The Tolstoy Estate

by Steven Conte

  ‘It’s both. That is to say, Ivan counterattacks. At least, he’s done so once. Look over there, in front of Malevka. You’ll need the binoculars. Range, five hundred metres, give or take.’

  ‘Where’s Malevka? All I’m seeing is snow.’

  ‘Malevka’s further left, behind the trees. It’s the snow you should be looking at.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The bumps.’

  His hands were juddering with cold, but with some difficulty he managed to steady them enough to see a cluster of human-sized mounds of snow. He set down the binoculars and with the naked eye was able to see what he guessed must be scores, even hundreds, of fallen men. ‘My God, I had no idea.’

  ‘Tactically, the Ivans are donkeys. But they’re exceptionally brave. After our own attack failed they came at us in waves. We mowed them down, naturally, but that didn’t stop them coming. It was a massacre, much worse than what they’d inflicted on us, and utterly pointless. Unless the point was to make us run out of ammunition.’

  ‘Or to demonstrate their bravery?’

  ‘Well, they succeeded there.’

  Bauer took up the binoculars and again surveyed the field in front of Malevka. From one mound a foot protruded, from another a hand. ‘“When the wood is chopped,”’ he said, quoting from memory, ‘“the chips must fly.”’

  ‘Oh, and what’s that from?’

  ‘War and Peace,’ he said, lowering the binoculars. ‘Do you remember the line?’

  ‘You have to be joking. Not a chance.’

  ‘It’s General Katuzov.’

  ‘Him I do remember.’

  ‘I took note because it reminded me of that maxim of Lenin’s. You know the one?’

  ‘“You can’t make an omelette . . .”?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘That’s all very well but, Christ alive, pelting us with eggs would have hurt us more than a frontal assault.’

  Again Bauer took up the binoculars and swept them over Tula, as if to absorb the entire panorama. By chance a shell exploded in his field of view, soundlessly sending up smoke and dust, a billowy puff from a magic act, so that seconds later when the noise arrived it seemed disproportionately loud, reverberant and real.

  FIFTEEN

  Three days later, orders came from the divisional commander announcing that another offensive was imminent. Bauer read it out to his men. ‘At 06:00 hours tomorrow, Sunday, 30 November, we go on the attack again! Army Group Centre will advance on a 500-kilometre front and, by seizing Moscow, rip out the beating heart of the Bolshevik beast! To the 3rd Panzer division has fallen the honour of leading the assault on Tula, thereby securing the southern flank of this momentous operation.’

  Bauer knew it was madness. They were being led by madmen; and for the rest of his life he would recall this as the moment when he knew the war could not be won and as a consequence was lost, as the Soviets would settle for nothing less than total victory.

  After making sure that the dressing station was fully prepared for what lay ahead he visited von Rauschenberg, who was at his headquarters making preparations of his own.

  ‘But it’s crazy,’ Bauer said when they were outside and alone.

  ‘Certifiable,’ von Rauschenberg agreed.

  ‘Can’t someone tell that to the generals?’

  ‘The generals probably already know. The order was issued at the highest level, I heard.’

  ‘It’s crazy,’ repeated Bauer.

  ‘Agreed,’ von Rauschenberg said. He scratched one of his armpits. Frowned. ‘Though who knows? We keep achieving the impossible. Maybe we’ll do it this time too.’

  Bauer said nothing. Wind was soughing through the pines, setting off powdery slippages of snow.

  ‘One thing I do know for sure,’ said von Rauschenberg, ‘is that you’ll be treating some of my men tomorrow. Do your best by them, won’t you?’

  ‘Always,’ Bauer replied.

  They shook hands and wished one another luck.

  ‘Tell your men not to overeat,’ Bauer said. ‘You know, in the early hours.’

  ‘The anaesthetic? Yes, I’ll tell them. Always do. And God knows, we’ll all have ample shit on our hands.’

  * * *

  Winkel woke him at 05:45 hours and handed him a mug of real coffee. Bauer thanked him and took a sip. He was feeling unwell: lethargic, foggy-brained, his gut aching and clenched; and knowing what lay ahead that day he cursed. Spotted fever was a possibility given the lice bites he’d sustained, but also food poisoning or a viral infection. Whatever the illness was, its timing could not have been worse. Before he could even finish the coffee he was pulling on his boots and stumbling in the dark to the latrine. Once there, he tore down his trousers and blasted shit around the hole, the ice behind it and the uppers of his boots.

  At 06:00 hours the artillery opened up, and at 06:48 the first casualty arrived, a young panzerman who had lost an eye. Pflieger, administering a tetanus injection, distracted him with banter. Where was home? Berlin? Too bad, no one’s perfect. You’ll be there soon, worst luck, you’ve got your Heimatschuss. Not married? Well, you’re in luck there – an eyepatch drives the girls crazy. You think Ivan’s ferocious? On the Ku’damm you’ll be fending off women with a stick. No, I’m serious. On furlough I always put on a patch . . .

  Demchak made up the man’s field medical card, and on it Bauer recorded what they had done for him, omitting Pflieger’s psychological assistance. After a brief hesitation he left both side strips attached, denoting the least serious category of wound.

  The second casualty arrived at 07.03, and soon afterwards came the deluge, a flood of damaged, dirty and often hypothermic men. The primary task here was not surgery but triage, and being unable to operate on the worst cases was a constant torment. Adding to his difficulties was the muddled state of his brain, and the diarrhoea that repeatedly drove him from the barn. The day was freezing and blustery, and as he toiled at the latrine the noise of battle thundered overhead.

  For hours they worked in a rolling state of crisis, the wounded arriving continually but only leaving in fits and starts, the dead wrapped in shelter sheets and lugged outside into the snow. The barn was chaotic, its earthen floor fouled with bandages, spent ampoules and torn scraps of uniform. In places it was mired in blood. The wounded lay in rows with their cards about their necks, like so many bits of unclaimed baggage, whimpering, groaning or visibly clenching their teeth against the pain. Bauer cut away a man’s trousers, smelled the stench of his crotch and thought, as if at random, And it’s the Jews who stink? He had no idea how the battle was progressing but in a dash to the latrine witnessed, about two hundred metres away, a pine tree launching vertically over the forest, roots fluttering. The Soviets were giving as well as receiving, it seemed.

  Around midday he was taken aback but also relieved to see two enlisted men bringing in von Rauschenberg seated on a rifle, his arms slung over their necks. He was furious. ‘My foot, my fucking foot,’ he said when Bauer asked where he’d been hit. ‘It’s nothing. Fucking shrapnel. Go and treat someone else.’

  ‘That’s for me to decide,’ Bauer said. ‘You’re on my turf now.’ He gestured at the soldiers to set the patient down on an ammunition case. Von Rauschenberg thanked them and ordered them back to his unit. ‘Find Lieutenant Freiburg. Tell him . . . tell him to do what’s necessary but nothing more. No more heroics, understand? Not today.’ The men promised to pass on the message, saluted and left the barn. ‘The thing is,’ said von Rauschenberg, irate again, ‘I’m needed back there.’

  ‘Why, what’s happening?’ Bauer asked him, easing off the boot. Winkel arrived and offered to take over. ‘I’ll do this one,’ Bauer said. ‘The captain and I know one another.’

  The boot came off and von Rauschenberg flinched. In a lower but still furious voice, he said, ‘We attacked, and it was more or less what I expected, another fucking shambles, only worse.’ His sock was black and sopping with blood. ‘We were weaker than last ti
me, they were stronger. We got half as far.’ Using scissors Bauer cut away the sock, revealing a pulpy gap in the metatarsals. Von Rauschenberg grimaced. ‘Jesus Christ, a fucking stigmata.’

  ‘Stigma,’ Bauer corrected. ‘You only have one.’

  Von Rauschenberg laughed. ‘Pedantic sod. But fuck it, I think you’ve cheered me up.’

  ‘The shrapnel’s entered here,’ Bauer said, ‘and exited underneath.’ He showed von Rauschenberg his boot, which had a rip in its sole. ‘Like so.’

  ‘Can you get me back to my men?’

  Bauer snorted. ‘Gerd, don’t be an ass. I was about to say that with luck we should be able to save it.’

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  ‘We’ll repair you, but you’re not going back to your men.’

  ‘Scheisse.’

  ‘You ought to be grateful,’ he said, and began bandaging the wound. ‘From what I’ve seen, you’re well out of it.’ Another possible friendship lost, he thought. Or stillborn. Maybe it was better to be like Weidemann: detached for the duration.

  ‘But my men. I’ve got half of them killed.’

  ‘You didn’t order the attack.’

  ‘I could’ve held them back.’

  ‘And got shot for it? You did what you had to. And now you’re out of it.’

  ‘If I am out of it. Ivan’s counterattacking. Can you evacuate your patients any faster?’

  ‘We’re already at full stretch,’ Bauer said, securing the bandage.

  ‘Then let’s hope for the best. Now fuck off and work on someone else.’

  Bauer gave him a loose, ironical salute and got back to work. Physically he felt terrible: queasy, dizzy, tired and at least a dozen IQ points below his best. The next hour passed like the previous six, and when he went outside to the latrine again he was greeted by the sound of small-arms fire and the acrid smell of cordite in the air. His insides were producing only liquid now, and the rough toilet paper scraped his anus raw. He pulled up his trousers, desperate to get inside and wash his hands, but as he hurried out of the latrine he was brought up short by the sight of a Soviet soldier in a bulky all-white uniform jogging past not ten paces away, oblivious to his presence and apparently alone; and because of this, and because he could think of nothing else to do, Bauer drew his pistol and in Russian yelled at the man to stop. The soldier skidded, spun about. He was pale, bewildered, helmetless and young.

  ‘Ruki vverkh!’ Bauer yelled, but instead of putting up his hands the young soldier bellowed and ran straight at him. ‘Halt,’ screamed Bauer, shocked into German, ‘halt!’ – but the boy kept on coming and Bauer shot him in the chest, knocking him backwards onto the snow. Bauer lowered his weapon. He was breathing fast. Shivering cold, hot. The boy was writhing, his white uniform reddening where the bullet had gone through. He was carrying no weapon. No firearm at all. Had charged at him with empty hands – Bauer could picture it now in photographic detail, yet at the time he hadn’t known it, not consciously. He knelt down, still holding his pistol, wary even now. The boy’s chest was heaving, and with each breath his wound slurped, a drooling, secondary mouth. He was trying to say something and so Bauer drew nearer, though ready even now to spring away.

  ‘Zachem?’ the boy asked. ‘Why?’ His eyes were wide, bewildered.

  Bauer said nothing, could only shake his head. From one of his pockets he tugged a handkerchief and pressed it to the wound, hoping to silence it, to make it go quiet, and although he muffled the noise the haemorrhaging continued. There was more blood, he noticed, on the boy’s white hood, and when he drew it back he saw a second or, more properly, a primary wound on the young soldier’s head. What the boy was – what he had been already, running past – was a casualty, someone needing medical care.

  In the doorway of the barn Demchak appeared, and Bauer yelled for a stretcher. Then he turned back to the boy and said urgently in Russian, ‘I’m going to help you, understand? I’m a doctor. I’m going to help.’

  SIXTEEN

  Without saying so outright, his men made it clear they weren’t willing to treat an enemy combatant, and for Bauer, sick as he was, still trembling with shock, making them do it felt beyond him. Demchak, in particular, was obdurate, but even Winkel looked dubious, glancing more than once at their compatriots strewn over the floor. Then abruptly Gerd von Rauschenberg was there, wielding a rifle as a crutch and threatening to have any man who disobeyed court-martialled. The men complied, Demchak sullenly, Winkel and Pflieger speedily enough, and because there was no question of sending a Soviet casualty to Yasnaya Polyana, Bauer prepared to operate. A blood transfusion would have helped, but the boy, a private, either didn’t know or was too shocked to surely remember his blood type, and in any case it was unclear if anyone would be willing to donate. Sick as he was, Bauer couldn’t do it himself. Working quickly then, in the time allowed by a single dose of Pentothal, he opened the boy’s lung and retrieved the bullet – his bullet, personally loaded six months ago in Brest-Litovsk – staunched the bleeding, mended the lung then sutured the incision. He’d done what he could. Demchak and Pflieger laid the boy down with the other patients. There was other work to do.

  Two hours later darkness fell and the sounds of battle died away, but for another six hours Bauer kept working, feeling more and more unwell, until at last he was forced to lie down for the night, leaving Winkel in command. He slept badly, disturbed by the moaning of the wounded, by an aching gut and aching limbs, as well as dreams in which the dead Clara implored him for help which he was too tired, too confused, too frantically busy to give.

  At daybreak more casualties started to arrive, bringing news with them that the Soviet counterattack had been stopped. The battle had swung to and fro all day, and several times the division had been forced to plug breaches in the lines. Both sides had been badly mauled, and the front was now quiet. Bauer checked on the young Russian and found him still alive, but only just.

  Lorries and ambulances kept arriving to take the casualties away, and in the middle of the morning Metz radioed to say that he wanted Bauer and his team back at Yasnaya Polyana, since Erich Pilcz was unwell and being sent back to Germany. A surgical team from Chern would replace them at the dressing station. There was no need to wait; the replacements were already on their way.

  Pflieger whooped when he heard the news, and Winkel also looked pleased, perhaps thinking optimistically about Daria Grigorievna. Bauer himself hardly knew what he thought. He was feeling wretched, and along with the thought of having to put up with Metz again he felt wary about returning to a place that mentally he had already consigned to the past. Still, he would get to do proper surgery again, and the conditions at Yasnaya Polyana were unquestionably better than at the front. And of course there was Katerina. Plus or minus? He didn’t know.

  It took a couple of hours to prepare for their departure. Bauer and Demchak were to travel in a Kübelwagen, equipment and kit bags piled into its storage well, the wounded Soviet soldier on a stretcher lashed sideways to the bonnet. According to the scroll that the Ivans carried in little cylinders about their necks, the private’s name was Kirov, Pyotr Maximovich, aged twenty. The same age as Katerina’s son. But not her son, thank Christ. That kind of coincidence – the kind beloved of nineteenth-century fiction – was, if not impossible, then exceptionally rare, and in this instance fate had been merciful.

  Winkel and Pflieger were to travel in the salvaged T-34, along with four moderately wounded men inside and nine with lighter wounds on the hull, all heavily blanketed against softly falling snow. One of these was to be von Rauschenberg, who had commandeered a pair of crutches and, though obviously in pain, was hopping about supervising the loading and preparation of the tank, paying particular attention to the flags which, along with the reversed turret, would lessen the risk of being attacked by their own side. When Bauer went to help him onto the tank, von Rauschenberg nodded towards the casualty on the Kübelwagen. ‘Are you sure about that? They won’t let you keep him, you know.’

>   ‘I’m not wanting a pet.’

  ‘And he might die anyway.’

  ‘That’s true, he might. But I’m a doctor. It’s my job to delay death as long as possible.’

  ‘To keep Death tapping his bony fingers with impatience? A noble aim. Lately all I’ve done is roll out the red carpet.’

  They said goodbye and a short time later got underway, part of a convoy led by an ambulance and two lorries, followed by the tank and lastly the Kübelwagen. Bauer could feel every frozen rut in the road and winced at the thought of the pull and shear forces on the Soviet boy’s newly sutured wounds. Stretched out on the vehicle’s bonnet he was like an offering of some kind. But an offering to whom? Metz, for one, would not be pleased.

  In both directions the road was busy with supply wagons, ambulances and lorries, so that repeatedly they had to stop or slow down to let oncoming traffic get by. At the causeway over the frozen lake a traffic jam had formed, with vehicles on both sides vying to use the single lane. Bauer sighed. So much for the Wehrmacht’s celebrated powers of organisation. In normal circumstances he might have got out and taken charge, but today he felt too unwell. Let someone else sort it out. Instead he scanned the sky for Soviet reconnaissance aircraft, conscious that an enemy artillery barrage would make this a very unhealthy place to be.

  After a lengthy wait they reached the causeway and began to cross, keeping to the centre on account of the camber on both sides. In this the T-34 had little choice, being so wide it almost spanned the road. It advanced slowly, its exhaust fumes swirling back over the Kübelwagen. Thinking of the patient on the bonnet Bauer asked Demchak to put more space between them, only for the tank to come to a sudden stop. ‘Christ, what now?’ he said. Not a mechanical problem, he prayed – not here, not now, with thirteen wounded men on board – fourteen counting the Soviet casualty – most of them exposed to the freezing air. The tank’s engine was still running, still spewing exhaust in their faces, an encouraging sign, he supposed; then over the noise of the engines – the tank’s, their own – there came the sound of raised voices, some kind of heated exchange, in which Bauer could hear the refined but angry voice of Gerd von Rauschenberg. Bauer turned to Demchak and ordered him to go forward and find out what was happening, and in moments the Ukrainian was springing onto the back of the tank, picking his way among the wounded passengers then vaulting the turret. He reappeared a couple of minutes later, leaped down and got back into the Kübelwagen, his expression as usual unreadable. ‘We have to go back.’