had successfully escaped encirclement by a company of the 198th ID near the Obasnovka farm, and recrossed the Donets without losses. As for Bora, seventeen wounded troopers (three seriously) and a handful of slightly injured mounts weighed like a feather compared to the nearly two hundred casualties on the opposite side, plus prisoners (mostly youngsters and elders), horses and lend-lease materiel.
The morning was spent destroying equipment and ammunition, harvesting maps, cleaning up as needed and drafting notes for the debriefing at Kharkov later on. Bora was elated, but his mind was already running over the next piece of work: flying to Kiev in the morning to interrogate Arnim Anton Weller about his direct superior at Hospital 169. Thank God Lippe, his second-in-command, was a star-quality officer; Bora safely left him in charge and hurried off.
He arrived at Borovoye late in the afternoon, with the sun still blinding at its low angle. Bruno Lattmann placed a shot of pepper vodka in front of him, which Bora did not touch. Had there been an agreement between them not to discuss the operation, they couldn’t have acted more evasively about it. Aside from the fact that Bora had hastily shaved without soap, and presented as wrinkled an appearance as one such as him was likely to tolerate, it transpired that things had gone well.
“Any word from Mantau, Bruno?”
“Well, I forwarded to him your request for a description of the ‘Sumskaya medic who visited Tibyetsky the evening of 6 May.’”
“And?”
>
“Judge for yourself.” Lattmann picked up a clipboard. “Here’s what I jotted down. I doubt it’ll take you one step further. First of all, the shithead flew off the handle: ‘What does Bora expect – a patch on the eye or a missing tooth?’ Then he said the jail personnel, when asked about it, agreed with him that the man was ‘average in every sense: height, weight, et cetera.’ About 175 cm, about 75 kilos, with dark blond or light brown hair. Herr Anybody or Herr Nobody, your choice.”
“He is a shithead.”
“QED. So I pressured him for details, mannerisms, et cetera. Nothing; or else no one was paying much attention after Khan’s temper tantrum.” Lattmann tossed the clipboard across the shack floor, on to his bed. “The only detail the genius came up with is a blackened or stubbed thumbnail on the medic’s right hand, which Mantau God knows why noticed.”
Bora blinked. He automatically reached for the liquor, and gulped it down. War marks us all, sooner or later. Mutilations, large marks, minutiae. The Gestapo captain’s preoccupation with his own hands and nails overlapped in his mind with the scene at Platonov’s bedside, on the day of his death. Odilo Mantau would notice. “Pour me another.”
“If it helps you swallow disappointment.”
Bora downed a second drink. “It’ll have to do more than that, Bruno, if the late Karl Albert Lutz turns out to be Sanitätsoberfeldwebel Arnim Weller.” In the convulsed moments after Platonov’s death, he recalled staring at details: the surgeon’s jaundiced face, the discolouration on the medic’s nail as he hastily put away the needle he’d used. Details like pointers to a greater truth. “Holy Christ, I should have thought of it. But how in hell… Quick, see if you can connect me to Dr Mayr at Hospital No. 169.”
The conversation that followed, halved as Lattmann heard it, was at the same time bizarre and absolutely consistent, though not necessarily so in the surgeon’s opinion. Bora began by saying, “I’ll apologize when I have time. Now answer me, Herr Oberstarzt, or as true as God is I’ll make sure the Security Service comes knocking on your door. What do you know of Arnim Weller’s past history, how long have you known him, and whom did he frequent outside the hospital? There’s a remote chance of Weller getting a regular court martial if you answer me.” For a few moments Bora listened, nodding to himself. “Was it cowardice under fire, or was it desertion? That’s not just losing one’s nerve, Dr Mayr: abandoning one’s post is tantamount to desertion if he left the field hospital and ‘hid with Russian folks’ for a week! Is that fact known? I don’t care how you covered it up: is the fact known to others? Can it be used against him? In the two years you have known him, did you ever suspect him of unprofessional practices? Don’t push me; I don’t need to define them. No? I doubt it, and I doubt he didn’t give you reason to worry: you worried as soon as he was transferred. You feared his past flaws were catching up with him. It doesn’t matter what you think, frankly. Clearly he had access to your office cabinet. Whom did he frequent outside the hospital, do you know? He went out three days a week for supplies: and then? Drove the ambulance occasionally: and then? Did you confront him for taking longer than his errands required? Why not? The fuel depot, the Kombinat and the special detention centre can’t be the sole places he frequented. The mess-hall doesn’t count. A drinking place: where? Did he have acquaintances among SS sanitary service colleagues? I am being perfectly coherent, Herr Oberstarzt, and excruciatingly clear-minded.”
