by Olga Chaplin
Other soldiers surrounded the farmhouse, positioning themselves in a well-drilled stance. A dozen kolkhoz workers and children, backs pressed to weathered timber walls, faced a dozen efficient, cocked rifles. The captain’s helmet tilted a fraction, eyes piercing, as he noted Evdokia’s heaving frame clinging to Mykola and Vanya, and watched her eyes pleading to Peter. He signalled to a soldier beside him, gave another order.
“Is everyone accounted for, in this farmhouse? Is anyone missing?” the interpreter commanded. The elders nodded: Dimitri’s absence was noted.
“Does anyone have a rifle … a pistol … any other weapon? You must tell us now!” The elders shook their heads, surprised. Stalin’s regime, with its decade of military and political purges, had long ago carried out reprisals for such misdemeanours.
“The horse in the barn … who rides it?” Peter raised his arm and gestured towards Talalaivka, briefly explained his work. The captain stepped closer, eyed him, calculating, then glanced back to the quivering group huddled against the wall.
“They are your family?” He pointed to Evdokia and the children. Peter nodded.
“And you leave them to work in this … Talalaivka?” Peter nodded again. The captain pursed his lips, observing Evdokia’s extreme condition.
“Good!” he commanded. “You come with us. We are heading to Talalaivka now. You will be helpful to us. The others,” he flicked his hand in dismissal, “must stay on this farm. If they leave, they will be shot.”
His stomach pitted tight as a drum, Peter glanced helplessly at Evdokia as she held fast to the children and forced back her tears, too fearful of the rifles to break down. He touched her shoulder gently, gestured to her not to despair. At that moment, with rifles still aimed at them, the drone of overloaded Russian TB-3 bombers heading westward for their battle around Kiev brought the cold reality of this war to their very doorstop. He realised with a sinking heart how dangerous it was to be a countryman or woman of Ukraine. No place was safe now: they were being attacked in the countryside, in towns, on battlefields. The cost, the carnage, would be horrific.
As he steadied his horse to take its place in the posse of armoured cars and soldiers on horseback pulling their supply wagons, he looked wistfully at the forlorn families: captives in their own land, German soldiers stationed at their door, rifles pointed at their backs. His throat tightened to gripping point as he watched Evdokia and the others being herded back into the farmhouse.
He brushed at his eyes and pulled at the horse’s reins to distract himself, and looked towards Talalaivka. He could only guess at what might be required of him. He prayed, above all, that he would not be made to do something he would regret for the remaining days of his life. The war encouraged amazing acts of bravery. But it also excused acts of unimaginable cruelty. Already, Hitler’s ruthless tactics in western Europe were attesting to this.
One more time, as the convoy moved into the country lane, he strained to glimpse the farmhouse. Instead, he caught a glint from the bonnet of the vehicle tailing them. The SS officers, in their impeccable leather jackets, belts firmly buckled and boots polished to extreme, were well protected in their armoured vehicle. Peter did not know the real role these SS men played in their ignoble operations, of the over-riding power they wielded, so effectively, all in the name of higher ideals. Still hopeful, he could not know the full intent of Hitler’s war against the Ukraine and Russia, did not realise what kind of sentence would be meted out to his people.
Chapter 21
From a distant field a motorcycle, revved-up at full throttle, sounded its urgent delivery. The posse paused at the bend; captain and soldiers watchful as the skilled driver, manoeuvring and zig-zagging his beast over harvested wheat mounds, sped towards the motorcade. Despite his predicament, Peter watched, fascinated, as split-second images of rider and machine flashed between the stagnating stalks that, like upright prison bars, were suddenly smashed open and flattened as the automaton tore towards them. The German soldier jumped off his motorcycle, brakes grinding, a cloud of dust smothering him. Back straight as he clicked his muddy boots and saluted, he handed the captain his document. The senior nodded as he perused the missive, a hint of a smile softening his determined face.
“Gute, gute!” he replied, fully understanding its import, wrote a brief reply and signalled the messenger to return it to senior command. Within moments, the rider raced his motorcycle off at breakneck pace back through the fields, the heady motor fumes spurting a fine spray that hit Peter’s nostrils like an acrid atomiser.
“It’s amazing!” he thought to himself, patting his horse’s quivering coat as the revving motor resounded across the fields. “Our soldiers are struggling to find a horse and cart for their defences, yet this army has everything in its power to push ahead. They won’t be stopped in their aim to take Moscow!” But already the autumn leaves were being denuded, and he reminded himself of winter’s cruel early snows, even in his Ukraine. Ponds, lakes, even essential roadways were often overnight suddenly frozen or made impassable, trapping all who travelled. “But the German army must know this … that Ukrainian and Russian winters are more severe than their own.”
Another posse of soldiers joined their motorcade at a crossroad as a narrow lane met the rough roadway. The captain’s interpreter waved Peter forward.
“Pomozhe, pomozhe tyt,” his guttural Ukrainian barely understood. As Peter reached the front of the line the captain looked up from a large map spread over the bonnet of a truck. His juniors leaned over it in obsequious helpfulness. He glanced up, mouth tightening, brow creased in frustration.
“All these country roads … we must reach Talalaivka in the shortest time … we have deadlines!” Peter guessed, correctly, that they must now be pushing at speed to secure not just Talalaivka, but the larger Konotop railway junction, which was strategically vital in sending their troops and supplies from north-east Ukraine, and linked other main lines through Orel, Tula, and on to Moscow. And only when Konotop, so relatively close to Russia’s borders, was taken could Hitler be confident of his earlier boasting that Stalin’s ‘scorched earth’ policy had ceased, and failed, and that the Ukraine—and even Moscow—would be his before year’s end.
Peter studied the map, his fingers tracing several possible routes. A fleeting thought of circuitous diversions to slow these soldiers, even take them off course, crossed his mind. But he pushed the thought aside and took a deep breath, his logic maintained. Evdokia and the children, and all the workers of their farmhouse, were being kept hostage, in the eventuality of just this sort of deviance. And not only they, but perhaps many more kolkhoz workers, would suffer the German reprisals. His heart felt the twist of entrapment as he thought of Evdokia, of her distraught look, her heavy appearance as he last turned from her.
“Dear God,” he thought, “I hope the birth will be without difficulty … I hope they will not come to any harm.”
Swallowing hard as he felt the invisible noose of blackmail tightening, he nodded to the captain and explained the different courses and intricacies of the routes: that there was a possible dual method of speed, of horseback soldiers taking the shortcut laneways and cutting through farmland, the panzer trucks taking the longer but reliable country roads, with their supply wagons following. Given the speed of the panzer trucks, it was just possible both groups would reach Talalaivka in close time.
The captain eyed him, querying, evaluating, as he pondered his motorcade’s safety, looking for a possible trap. Then something caught his attention. He looked up to the sky, listening. High above them, and heading north-east, he could just make out the sound of the Luftwaffe’s Ju88 bombers, generously laden yet still faster than the enemy’s, tearing through the sky to target Moscow. He blinked and focussed back to the map, tapping his finger, then made his snap decision. There was little to lose: a hundred soldiers on horseback, used to clear out the outlying farmhouses, were within his calculation of loss at this crucial time. The race to reach the junctions held even more importance no
w.
He conferred with his deputy and pointed to the horsemen. “Spalten!” he waved them aside, then “Bewegen!” he ordered, jumped into his jeep and motioned the panzergruppe forward to a country roadway.
“Right! We move this way now!” the second-in-command waved his soldiers on. They reined their horses into line, gave way as Peter followed the interpreter to the front. The motorcade, with powerful engines growling, raced on, churning clouds of dust and exhaust fumes that choked the pristine countryside.
A strange pall greeted them at the outskirts of Talalaivka, as the posse of soldiers rode in. “They must be hiding in their huts … they, too, have nowhere to go,” Peter suspected. These town dwellers, even with their varied skills, were exposed to the same dangers as the kolkhoz farmers as the German advance units moved from house to house to secure the town for their operatives. He watched, his hand quietening his horse as the deputy silently motioned to some of the soldiers to position themselves at cross-streets, the remainder to follow him to the railway junction. Now, each street corner was guarded by well-armed soldiers, having little to fear from the remaining town dwellers, who were left to their fate.
As they reached the junction, the distinct roar of the motorcade reached them. Peter held his reins tight, waiting for the gunfire to begin between remaining Stalin loyalists and the advance units’ gunners, their barrels scouring for enemy movement. He could hear the crackling fire of rifles, the return fire of German gunners … then silence. Stalin’s men knew they could not save this junction now, even if they had wanted to, their token riflemen no match against the gunners, spurting out their continuous rounds of deadly bullets.
The Talalaivka office had an unnerving appearance of fast retreat. “They must have moved out in the greatest haste … not even time to burn the papers,” Peter gauged, with mixed emotions. Only days earlier this centre of bureaucracy had operated with unswerving confidence. Now, he felt a sting of failure at his country’s sudden demise, yet somehow relieved that the buildings had not been destroyed. As he walked through the soviet bureaucrats’ offices and flicked through the open files and papers strewn across the floor, he felt certain that the vital NKVD documents would already have disappeared with Dimitri and Hresha and were possibly already safely filed with their Kremlin masters. Straining to rest, yet tension still pounding him, he could only feel cold security as he leaned against the familiar stuccoed wall, awaiting the commander’s order.
* * *
As the dawn light broke through the protection of night, Peter could hear the motion of horses and motors preparing to move. The interpreter rushed in, his message brief. Still shaking himself awake, Peter caught the words, “Konotop junction.” To his horror, as he stepped from the building to the courtyard, he was summoned to a panzer truck to join the commander. He shook his head and pointed to the laid out map, his finger outlining the direct route on to Konotop and, gesticulating, attempted to explain it was a good road, clearly marked, that they did not need him to direct. He sensed it was safer to remain at Talalaivka: the German soldiers understood his place there, and he was desperate to try to return to Evdokia, the birth imminent.
The captain waved aside his concerns. His jawline firmed, glinting eyes just visible beneath his steel rim. Peter stopped in mid-sentence. He was captive, they were masters, weapons loaded at their sides.
Ever more confident as each kilometre abridged the two junctions, the motorcade moved at a faster pace, the trucks swerving from side to side as they negotiated the pitted country road. Peter realised, as some of the kolkhoz farmhouses appeared at a distance, that they were only a short way from Evdokia’s Yakim and Klavdina. For a few moments he closed his eyes, remembering, visualising the day Klavdina greeted them as they arrived for their visit … of Manya running among the grasses, picking her wildflowers for her babushka. A small invisible hand pressed at his heart, reminding him how long ago that all seemed, now … how crushing Manya’s passing still was.
Suddenly, at a crossroads, the motorcade screeched to a halt, dust from the earth road clouding their view. As it settled, Peter saw the shiny bonnet of another panzer motor, its occupants immaculate in their leather jackets, their distinctive SS officer hats poised. The captain jumped out of his jeep to confer with them, then looked towards Peter.
“O God! What are they planning? Are Klavdina and Yakim … Evdokia, the children safe? Or … is it me they’re after?” His throat tightened again. Anything was possible, now.
The captain returned, gave orders for the trucks to wait under cover of nearby bushes, and signalled his driver to follow the SS officers’ truck. At a short distance, off a side lane, a small farmhouse was just visible, hidden in a grove, its great trees and orchard a natural barrier against all intruders. The cars pulled up at the silent courtyard. The SS officers, in well-practised stance, signalled the captain and spoke in low tones, their fine officer’s hats avoiding the captain’s grubby helmet.
Taking shallow breaths, yet trying to appear calm, Peter prayed silently for strength, fearing the worst. But still he reasoned with himself, that the captain, even the SS men, could have shot him anywhere, did not have to take such a circuitous route for his execution.
They had reached the back of the farmhouse, the old orchard trees tall and dignified even as their fruit had already dropped, past usage.
The SS men took a few steps towards a path, then stopped and smiled knowingly. Peter looked to the captain, his only source of consolation at that moment. Then he caught sight of something, or someone: at first, only trouser legs and boots, moving strangely, above the grasses. He felt sickened, but had to know: either he was to become another hanged Ukrainian, or else these SS men wanted something else. He looked again at the captain, then took the fateful step, uncertain if he was to become the SS officers’ next victim.
“These officers want you to tell them if you know these men,” the captain pressed him. Peter still could not be certain what would happen to him, but truthfulness was all he could offer. Evdokia and their children’s lives depended on this.
Even before he recognised the jacket, with its distinctive trim so proudly worn as a reward from none other than Kaganovich, Peter knew it was Dimitri, alongside Hresha, his superior. He bowed his head, in instinctive respect for the fallen, then nodding, spoke in answer to the SS men’s questioning. He realised with leaden heart that, although these men were agents of Stalin’s regime, they were still his countrymen, attempting to escape from the invaders. Even with all the help from Stalin’s intelligence officers, they could not have calculated how swiftly the pincer units from Konotop would meet these southern townships. They had jumped from one SS search into the path of the other.
Peter could not hold his nerve any longer—he turned away from the SS men, closing his eyes, waiting for the worst, voices murmuring in their foreign language fogging his senses. When he looked again, the SS men were gone. The captain, standing legs astride and hands on hips, was calculating his next move.
He nodded at Peter and continued back to his panzer truck. Peter could not move, uncertain what was planned for him.
The interpreter touched his arm. “You will come back with us to Talalaivka, after Konotop. It may be our headquarters for this area.”
His stomach still so tight he thought he would be ill with the tension, Peter swallowed hard, again and again, trying to focus on all his past training, on his profession, and slowly made his way back to the panzer truck. The captain was keeping him on. He had not yet outlived his usefulness to the new regime.
Chapter 22
The captain scoured the landscape below his vantage point, his shoulders granite-hard, and focussed his binoculars again on the thunderous explosions. Peter, crouching behind the partly destroyed wall with the surviving soldiers to one side of the captain’s makeshift bunker, felt the earth shudder, vibrating through him, and waited for the whistling sounds of panzer rocket fire as they shrieked through the blackened air. He crouched lower, almost
in foetal position in the hollow, his arms protecting his head as fragments of debris and volcanic-like dust blew over them. He breathed into his jacket. He dared not cough, the dust particles so fine and insidiously acrid that they choked the unsuspecting soldiers, disabling them. Hobbled in his bent position, he could feel the bulky food packet in his jacket pocket, untouched since morning, his stomach tightened for battle.
Another short lull, then more explosions, panzer-tank rocket fire and crackling sounds of burning timber amid the ruins. At last, he peered between the fallen rocks of his crumbled parapet. The captain, protected by an armoured steel panel, binoculars glued to the carnage of Konotop junction, stood proud at his bunker, a slow smile breaking his dust-hardened face. “Ah! Gute! Gute!” he cried as he pushed back his helmet and wiped his face, his fair hair streaked grey with dirt and perspiration, belying his youthfulness, his appearance matching the intensity of the war’s experience.
Peter followed the captain’s gaze to the battleground. He sensed they had reached a critical point in the fighting. He turned to the interpreter, who was still huddled beside him, unable to move, the trauma of the bombs’ near misses impacting on him, his earlier soldierly confidence gone, revealing a tormented youth’s face. Peter took the gamble, edged his way out from the rubble to view the scene. He could now hear the rumbling victorious tanks as they appeared through the smoking haze, and watched as they rolled into ordered positions. Finally, a protected motorcade circled in, unexpectedly, from the north-west of the pivotal junction.
“So this was the captain’s deadline …” he whispered. “His men had to position themselves, give this panzer army the lie of the land here, at Konotop, before their onslaught!” He shook his head as he speculated on the audacity and speed of such a campaign, thousands of kilometres from Hitler’s heartland. The surprise element of these panzergruppe armies caught out even the most dedicated Soviet forces, to their cost.