Tin Sky

by Ben Pastor

  “Good evening, Herr Gebietskommissar, Bora here. I have four squads’ worth of Russian labourers available if you have use for them, hale and fit to do some heavy hauling.”

  “Yes? Fine. Excellent. Ah – their gender and age, Major?”

  “Males, ranging from seventeen to early twenties, I’d say. Fresh from surrendering to us.” Officiously Bora read from his notes. “The exact head count is 123. Where do you want them? They’re at our Bespalovka camp at present.”

  “Let’s see… I could use them at Smijeff.”

  “Will you pick up, or shall I send them over?”

  “Have them ready first thing Tuesday morning at the Bespalovka rail station.”

  “They’ll be there.”

  “Smashing.” In the course of the brief exchange, Stark had regained full control over his intake of air. “One good deed deserves another, Major Bora. Your Karabakh will be here the day after tomorrow.”

  Bora had foreseen the counter-offer, and yet his own feelings were so conflicted at this moment that his reaction came a little slow. He scrambled to make his pause sound like astonishment. “I’m overwhelmed, Herr Gebietskommissar. In the morning I’ll stop by to leave a harness and saddle. I’ll also need to trouble you for some delicacies again.”

  “Really? Come early, then: I’m expecting General District Commissioner Magunia at nine.”

  After the phone call, there was still much to do before he could go to sleep. Bora pulled the drapes across the screened windows and made himself busy for the best part of an hour. To make room, he emptied the briefcase of all that was in it, including his diary. This – along with the film reel, Dikta’s letters, photographs and a few other personal items – he placed inside a simple, handy rucksack of the type artillery troops used, and stuffed it in the rafters of the school’s back room. Lattmann had instructions to retrieve it from there if needed. Too familiar with Bora to enquire past a certain point, his colleague no doubt suspected a great deal but kept it to himself. He knew what to do and what role to play, should circumstances call for it.

  On severe, high-quality Spicers stationery (a gift from his Ashworth-Douglas grandmother) he began to write a letter to his wife, superstitiously planning to complete it on the following night.

  My beloved Benedikta,

  Yes, I did receive the fine studio portrait you sent via your stepfather. My darling, how could you imagine I would need it in order to have your beauty before me? Our hotel room in Prague is all I can think of; how we checked the time over and over to see how much we had left to keep doing what we were wonderfully doing; how everything that ever befell me in life was ransomed by those hours spent with you. All in you I love: so much so that your photograph is nearly painful to me in our separation. You are with me always, regardless!

  The days here are those of men at war. My new regiment is coalescing and behaving well: I trust it will live up to its promise and honour the traditions of German cavalry. Peter and I were briefly together for the Knight’s Cross ceremony (film to follow for Father and Nina); he’ll tell you all about it when he gets home to see his new child.

  Thank you for being such a good friend to Duckie, darling, and thank you for lending your horsewoman’s expertise to the training of our remounts. It might make you laugh that I envy them, lucky beasts.

  Do you remember the night we met, when you asked me why I was so tanned, and I couldn’t answer that I was on furlough from the Spanish front? You probably considered me another dumbstruck dance-floor admirer of yours: how many officers were there trailing you with their eyes? In fact, from the moment we walked outside in the garden I told myself I had to conquer you or die in the attempt. Well, I didn’t have to die: you chose me, and not because – as you say – I am perfect. I’m not perfect, Dikta. I’m not. I am anything but perfect.

  12

  MONDAY 31 MAY

  Bora shaved with unusual care that morning, calmly meeting his own eyes in the army-issue folding mirror. With her scandalous autobiography, Larisa Malinovskaya meant to embarrass my mother. It was 1915: for all its commercial vim, Leipzig was and is a small place. Recently widowed as she was, Nina had to put up with her society friends’ false sympathy and sneers. What do I owe my father’s discarded lover? Nothing. On the other hand, in less than half an hour I’ll meet with Stark, and have to keep a close eye on him. He’s on my tail but has no proof against me yet: Abwehr or not, for all he knows I could merely be stupid or foolhardy. If he is or has been a Soviet agent or double agent he won’t visibly betray his emotions. Still, he ought to be foaming at the mouth if he’s discovered the crates contain nothing but ballast. Likewise, if he hasn’t disposed of him already, he’ll be extremely nervous about Arnim Weller scared and loose in Kiev. Most of all, even if he doesn’t know about Larisa’s icons, he’s aware she’s his last bet to learn about Khan’s movements around Kharkov in the old days. So, considering I can’t leave witnesses behind…

  Beautifully white clouds sailed with the ease of galleons across the sky. They’d dissolve when it turned warm later on, but at 8 a.m. their fleet was still complete. Bora, who hadn’t been in the habit lately, said a Hail Mary before leaving the schoolhouse.

  A battleship-size national flag hung from the third-floor window of the Kombinat, nearly to the lintel of the building’s entrance. Russian prisoners were placing potted plants at the sides of the door, and a Persian runner in tones of red and blue covered the length of the hallway floor. Stark’s office was definitely preparing for SA Oberführer Magunia’s three-hour visit. Lattmann had been able to give Bora that detail, along with the time of departure from Rogany – twelve noon – of the high official and his retinue, due for lunch with Field Marshal von Manstein at Zaporozhye.

  On the district commissioner’s wall, a street chart of Kharkov and its environs, 1941 edition, flanked the map of the Reichskommissariat Ukraine. Stark sat speaking on the phone. Even before Bora was announced, he glanced at him as he set saddle and harness on the floor in the office across the hallway. He gestured for him to enter without lowering the receiver from his ear. The time needed for the typewriters to engage in a stormy duet upstairs sufficed for him to conclude his call. “Yes, yes, goodbye.” And then, because the Knight’s Cross around Bora’s neck could not go unnoticed, Stark raised his eyebrows. “Well! Where did that come from?”

  “Stalingrad and Kiev, in that order, Herr Gebietskommissar.”

  The match was on. Stark sat back in his swivel chair. “Oh, yes – the award ceremony in Kiev. I read about it in the bulletin.” He took a pencil in his hand firmly, avoiding playing with it.

  Bora added nothing to the subject. He lifted from his briefcase the name list of the prisoners bound for labour duty. “Here they are, one hundred and twenty-three of them. Fifteen received slight gunshot wounds, nothing that’ll keep them from shovelling dirt.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “They’re a hardy lot: you’ll be pleased.”

  “Good help is hard to find any more.” His eyes on the top sheet of Russian names, Geko Stark snorted. “We’d have machine-gunned the lot in the early days – now we make do with partisan dispatch riders and hangers-on.”

  “Well, my men killed or injured two-thirds of them. They don’t avail us much, dead. Alive, you can do something with them.” Bora spoke lightly as he countersigned a receipt, no differently from the day he’d been on the receiving end of the cavalry remounts. He raised his eyes, handing back the sheet. “I left saddle and harness in your assistant’s office.”

  “I saw you. Make an appointment with him for tomorrow before you leave. He’ll tell you when the transport with Turian-Chai is due in.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Stark settled even more comfortably in his chair. How old was he? Mid-fifties, Bora judged, which meant he’d been a few years older than Bora was now at the time he’d hung around with Khan and Platonov. In honour of Magunia’s visit, he was wearing medals and ribbons too, though non
e as prestigious as a Knight’s Cross. All the same, power and connections surrounded him as pieces of furniture and knick-knacks did Larisa – reefs behind which he felt safe. His friendly stare betrayed security. It said, without voicing the words, I’m sure you’ll think of something.

  “So, Major.” He placidly chose to raise the ante. “You’re also here to secure the goodies you went through so much trouble to obtain the other day, and didn’t. What happened? Is she playing hard to get, that elderly girlfriend of yours?”

  Bora smiled. He often relied on his smile; the army surgeon was right in that. He smiled to hide anxiety and irritation, because they were getting close to the target now. “My late father’s, actually – not mine. It’s an old story, Herr Gebietskommissar.”

  “I love old stories.” The commissioner observed him, seeing nothing but a smiling young officer. On both sides, serenity of expression belied lack of scruples and a measure of anger moulded into pragmatism. Stark summoned and directed his assistant upstairs with the name list for retyping. “And who is she?”

  “A world-famous soprano: or she was once.” The necessity of remaining one-on-one during this part of the conversation did not escape Bora. He faced the desk aware that the day was taking a new, dangerous turn; events would soon need controlling. If I don’t tell him her name, he’ll either have to ask for it directly so that he can track her down, or will try to be oblique in his enquiry.

  “A world-famous soprano in downtown Kharkov, Major?”

  “Not exactly downtown: she lives in Pomorki.”

  Stark swivelled the chair around and glanced at the street map of Kharkov behind him. “And you travel all the way to Pomorki to bring her goodies!”

  “My father left her at the height of their relationship – it’s the least I can do.”

  “An interesting devotion on your part. I approve. The only thing is that you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get the special permission for extra butter and sugar rations. I’m very busy, and you’ll be returning here for Turian-Chai anyhow.”

  “That’ll be fine. I plan to secure first-rate fodder at the Lissa Gora army park today.”

  He’ll check on me after I leave to see if I’m really going there. Fine: I’m going there. After all, the district of Lissa Gora is nowhere near Pomorki.

  The phone rang again, a call from Rogany airfield. Bora availed himself of the interval to take his leave. In the hallway, at the foot of the stairs he met Stark’s assistant, who pencilled him in for an appointment at 9.30 a.m. the following day.

  From Merefa the route to Pomorki was very easy: first Moskalivka and then Sumskaya, little more than ten kilometres across the city, plus five more outside the city’s northern limits, past the Aerodrome and the abandoned leather works, and into a wooded area. Bora knew where the checkpoints were between downtown Kharkov and Pomorki. After stopping at Lissa Gora, the only way to avoid them was to take the second-northernmost bridge on the Lopany River from the Vaschtchenkivska Levada district and follow one of the long north–south streets beyond, cutting across to Staraya Pavlivska towards the Dynamo stadium and the public park around it.

  At this time – 9.30 a.m. – along Sumskaya, Bezirkskommissar Magunia’s arrival had brought about the usual orgasmic activity of flag-waving, security troops and armoured cars. Bora followed the alternative route automatically, sliding from one minute to the next, careful not to think past the single physical gesture he was performing at any one time.

  The park around the stadium had gravel paths, narrower than lanes. Past the Sokolniki settlement, deep in the woods, even the paths ended. Closer to Sumskaya, where past the Aerodrome the boulevard became the road to Pomorki (and also the highway to Moscow) there would be security troops, but not above Sokolniki. It was possible to drive up one of the northbound, grassy bridle tracks. However, the lengthy balka parting the forested area between here and the Biological Institute was insurmountable on four wheels. Bora returned to the highway for the time needed to travel on the pavement across the dip, and headed back into the park.

  The grounds of the Biological Institute stood forlorn; trees besieged its paved piazza when he reached it. Still, he parked the GAZ out of sight. Three hundred or so paces separated him from Pomorki’s novyi burzhuy little villas. After a look around, Bora transferred what he needed from his briefcase to a canvas haversack, removed the Knight’s Cross from around his neck and pocketed it, and continued on foot towards the residential area. He approached it across the field of wild hyacinth, mostly faded now, swarming with small insects. The empty dachas on the rise were all blooming creepers and fallen-down wire fences. Bora laid down the tightly rolled-up tarpaulin he carried underarm to put his gloves on, stepped over the closest fence and through overgrown flowerbeds into the garden next but one to Larisa’s, and across that to Larisa’s broken-down enclosure. Every yard was similarly criss-crossed by corduroy paths in the tall grass and abundance of rank flowers.

  Through the gap in Larisa’s wire fence, he noiselessly entered her property from the south side. Clothes hung on the clothes line; chickens clucked somewhere, but Nyusha was not around. The front door might be closed, but surely not locked. Quickly feeling around in the thick of leafy shrubs, Bora found the sniper rifle. Making sure that Larisa would not talk was far too easy. That she shouldn’t be given a chance to meet Stark, much less speak with him, was a given Bora had coolly considered in all its implications. Had he been a man who liked to choose the easiest option, he could have ended matters here and now. Instead, after duly inspecting his weapon, he walked to the open garden gate and, lifting it from a crusty ledge of dirt and weeds, leant it across the path. The rolled tarpaulin he set in the ferns just inside the gate. Larisa’s house seemed asleep as he paced back through the shrubbery; there, protected from view, he rested the haversack at his feet and stood waiting by a sturdy pomegranate tree.

  If his reckoning was correct, the time needed for Geko Stark to carry out his duties in relation to Magunia’s visit, check the accuracy of Larisa’s address as given him and drive here varied between two and three hours from now. Waiting could sometimes weigh heavily, but for once Bora was not in a hurry. The warmth of the day, drifting clouds over the tangle of leaves, marked the passing minutes; insects darted all around like specks of bronze and gold. Squinting in the sun, Nyusha came out for a moment to feel the clothes on the line for dryness; went back indoors. With his boots in the shady grass, Bora waited as one who has peeled the thoughts from his mind until only the bare essentials are left.

  The highway to Moscow, a short tract of which was perceivable through the foliage, lay empty of traffic at this hour. Magunia was due to leave at noon from the Rogany airfield; if it hadn’t already, all the security apparatus would migrate to the eastern end of town, past the Russian army graveyard and the Tractor Works. Slowly a supply truck went through, heading for Kharkov under the escort of a motorcycle and machine-gunner in the sidecar. Then nothing for a long time, during which whatever Bora was – or had been – lost contours and importance. Becoming his own acts, or quiescence itself in wait of carrying them out, was the prerequisite of success. A temporary dissolution, the discomposing of a mosaic that granted freedom from all trammels, including conscience. Factum mutat facientem: every action changes he who commits the action. But only afterwards.

  Nyusha briefly stepped out of the door, called the chickens, threw feed around. From within the house, Larisa’s powerful voice said something incomprehensible in a peevish tone. A tachanka, a peasant cart mounted on tyres, travelled north. Barking from invisible dogs on the other side of the highway, where farms had been torched in February, sounded muffled as though coming from creatures of the netherworld. At this hour, by Bora’s watch, most army units would be camped down or sitting in their barracks for the noon meal. The shade of trees moved over him, creating a different pattern of speckled light. 1 p.m. At Rogany, Magunia’s plane must have taken off for Zaporozhye. Manstein’s table, set with porcelain and silver,
would grant the illusion of stable normality, as if Ukraine should be German forever. Bora felt neither the heat nor the weariness of immobility. The words we’re all flyspecks on the map of history, but think of ourselves as essential drifted through his mind.

  When at last the glossy black staff car, like a shellacked porpoise, pulled from the highway into Pomorki Bora went from calm to absolute calm. Impossible to judge until it drew closer whether there was a chauffeur at the wheel or not, or how many people sat in the vehicle. The well-balanced Russian rifle was in no more haste than the hand holding it.

  Beyond the green filigree of branches the car approached, slowed to a halt and revealed a single occupant in a pheasant-coloured uniform. It stopped a few metres outside the garden gate; the squeal of gravel under the wheels and the sound of the door opening would not be overheard from the house. Gentle dust, thinner than face powder, twirled and hovered behind it. Bareheaded, visibly flushed by the heat, Geko Stark left the driver’s seat and closed the door without slamming it. The motion of his right arm was to unlatch his pistol holster. He listened and looked around. The stillness in Larisa’s property, in the abandoned gardens right and left, seemed to reassure him. Walking with gun in hand to remove the small impediment of the gate set ajar, he came into full view for a second. At that distance, under ten metres, Bora wouldn’t miss with a weapon of far lesser quality.

  The silenced SVT-40 went off once. Stark dropped, felled like hefty game. Unlikely the women would hear more than an indistinct pop from the dacha, if they even noticed a noise. The garden gate stood in a particularly secluded spot; you couldn’t see it from the door. Bora lowered the rifle. Keep it together. Keep it together. Don’t wonder if his eyes are open because he isn’t dead. Don’t worry, keep it together. Shooting to kill was lesson number one. Rifle strap across his shoulder, Bora stepped out to check his work. Geko Stark lay curled in his beautiful gold livery, looking as it seemed at the gravel around him through his lenses. The clean, slowly bleeding hole between his brows added a blind third eye to his smooth marzipan face, where neither surprise nor anger had had time to stamp themselves.