Laugh of the Hyenas

by Ivan Roussetzki

  “You’re a clever young man, Sergeant. Don’t let Belevski or the Gestapo trailing him out of your sight. Update me every hour. I even want to know when and where the doctor and his German shadows piss! And don’t lose them if you know what’s good for you, because your job is far from over.”

  On Thursday Letchkov followed Dr. Belevski and the two Gestapo agents the entire day. Milev received his final report at 10:00 p.m.

  May 22: From 1:00 to 3:30 p.m., subjects walked in and out of the gardens in front of the National Theater. The doctor appeared to be looking for someone, but he rarely stopped to sit and made no contact with anyone in the garden. It was unclear as to whether Belevski knew he was under surveillance by the Gestapo.

  At 3:30 p.m. Belevski walked westward along the back streets to the Woman’s Market, where he drifted from vendor to vendor and rummaged through trashcans for food. He apparently felt safe here because of the crowds.

  The Gestapo agents kept their distance but never lost sight of him, except when he entered the Church of Saint Kiril I Metodii about 6:30 p.m. A half-hour later, at approximately 7:00 p.m., he made his way by the back streets to the railroad station. There he slipped under an abandoned railcar to sleep, where he remains at this time.

  The two Gestapo agents continue their surveillance and have not detected our counter-surveillance operation.

  Respectfully submitted by Sergeant Ivan Letchkov

  Now Milev was sure that Lupus was trying to lure Noverman and Lopié into a trap. And, thank God, it appeared likely that his German boss was unaware of his contact with the doctor. However, time was running out, and Milev had to act before it was too late. Milev’s plan was risky, but if it worked, Belevski would be silenced, and Milev would be off the hook. Milev chose Sergeant Letchkov to act as his executioner.

  The Woman’s Market was always a crowded place, but even more so on Saturdays. Boisterous women vendors from miles around Sofia arrived early in the morning to sell their fruits and vegetables and to sit on mounds of raw wool as they shouted at passersby. The chaos of the market made it a perfect place for Letchkov to commit the deed and then slip away unnoticed into the crowded jumble of people.

  “Sergeant, listen carefully,” Milev said. “You must slip between Belevski and the Gestapo agents after he enters the crowd at the market. When the Germans are busy trying to negotiate the masses of people there, use your knife, and use it well. Belevski is an enemy of Bulgaria, and I will personally reward you for your heroism.”

  “Yes sir,” Letchkov said.

  “And you must be sure he is dead—and make no mistake about it,” Milev said. “Skewer him like a shish-kabob. Then get the hell out of the market and get back to your desk at the police station before anyone notices that you’ve left. I will take care of everything else.”

  “Yes sir.”

  In a way, Milev felt sorry for this promising young policeman who had saved his life, but unfortunately the police chief’s hands were tied. Sergeant Letchkov would know too much to remain alive. After he did his job, Milev would make sure that he never told anyone anything again. It was really too bad, because he was growing fond of the young man who had saved his life. Such are the misfortunes of war.

  CHAPTER 40

  I cannot describe to you the pleasure I had making those scum confess to lighting the fire at the Reichstag. Of course, they didn’t do it, but once we took them to Moabit Prison… I especially remember one old man …”

  Helen couldn’t get the Nazi’s vile confession and the vision of his burning body out of her head. If she told Jean what she had done on the train to Sofia, he would have been livid and ordered her back to Istanbul right then. The fact that she had murdered the Gestapo officer would remain her secret alone. But there was no time to dwell on that now. She needed to meet Jean in the Sofia Theater Garden and find Manol.

  “The National Theater, quick as you can.” she said in Bulgarian to the taxi driver. As she sped along the bumpy streets of Sofia, Helen wondered how they would get Manol out of the country without alerting the Bulgarian police or the Gestapo. To shake the fear of getting caught out of her mind, she touched up her makeup and used the mirror to glance though the taxi’s rear window.

  Helen was sure she hadn’t been followed, but she could never be too careful where the Gestapo was concerned. Before they left Istanbul, Jean reminded her to be extremely vigilant about getting to their rendezvous without being detected. One small mistake, one false assumption, one miscalculation could easily cost all of them—Manol, Jean and her—their lives.

  She paid the driver, got out of the cab, and glanced at the facade of the Baroque building that was now the home of the National Theater. Built by the father of the present Czar, the one-time palace was a tribute to the triumph and tragedy of the Ferdinand dynasty. But at that moment, Helen was not concerned with the past. For now she had to concentrate on the fate of another man’s life and how she was going to help him.

  The sun had broken through the clouds and lit the manicured flowerbeds of the gardens that surrounded the Czar’s Palace, the Department of Defense, and the Telegraph and Telephone Central Station. The area blossomed with crowds of strolling lovers, mothers pushing baby carriages, grandparents playing with grandchildren, elegantly dressed gentlemen, clerks from the surrounding ministerial offices, tradesmen, vagrants, and dozens of Bulgarian police and German soldiers. Fountains opposite the majestic neoclassical National Theater sparkled in the sunlight. Everyone in Sofia seemed to be in the garden that day—hopefully Dr. Manol Belevski was too.

  “Quick Helen, sit down on the bench and kiss me,” Jean said. A squad of three German soldiers approached them with their machineguns hanging at their sides. They stopped no more than a few steps away from the embracing couple and lit cigarettes. Helen felt their eyes staring at them.

  “Slap me,” Jean whispered, “and then storm off. I’ll follow you, and we can kiss again and make up.”

  The soldiers laughed at the lover’s spat and went along their way.

  “Now let’s find Manol and get out of here!” she said.

  After two hours of searching separately for Manol, Helen and Jean sat beside one another on a park bench, tired and frustrated.

  “We’ll find him,” she said. “He’s got to be here.”

  Helen felt a surge of fear well up in her stomach as she saw the soldiers who had passed them moments ago hauling a tattered-looking old man into a waiting truck. At first Helen thought the man might be Manol, but when she saw the face of a frightened gypsy she let out a sigh of relief.

  “Helen, it’s nearly four o’clock. We’ve been all over this place several times. If Manol were here, we would have spotted him, or he would have seen us.”

  “Maybe he’s wearing a disguise, Jean, or maybe he’s hiding somewhere close by. We’ve got to keep looking. Please!”

  They separated again and searched for another hour without any luck. Helen nearly jumped out of her skin when Jean tapped her shoulder from behind and handed her a bouquet of flowers.

  “Helen, listen to me.” Helen knew from the tone of his voice that their search for Manol was over. “It is likely that Manol may have already been arrested or is dead. In either case, we are in considerable danger. The Gestapo has had enough time to search the whole of Sofia from top to bottom at least twice.”

  “But Jean, we can’t just abandon him!”

  ”He’s not here, and we’ve got to get out of here before it’s too late.”

  “Let’s at least try contacting our courier. Please! Maybe she’ll know something.” Helen insisted.

  

  Madam Petrana Koleva lived in a small house on Pozitano Street in the shadow of several large turn-of-the-century buildings. Two tall cherry trees and a profusion of gangly lilac bushes, pregnant with blossoms, dwarfed her cottage. The sweet aroma of lilac filled the air on the deserted street. Jean left Helen on the corner to watch for trouble and went to take a closer look at the house. She had bare
ly turned her head around when Jean grabbed her elbow and squeezed it hard.

  “Turn around and walk the other way, but not too fast. Don’t look behind you. There is a car with four men in it parked under a large tree across from the grocery store.”

  As they walked, the car started its engine and rolled slowly after them. Helen could hear the hum of the motor nearly on top of them when she and Jean slipped into a dour-looking red brick building, Sofia’s oldest church, the Rotunda of Saint George. They bought two candles, lit them, and placed them in the box of sand beside the altar. As they kneeled to pray, Jean spoke in whispers.

  “The Gestapo and the Bulgarian police are all over her house. I spotted two agents by the front door and another one in the backyard. I think I saw them before they saw me, but we’ve got to get out of here before those thugs in the car outside decide to start asking us questions.”

  Then, as if their enemy and God had both heard Jean’s remarks, Helen turned around and saw that three large men in Bulgarian police uniforms had entered the rear of the church. Their footsteps echoed ever closer, while at the same time the priest walked down the center aisle and approached them from the front. Jean reached into his coat pocket for his pistol, and Helen looked up at Jesus on the cross and prayed aloud, “God, please save my mother, I beg you! She doesn’t deserve to die. Father, please help us!”

  The priest reached them, nodded his head in Helen’s direction, and put his hand on her shoulder. He then continued down the aisle toward the men. Helen could hear the priest whisper something to one of the policemen. They exchanged more words, after which the priest reached into his robe and gave each of the men several gold coins. Without another word, the men accepted the priest’s money, turned around and marched out.

  “You are safe for the moment,” the priest said, “but you must leave right away.” After breathing a long sigh of relief, Helen and Jean stood and thanked the priest for his help. They didn’t ask him what he had said or given to the men, but Jean left enough money in the collection plate to keep the church running for a month.

  Helen and Jean slipped out the back door of the church and walked to the Woman’s Market, where they checked into separate rooms in one of several small hotels overlooking the plaza. After preparing for tomorrow’s border crossing, Helen lay alone on her bed in her room. She shivered when she thought about the men in the car who followed them into the church and how they could have been arrested. Helen wondered if she had the courage to bite into the cyanide capsule in her purse if her luck ran out and there was no Jean, no priest, or anyone else to save her.

  Helen and Jean had new identity cards for themselves and Manol hidden in double-bottomed suitcases for their journey back to Istanbul. But they also needed to replace other objects, such as letters, photos, personal items in their wallets, even “pocket litter” such as ticket stubs or receipts, to create credible new identities. Every detail had to be perfect when the Gestapo on the train or the border officers asked them for their papers, or God forbid, searched them. One wrong word or inconsistent item could be the end of them. Helen was physically and emotionally exhausted but unable to fall asleep. Instead, her mind bounced spasmodically from one thought to another.

  What if Manol was still out there? What if the Gestapo hadn’t found him? What if his message was genuine? She couldn’t abandon him. She just couldn’t!

  

  I’m playing in a cobblestone courtyard with a young boy of four or five. We toss a red ball back and forth and pitch it into an empty fruit basket propped against a wall. The ball bounces out of the basket, and the boy chases it along the gray cobblestones, which transform into a deep blue pool of water. The boy falls in and struggles for a moment to stay afloat, but the weight of his clothes makes him sink. I can see him clearly. He’s lying on the bottom of the pool, the air bubbles pouring from his blue lips as he cries out silently for help. I want to jump into the pool to save him, but I can’t move. My feet are so heavy, and my shoes are stuck to the cobblestones. I cry out to the boy, “Don’t give up! Don’t give up!” but he cannot hear me. Suddenly, I’m free. I dive into the water and desperately swim toward the boy’s limp body.

  CHAPTER 41

  “Where are Lopié and Noverman? Don’t they know I’m here waiting for them? They’ve forgotten all about me, the liars.”

  An old soldier in a World War I uniform complete with polished medals paraded by the doctor without so much as a nod of his head. Then Dr. Belevski’s heart skipped a beat. He saw two people from behind facing the flowerbeds. She was dressed in a fashionable brown dress and a fancy feathered hat. He was in a fine suit. The doctor approached them and spoke softly.

  “Ah finally, you’ve come to help me. Thank God.”

  The couple turned around, and their startled look revealed the bitter truth. All the strangers saw was a shabby man with a scruffy beard and a week’s worth of dirt. The man grabbed the woman by the arm, and they marched away.

  “Is this how you repay one of your most ‘valuable’ agents?” the doctor said and began to sob again.

  He had spent days looking for Noverman and Lopié, but they were nowhere to be seen. He had to keep moving because there were German soldiers and Bulgarian policemen everywhere. The doctor saw policemen questioning people in the park and showing them something. Was it a photograph of him? If the policemen got any closer, he was sure that they would arrest him on the spot, although the way the doctor looked, he doubted that even his own mother would recognize him.

  Since Belevski passed his desperate message to the courier over a week ago, he had gone from the Theater Garden to the Woman’s Market, and then slipped off to the train station to sleep under an abandoned railway car. Still, he had received no response or contact from Lopié, Noverman, or anyone else who might have been able to help him escape Sofia.

  Since it was Saturday, he returned to the Central Post Office, hoping to see the woman in black and again beg for her help. The doctor wandered outside the building until nearly 6:00 p.m., but she never showed up. Now he was more confused and afraid than ever.

  Belevski wondered if they had rescued her and abandoned him. Had the Bulgarian police or the Gestapo had arrested, tortured and killed her? She was his last hope, and if she was gone, the doctor knew he was doomed. Perhaps Milev had intercepted his message, and Lopié didn’t even know that he was in trouble. Deep down, Belevski was afraid that Jean Lopié would not risk his own skin to save him. And he was sure Helen Noverman couldn’t have cared less if he lived or died.

  A few days ago, Belevski even considered attempting to cross into Greece on his own, but he decided to wait a little longer. What with all the military activity in the area and the borders crawling with German patrols and police, going it alone without forged papers and a good cover would probably lead to his death. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t wait much longer, and he had to keep moving.

  It was near sunset, and he was tired and hungry. So, for the seventh time this week, Belevski went back to the Woman’s Market. As always, it was crowded and noisy, with hoards of people scurrying from stall to stall to buy food for an evening meal. The doctor bought a chunk of cheese and some bread. Then he moved along, when by chance, two colleagues from the hospital brushed his filthy coat as they passed. Like all those who saw the doctor, he appeared to them to be just another dirty vagabond. They turned away from him, hoping he wouldn’t ask them for money. Belevski moaned like a crazy beggar.

  “Oh God, why doesn’t someone help me?” “Please! Don’t leave me here. Don’t let them fool you, Manol. Oh God, I miss Spasia and my girls. Stay calm, Manol. You must wait. Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving. God, I’m so tired.”

  CHAPTER 42

  The marketplace was the usual mixture of braying donkeys, noisy crowds, aromatic foods, and squabbling buyers and sellers bargaining over everything from wicker baskets full of tobacco to bags of fragrant blossoms from the Valley of the Roses. The din made it almost impossible to
hear anything, particularly the scream of a man being murdered.

  Milev watched and waited from the window of a second-floor room in a small hotel overlooking the square. He guessed that it would only be a matter of time before Belevski found his way back to the market. He smoked one cigarette after another. He scanned the with high-powered binoculars but there was no sign of the doctor. It was nearly 6:00 p.m. when he finally saw Dr. Belevski enter the plaza. Milev knew that the German agents and Letchkov were not far behind.

  Sergeant Letchkov stalked his prey in the early evening light. He was a natural-born predator who hunted like a cat, using remarkable stealth. Wearing a dark overcoat and broad-rimmed hat, he edged closer to his intended victim, gliding easily through the morass of people and animals like a hot knife cutting a block of butter. Belevski was unaware of the assassin’s presence, as were the Gestapo agents who struggled to follow the doctor through the confusion that filled the open-air market.

  Milev bit his lip when he saw Lupus’s two men lose sight of Belevski for a few critical moments. Then he realized that Letchkov saw that the two Germans were hopelessly separated from their target in the marketplace. The assassin wisely chose that moment to press his attack on the doctor. All that the agents could do was watch from a distance, not fully comprehending what was actually taking place.

  With the binoculars glued to his eyes, Milev watched the executioner’s hat move closer and closer to his target. Then it happened.

  Perhaps it was because Belevski was exhausted and hungry that he didn’t notice the man in the hat until it was too late. When he felt the hard thump from behind him on his left, the doctor expected to hear, ‘Hey, watch where you’re going!’ Instead, a sharp stabbing pain penetrated his side. He gasped and instinctively sucked air into his lungs, but he still couldn’t breathe.