Laugh of the Hyenas

by Ivan Roussetzki

  Watching these youth made Milev think of Helen Noverman. He looked at the school girls and took another long sip from his drink. Then, like a stream of hot water, last night’s dream once again flooded his mind, and visions of Noverman’s sensuous body replayed as if he were experiencing the lurid episode all over again.

  “You know, George, your proverb can only mean one thing.” Lupus’s sudden interruption instantly extinguished Milev’s fantasy. He sat down next to Milev and ordered wine and salads.

  “And what might that be, Standartenführer?” Milev asked.

  “The proverb simply means that the blind man remains happier not knowing of the abysmal and pathetic state of the world around him. Is this not so?”

  Actually, Milev was not surprised when he heard this simplistic theory. Lupus, like many aristocratic Germans, viewed the world in a very literal way. Things were black or white; right or wrong; good or bad; with no shades of gray in between. In this case, he was utterly incapable of reading between the lines to discern the proverb’s deeper meaning.

  If Milev had been smart, he would have agreed with Lupus and shut up, but instead he continued to speak.

  “An absolutely brilliant interpretation,” Milev said. “There is no doubt that your powerful intellect provides you with a superior insight into our people.”

  Lupus’s mouth twisted into a smirk as he considered Milev’s ingratiating compliment.

  “Now, if I may, let me offer you an even deeper analysis into how the Bulgarian mind works,” Milev spouted. “This proverb also means that when someone has little brains or talent, but by chance gets into a position of power and begins to think of himself as a great leader, he is like a blind man who pretends to see well. People would be foolish to follow such a leader, and little good can be expected from him.”

  Lupus picked up his glass, looked at the contents, and thought for a moment before he drained it. He placed the empty glass onto the table with a loud clunk.

  “Interesting. Simple, yet complex. I hadn’t really looked at it in that way,” Lupus said. The tone of his voice darkened. “Obviously, I still have much to learn about the wisdom of the Bulgarians. But George, why did you share this proverb over the phone today? Are you trying to tell me something about my present situation here?”

  Milev shifted uneasily in his chair as he set his glass on the table.

  “Absolutely not, Standartenführer!” he said. “How could you think of such a thing? In fact, quite the contrary. No, I refer to our enemies. They are blind now and will remain so tomorrow.”

  Milev hoped that his explanation would put an end to the discussion, but Lupus continued to stare at him, waiting for the truth. Finally, a thin smile spread across his face, but the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. Lupus poured himself another glass of wine before he spoke again. His face turned red and his eyes widened.

  “So that’s all there is to it, eh George? Nothing more?” He pressed Milev even harder. “I’m not so sure. How do you Bulgarians like to say it? Every cherry has a pit.”

  Lupus had not risen to the rank of colonel in the Gestapo for being a fool, and Milev’s earlier slip of the tongue had stoked the Gestapo chief’s suspicious nature. And he was right.

  The fact was that Helen Noverman yet again had occupied Milev’s thoughts, although this time it was in her professional capacity. How important an agent was she if Lupus had ordered Milev to discover her mission here and ignore the other operations going on in Sofia? And could Milev find a way to fit Noverman into his spying efforts for the British? However, like a fool, he had indirectly revealed his beliefs about Hitler’s power over the Germans. To Lupus’s way of thinking, Milev’s implied criticism of Germany’s political situation constituted treason.

  Now with a growing sense of distrust, Lupus silently probed for any betrayal of him and the German cause. He waited with a cruel smile, ready to pounce on Milev like a hyena and tear out the throat of his prey in an instant. Milev knew that if he showed the slightest fear, his days as the Bulgarian Chief of the Secret Police—and maybe even his life—would be over.

  His brain whirled furiously for the right response. Milev knew he had to say something, but first he emptied his glass and began, “Standartenführer, I never . . .,” but Lupus silenced him with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “Perhaps I read too much into your interpretation of this silly Bulgarian proverb after all. I think I understand it now. Of course, you didn’t mean to criticize my work here, did you?”

  Milev took a deep breath when he finally saw a way out of his mess. Ironically, Lupus’s concern was not with Milev’s loyalty, but rather, with his suggestion that Lupus was incompetent or unworthy as a leader. That insinuation was unforgivable.

  “Not at all, Standartenführer! In fact, there is no one with your superior experience and record in the whole of Europe. I only brought up this old Bulgarian saying because I thought you might find it interesting. If I offended you, please accept my most humble apology.”

  Lupus’s stare was as cold as wet cement. He glared at Milev with so much suspicion that the Bulgarian thought he was going to shoot him on the spot.

  “Sometimes I am not so sure about you, Milev. You may be smarter than I think, but I’ll let your comments go for now. In the future, I suggest you keep your Bulgarian proverbs to yourself. Now, we have more important business to discuss.”

  He raised his glass and took a drink, and with a hidden sigh of relief, Milev refilled his and quickly did the same. With that issue finally over, Lupus turned his attention to the reason for their meeting. He began with his characteristically detailed overview of the situation.

  “According to counterintelligence sources, a second wing of the French Secret Service is working in conjunction with the British Special Operations Executive in Istanbul and in the Balkans, including here in Sofia. Their man is none other than Helen Noverman’s boss, Jean Lopié. He and Noverman work for the Secret Service Resistance Group out of Jersey, England and take their orders directly from SOE officers. I believe their mission is to help build and maintain resistance groups across the Eastern European countries against us. That French bastard isn’t just screwing Helen Noverman. He’s screwing us too, and in our own neighborhood!”

  Milev ground his teeth at the thought of Noverman and Lopié’s bodies entwined on rumpled sheets inside her flat. His jealousy, of course, was ludicrous, but that didn’t seem to matter. Imagining them having sex together made his stomach turn sour and ache.

  

  His lips crawl slowly over her soft shoulders to her breasts. His tongue dwells on each of her nipples. He kneels and finds his way down to her stomach. She pushes his head down between her legs. She is kneeling, her head disappears into his lap. She lifts her head, pushes him down onto his back and …

  

  “George!” Lupus barked. “For God’s sake, pay attention! In 1940, when I was the head of the Gestapo in Oslo, Lopié and Noverman went there to organize resistance groups to sabotage our submarine and navy bases. We arrested them, but they got away before I could …”

  As his voice trailed off, Lupus lost his temper and pounded the table with his fist.

  “God damn them both! May they burn in hell! Lopié is a crafty dog, and she is more bad luck than a black cat. They slipped right out of my hands when the Luftwaffe bombed Oslo’s airport. Now here they are in Sofia, again trying to make trouble for me. Milev, this time I will finish him and that whore of his for good. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir, Standartenführer. I understand completely.” Milev wondered what really happened in Oslo to make Lupus so angry.

  “The British know full well that Bulgaria soon plans to become allies with Germany,” Lupus continued, “so they are in a hurry to set up their networks here. If my intuition is right—and as we know, Herr Milev, it usually is—the British want to make our invasion of Greece as difficult as possible. Their first targets will probably be the major bridges, tun
nels, and roads into the country. I suspect that Noverman’s role is to help identify the targets, using Sofia as her home base. After she uncovers the vital supply lines and transportation links we are using, that swine Lopié and his agents will set out to destroy them.”

  As he considered the ramifications of Lopié and Noverman’s possible success in Bulgaria, Lupus’s brow wrinkled, and a cruel look crept into his eyes. It was obvious that Lupus had more than a professional interest in stopping this operation. Milev believed that while Lupus saw Jean Lopié as his military adversary, his French rival was obviously much more. Whatever it was that had happened between them in Oslo, Milev knew Lupus would never tell him, but obviously it had ignited a deep rage.

  “Now Herr Milev, what two possible strategies might they employ?”

  In briefings such as this, Lupus frequently posed questions and then provided his own answers. Milev remained silent and waited for him to continue.

  “First, I believe that Helen Noverman will seek people with knowledge of Bulgarian defense installations in the South. She can find them among all types of construction engineers, Bulgarian officers and sympathizers—anyone with useful information.”

  “And the second?” Milev asked.

  “Jean Lopié will recruit, train and operate local resistance groups to carry out sabotage and counterintelligence operations. We must look for people who eventually might be targets for Noverman’s seductive influence. By the way, Herr Milev, what are you doing to keep those damn Bulgarian Communists in check?”

  Milev had listened to Lupus with interest and then offered his view of the situation.

  “I’m happy to report that less than half the population sympathizes with the Bulgarian Communist Party but that truly wise Bulgarians know that Germany is their friend.” Lupus nodded his head as he lit another cigarette.

  “Unfortunately, Standartenführer, even though Russia and Germany are allies, Stalin wants to keep the Balkans free of Germans, so his agents make as much mischief as possible in Bulgaria. We know that they have spies in every city and village in the country. The Bulgarian Communists are fanatics who would take over the country at the drop of a hat, but it is my duty to stop them.”

  “So,” Lupus asked, “will these Communist sheep act on their own or wait for help from Lopié? And what can you do about them?”

  “I think that the Bulgarian Communist Party is more likely to act alone long before Lopié arrives to organize them,” Milev said. “I believe that is so because …”

  “I don’t care what you believe! Answer my question, you fool,” Lupus shouted. “Can you neutralize the bastards before German troops arrive in Bulgaria or not?”

  Milev’s face turned red at Lupus’s insult, and his pride was hurt, but he could only swallow his anger.

  “Standartenführer, I have my thumb on the Communist scum as we speak. If you like, I can arrange another massacre, like the one on St. Bartholomew’s night.”

  “I don’t care how you get rid them. Just make sure you do it. Now, let’s return to our friends, Noverman and Lopié. My agents in Istanbul will keep a close eye on Lopié. You have one month to identify all of Noverman’s contacts. Like I told you before, I want the names of everyone she talks to, and I mean everyone—even her butcher! She’s your sole responsibility, Milev. Do you understand your orders?”

  “Of course, Standartenführer. It is always my pleasure to work with you and to be of assistance.”

  “I strongly advise you to start your surveillance tonight, and if you know what’s good for you, don’t leave it up to one of your lackeys. I want your eyes and your ears for this mission, Milev. I think Lopié will come to Sofia soon to coordinate the operation.”

  “I’ll watch her apartment day and night. It’s my top priority, sir. We’ll know what she eats for dinner, who she talks to and when she takes a bath. I guarantee that I’ll catch her.”

  “If you know what’s good for your health, Milev, you’d better,” Lupus said. His message was that only action, not hollow promises, counted with him. The tone of his voice became more philosophical. Milev guessed that the several glasses of wine had mellowed his mood a little. Lupus leaned close to him and whispered. “George, there’s a rumor that Germany is going to wage a full-scale attack on Russia sometime this summer. Apparently the Führer has a plan to slice the Reds into little pieces, once and for all. He has promised us that his armies can crush the Russians, and as we all know, his word is all powerful. Our Führer is God, isn’t he, Milev?”

  While this bizarre question was directed to Milev, he wasn’t sure if Lupus really expected an answer. Although Lupus appeared somewhat drunk, Milev always took him seriously. This time, however, he kept silent.

  Suddenly Lupus rose from his chair. “I’ll call you tomorrow to see what you have discovered about Miss Noverman. And my old friend, if you don’t believe that The Führer is God here on Earth, you needn’t hide your opinion. Sometimes even I resist this absurd notion. Heil Hitler.”

  Lupus gave the Nazi salute, clicked his heels, and then staggered out of the bistro to his waiting car and driver. Milev paid the waiter and left a minute later with half a bottle of cognac under his belt. As he wobbled onto the street, he inhaled the fresh breeze coming from Mt. Vitosha. Then he shivered as he thought about how he had insulted Lupus and nearly revealed his disloyalty.

  “What a fool I was to make that glib remark about blind men,” Milev said to himself, promising not to make the same mistake again. At times like this, he often considered a safer vocation, such as becoming an antiques or art dealer. Then Milev smiled as he remembered that tonight he would be spying on Helen Noverman.

  CHAPTER 9

  As far as Bulgaria’s current Czar, Boris the Third, was concerned, Tuesdays always brought bad luck. That’s why Milev also chose not to undertake any major tasks on Tuesday. But tonight he had no choice. Milev could imagine what Lupus would have said if he told him about the little quirk that he and the Czar of Bulgaria had in common.

  Preparations for the surveillance operation of Helen Noverman’s flat began at eleven o’clock that evening. Milev and his two assistants quietly entered the recently vacated second floor apartment directly across the street from her building and went to work. First, Milev peeked through the apartment’s drab curtains. He looked for activity through Noverman’s dark windows but saw nothing. Then he gazed about the shabby room and pointed to where he wanted his men to set up the equipment that would penetrate Noverman’s dirty little secrets.

  Milev’s new hiding place was perfect for spying on Noverman, but first, he had to get rid of the couple who occupied the flat, and being the Chief of the Secret Police, you’d think that would have been easy, especially since they were probably Communist sympathizers. Thanks to some bumbling policemen, his plan for taking over the apartment across from her building almost caused a riot.

  When the police entered the apartment, ordered the couple to pack their things, and told them that they had to move, they cried out that they had done nothing wrong. Of course it wasn’t fair, but Milev wanted their apartment. It was merely business, and transporting them to a small village on the Romanian border where they could be forgotten was the fastest way to get what he wanted.

  Milev told his men to remove the couple quietly and not arouse any suspicions from the neighbors. But no, they had to be the big tough guys and let everyone know they were pushing their weight around. Like so many times in the past, they carried out Milev’s orders like gorillas with sledgehammers. One of the policemen beat the couple because they moved too slowly. Things got even uglier after that. The police handcuffed them together, dragged them down two flights of stairs, and threw them into the back of a truck and drove them to the outskirts of Sofia.

  Bulgarian policemen did pretty much what they wanted, and they knew that no one would say a word if they knew what was good for them. So it’s no wonder that none of the neighbors dared to peek out their windows to see what the fuss was all
about when the police dragged the couple away. Like most people in Sofia, the other residents in the building were afraid of anyone in a uniform, and to defend someone—particularly Communists—from being arrested would be paramount to guilt by association. The fact was that Bulgarian policemen considered themselves above the law. While in some ways Milev deplored their barbarism, their primitive methods did help him achieve certain results.

  Milev’s men routinely rounded up opponents and even formed a special unit to terrorize any potential enemies. As the Communist resistance in Bulgaria grew stronger, the Government declared war on them. Many troublemakers disappeared like so much mist in the morning sun. If necessary, some had been assassinated right in the street, but if no one saw a gunman, then what could the police do? Milev’s men were very good at this kind of work.

  The Communists fought back by kidnapping government officials and even generals. Before the Germans came on the scene, Bulgaria was on the brink of civil war. As the political turmoil increased, Milev’s job as Chief of the Secret Police became more complicated. The investigations, interrogations, arrests, and deportations grew in number every day. It was like trying to stop a runaway train without knowing which switch to pull. The Communists constantly challenged his control, so Milev had to respond swiftly and without mercy, which earned him a rather nasty reputation.

  After all, one did not become a respected policeman without being cruel at times. But he rarely got his hands dirty—Milev had guys with thick necks to do that for him. Wielding an iron fist disguised by a velvet glove, which he grew to love and hate in equal measure, became Milev’s daily routine.

  His many problems, however, were minor compared to those of His Majesty Czar Boris the Third. Bulgaria’s royal leader was petrified that his crown, along with his head, would one day fall into the Germans’ hands. He demanded more state security and greater pressure against all enemies of the Bulgarian Crown. In his January speech before the National Council, the Czar’s royal decree was: “No more Russian hounds, English Dobermans, French poodles, and Communist fowl around me.” For him, every day had become Tuesday. Milev tried his best to carry out the Czar’s orders until Lupus assigned him to the Helen Noverman operation. Then, all of Milev’s attention became focused on her.