Part II
December 1940
CHAPTER 6
From the moment George Milev entered the old building of the Sofia High School for Girls, the smell of the dusty place reminded him of when he was a student and his most feared teacher, Mr. Vladimir Peshev. The man walked with a limp from some old war injury and had a long, stiff stick that was always handy for mischief-makers like Milev. The old teacher, his crooked leg scraping along the floor, moved from student to student. His stick often spoke for him, particularly on the boys’ shoulders and backsides. As a result, nearly everything Milev learned as a boy in school was etched into his brain by pain or by the fear of punishment. When he looked back, in many ways, Mr. Peshev’s cruel disciplinary measures led to George Milev’s present position as Chief of the Bulgarian Secret Police.
Due to the unusual demands of his work, Milev had little time to help his daughters with their schoolwork. However, tonight his wife Veneta was not feeling well, so Milev reluctantly agreed to attend a parent-teacher meeting to discuss the poor grades in German of his oldest daughter, Lora. The way Lora described her new German teacher led the police chief to believe that Miss Noverman was a mean old spinster.
Other ancient memories flooded his mind as he followed the signs upstairs to the second floor. His footsteps echoed through the empty halls, and he gazed at the dingy walls and the worn linoleum tile floors. Milev wondered what he could say to Lora’s teacher to end their meeting as quickly as possible and go back to his secret office, deep in the bowels of the Sofia police station. There were a lot of troublemakers in Bulgaria to keep his eyes on, especially now. At the end of the hallway, a handwritten sign marked “Parents” was attached to a faded green classroom door. For a moment, Milev considered turning around and going home.
“I’m not a student anymore,” he muttered. “It’s only a meeting, and I’m a grown man. Besides, if this teacher knew who I really was, she would be the one who was afraid.”
As far as the school officials and teachers were concerned, George Milev’s occupation was listed in their records as “engineer.” When he reached the classroom, it was already occupied by a handful of parents, mostly women, who sat in old desks and waited to be called by the teachers. Those who knew each other chatted noisily, as though they were students waiting for their daily class to begin. Others sat quietly reading, and one woman stared out the window.
Hoping to avoid any contact with the other parents, Milev sat in a desk in the back of the room, away from the group, and opened his newspaper. Less than ten minutes had passed when, without warning, the greenish light from the hallway spilled into the room and Milev looked toward the door to see who was coming.
The young woman who entered took his breath away. Her long black hair was twisted into a bun that sat atop her head. She had a movie star face and a body that looked like a swimsuit model. He gawked at her like a dumbstruck teenager as she walked across the classroom floor with an air of confidence reserved for aristocrats. Her hips gracefully swayed and his eyes followed her every movement. Who was this stunning-looking woman?
“Good evening,” she said in Bulgarian, tinged with a German accent. As she sat behind the teacher’s desk and opened the class register, she crossed her long legs in such a seductive way that Milev couldn’t keep his eyes from roaming below her waist. Suddenly, he longed to be a schoolboy again and wished she were his teacher so he could look at her every day. Milev closed his eyes to prolong this fantasy, expecting that when he opened them again, she would be gone. Happily, when Milev looked her way, she was still there. But who was she?
He wondered when this beauty would disappear and his daughter’s German teacher would arrive. Milev was shocked back to reality when she ran her fine long finger downward from the top of the student register and then spoke.
“Good evening. My name is Miss Helen Noverman, and I am the school’s new German teacher. Let’s begin our meetings, shall we? Is the mother or father of Lora Georgieva Milev present?”
Milev’s mouth was suddenly as dry as sand. This woman was Helen Noverman? He was sure that Lora had no reason to mislead him about the appearance of her teacher. But from his daughter’s complaints, he assumed that her German teacher looked more like the fat Wagnerian Brünnhilde than the sleek sexy actress Greta Garbo.
“Ah ... yes, I am Lora’s father,” Milev spoke.
Noverman raised her head from the register and saw a short husky man about 35 years old in a business suit. His pasty white face and weak chin held thin lips, a straight nose, knitted brow, stern eyes, and an exceedingly high forehead bordered by slicked-back dark hair.
Milev thought she seemed to linger about his face for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time. He wondered if she liked his expensive French shirt and silk tie. Perhaps she found him attractive. Perhaps she would ….
“Please come up here and take a seat, Mr. Milev,” she said, pointing to the empty chair beside her desk.
Milev at that moment felt like a student caught unprepared for a test. When he stood up, tiny beads of sweat formed beneath the buttoned collar of his shirt. Like a naughty child on his way to a scolding, Milev felt his blood surge, and his face turned red when he walked to the front of the room and took a seat.
“Do you have any questions about your daughter’s German studies, Mr. Milev?” she said as she pulled some papers from a folder. “Here are her test scores.”
“Yes…ah, Miss Noverman,” Milev sputtered. “I do, but first let me say that I am so pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you from Lora. She thinks you are a wonderful teacher.”
“Does she, now?” she said. “That’s interesting, given her considerable lack of enthusiasm for the subject.”
“Ah, well yes,” he smiled. “My Lora isn’t what you would call a dedicated language student. Will she pass her German exams?”
Miss Noverman smiled, and her face shone even more than when she first entered the room.
“Not if she continues to avoid her studies, Mr. Milev. If she would try a little harder, I’m sure that she could do better. She has the ability but lacks the motivation. Do you speak German by any chance, Mr. Milev?”
“Some,” he answered. “I studied it a little in school.”
“Perhaps if you spend a little more time with her and give her a few pointers, she may yet pass her exams.”
When Milev nodded, she stood, extended her hand and said, “It’s settled, then. Thank you for coming to see me.”
Her warm touch and firm handshake made Milev’s heart pound.
“My pleasure, Miss Noverman. Thank you. I’ll talk to Lora. I promise she’ll improve.”
Outside the classroom he looked at his watch and saw that they had spoken for less than five minutes, yet it felt like they had made some sort of intimate connection. Was he crazy to look at his daughter’s teacher like that? He wondered what she looked like naked—his usual fantasy when he met any attractive woman.
By the time Milev left the school, it was dark and had started to drizzle. He got into his car, but instead of starting the engine, he merely sat in the driver’s seat and watched the misty droplets transform into a steady downpour on the windshield.
“Should I offer Miss Noverman a ride home?” he asked aloud. “After all, in this kind of foul weather, carriages or taxis are hard to come by, and even a short walk home would be cold and uncomfortable.” Milev smiled. “It would only be the polite and proper thing for a gentleman like me to offer.”
It was nearly 8:00 p.m. when Helen walked out of the school and into the pouring rain. She pulled the collar of her long coat up close around her neck and took an umbrella from a bag. As she walked briskly along the sidewalk, Milev started the motor, pulled up beside her and rolled down the car window.
“Hello, Miss Noverman,” he shouted above the patter of the rain on the roof of the car. “Can I offer you a lift? It’s not a bribe to improve my daughter’s poor grades, I promise!”
Startl
ed, she looked to see who had spoken to her. “It’s just a little rain, Mr. Milev,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you, but thank you just the same.” She continued on her way.
“But, Miss Noverman, you’ll get soaked, and it’s really no trouble,” he said, grasping for some excuse to talk to her. He pressed on the gas, and the car slowly rolled forward. “There was one other thing I forgot to ask you. Please, allow me to drive you home. It would be my pleasure. I insist.”
She stopped for a moment and considered his invitation. Milev didn’t know if it was the rain or his charm that convinced her, but she finally shrugged her shoulders and opened the car door.
“So,” she said after sinking into the leather seat beside him, “what did you forget to ask me?”
“Where you live, of course!” he smiled. “Or would you prefer that I drive you somewhere else?”
“No thank you, Mr. Milev. My flat is at 12 Pop Bogomil Street.”
Helen Noverman’s eyes scanned the car’s fine interior. His Mercedes wasn’t new, but private cars in Sofia were uncommon. Only high-ranking military officers, important government officials, or the very wealthy had the luxury of traveling in an automobile. After Milev pulled out into the street, she spoke with a frankness that surprised him.
“You must not be an ordinary engineer, Mr. Milev, to have a fancy car like this.”
Milev said nothing, but only turned to her and smiled. With the skill of a race car driver, he wheeled the car left onto Patriarch Evtimii Boulevard and sped down the nearly empty street. Only a few horse-drawn carriages taxied customers about, while straggling pedestrians dodged raindrops.
“Let’s just say, Miss Noverman, I work for an international construction firm that pays me well. Engineers such as myself are in great demand right now, if you know what I mean.”
“I think you must be the fifth parent I’ve met whose family name is Milev. I didn’t realize it is such a common name here in Bulgaria.”
“I suppose there must be fifty men in Sofia whose name is George Milev,” he laughed.
When Milev inhaled her sweet perfume, an image of her naked body again filled his mind. As he shifted gears, his hand brushed against her left thigh. His lovely passenger glanced down at his hand and then looked at him and smiled. At that moment Milev felt like a schoolboy on his first date.
“And what kind of engineer are you, Mr. Milev, if it’s not a state secret?”
“Please, call me George.” he said. “I’m sure you would find what I do rather dull. Military construction, that sort of thing.”
“I see,” she said.
“But enough about me, Miss Noverman. Tell me something about yourself. How did you come to teach in Sofia, and where did you learn to speak Bulgarian?”
“I have my cousin Ingrid in Munich to thank for both. She has worked in the Balkans for some time and arranged this job for me. She also helped me learn Bulgarian. Originally, I wasn’t so sure that I should come here, with the war and all, but she finally convinced me that it wouldn’t be a problem and to give the job a try. So, here I am, all by myself in Sofia.”
As she spoke, Milev turned his car onto Rakovski Boulevard. On the chance that she might respond positively to an overture, Milev asked, “Miss Noverman. Do you know the story of our beloved revolutionary poet Peyo Yavorov?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Should I? Is it a sad or happy story?”
“In the early 1900s Peyo Yavorov was one of the finest poets in the Kingdom of Bulgaria but his story is a sad tale of love, passion, and death.”
Milev stopped the car and pointed to the second floor window of an old house. “Around 1912 Peyo Yavorov and his wife, Lora, lived up there in a small apartment for about a year,” Milev said. “They had a very romantic and fiery relationship but in 1913, something went wrong. Lora killed herself in his study. Then Peyo tried to commit suicide by shooting himself in the head, but the bullet went through the base of his skull, which left him blind. There were rumors that he had killed her and there was a trial. In despair, Peyo poisoned and then shot himself in autumn 1914. That time he succeeded and died. He was only 36.”
Milev took his foot off the brake and the car slowly continued to roll down the street. Helen glanced at him but said nothing. Leaning back, she gazed out the car window at the empty street. Wet strands of hair framed her face, giving her the appearance of a siren. After a few awkward moments of silence she spoke.
“You’re right,” she said. “That is a sad story.”
“Perhaps I can tell you more about our many other famous Bulgarians over a cup of coffee or a drink when we meet again,” Milev offered.
“What makes you think we will meet again?” she asked.
“My undeniable charm, of course!” he said with a straight face. “May I call you Helen?”
They looked at each other and broke into laughter. Ah, the tough German teacher had a sense of humor after all! She put her left hand on top of his as he held the gearshift and laughed again. Her hand remained there for only a few seconds before it retreated to her lap, but that was long enough to send a ripple of lust throughout Milev’s entire body.
Pop Bogomil was a small street not far from the local Fire Command station. Milev parked in front of Helen Noverman’s three-story apartment building and dashed around the car to open the door for her. A misty breeze replaced the heavy rain. Helen Noverman took his outstretched hand, gently squeezed it, and thanked him for the ride. Without hesitation, Milev lifted her delicate fingers to his lips and kissed them.
“The pleasure was entirely mine, Helen. I hope we can see each other again, soon.”
“Perhaps at the next parent meeting,” she laughed. “And please remember, if Lora ever has a school problem, don’t hesitate to call on me. It’s a part of my job. Good night … George.”
A second later she slipped inside the apartment building. The door closed, and she was gone. Milev got back into his car and lit a cigarette. Driving home, he was surprised by how much this beautiful woman had affected him. Milev had never in his life believed in love at first sight, and in fact, laughed at any man who claimed that love made him do crazy and unpredictable things. But that night Milev truly felt that he would suffer terribly if he never saw his daughter’s German teacher again.
“What’s the matter with you tonight?” his wife asked after dinner. “You seem distracted. Are there problems at work?”
“No more than usual, Veneta,” he said. “It’s this awful weather, and I’m rather tired. I think I’ll go to bed early.”
“Take some aspirin, George,” she said as she kissed his right cheek. “You’ll sleep better.”
If Milev had indeed been ill or tired, then maybe a peck on the cheek and an aspirin would have made him feel better. The truth was more complicated. No wonder drug could cure what ailed Milev that night.
CHAPTER 7
A call from Standartenführer Wolff von Schjoderberg, the Gestapo officer who ran German Intelligence in Bulgaria, to George Milev usually meant an assignment—and not always a pleasant one. Affectionately known by his friends and enemies alike as “Lupus,” Latin for wolf, agents of his caliber and intellect were rare in German military circles.
From the first day Milev met Lupus years ago, he was impressed by the German’s aristocratic manner, although he knew of his reputation as a ruthless Gestapo officer. With his silky blond hair, pale white skin and blue eyes, Lupus fit Hitler’s vision of an Aryan to a tee. Ironically, Lupus despised Germany’s new leaders because of their humble origins. Nevertheless, their nationalistic vision offered him the perfect environment, in which he well knew he could excel.
Lupus grew up in the town of Weimar in central Germany, not far from Buchenwald. He was educated at the University of Weimar in art history—a rather unusual course of study for a Colonel in the Gestapo. However, his manner, style of dress, and eloquence left no doubt as to his aristocratic heritage. His ancient ancestors served for all the great Germ
an dukes of the Saxon dynasty through the early 1020s, and his forefathers fought alongside the emperors of the Holy Roman Empire and the Hapsburgs of Austria. Lupus’s grandfather was killed battling Napoleon’s army, and his father was a leader in the Weimar Republic. According to Lupus, in all that time, no one in his family ever married anyone who was not related to royalty.
Although Milev thought he knew Lupus fairly well, it was impossible to predict his behavior. On one hand, everything Lupus and his family stood for represented nobility, honor, and refinement. On the other hand, he had to reconcile himself to his country’s present love affair with the Nazis. But, like every true German, Lupus had the deeply ingrained traits of obedience to orders and playing by the book. So, when his fatherland called in the early 1930s, Lupus joined the Gestapo.
In the beginning, Milev was deeply suspicious that Lupus actually believed much of Hitler’s maniacal philosophy. His manner seemed to suggest that he had no choice but to serve his country as a soldier like his ancestors before him. But Milev learned over time that Lupus’s reputation was well founded and that there was a dark and evil side to his nature. Beneath the charming exterior lurked a cold, calculating predator who was always ready to strike his enemies and, if necessary, his friends.
Lupus’s presence in Sofia showed just how important Bulgaria had become to Hitler’s plan to conquer the Balkans. Milev knew that the Axis powers and the Allies were courting the King of Bulgaria, and it was Lupus’ mission to bring the Bulgarian army and government under German control. He needed Milev’s help because enemy agents from France, England, Turkey, Russia, and even the United States were trying their best to thwart his efforts.
As the Chief of the Bulgarian Secret Police, Milev had his fingers in many pies and knew a great deal about the myriad foreign intelligence operations that took place in Bulgaria. While Milev envied Lupus’s cunning and had learned a great deal from him, he was not solely the German’s man. Milev also had certain talents, and he was not ashamed to admit that he used them to achieve his own goals—namely, serving as a double agent and surviving the war, no matter which side won. In spite of Germany’s great military superiority, Milev wasn’t sure that Hitler could pull off his insane plan to conquer Europe. On the other hand, Milev certainly wasn’t convinced that anyone could stop him.
Laugh of the Hyenas Page 5
