‘Never. I didn’t in Moscow and I don’t here. You’re taking it personally. I know you are. You need to get back to that book of yours. Before it’s time to pray again.’ Larissa gazed at her, uncertain. Bella cupped her face and kissed her on the lips. ‘Say a prayer for me, too. You promise?’
Larissa gazed at her a moment longer, and then her fingers explored Bella’s new growth of hair.
‘Blonde again,’ she said. ‘I miss you. Is that such a hard thing for you to hear?’
*
An hour or so later, from her precious rectangle of garden, Bella lifted her head to gaze across at the Cathedral of the Dormition. It dominated the area the monks called the Lavra, a glorious confection in icy white, topped with golden onion-shaped domes. The interior, in the style of the Eastern Orthodox Church, was heavy with gilt and frescos. In her youth, Bella had worshipped in bare nonconformist chapels, largely in Scotland, and had no taste for the sheer weight of ornamentation that went with the God of the steppes. The sweetness of incense, and the mournful infinity of icons, had always failed to touch the parts of her where faith still lurked, but Valentin and Kalb and the Yar had now extinguished even that faint flicker of belief. Not that she ever wanted to deny Larissa her daily visits to the cathedral. If an hour on her knees in front of the glittering altar offered any kind of solace for what they’d all been through, then so be it.
One of the cathedral bells began to toll. She knew this was Larissa’s call to prayer and she laid down her hoe and stepped across to the wall to watch the scatter of black-clad priests converging on the cathedral’s main door. Over the past weeks, she’d started to make friends with some of these men. She knew the presence of women, especially foreign women, was unusual in the Lavra, but she admired their tolerance and their natural grace.
She’d always half suspected that male communities were instinctively hostile to women, that they viewed the opposite sex as a distraction, a nuisance, a source of spiritual defilement, but she knew now that this simply wasn’t true. Only yesterday, in the big refectory, she’d had a conversation over the soup at lunchtime with a young monk who’d spent six months in Moscow before the Germans had invaded. No Communist himself, he was struck by her fluent Russian and the fact that she’d surrendered to the teaching of Marx and Engels, and when they’d parted he’d asked whether he might offer her a blessing.
‘Of course,’ she’d said, ‘if it makes you feel better.’
She hadn’t meant it as an insult but, more importantly, he seemed to have understood. Outside in the sunshine, he’d made the sign of the cross and murmured the prayer of St Anthony, and when she’d thanked him for his comfort, he’d asked her about Kyiv.
‘How have you found our city?’ he’d said.
It was a genuine question, and she’d given it some thought.
‘Terrifying,’ she’d told him. And she’d meant it.
*
Now she spotted Larissa heading for the cathedral door. She paused to adjust her headscarf and as she did so, she caught sight of Bella watching her. She finished with the scarf and gave her a playful little wave, exactly the way she might have done when they’d first met, first made love, and for just a second or two Bella was tempted to duck out of the garden, kick the loose soil from her clogs and join her. Then she shook her head, waving back, knowing that it was the act of writing, of inventing, of stirring her imagination back into life that had made such a sudden difference to Larissa. Maybe when the plaster comes off, she thought. Maybe.
Larissa disappeared into the cathedral. Bella picked up her hoe and returned to her row of cabbages. Her war against the slugs, intensely personal, was nearly won but she knew she should share the credit with the onset of winter, and the temperatures that were beginning to plunge at night. If I was a snail, she thought idly, I’d be hibernating by now, finding somewhere snug and dry, surrendering to dreams of spring.
The roar of the explosion came seconds later. Bella found herself face down on the newly turned earth, her mouth full of soil. Part of the wall between her and the cathedral had collapsed, a victim of the blast wave, and part of her was back on Khreshchatyk, only six weeks ago, ruin after ruin on fire as the smoke and dust boiled into the blueness of the sky.
She got to her feet, checking herself for wounds. Mercifully, she was intact, untouched by flying debris. She made her way to the remains of the wall, waiting for the curtains of smoke to part. Priests were already running towards the netherworld of what had once been the Lavra’s pride and joy, and as a sudden wind parted the oily murk, she could only gape at what little remained. The heart of the cathedral had simply disappeared, huge pediments and pillars lying on drifts of stone and rubble, age-old trees felled by the storm that had swept over this sacred place. Revealed by the blast was a fresco of saints beneath an interior arch, each sacred head etched in golden light.
Bella shook her head, a gesture of helplessness. She knew she ought to help, ought somehow to play a part in whatever followed, but she hadn’t a clue what to do. There were people, worshippers, men of God, under that huge weight of masonry and one of them, she knew with total certainty, was Larissa. No one could have survived a blast like that. No one.
A tall priest, an old man, swept past. His eyes were glittering in his parchment face and tiny particles of dust had flecked the blackness of his beard with shades of grey. One hand pressed the cross around his neck to his breast. The other hand, balled in a fist, was raised high. Bella hoped he was raging at that God of his who permitted atrocities like this but, moments later, he proved her wrong. He was on his hands and knees now, his hands pressed together, praying for the forgiveness of the victims’ sins. Bella watched him, shaking her head, sensing that all hope had finally gone.
‘I miss you,’ Larissa had told her barely hours ago. ‘Is that such a hard thing for you to hear?’
No, she thought. Christ, no.
She was back in the room where she slept. She’d closed the door and turned her back on the raging chaos outside. Now, prone on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, she could smell the foul breath of the explosion, the sour reek of smoke and ashes, and an occasional passing sweetness that could have come from anywhere.
No, she thought again. Please God, no. Would another building on the Lavra be next? Would the carnage in this city that God had somehow overlooked never end? Had the Russians returned to the island in the Dnieper? Had the embalming fluids resurrected poor Ilya and sent him back into battle? The thought tormented her, not just for her own sake, and for the sake of anyone with the misfortune to live here, but for the sake of Ilya.
That man had been so brave, she told herself, and so generous, and so full of grace. And yet he’d still taken hundreds of lives, inflicted grief and loss on thousands more. How can that possibly be? What kind of God can square a circle that perfect and yet preside over such suffering? Hours later, still no closer to an answer, she finally fell asleep.
A priest roused her shortly after dawn. She stared up at the whiteness of the face framed by his beard. His cassock smelled of incense. He must have been praying, she thought. He must have been on his knees in one of the Lavra’s other churches that his God had so far spared.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘The soldiers are waiting.’
It was Kalb. He was standing impatiently inside the main gate, his greatcoat buttoned to his neck, as the priest hurried her past the still-smoking ruins of the cathedral. There were three SS soldiers with him, all uniformed. Dead-eyed, she thought, totally impassive, figures and faces from deepest, coldest space. Didn’t these people ever sleep? Did they conduct all their business in the smallest hours? When everyone else’s defences were down? Were they truly creatures of the night?
Kalb didn’t even bother telling her what she’d done. His gesture towards what was left of the cathedral was enough. Your fault, he seemed to be telling her. Your doing. And now you must pay.
The Mercedes again. They put her in the back and drove her across the city. At t
his hour, the streets were empty apart from the newly homeless, ghosts of entire families, huddled together beneath the spread of leafless branches, seeking shelter from the bitter wind. All it needed, she thought, was the stinking bulk of Valentin beside her but she knew that this time there’d be no way out, no Russian gunman emerging from the darkness, no saviour to pluck her from the car and ghost her away. This moment belonged to Kalb, and he was going to make the most of it.
They were north of the city centre now. Bella caught the single word ‘Syrets’ in the muttered conversation, and her heart sank. Syrets was the camp they’d built within touching distance of the Yar. Syrets was where they wrung the last particle of useful work from you before your strength failed and they put a bullet in your head. Syrets would be the last place she’d ever see.
The camp was surrounded by three fences. The Mercedes rolled to a halt while the guards at the gate saluted Kalb and gestured for the driver to roll on.
‘Wait,’ Kalb got out of the car and then bent to lock eyes with Bella. Mad, she thought. And evil. ‘Komm.’
Bella got out. It was freezing. She was wearing nothing but a gown she’d thrown on back in her cell of a bedroom in the Lavra. She followed Kalb to an area beside the guardhouse. He was pointing up at the fences. Two of them were made of barbed wire. The one in the middle, he said, was electrified.
‘Three metres high,’ his good eye never left her face. ‘Ten thousand volts. If you ever make it to the middle one, we’ll turn you into toast and let the dogs have their way.’
The word ‘dogs’ brought a grunt of approval. Bella spun round. He was bigger than Kalb, broad across the chest and shoulders, and the front of his uniform was covered in medals. He had a drinker’s face, swollen, purpled, and his tiny eyes were looking Bella up and down. The big Alsatian at his side caught her scent and began to stir.
‘The Commandant,’ Kalb said. ‘Make a friend of him and he might save your life.’
They returned to the Mercedes and drove into the camp. There were rows of huts on either side, and gaunt, shaven figures were beginning to appear. They wore grey and white prison fatigues and stared at the Mercedes as it rolled slowly past. Some of them were barefoot. Bella had seen people like these in an institution on the outskirts of Moscow and they, too, had been mad.
The Mercedes came to a halt again. This was a bigger hut, older, semi-derelict. One of Kalb’s soldiers pushed Bella towards the open door. Inside, a single bulb dangling from the ceiling revealed a rusting showerhead dripping icy water. Beside it was a basket full of discarded clothing. The guard gestured for Bella to strip. Her clothes were to go into the basket.
‘What for?’ she asked in German.
‘We disinfect them.’
‘And then I get them back?’
The guard didn’t answer but simply nodded at the showerhead. By now, Bella had noticed the dull glint of ice on the inside of the nearest window.
Naked, she stepped under the shower. The guard studied her for a moment. Then came a nod of approval and a gasp from Bella as the trickle of cold water caught her by surprise. Icy needles, she thought, boring into her head. She moved left, then right, then tried to abandon the puddle of water at her feet but the guard pushed her back under the shower.
‘Wash,’ he muttered.
‘You have soap?’
‘Wash,’ he repeated.
At the sight of the raised whip, Bella did his bidding. The water fell on her shoulders, over the bareness of her breasts, trickling down her belly and onto her thighs. Soon she could feel nothing but a gathering numbness. Then the door opened and another figure, smaller, was briefly silhouetted against the still-grey light of dawn. He was carrying a stool in one hand and a razor in the other.
‘Enough,’ the guard nodded at the stool. ‘Sit.’
Bella was shivering now, violent convulsions that felt like she’d been possessed by devils. She’d never been so cold in her life. She squatted on the stool, her hands pressed between her thighs, staring up at the newcomer’s face. He was wearing the prison fatigues with the white and grey stripe, and his head was shaved. One of us, she thought.
‘Ready?’ He spoke Ukrainian with a Kyiv accent. Bella thought she caught a hint of kindness in his eyes.
‘You’re going to shave me, too?’ She couldn’t take her eyes off the razor.
‘Yes.’ He was gazing down at the crop of downy blonde hair. ‘A shame, ja?’
*
Wilhelm Schultz returned two days later, earlier than expected. In the light of the latest news from Kyiv, the award of his Ritterkreuz had been hastily rescinded, his invitation to the Chancellery withdrawn. The near-destruction of the Cathedral of the Dormition in the Lavra was a terrible warning. The same fate probably awaited countless other landmark buildings across the city, and teams of engineers – swollen, as ever, by Russian prisoners – were working twenty-hour days to check and recheck every corner of hundreds of properties. The hunt now was for delayed-action mines, a tactic the SD should have anticipated.
Kalb waited until Schultz was back at his desk in the museum. Earlier, he’d conferenced with the Military Governor and urged the need for Kyiv’s new masters to make public their disgust at what had happened. The Military Governor had agreed that a demonstration of some kind was in order and had left the details to the Schutzstaffel. Only now, though, did Kalb despatch a team of SS troops to empty the museum of every item relating to Lenin, and his Revolution, that they could lay their hands on.
Schultz knew he was helpless to stop them. The SS vastly outnumbered his own presence in the city. And so he sat at his desk through a very long day, listening to the tramp of boots as Kalb’s men scoured gallery after gallery. Photographs, documents, uniforms and countless other revolutionary bric-a-brac was hauled out of the museum and tossed into waiting trucks. The trucks motored through the city with an SS motorcycle escort, death’s head pennants flying, and deposited their trophies on the sandy banks of the Dnieper beneath the ancient walls of the Pechersk Monastery. The bonfire grew all day, as yet unfired, and mid-afternoon Kalb called for Ilya Glivenko’s embalmed remains to be laid on top. The Military Governor happily consented to attend in person and set light to the bonfire. Kalb had arranged for both radio and print reporters to be present, and after a brief speech from the Governor, deploring the Soviet’s latest act of vandalism, the gathering dusk was punctuated by photographers’ flashbulbs as he accepted a flaming torch from Kalb and tossed it onto the bonfire, already soaked in gasoline.
The pile of looted artefacts erupted. The blaze was fierce, and hours later some of the city’s homeless, alerted by word of mouth, were still warming their hands on what remained of Lenin’s precious Revolution. Even the Ukrainian journalists present admitted that Kalb’s gesture was a masterstroke.
Schultz, meanwhile, had remained at his desk in the now-empty museum. He was no stranger to the vicious turf wars on which Hitler had built his Reich, and he knew that – for now – he’d been bested. The loss of one of Eastern Europe’s oldest cathedrals was neither here nor there. Neither was he especially concerned by the death toll, growing hour by hour. Midday worshippers, Andreas reported, had been crushed under falling masonry and barely a handful had survived. At this news, Schultz had got to his feet, checked his watch and shrugged. In a war like this, he pointed out, you took your life in your hands every minute of every day, and if you were already on your knees in conversation with your maker when death came calling, then perhaps you were blessed.
Andreas, slightly shocked, had retreated to the cubby hole he occupied down the corridor. He was still getting used to the blankness of the walls, and was wondering whether he might be able to find substitute pictures to brighten Schultz’s days, when he looked up to find Kalb standing at his open door. His face, for some reason, was smoke-blackened and he smelled faintly of gasoline, but he appeared to be in the best of spirits.
‘I can’t find Schultz.’ He let an envelope fall on Andreas’ desk. ‘Pl
ease see he gets this as soon as possible.’
*
By now, Schultz had driven himself to the Lavra. He parked beside the main entrance and made his way past the carcass of the ancient cathedral. Three of the towers had toppled into the mountain of rubble below, and he bent briefly to place a hand against a chunk of fallen masonry. The veined marble was still warm to his touch, and when he stepped backwards and peered up, he could see exactly how the belly of the cathedral had been ripped open. Tendrils of blue-grey smoke were still curling up into the night sky and he could smell incense on the wind from the nearby river. Schultz had never set much store on reflection. You made your decisions in life, piled your chips on a certain square, and hoped to God everything worked, but here and now, hearing the distant bass chant of what had to be a choir of monks, he knew that he was looking at the ruins of his own career. He should have been harsher with Glivenko. He should have squeezed the rest of the story out of the little Russian. But he hadn’t. He shrugged again. What was done, he thought, was done. Que sera.
Back at the looted museum, he settled wearily behind his desk. Andreas, ever thoughtful, had found yet another bottle of schnapps and laid it carefully beside a single glass. Schultz uncapped the bottle and was about to pour himself the long evening’s first drink when his gaze settled on the envelope. On the top left-hand corner was the familiar SS stamp. In the middle, in Kalb’s cramped hand, Schultz’s name.
Schultz picked the envelope up, weighed it briefly in his hand, tried to guess what he might find. Then he laid it briefly aside before he filled the glass with schnapps. He hung onto the glass a moment, then reached for the envelope. The glue on the flap had already come unstuck. Inside the envelope was a single black and white photo. He upended the envelope and let the image fall onto the desk. He stared at it for a long moment, then reached for the glass.
A Russian toast, he thought bitterly, tossing back the schnapps in a single gulp.
Kyiv (Spoils of War) Page 32
