by Steven Conte
‘You look uneasy, Sepp.’
‘I do?’
‘My fault,’ Bauer said. ‘I shouldn’t have disturbed you.’ He began to get up then noticed a nodule at the front of Winkel’s armpit, a dark, strangely bristled lump in his underarm hair. Winkel noticed him noticing and covered up, revealing a similar protrusion at the back of his armpit, on the fleshy edge of the teres major. ‘Sepp, what is that?’ Bauer asked.
‘What is what?’
‘That thing in your armpit. Those things, I should say.’
‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’
‘Then why cover up?’
At this point Winkel dropped his head between his arms, and if possible seemed to shrink further into himself. He didn’t want to answer, that was obvious, but on the other hand he looked so distraught that Bauer felt duty-bound to persist. ‘Well?’
Winkel groaned, raised his head and dragged downwards on his face, giving it a rubbery expression of pop-eyed resignation. ‘You won’t tell the others?’ he asked, letting the skin recoil.
‘If you don’t want me to, no.’
‘Then I suppose take a look,’ he said, swung his legs off the bench and raised his left elbow, exposing his armpit.
Bauer went closer. There were four lumps in total – skin tags, he was relieved to see, each trussed at the base with suture thread. ‘You did this?’ he asked, straining not to laugh. Winkel nodded, looking miserable. Along with the ones he was garrotting there were some smaller tags he’d left alone, presumably because he’d been unable to lasso them. ‘Well, I must say I admire your dexterity,’ Bauer said, ‘you could have been a surgeon. And there’s nothing wrong with your thinking either – these are starting to shrivel.’
Winkel lowered his arm. ‘So you think they’ll fall off, sir?’ ‘Yes, in time. But, Sepp, you should have come to me. I can get rid of these for you in a minute or two. It’ll sting a bit, but not for long. And there’ll be less chance of infection.’
‘Sir, it’s embarrassing. You’ve better things to do.’
‘As I said, it won’t take long. Any others?’
Winkel raised his right arm, revealing another two knotted tags, each with a little ruff of hair.
‘I’ll do it tomorrow when I get a spare moment,’ Bauer said. ‘Some of the smaller ones too.’
‘You really won’t tell anyone?’
‘Of course not. I’m a doctor.’
‘Because – this is hard to say, sir – that’s not all of them,’ Winkel said, glancing downwards.
‘Ah, I see. Never mind. We’ll deal with those too.’
Winkel thanked him and Bauer returned to the opposite bench. ‘But Sepp, I’m curious,’ he asked. ‘Why now? Is it Daria Grigorievna?’ he asked, unable to think of a more tactful way to introduce the topic.
‘Sir,’ Winkel said.
Hurriedly, Bauer said, ‘God knows it’s understandable, we’re all lonely here. It’s just I’m not sure that Daria Grigorievna is the answer.’ Winkel’s expression was rigid, defensive. Bauer went on, ‘I should be clear, this isn’t about the race laws. As far as I’m concerned they’re nonsense.’
‘What is it about then?’ Winkel asked. ‘It’s that sooner or later we’ll be leaving here, and that could place Daria Grigorievna in a difficult position.’
‘I’ve already thought of that, sir. I’ll arrange to send her money.’
‘Right. I see. So you’re serious about her. But Sepp, if you don’t mind me saying, isn’t this all a bit sudden? You’ve only known her for – what is it? – less than two weeks. You can’t have been in her company for more than two hours altogether.’
‘Sir, that’s true but trust me, that’s long enough. Long enough to know. My wife and I, we grew up in the same tenement. Played in the same courtyard. This is a different thing. When I saw Daria for the first time I thought, “Here is someone special. Here is someone I need to know.”’
Bauer pictured Daria Grigorievna, a stout woman with coarse and mottled skin, and caught himself wondering uncharitably what Winkel found so tantalising about her. ‘You say you need to know her. Are you sure this isn’t more about the death of your wife? A reaction to it? How long has it been?’
‘Two years. Or more like three. Sir, I loved my wife. Loved her dearly. But this feels different – as if fate itself has brought me and Daria together.’
‘But you don’t even share a common language!’
‘I’m working on that, sir. And anyway, what we share is deeper than language. We love one another. We’re going to get married. I don’t know how yet, but we will. I’ll make sure of it.’
Bauer hesitated, rather alarmed for him but also a little awed. ‘Good for you,’ he said at last.
‘Thank you, sir, I knew you’d understand.’
‘I’m not sure I do, to be honest. But I admire your tenacity. Just bear in mind though, since you love her, that if the war turns against us her countrymen won’t look kindly on her relationship with you.’
‘Sir?’
‘She could be imprisoned, Sepp. Even killed.’
He looked troubled by this; clearly it hadn’t occurred to him before. Bauer said, ‘Just be discreet, that’s all. Particularly around her own people. Katerina Dmitrievna, for example – she’s a good woman but if we’re forced to retreat she might feel it’s her duty to report any fraternisation between us and her staff. I’m not saying that’s likely, mind, just a possibility.’
‘Of course, sir. I see what you mean. But do you really think we might have to retreat?’
‘I don’t know. We seem to be winning but are we winning hard enough? Now that I just don’t know.’
* * *
Friday, 14 November. They had been at Yasnaya Polyana for little more than two weeks, and yet as Bauer stood waiting for Metz by the stairs their stay felt longer, both for good and ill, a time of recuperation of sorts, but also of forced introspection, the newsreel motion and clamour of their advance from Brest-Litovsk having abruptly come unspooled.
It would be good to get out, he decided. Metz had promised him a drive today in the ZIS, the repaired limousine, a mobile meeting in which Bauer planned to point out the advantages of supplying the villagers with medicines and food.
Metz emerged from his office at the other end of the corridor, threw back his shoulders and strutted the ten metres to the entrance hall. ‘Ready?’ he said. Bauer answered by snapping his heels together, surprising himself with his enthusiasm.
Outside, the day was calm and, by recent standards, luminous, the snow bright beneath a pale-blue sky. The temperature had risen to a remarkable minus three degrees, so that the walk to the motor pool was almost pleasurable. They arrived to find the ZIS parked outside, its engine idling. Nearby in one of the coach-house doorways stood Egon Ehrlich, who saluted their approach. Metz returned the salute then turned his attention to the car, now painted Wehrmacht grey, with red cross insignia on its roof and front doors. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘It’s a nice car, sir,’ Bauer said, ‘if that’s what you mean.’
Metz chuckled. ‘Captain, there are two types of men in this world: those who can recognise the beauty of machinery and those who can’t. You, I see, are of the latter kind.’
‘I must say, sir, I’m surprised that you’re so impressed by a Soviet vehicle.’
‘Well, naturally the engine is rubbish,’ Metz said equably. ‘That’s why it broke down. But Winkel assures me he’s fixed its hereditary flaws, as it were. No, it’s the body I admire. Just look at those lines! That sweep. Those curves. I can acknowledge good design when I see it.’ In apparent seriousness he went on, ‘Perhaps they stole it from a German. Anyway, get in,’ Metz said. ‘Egon will drive.’
Bauer disliked the idea of Ehrlich listening to what he had to say, but if more wounded arrived he and Metz might not be able to meet again for days. He went around the car and got in alongside Metz in the back. Ehrlich took his place at the wheel, revved the engine then gently s
teered onto the estate’s main drive. ‘Easy does it,’ Metz said, ‘there’s likely to be ice. I don’t want her going back to the workshop, Corporal.’
Regular use was keeping the driveway open to traffic, and as they reached the front gates Bauer saw that the main road, too, remained driveable – though winter, he reminded himself, had a long way to run. Strictly speaking, it hadn’t even started.
‘Stop here, Corporal, and turn around,’ Metz said.
Bauer glanced at him. ‘Forgotten something, sir?’
‘Not at all.’
On the open ground before the gates Ehrlich turned around then drove the car back the way they’d come, but instead of returning to the motor pool they continued on to the main house. There Metz instructed Ehrlich to circle the forecourt and to Bauer’s astonishment they went back down the drive. Metz turned to him. ‘So, Captain, what did you want to discuss?’
‘Let me see,’ Bauer said, trying to collect his thoughts. Whenever he began to think of Metz as normal – the Metz he’d known in France: an able, predictable man – along came evidence of some new peculiarity. ‘It’s about the local people, sir. Frau Trubetzkaya has asked us for a donation of medical supplies. Just a small amount. I believe we should agree, sir. It will be in our own long-term interests.’
‘How so?’
‘Because the locals are useful to us. Certainly they haven’t been causing us any trouble. We should aim to keep it that way.’
‘Bauer, Bauer – what did I say about Frau Kälter? Watch her! I said. And now she has you on a string. You fancy yourself in love with her, I suppose.’ He leaned forward. ‘Another turn about, Corporal, if you please.’ They were back at the front gates, Bauer realised; as instructed, Ehrlich turned the car around. Metz slid back onto the seat. ‘Well, Captain, what do you have to say for yourself?’
‘That I’m curious why we’re driving in circles.’
‘We aren’t circling, Captain, we’re oscillating on a line.’
‘All right, oscillating. Why?’
‘Because beyond those gates there are units of active partisans. It will take us time to entirely pacify the place.’
‘Sir, wouldn’t that happen faster if the local people didn’t hate us? We need to give them reasons not to help the partisans.’
‘That’s what reprisals are for. Kill one of us and they’ll have twenty reasons not to do it again.’
‘Positive reasons, I mean. I’m no historian, but it seems to me that the Ancient Romans, as well as being excellent soldiers, were clever assimilators of conquered peoples. They were wise enough to reward compliance.’
‘The Romans, ha! And where did that get them? Racial degeneration, that’s where. Lacking a proper theory of race, they bred willy-nilly with subject peoples. The results were catastrophic.’
‘In the end. Arguably. Though their empire did last a thousand years – two thousand, counting the Byzantines. Even the Führer is only promising us a thousand.’
‘A prudent man, the Führer.’
Bauer wondered if this was a joke. Surely not, since if he knew one thing about Metz it was that he lacked a sense of humour.
They had reached the main house again, and Metz signalled Ehrlich to return to the gate.
Bauer said, ‘Isn’t this rather a waste of fuel?’
‘We need to run her in, Captain. And anyway, if you’d had your way we’d be God knows where by now – halfway to Oryol.’
‘If you let me out here, sir, I can walk over to the hospital.’
‘Let me drive you,’ Metz said.
‘Thank you, sir. And please give more thought to sending medical supplies to the village. Yes, I know we’re running low, but I’m convinced a small outlay now will save us problems later on.’
‘Absolutely not, Captain. Don’t you realise we’re among savages here? Generosity would be interpreted as weakness.’
They pulled up at the front of the hospital. The discussion, if not their route, had been circular and Bauer was glad to be out of it. He stepped from the car and was reaching for the door when Metz twirled a finger at Ehrlich. ‘Once more for luck, I think, Corporal.’
Bauer pushed the door shut.
TEN
After the comparatively balmy conditions the day before, the temperature dropped overnight to minus eighteen degrees. The morning was windy, worsening the cold, and setting out for the hospital with Winkel and Molineux, Bauer almost slipped several times on the ice, forcing him to walk in the style of a skater, knees slightly bent, legs a little apart.
As they approached the turnoff for the Volkonsky House, Katerina appeared coming the other way, her footing seemingly secure. Molineux made a bullhorn of his hands, yelled his customary greeting but got no reply. ‘Time of the month,’ he said sideways. In fact it was clear that Katerina hadn’t heard him; the wind was against her and her head was lowered, her ushanka a fur-lined battering ram. She was close before she noticed them, and then barely reacted. Bauer asked her if anything was wrong.
‘Apart from the war?’ she said, without slowing down.
‘Irina Petrovna?’ Winkel asked, a name that meant nothing to Bauer but instantly made Katerina halt.
‘Who’s she, then?’ Molineux said. ‘And why don’t I know?’
‘The baby’s come?’ persisted Winkel.
‘Not yet,’ Katerina answered.
‘You’re worried?’
‘I am. She’s weakening.’
Irina Petrovna, Winkel explained, was Daria Grigorievna’s daughter, who at twenty-one was due to give birth to her first child. Bauer asked Katerina if the village had a midwife.
‘It did, but she died. Only weeks ago. Daria is there with her mother and sister.’
A minute later it was settled that if Daria’s daughter was still in labour when Bauer completed his rounds he and Winkel would go to the village and see what could be done. Katerina thanked him, lightly touching his sleeve.
‘You’re sure about this?’ asked Molineux when they had parted from her. ‘Metz’ll have a seizure.’
‘I’ll deal with that afterwards.’
‘He needn’t hear about it,’ put in Winkel. ‘I know a back way out.’
Molineux guffawed. ‘A back way to your lady love? Winkel, you depraved little man, I salute you.’
‘We’ll go the front way,’ said Bauer firmly. ‘If there are consequences I’ll deal with them. If necessary, Sepp, I’ll tell Metz you were acting on my orders.’
‘The truth?’ Molineux asked, sounding doubtful. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? And what if you run into partisans?’
‘My guess is that partisans are leaving Yasnaya Polyana alone,’ Bauer said.
‘The village too?’
‘The village was once part of the estate.’
Molineux gave a low whistle of admiration. ‘That’s one gutsy guess, Bauer. Hell, if this doesn’t get both of you heaps of Bolshevik pussy there’s no justice in the world.’
At the hospital Bauer was intercepted by Zöllner asking for help with a patient, another man who had lost his eyelids to frostbite. Bauer was unsure what Zöllner expected of him, as the damage couldn’t be repaired in a field hospital and the patient would have to be evacuated, but nevertheless he agreed to go. At the patient’s bedside Zöllner looked uneasy, apparently more troubled by the swivelling eyes of a man forced to see than by more commonplace cases of blinding. Gently Bauer briefed the patient about what a maxillofacial surgeon might be able to do for him in Germany, emphasising the chances of a favourable outcome, though in truth he was guessing. The patient thanked him warmly, a tone at odds with his skittish gaze. Zöllner instructed a nursing attendant to regularly bathe the man’s eyes and between times to cover them with patches – less a physiological than a psychological treatment, suspected Bauer, and quite possibly more for Zöllner’s benefit than the patient’s.
As the morning wore on and no message arrived from the village, Bauer thought frequently of his offer to help Daria Grigorie
vna’s daughter. Were partisans really avoiding the district, he wondered, or simply readying themselves for action? Could this, in fact, be their first operation? Winkel had astonished Bauer by admitting to having already slipped away at night to visit Daria Grigorievna in the hut she shared with her family, though apparently her pregnant daughter had been absent at the time. What if this daughter, this Irina Petrovna, was a fiction, Bauer wondered, a way of drawing a German officer into a trap initially prepared for the corporal? There was no way of knowing, but he had committed himself and couldn’t back out now.
He finished his rounds before midday and, having heard nothing from Katerina, sent Winkel to fetch a vehicle from the motor pool. Shortly afterwards Winkel pulled up outside the hospital in the unit’s Kübelwagen. ‘There was nothing else?’ Bauer asked, lowering two bags of equipment into the storage well.
‘I’m afraid not, sir. Not counting the ZIS, that is. Should I get some blankets?’
‘No, best get away while we can,’ he said, and climbed into the passenger seat.
At the front gate a sentry asked where they were going, looked perplexed by the answer but waved them through all the same. Across the road a newly erected signpost bristled with planks inscribed with the names of cities and their distance from Yasnaya Polyana.
‘Victoria?’ Winkel asked. ‘Where’s Victoria?’
‘It’s Latin,’ Bauer said, ‘for “victory”.’
‘Oh yeah? It doesn’t say how far, though, does it.’
‘Just the direction,’ agreed Bauer. ‘Tula and Moscow.’
‘And we’re going the other way,’ Winkel said, turning in the direction of the village. A light snow was falling, and as they picked up speed the windscreen did less and less to block the wind, but Bauer was pleased to be in open countryside again. A quicksilver cloudscape. The buffeting cold. Frozen ruts as tangled as railway switches. Low distant ridges that bracketed the plain, paradoxically making it look wider.
Yes, it was good to be out, but in a short time they were entering the village, a string of huts on either side of the Chern to Tula road. Left and right a few side roads terminating in snow. There was no one about. Presumably those who hadn’t fled the German advance were taking shelter from the weather. The emptiness of the place felt eerie.