Tin Sky

by Ben Pastor

  The eyes were blind, no life signs whatever. Bora retrieved the pistol from his hand, wiped it clean of dust with his handkerchief, replaced it in the holster and latched it. Martin, keep it together. From the bed of ferns by the gate he lifted the tarpaulin, untied and unrolled it, laid the body on it and after folding it in quickly, tied it head and foot. Counting on muscular strength and impeccable coolness, he lifted the heavy burden enough to carry it inside the garden. Doing this outside Larisa’s windows, without her knowing, should have prompted in him a mix of emotions, from relief to satisfaction to sweet revenge to self-righteousness, but emotions were a luxury precluded to Bora right now. Adjusting rifle and haversack so they wouldn’t encumber his movements, he heaved Stark’s body over the corduroy path to the broken fence, through the gap in it, on to the next garden’s narrow planking, and without halting across the next forsaken garden to the grounds of the Biological Institute. The gruelling flesh-and-bone effort made three hundred metres feel like three thousand. At the end of the trail the large building, with its barred windows, slept a complicit sleep. Bora laid down his burden under the trees, where grass became a leaf-strewn cement slab around the sealed shafts to the interred gas pipes.

  Once loosened with a spanner, the bolts on the nearest iron lid came up easily. From below, a warm odour of clean earth wafted to the surface the moment the covering was pushed aside. Stripping Geko Stark of identification papers, expensive wristwatch and car keys was a matter of less than a minute. The wallet, Bora would look into later. He dragged the tarpaulin wrap to the mouth of the shaft, finding that he had to force the commissioner’s meaty bulk into it head first. Down it went, more than seven metres to the dirt floor and pipes below. His gold–yellow cap followed, and the Russian rifle. From the haversack Bora extracted a timed charge, already secured to the string Lattmann had given him. He held the ball in his left fist while slowly lowering the explosive pack down the centre of the hole, gradually unwinding its length until the bottom was reached. Then he let go of his end of the string. Thoughts and motions still coincided; reasoning shrank to necessity. Shaft. Lid. Bolts. No room for errors or regrets.

  Returning and tightening the bolts over the lid, sweeping dead leaves across it and righting the stalks of grass disarranged at the sides of the corduroy paths from one garden to the next, Bora returned to Larisa’s property, lifted the gate to push it into its original position and walked to Stark’s car parked in the lane. He made sure no bloodstain was visible on the gravel. With the handkerchief he rubbed the soles of his boots to cleanse them of grass and bits of dirt before entering the staff car. He then sat in the driver’s seat and backed out of Pomorki.

  The first checkpoint on the highway to Moscow, entering Kharkov, was over three kilometres south of here, near the racetrack by the Aerodrome. It would be manned regardless of Magunia’s departure. Bora travelled no more than half that distance to Solovivska, an isolated turn-off on the left side of the road, which led through a wooded patch to the leather works along the Kharkov River. Bora had camped there with his men in 1941. The leather works, heavily damaged early in the war, had been closed for years. Bora drove the staff car inside the factory yard to a secluded spot between buildings. There he parked. Inside Stark’s wallet, he found the key to several radio frequencies (including, among others, that of the RSHA’s jail and the SS first-aid station on Sumskaya), German and Ukrainian large-denomination notes, business cards, family photos (a plump lady – Deine Sefi – and four blond sons), theatre tickets and Larisa’s address scribbled in pencil on today’s desk calendar page.

  Bora left everything but Larisa’s address in the wallet. On the driver’s seat he neatly placed Stark’s belongings, rolled down the window enough to toss in the car keys after locking the door from the outside, and left on foot. It was the most exposed moment. Once across the highway, he took a shortcut across the park to the Biological Institute and collected his vehicle, where he replaced the Knight’s Cross ribbon around his neck. He drove back the same way he’d come, skirting the north side of Kharkov, crossing the Lopany and patiently getting in line behind the army trucks waiting to pass the Lissa Gora checkpoint. He experienced no fear, no guilt, no weariness; much less anger. Basic bodily functions apparently remained on hold as well: not a trace of hunger or thirst. This being the case, he purposely stopped by the Kubitsky Alley eatery across from the RSHA jail. He ordered lunch and made sure he finished it, eyeing the titles on the local paper an officer was reading at the next table. On the doorstep, he used the calendar page with Larisa’s address on it to light his first cigarette in two years.

  The rest of the day Bora spent at headquarters. He contacted his regiment by radio to have the Russian prisoners ready for transfer and at the Bespalovka station by 7 a.m. Then he began a painstaking review of the press proof of the Partisan Warfare Handbook.

  Around 6.30 p.m. he had an early dinner in von Salomon’s company, patiently listening to the endless story of the lost East Prussian estate. Nodding along to the colonel’s anti-Polish invectives, he told himself that it might be two or three days before they found Stark’s car at the leather works, although his prolonged absence would be noticed soon enough at the Kombinat. The soldiers at the checkpoint had seen the commissioner take the highway to Moscow around 12.30 p.m., and whatever he’d told them, he surely hadn’t said he was going to Pomorki to kill an old woman. As for his body, Bora had timed the explosive device to twenty-one days. Even if the device should go off up to a week in advance due to the heat or to the effects of decomposition, German forces in the entire area would be gearing up for the coming battle by then. A dull explosion inside a sealed shaft in the middle of a park, obliterating what remained of the Gebietskommissar, would go completely undetected.

  “Have you heard?” von Salomon was saying under his breath, although they were alone in the officers’ mess hall, “General District Commissioner Waldemar Magunia has been visiting.”

  “So I heard at the Kombinat, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

  “He was reportedly very put out at the disturbances in town two weeks ago. There’ll be hell to pay if he holds Gebietskommissar Stark responsible for the reprisal that occasioned them.”

  Bora broke a small piece from the bread roll at the side of his plate. “I doubt the commissar can be held responsible for the reprisal. As I understand, the order was issued by Gestapo Gruppenführer Müller.”

  “And authorized by the Gebietskommissar.”

  “I see.” The coincidence of Magunia’s displeasure, news to him, was more than useful. “What do you believe might happen, Herr Oberstleutnant?”

  “Magunia never wanted an additional district to be created in the Kharkov Oblast. You watch: he’ll seize the opportunity to put a spoke in Stark’s wheel. Naturally the Army must stay completely out of the fray.”

  “Naturally.”

  Von Salomon’s sad face, low over his plate of bland soup, hardly befitted a man relating military gossip. “He flew from Kiev under the pretence of a scheduled visit, but his opinion of safety in Kharkov is so low, Magunia decided not to speak publicly to the city administrators this morning. Imagine: he arrived with his words pre-recorded, and had them broadcast to all offices.”

  “Incredible.” Bora grazed the wine in his glass with his lips. His own calm was beginning to worry him, as if it were a flaw. The mention of a tape, any tape, should set him on edge, but it didn’t. The second recording he’d made of Khan’s film at Borovoye intentionally stopped at the paragraph preceding the last page of the commander’s statement: I am convinced he is waiting for the time of summer operations to draw nearer: he will then attempt a coup de main on Krasny Yar, and defect as soon as possible. Platonov’s captivity in the Kharkov area, and soon my own presence, will be in Stark’s eyes impediments to protecting his identity and securing the booty. Discovered sooner or later, the doctored tape was meant to suggest a reason for Stark’s voluntary disappearance. If Magunia had really come with the intention of sacking
Geko Stark, all the better. “The district commissioner seemed in good spirits when I saw him early today,” he observed.

  “Nonsense.” Von Salomon swallowed his wine. “You’re too open, my boy. If you wish to succeed as a career officer, you must learn not to trust a man’s expression.”

  “I’ll make a note of it, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

  MEREFA

  There were three staff cars parked in front of the Kombinat. It was not altogether unusual, but, driving by the building, Bora had to wonder. Stark’s absence, for which he might or might not have given a justification as he left the office, was now going on for seven hours. High officials enjoyed latitude in their movements, but this was wartime Russia, the equivalent of a wild frontier. By morning the search machine would be in motion.

  All was quiet at the schoolhouse, or so it seemed from the road. Beyond the row of graves, out in the field, Kostya was putting the finishing touches to a paddock for Turian-Chai; a grassy area and heterogeneous planks hammered together would serve the purpose until Bora rode to Bespalovka. Turning into the schoolyard, the unexpected sight of a personnel carrier made his heart leap. Parked by the entrance so as to be invisible from the road, it had a licence plate Bora was unfamiliar with. He drove the GAZ to a halt behind its rear bumper, making it impossible for it to back up and leave. I made no mistakes, he reasoned, left no traces. If ever asked, the girls of the Dutch brothel at Lisa Gora will confirm my stay with them from eleven to three (the madam was a long-time Abwehr informant: Bora had stopped there after ordering fodder to secure an alibi from her). He wracked his brain. Wait. There’s the calendar; Christ. If Stark had pressed the tip of the pencil as he wrote, Larisa’s address might have left an impression below, on today’s page –

  “Oberstarzt Mayr here to see you, Herr Major.”

  The sentry had no idea of the relief his words brought Bora.

  In ankle boots and old-fashioned puttees, the army surgeon was more yellow than ever; the kerosene lamp gave his badly shaven cheeks the tinge of baked clay. Still, out of professional habit, he told Bora right away, “You don’t look well. Are you running a fever?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, that makes two of us.”

  Bora crossed the classroom floor. Along with a handful of books, the teacher’s small cabinet contained the bottle of vodka Lattmann had brought him, still two-thirds full. If ever there was a night to tap it, this was it. Bora thought so as he unbuckled his pistol belt and rested it on the top shelf. “I thought you’d be travelling to Germany by now.”

  “The train was delayed. Tomorrow, God willing.”

  Yes, God willing. And Ivan, and the rails, and destiny that hangs over us like an anvil suspended from a spider’s web. When Bora showed the bottle questioningly the surgeon nodded, so he poured two small glasses. “What brings you here, Herr Oberstarzt? I take it this isn’t a courtesy call.”

  “It isn’t. Arnim Weller contacted me.”

  For a moment Bora felt as if a rug had been pulled from under his feet. Slipping was forbidden. It was imperative to convey an image of self-assured balance, which he did. “How so?”

  “How?” The surgeon dismissed the question with less than a wave, a mere turn of the wrist. “He’s in Kiev, as you know. He’s desperate.”

  I’m not impressed, Bora was on the point of saying, but held back. He downed his drink instead.

  “Major, he wants to negotiate and live.”

  “That might not be feasible or even useful at this point.”

  “Why? Don’t you need a confession?”

  Bora caught himself. How close can one come to betraying oneself? Having disposed of the man behind the murders, just now I nearly admitted his hired killer could be more trouble to me than he’s worth. He made an effort to relax his aching shoulders and invited the surgeon to take a seat. “I meant he might not live. I can’t promise life to him.”

  Mayr’s slump in the chair was a sign of accumulated weariness, or anguish unresolved. “Weller is willing to risk it. If others catch him, it’s all over.”

  Others might mean the Ukrainian police or political authorities, or Stark. It made a difference. Bora put away his empty glass. “How much do you know, Herr Oberstarzt?”

  “No more than when you and I last spoke by phone; other than at the hospital we do keep nicotine on hand as a medicine against pinworms.”

  Bora recalled the medical supplies he’d seen at the Kombinat time and again: insecticides, disinfectants and such. One sip at a time, not savouring it but as if he were taking medicine, Mayr drank the liquor. Being here, speaking as he did, was risky for him, Bora gave him credit without feeling particular sympathy.

  “I’ll need a document signed by Weller.”

  “I have it.”

  The practice of watching his expression gave way for an instant, the time it took Bora to blink. “Here?”

  “Here.” A plain, sealed envelope emerged from inside Mayr’s blouse. Laying it flat on the desk, he pushed it slowly in Bora’s direction and kept his worn fingertips on it. Bora looked at it, and at the surgeon’s paleness.

  “How long have you had it with you, Dr Mayr?”

  “It was hand-delivered to me today by my substitute, who flew in from Kiev. There, as I understand, he was contacted in private by Sanitätsoberfeldwebel Weller, who begged him to bring it to me. Since the outer envelope bore my name, I opened it and found a second envelope inside – this one – as well as a note full of fear and remorse, instructing me to forward his confession to the man in authority I repute ‘most likely to listen’.”

  “So of all people you chose me.”

  “In a land of blind men, Major, blessed are those —”

  “— who have one eye? But I have two good eyes, not one.”

  “You’re doubly blessed, then. Mind you, I ignored the contents of the letter, although I can surmise it after the phone conversation you and I had. What do you say, Major Bora?”

  Bora stretched his hand. “I’ll read it first.”

  “No. Your word, first.”

  “You have my word that if the contents satisfy I’ll see what I can do for him.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The instant Mayr’s fingers relinquished the envelope, Bora picked it up. He tore it open, something that in his meticulousness he never did. There wasn’t enough light in the room and he had to walk closer to the kerosene lamp to read it. Weller had obviously written it in hiding after the delay in his repatriation told him he was a marked man. It exuded fear for his life, in contrast with the clinically unadorned language used to describe Platonov and Tibyetsky’s deaths. He’d administered Platonov “0.09 gr. of aconitine nitrate in the usual solution of distilled water, glycerin and alcohol”, and talked Khan into believing he’d ingest a narcotic in the morning, not one full gram of nicotine in tablet form “as I knew he’d vomit part of it, was a habitual smoker and weighed one hundred kilos besides”. In his terror, any guilt and regret were functions of necessity, and of the resentment Weller felt towards the instigator for “exploiting a man’s fragility beyond breaking point”. Having first met Stark when delivering medical supplies, he’d been “horrified” to learn how much the commissioner knew about his breakdown at Stalingrad. By surrendering to blackmail (“What else could I do?”) he’d brought about death only to preserve his own life. “I ask, isn’t that what a soldier does? Killing as ordered without questions, that’s all everyone did at Stalingrad! Was there conscience anywhere, at Stalingrad? I did what I did, so that I might live. I admit all, I confess all, because I want to live.”

  The neurotic hopelessness of entrusting others with such a note while Stark was believed still alive and wielding power, struck Bora as the last resort of a man disconnected from reality. All he experienced was cold, angry contempt. He raised his eyes from the writing only to see that in his exhaustion Mayr had meanwhile nodded himself to sleep right where he sat. If I forward this to the police authorities, Weller will be e
xecuted, and Stark’s role in the murders played down or denied for political reasons. If I don’t, Khan’s partial tape – which outright accuses Stark of being a sender and a spy – may never be made public, but will “prove” his guilt in-house and justify his disappearance. Von Salomon is right: Magunia’s animosity could be helpful in that regard. It all depends on planting the tape in the most suitable place. As for Colonel Bentivegni, well… I’m only cleaning up after myself.

  When Mayr woke up with a start, Bora was finishing the letter to his wife he’d begun the day before. After the signature he capped his pen, setting the sheet aside so the ink would dry on it. “We have an agreement,” he said laconically.

  With a mumbled apology for falling asleep, the surgeon said, “Weller’s nerves gave in after all. My colleague tells me he’s delusional.”

  Bora frowned. “He’ll do well continuing to play insane.” The handshake they exchanged was dry and warm with fever. “Know that if I meet that gutless Weller anywhere, I’ll fire a bullet into his skull with my own hands. Have a safe trip to the Fatherland, Herr Oberstarzt.”

  Overnight, Bora’s fever rose. The objective enormity of his action, the consequences if discovered prompted him – not for the first time in the last three years – to keep a loaded gun under his bed. In a restless state between waking and sleep, he distinctly saw leaves, shadows, the minutiae in Larisa’s garden as if he were still there waiting for Stark; he saw himself at Trakhenen with Peter, when as boys they had lain face up on his stepfather’s Great War horse blanket and watched the falling stars. It was summer; the banks of the Rominte were full of frogs. Then there was something else about Peter. The calendar on Stark’s desk had nothing to do with East Prussia or childhood, but there it was, too. The sick worry that the impression on today’s date might give Larisa’s address away and allow enquirers to reconstruct Stark’s itinerary became a very human desire to be as far away from here as possible. Sweat glued the undershirt to his stomach and armpits. In his agitation, Bora was tempted to go to Bespalovka for good and bury himself in his work there, but he had to stay, and present himself at the Kombinat besides. He fell into a brutal sleep towards dawn, and forgot he’d dreamt his brother’s death.