Laugh of the Hyenas

by Ivan Roussetzki

  “Sir, she’s only a war widow who meant no harm. I’m sure she …”

  But before Milev could finish his plea, the woman grabbed the girl’s hand, and with a piercing gaze that could sink a ship at a thousand yards, she scolded Lupus, his two bodyguards, and Milev yet again.

  “Rogues! Vandals! Ignorant fools! You have no idea of the greatness in whose presence you stand. You don’t deserve to even walk on the same ground as Ivan Vazov or breathe the same air.”

  With that, the old woman took the girl’s hand and stomped off into the alley from where she had come.

  “What a woman!” Lupus said, shaking his head. “Sometimes I wonder about you Bulgarians. No German woman would have ever said that to me. They have too much respect for authority and would know better. She, on the other hand, is a real patriot who loves her heritage and country. She was right. What’s wrong with you, Milev? You’re a Bulgarian, so why didn’t you defend Vazov? Are you a traitor to your own country?”

  Milev stood in utter silence and disbelief. He had no idea how to respond to Lupus’s accusation. The German was so unpredictable that at one moment he was ready to shoot this old woman, and in the next give her a patriotic medal of honor. And then Lupus calls him a traitor because he didn’t defend Vazov! Still, speaking up for the dead was the least of Milev’s intentions at that point.

  “Come, Milev,” Lupus laughed. “We have other, more important matters to discuss than dirty old Bulgarian men and a ranting old woman. I think it’s about time that I talk to Helen Noverman myself. Where is she?”

  That was the dreaded question that made Milev’s stomach burn. When he told Lupus that Noverman and Lopié had disappeared, the German went berserk. He called Milev and his men a bunch of incompetent idiots. Milev remained silent with his head bowed and let Lupus roar like the bombastic dictator he was, knowing that any excuse would only incite his boss even further. After Lupus fired questions at him like a machine gun for what seemed like an hour, Lupus began to calm down.

  “Can you think of any reason not to have you shot, Milev? You promised me you could take care of this without my help.”

  “If you permit me to suggest, Colonel,” Milev said, hoping to assuage his anger, “According to my sources, I believe that she and Lopié have returned to Turkey. Perhaps we can pick up their trail in Istanbul and discover the identities of the entire Second Bureau of French Intelligence Service working in the Balkans. Then, you can eliminate them whenever you wish. It would be quite a coup for you, sir.”

  He waited for Lupus’s reaction. “Besides,” Milev added, “I’ll arrest Noverman’s connections in Sofia one by one, and I promise you in less than one week, they will all be singing like birds.”

  Lupus silently considered the suggestions. Milev said nothing, but his heart pounded away like a jackhammer. Finally, Lupus spoke.

  “As the saying goes, there is a good reason for every piece of bad news. Perhaps we can find it. As you suggest, I will set my men after Noverman and Lopié in Istanbul and see where they lead us. We need to find out who is still operating here in Sofia. Let’s see what kind of bottom fish we can catch.”

  Lupus angrily pointed a finger at Milev’s face.

  “You will arrest Noverman’s informants and squeeze them until they talk or blood flows from their ears. Do you understand? I want to know what the British and the French are up to in Sofia.”

  Then his eyes grew large. “Milev, is there something else you still wish to tell me?”

  Lupus might have suspected Milev of something underhanded, but apparently he was still unaware of the Bulgarian’s late night visit to Noverman’s apartment. That didn’t prevent Lupus from guessing, however. If Milev didn’t show any fear or nervousness, his secret would remain safe. That is, unless the Gestapo’s henchmen caught up with Noverman or Lopié.

  “You have the latest information,” Milev said. “My men will shake things up around Sofia, and I personally will see to it that the Communist swine tell us everything they know about Noverman, Lopié and everyone else, Colonel.”

  Lupus let out a long sigh. “Okay George, but this is the last time that I’ll be disappointed. You’ll get the results you promised me, or I’ll have you cleaning donkey dung from the trenches in Greece! Understand?”

  Before Milev could say so much as “Yes, sir,” Lupus had left.

  

  Part IV

  February 1941

  CHAPTER 17

  Dr. Manol Belevski always hated the winters in Bulgaria, but this month it seemed especially wet in Sofia. The winding, narrow streets oozed with dark, heavy mud. Half the mountains surrounding Sofia disappeared into the oppressive gray clouds, which clung like wallpaper paste to the small houses jammed into the city’s old section. It rained day after day, week after week. To Dr. Belevski’s relief, he received a hand-delivered official correspondence that would make him forget the wretched weather.

  The letter contained a desperate plea from the Turkish ambassador in Sofia. It said that two days earlier, the Turkish Vice President’s son, Murat, had been critically injured in a car accident and had lapsed into a coma. It went onto say:

  “Dr. Manol Belevski, as one of Bulgaria’s top surgeons, we ask that you travel to Istanbul immediately to offer your valued medical opinion, along with those of the famous German specialists from the Berlin Medical Institute, Drs. Zeltz Urgen and List Knope. Please come to the Turkish embassy in Sofia tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, and I will provide you with all the pertinent details.”

  Although Dr. Belevski disagreed with the recently published theories of Dr. Urgen and Dr. Knope, both were considered among the top surgeons in Europe. Their names alone indicated that the Turkish Vice President would spare no expense in securing the best doctors available to treat his son.

  After Belevski told Spasia, his wife of nineteen years, the exciting news about his invitation to Istanbul, her worried face screwed up into a knot. She closed her eyes and shook her blond head of hair.

  “Manol, there’s a war on our doorstep. You know how dangerous it is to travel. I have a bad feeling about this. There are evil people who prey off of trusting souls like you. Please, tell the ambassador that you cannot go. I beg you.”

  He looked into his wife’s blue eyes and intelligent face. But instead of listening to her warnings, Belevski appealed to Spasia’s maternal instincts.

  “My dear, the man wants me to save the life of his son! Who am I to refuse such a request? What if the child was one of our girls? Wouldn’t you want the best surgeon in Europe to attend to her?”

  Belevski paused to see if his argument had any effect, but when Spasia said nothing, he knew she wasn’t convinced.

  “Besides,” he added, “the Vice President has also asked for the medical opinions of two doctors with whom I have strong differences of opinion. So, don’t I have my reputation to think of as well? This opportunity is too important to ignore. I’m afraid that, war or no war, I’m going to Istanbul.”

  Spasia stared and then abruptly pointed her index finger at him.

  “Manol,” she said. “Your arrogance will be your downfall.”

  For the rest of the evening, she pleaded with him to be reasonable, to consider their daughters, to remember everything they had worked so hard for in Sofia, to not go to Istanbul. He never took Spasia’s warnings lightly, because over the years several of her premonitions had come to pass, but this time Belevski had made up his mind.

  The next morning promptly at ten, Belevski sat on a luxurious sofa in the elegant Turkish embassy office of Mr. Ali Ulan, the longtime ambassador to Bulgaria. Educated in Paris and a world traveler, the elderly statesman spoke quietly and in perfect Bulgarian as he graciously offered Dr. Belevski a Turkish coffee and a tray filled with delicate pastries stuffed with nuts and honey.

  As the doctor sipped the sweet dark liquid and tasted the sticky desserts, he listened to Mr. Ulan’s warm and cultured voice describe the unfortunate details surrounding the
boy’s accident and his worsening medical condition. Then the ambassador made the doctor an offer that he couldn’t refuse.

  “Eighty thousand Turkish lira is yours if you can save the boy’s life.”

  Belevski swallowed hard and tried not to show his excitement about the money, nor his desire to demonstrate to everyone that he was the best surgeon in Europe. After he agreed to do what he could for the boy, they drank more coffee and talked about the war in Europe, the German military machine, and their uncertain future in a dangerous world.

  Ambassador Ulan told Belevski that he had only two days in which to prepare for his journey and that a Turkish military transport plane would fly him to Istanbul. The doctor left the embassy filled with visions of glory and saw this golden opportunity to boost his career as a gift from God.

  “When my colleagues in the hospital hear about my invitation to Turkey, they’ll be very envious,” he smiled. At the hospital, Belevski watched the staff sneak around and gossip about him and his close relationship with Mr. Ali Ulan, and the main governing body, the Turkish Divan.

  One doctor even spread a rumor that a distant relative in the Department of Health secretly helped Belevski to make contact with the Turkish government. At first, Dr. Belevski was furious about this professional jealousy, but after a while he realized that the rumors merely increased his status at the hospital. Belevski could just imagine their faces when he returned after saving the poor boy’s life. Plus, he would be rich and famous!

  Belevski spent the next two days packing his instruments, special oriental herbs and several volumes of Chinese medical books that contained ancient practices to treat head injuries and symptoms like those of Murat’s. Mr. Ali Ulan told him that the Turkish doctors thought bits of the boy’s broken skull had penetrated the membrane covering the brain, but Belevski wasn’t so sure.

  Belevski would come prepared with procedures that he was sure his German rivals would consider unorthodox. But when the Vice President and the other doctors witnessed the results of his massage techniques and ancient Chinese healing methods, they would no doubt be impressed.

  The day of Belevski’s departure began with rain, snow and more dire warnings from his wife. An elegant but rather old car from the Turkish Embassy drove them through Sofia’s wet and bumpy streets to Vrania, the military airport about five kilometers outside the city. During the ride, the doctor’s stomach felt queasy. Perhaps it was the fowl smells from the exhaust that poured into the car through the trunk, or the bouncing in the back seat that made him feel a little ill. Or maybe it was just his nervousness about flying and what lay ahead in Istanbul.

  When they reached the airstrip, they saw a dilapidated military cargo plane with engines smoking like old cigars. Belevski felt a resounding pang of fear grow in his stomach and rise into his throat. This flying coffin looked as if it would transport him directly to hell instead of Istanbul, but it was too late to turn back now.

  Tears fell down Spasia’s cheeks as she looked at the plane. He tried in vain to calm her with kisses and reassuring words, but neither did anything to stop her quiet weeping. After kissing her one last time, Belevski ran across the dirt runway to the waiting plane, but he heard her voice cut through the falling rain.

  “Manol, be smart, and never let the hyenas fool you!” she yelled from a wooden platform near a small hanger.

  Two young Turkish soldiers in gray uniforms with red felt fezzes showed Belevski to the plane. They ushered him aboard and slammed the battered hatch shut with a sense of finality. The doctor caught one last glimpse of Spasia waving goodbye. Under the dark, rainy skies raindrops dripped like tears from strands of her blond hair. Suddenly, all of his wife’s warnings flooded his consciousness.

  When the decrepit plane rumbled down the pockmarked runway, Belevski covered his mouth with a handkerchief to keep the dust and smoke from entering his lungs. As the tired engines gasped and the sputtering propellers clawed their way into the cloudy sky, he felt as if something inside of him exploded. Fear spread from his bowels up to his throat and then settled resolutely in his stomach. For the next three hours, his earlier dreams of glory were overshadowed by Spasia’s premonition of disaster and his nagging fear that he would never see her again.

  CHAPTER 18

  As the aircraft descended from a thick layer of clouds Dr. Belevski saw white spires jutting upward from the dozens of mosques that dotted the ancient and mysterious city. After the rattletrap landed and came to a rest on the runway, Dr. Belevski silently thanked God that they landed safely. Two distinguished-looking officers in blue uniforms escorted him from the plane to a black Benz and they sped off.

  On their way to the hospital Dr. Belevski saw countless rundown, abandoned buildings. Many of the Turkish men appeared poor and were dressed in loose cloaks and baggy pants. Most of the women wore simple long-sleeved blouses and pantaloons, their heads and the lower parts of their faces covered with flowered scarves or in some cases veils as a sign of modesty. Although Istanbul had always been a contrast between old and new, east and west, and rich and poor, modern European styles had yet to take hold.

  The hospital was in an old building that featured an odd mixture of Oriental and Victorian windows and arches. Slender towers spiraled upward from every corner like smoking hookah pipes, while lush shrubbery surrounded the entire building. Two Turkish doctors in white robes met Dr. Belevski at the hospital entrance and whisked him to the conference room, where the German doctors and the Vice President already sat around a grand oval table of dark wood. Behind them stood four bodyguards, a translator, a secretary, and three other Turkish doctors. Dark leather briefcases, water pitchers and cups of tea sat on the table for each of the participants.

  When Dr. Belevski entered the room the Vice President smiled and motioned for the doctor to take the empty seat next to him. The German doctors glared at Dr. Belevski and whispered a few words to each other.

  “We can now begin,” the Vice President said in perfect French. He expressed his deepest appreciation to everyone there for coming to the aid of his injured son. He then introduced Dr. Knope and Dr. Urgen as unsurpassed leaders in their particular medical specialties. Upon hearing the Vice President’s flattering words, both men puffed up their chests and nodded their heads in agreement. After a polite round of applause from the Turkish doctors, the Vice President turned to Dr. Belevski and smiled again. He extended his hand palm up, in a friendly gesture that was absent from his previous introductions.

  “Gentlemen, it is my great honor to introduce to you Dr. Manol Belevski, the Bulgarian neurologist and surgeon. I’m sure all of you have read about his many medical achievements.”

  Whereas the Turkish doctors nodded their heads, Dr. Knope sneered and threw a skeptical glance at Dr. Urgen, who only raised one eyebrow and frowned. If the Vice President noticed the arrogant responses of the two German doctors, he didn’t acknowledge them.

  Following the introductions, Dr. Ismail Dervisoglu, the short, gray-haired, 60-year-old chairman of the hospital and head of the team responsible for the patient, touched briefly on the accident and then described the boy’s present condition.

  “Murat is ten years old and was in perfect health before the tragic accident. As a result of his head injuries, he lapsed into a coma and two days later developed a high fever, which still threatens him. Our most immediate problem is how to bring down his temperature. His breathing is labored. I am sure that the damage to the brain has compromised the boy’s respiratory system and threatens to complicate matters.”

  “This is the reality which we have to face,” the Vice President said with a deep sense of sadness. “Now, the fate of my dear son is in your hands, gentlemen, and of God.”

  The Vice President turned to Dr. Dervisoglu and asked him a few questions in Turkish. After listening to his response, the man announced, “Doctors, let us go and examine our patient.”

  Dr. Ismail Dervisoglu led them into a large dingy white corridor that smelled of ammonia and rubbing a
lcohol. As the group walked toward the injured boy’s room, Dr. Belevski took the Vice President’s arm, stopped him for a moment, and leaned close.

  “Mr. Vice President, I am so sorry to hear about your son’s misfortune, and I will do everything I can to help him. I can’t say for sure until I examine the boy, but there may be another reason for his high temperature and labored breathing. We shall see very soon.”

  A small crowd of hospital workers stood silently at the end of the corridor. They were excited to see the Vice President and hoped that he would give them the popular Turkish greeting. When he put his right hand near his heart and slowly moved it up and outward, making two circles in the air, the crowd graciously bowed as one group.

  The Vice President entered the boy’s room first and motioned for the rest of them to follow. The room was big enough to hold ten patients, yet Murat was by himself on a wide metal bed that was encircled with flowers. Three large windows overlooked the sprawling oriental garden that surrounded the hospital. The sun warmed the room as the doctors prepared to wage a professional battle at the foot of the young boy’s bed.

  “I’m afraid his temperature has risen to 103.8 degrees,” the Turkish nurse on duty reported in a hushed voice. “We’ve been bathing him with cold compresses and giving him liquids, but nothing seems to be working. And he is having difficulty breathing. We’re all doing our very best, Mr. Vice President.”

  The Vice President grimaced as he nodded his head and translated her report into French for the rest of them. Then he pointed to his son. “Please, doctors.”

  Without further delay, the doctors examined the boy, after which Dr. Belevski wanted to confirm his original suspicion as to the cause of the high fever. Belevski did not believe that the boy’s high temperature had anything to do with his head injury, nor did he believe that the boy had brain damage. He was confident that he knew the cause of the problem and how to rectify it, but he would need an opportunity to prove his theory. However, before he shared his medical opinions, Dr. Belevski wondered what his adversaries would say.