‘We’ve met. On days when they can’t find anyone else, I translate for him. I’m good with movie plots, too, and he appreciates that.’ She tried to summon a smile. ‘Strange, isn’t it? This is a man who sees conspiracies everywhere, yet movies baffle him. How come people betray each other? Is there no fairness in the world?’ She shook her head, engulfed by a sudden, irrational anger. ‘You’re here to beat me up? Rape me? I’m afraid I’m soiled goods, Herr Schultz. Blame Valentin. Blame Kalb.’
‘I need to know what you’re doing in Kyiv.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. For your own sake, and probably mine, too.’
Bella nodded, then lay back, grimacing at a sudden stab of pain. She knew from Tam that Schultz worked for the Abwehr, the Army’s intelligence organisation. The Abwehr had been fighting a savage turf war with Himmler’s SS since Bella could remember but thanks to people like Schultz, solid and doubtless streetwise, they’d so far held their own.
‘I came here to avoid going back to Moscow,’ Bella said. ‘I had the opportunity, and I took it.’
‘They didn’t assign you here?’
‘Far from it. I think they want to kill me. Here’s safer, if you can believe that.’
She began to laugh, lying on her back, naked, stinking of Valentin and goose fat, staring up at the ceiling. Safe? She shook her head, then wiped the tears from her eyes, hysterical now, totally out of control. Finally, the storm passed.
Schultz hadn’t moved. Then he put his hand in his pocket and produced a reel of thin brown tape.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s you. Last night. They played it to me next door when I arrived. They think you were the evening’s entertainment. Their phrase, not mine. Here,’ he tossed the reel onto the bed, ‘it’s yours.’
‘I don’t want it. Get rid of it. Burn it. Send it to Kalb for Christmas. That man gives sadism a bad name. But I’m guessing you’d know that already.’
The ghost of a smile briefly warmed Schultz’s face. Then he wanted to know about a Red Army engineer called Ilya Glivenko.
‘I flew to London with him. Brought him back. I expect all the details are in the file.’
‘You’re right. So, where is he?’
‘I have no idea, and that’s the truth. He played for the masses on Leningrad street corners during the October Revolution. That’s why they call him The Pianist. The piano was looted but I expect it was the music that mattered. Is all that in the file, too?’
‘He’s probably responsible for this,’ Schultz nodded towards the chaos beyond the window. He wasn’t interested in Leningrad street corners.
‘You’re probably right. He’s a clever man. He’s a believer, too. Which I expect makes him very dangerous.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘A week ago. Before they all pulled out.’
‘Where?’
Bella held his gaze, then shook her head.
‘No,’ she said softly.
‘No, what?’
‘No, I won’t tell you.’
Schultz nodded. If he was surprised, it didn’t show.
‘And Larissa Krulak? The woman who owns this place?’
‘I last saw her a couple of days ago.’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
‘In the apartment?’
‘In bed. We fucked a lot. We girls take our pleasures where we can. We girls take our pleasures where we can.’
‘Close, then?’
‘Nose to nose. And that was just the first course. The woman’s a journalist, a writer. When she still had a piano, she played it beautifully. She also has the gift of tongues and believe me that can make a girl very happy.’
‘You know she’s a Jew?’
‘Yes. Should that have made a difference?’
Schultz stirred, and then glanced at his watch.
‘Kalb is organising an Aktion,’ he said. ‘Which is one of the reasons you may never see her again. Do you know what Aktion means?’
‘Tell me.’
‘It’s the word the SS uses for revenge. It makes extreme violence respectable. Berlin have assigned us two tasks. My job is to bring these fucking explosions to an end. That’s why they’ve sent me here. The Military Governor and the SS are responsible for making sure it never happens again. They’ll call it punishment.’
‘For the guilty?’
‘For being a Jew. Though in their eyes it’s probably the same thing.’
‘How many Jews?’
‘All of them. Tens of thousands of them,’ he nodded at the bed, ‘including your journalist friend. Think about it. And in the meantime, for God’s sake have a wash.’ He turned to leave, then paused beside the door. ‘That man of yours, Moncrieff. The file says you paid him a visit. True?’
‘Yes.’
‘So how is he?’ The smile was warm this time. ‘Still trying to give us a hard time?’
*
First on the scene of the accident was an Irish American called Pearse Lenahan. At the wheel of a Jeep in US Army camouflage, he rounded the corner and braked hard to avoid the wreckage. A car with foreign plates was entangled with a coal lorry, a head-to-head collision. Lenahan parked, leapt from the Jeep and ran to help. The lorry driver, a man in his fifties, was sitting behind the wheel, rubbing his face, dazed by what had happened. When Lenahan approached, he gestured down at the driver of the car. He was slumped behind the wheel, blood trickling down his forehead.
Lenahan found a pulse in the side of his neck. It was stronger than he’d expected and the touch of Lenahan’s fingers stirred a tremor of movement. As gently as he could, Lenahan raised the driver’s head. His breathing was regular, and his eyes flickered briefly open.
‘You’re French?’ he seemed to be saying. ‘Français?’
‘American,’ Lenahan grunted. ‘I’m a Yank.’
The driver was frowning. Then his eyes closed.
‘Christ,’ he whispered. ‘This is America?’
*
Schultz had a car outside the apartment block. He helped Bella down the endless flights of stairs and across the pavement. The sky was still black with smoke and ash and Bella could smell the heavy sweetness of a ruptured sewer.
Their route took them through the maze of streets around Khreshchatyk. The NKVD Big House, to Bella’s quiet satisfaction, no longer existed. Schultz ordered the driver to stop while he got out to have a brief conversation with the officer in charge. Soldiers were tearing at the rubble with their bare hands, and Bella watched the upper half of a man emerge as a huge sergeant tossed shattered baulks of timber aside. The survivor’s shirt was torn and his face was a mask of blood and dirt but it was the eyes that drew Bella’s attention. They were glazed, unseeing. Something terrible had happened, something utterly beyond his comprehension, and as the sergeant hauled him bodily from the wreckage, he could only shake his head.
‘He’s a prisoner,’ Schultz, back in the car, had noticed her interest. ‘They’ll shoot him.’
‘Lucky man. I know exactly how he feels.’
‘You mean that?’
‘I do, yes.’ She nodded at the smoking ruins. ‘Was Kalb in there, too? Just say yes. Tell me he was.’
They drove on, the driver weaving to avoid yet more water tankers. Building after building along the street had been blown up and two of them were still on fire, the roaring flames fed by broken gas mains. At the end of the street, engineers were running lengths of cable across the cobblestones to a waiting generator. Heaped against the foot of the adjacent building were dead bodies, roughly parcelled in sackcloth. There was a boot on one protruding foot. The other was missing below the ankle.
‘They’re forecasting high winds today,’ Schultz nodded towards the generator. ‘We need to create firebreaks.’
‘How?’
‘By blowing up more buildings.’
‘But what if they catch fire, too?’
‘Then we have another problem.’
Bella nodded, trying to take it in. So much destruction, she thought, so many bodies.
‘You should have sent the Luftwaffe home,’ she said. ‘All you needed was Ilya.’
The thought made Schultz laugh. Bella knew his loyalties lay with the Abwehr, and, like his boss, Admiral Canaris, he had little time for the regime. Moncrieff had got to know him in Berlin, and later at secret meetings in Stockholm, and she sensed the two men had become allies. He thinks they’re all gangsters, Tam had told her. Hitler included.
They’d come to a halt outside one of the few buildings that appeared still to be intact.
‘The Museum of Lenin,’ Schultz grunted. ‘We’re thinking they wouldn’t dare.’
‘You’re working here?’
‘We are now.’
Bella nodded. Ilya had told her that plans were afoot in Moscow to ship Lenin’s body east, out of the grasp of the Wehrmacht, but she’d no idea if the mausoleum beside the Kremlin Wall in Red Square was empty yet.
Schultz was out of the car, one hand extended to help her onto the pavement.
‘Ground floor,’ he said. ‘We’ll spare you the stairs.’
Bella limped as far as the main entrance on the street. A worker had just finished pasting a notice on the wall. Bella stopped. It was in both Ukrainian and German. She wanted to read it. All Yids in the city of Kyiv, it went, must appear on Monday September 29th by eight o’clock in the morning on the corner of Menikova and Dokterivskaya streets. Bring documents, money and valuables, and also warm clothing, linen etc. Yids who do not follow this order and are found elsewhere will be shot.
‘This is from the Military Governor?’ Bella caught Schultz’s eye.
‘Yes,’ Schultz nodded, ‘and Kalb’s lot will make it happen. You can’t miss the meeting point. It’s right across from the big cemetery. Komm.’
Bella struggled after him into the museum. More workers were sweeping up shards of glass from blast damage. Schultz tramped past them, Bella in his wake. The office was at the end of a corridor towards the rear of the building. It must have belonged to an archivist, or perhaps a librarian. The panelled walls were hung with framed sepia photographs, all of them featuring the Father of the Revolution, and there were books and magazines piled everywhere, the magazines bundled with scarlet ribbon. Bella limped towards the big desk. She felt ugly, bow-legged, one of the war’s discards. In the corner of the room she’d noticed a cardboard box lined with an old blanket, and an empty saucer. The sharp tang of cat’s piss hung in the stale air.
‘The bloody animal’s name was Leon…’ Schultz was taking off his leather coat, ‘… so at least someone has a sense of humour.’
‘Leon?’
‘Trotsky. The cat was old. He’d been shut in this room for a week. We put the poor beast out of his misery this morning. Deviate from the Party line and that’s what happens. Sit, please.’
Bella did what she was told while Schultz cleared a space on the desk. He was brisk now, a man with no time to waste. He produced a photograph, small, black and white. Bella recognised the face at once. Yuri.
‘You know this man?’
‘No.’
‘Think. Very hard.’
‘I’ve never seen him in my life.’
‘His name’s Yuri Ponomorenko. He’s a writer, a patriot, two reasons why a man might find himself with enemies in a shithole like this.’ Schultz paused. ‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Khrushchev? His daddy? His protector? The man who looked after him? I’d love to think young Yuri was halfway up the little dwarf’s arse but it seems that isn’t true. A man of principle, our Yuri. Prepared to take a risk or two.’ Another pause. ‘You’re still telling me you know nothing?’
‘I am.’
‘That’s brave on your part. I mean it. But it’s pointless, too. In life, establishing the truth may take a while. In war, you have to get there a whole lot quicker.’
‘You’re going to rape me?’
‘No need. Your thoughts, please. Here. Tell me I’m wrong.’
Schultz had produced two scraps of paper. He passed the first one across. It was grubby, much folded. It’s been in someone’s pocket, she thought. And she was right.
‘We found it on a prisoner,’ Schultz said, ‘first thing this morning. He was down in the park beside the river, trying to cut the hoses. Open it. Read it.’
Bella unfolded the note. The moment she recognised her own handwriting, her heart sank. Yuri, she thought. Trying to change history with a hacksaw.
‘Read it to me.’
‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil,’ Bella murmured, ‘is that good men do nothing.’
‘Is that your work?’
‘Good Lord, no. Edmund Burke, I think. Wiser than most of us.’
‘You’re telling me it’s not your handwriting?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘And this one?’
Bella looked at the other note. She’d left it in the kitchen for Larissa only a day or so ago. Gone to Besserabka, it read. Thank you for last night. Is there no end to your talents? Same handwriting.
‘Well?’ Schultz was getting impatient.
‘Me,’ Bella agreed.
‘Both of them?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Bella held Schultz’s gaze. Clever, she thought. He hadn’t laid a finger on her, yet he’d laid the truth bare. She wanted to know about Yuri. Was he OK? Intact? Still alive?
‘He’s upstairs. Waiting for you. So far, he’s been lucky. Had Kalb’s goons found him in the park, he’d be dead by now, or worse. We’ve talked to him, of course. The Russians have eyes everywhere. They’re watching our every move. They’re in touch with the sappers. Their transmissions are too brief to be useful but Yuri will be in touch with these people. Has he helped us so far? No. Will he talk under pressure? Probably not. So there has to be another way.’
‘Me.’ Statement, not question.
‘You,’ Schultz agreed.
Abruptly, there came a cough and a hesitant tap-tap and the door opened to reveal a soldier in Wehrmacht uniform. The prisoners have arrived, he told Schultz. You want them to start at once?
‘Of course,’ Schultz gestured vaguely towards the stairs. ‘As soon as possible.’
‘Prisoners?’ Bella was looking at Schultz.
‘Russians. We shipped them in from one of the camps. We’ve checked every floor and now we have to start on the basement. That’s where the trouble lies. We need them to dig around a little. Carefully, of course.’
‘You’re looking for explosives?’
‘They. They’re looking for explosives. Every site so far tells the same story. The trouble comes from below.’
Trouble, Bella thought. Quaint. The soldier at the door had disappeared. Moments later, Bella heard the shuffle of boots in the corridor outside. Someone was shouting in German. Down. Keep heading down.
‘And us? Up here?’ Bella enquired.
‘We have our minds on other things.’
‘Like Yuri?’
‘Of course.’
‘Can’t we do this somewhere else?’
‘No. Speed is everything. The quicker you complete the conversation, the safer we’ll all be.’
‘And you really think he’ll talk to me?’
‘I think he might.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m guessing he knows your journalist friend.’
‘Larissa?’
‘Yes. This city has become a battlefield. They’re comrades-in-arms. That will matter, believe me.’ He paused. ‘Kalb has his eyes on your friend. She has profile. He has plans for her and if he finds her first, it will not go well. You could make life easier for her. In fact, for all of us. We can put Russian prisoners into every basement in the city. We can give them probes and spades and make sure they do their work properly. That will take weeks, maybe longer. What we need is a list. Yuri may have one, but I doubt it. What he might give us is one of the Russian spotters
. Young Yuri is a patriot, a Ukrainian, he has no love for Mother Russia.’ His thick fingers had begun to drum on the desktop. ‘Are you following me here?’
Bella nodded. She sensed the deal on offer, but she had to be sure.
‘And afterwards?’ he said.
‘Yuri will be safe.’
‘That’s a guarantee?’
‘It is. Your friend, too.’ He got to his feet and yawned. ‘If we can find her.’
18
THURSDAY 25 SEPTEMBER 1941
It took a while for Moncrieff to risk opening his eyes. The thunder in his head was intense, overwhelming, jolts of searing pain that kept time with his pulse. Light of any kind, he told himself, would simply make things worse.
‘Can you hear me, buddy?’
A male voice, American, full of concern. Moncrieff was in a bed. He could feel the light press of a sheet against his chin. He lifted a hand and explored the long curve of his forehead. His fingertips paused. Something crusty. Blood, he thought.
‘You’ve got a name, buddy? Care to share it with me?’
Moncrieff risked a nod, regretting it at once. Vomit rose in his throat. He turned his head and threw up on the pillow.
‘Oh dear,’ a woman’s voice this time, much closer.
Then came something cool enveloping his face, a wetness, a flannel perhaps, and a pressure around his mouth and chin as the woman attended to the mess.
‘Try not to be sick again,’ she said. ‘I know it must be difficult.’
‘My pleasure,’ Moncrieff murmured.
He must have drifted off again because the next time he asked after the woman, she’d gone.
‘Back soon, buddy,’ the American again. ‘She’s fetching the doctor though she thinks you’ve been lucky. The outside’s not too bad, nothing permanent. Only you can tell us about the rest.’
‘Rest?’
‘Inside. Open your eyes. Look at me. How many fingers?’
Moncrieff opened his eyes. Even looking hurt.
‘Three,’ he said. ‘Three fingers. No rings.’
‘Detail? We love it, buddy. You sound English. Give me a name.’
‘Moncrieff,’ he said slowly. ‘Tam Moncrieff.’ He was looking around now. The bedroom was big. Everything was big. The giant armoire. The pattern on the wallpaper. The embroidered explosion of flowers on the limed oak chair. The carafe of what looked like claret on the huge chest of drawers. Even the framed cityscape, a bold study in thick oils, hanging on the opposite wall. He peered at it, shading his eyes against the throw of sunshine through the nearby window. The Seine. The twin towers of Notre-Dame. Mansard roofs. Pedestrians browsing the riverside book stalls. Paris, he thought.
Kyiv (Spoils of War) Page 18
