Pavel & I

by Dan Vyleta

  Afterwards, when he stepped back into his underwear, she looked on in wonder as he carefully pulled away the elastic and reached in to arrange himself to the best of his comfort. Only then did he step into his trousers and pull his soldier’s shirt over his head. His face, as she lay there and bled, was serenely peaceful and he rubbed his neck and cheeks with his palms, delighted at his good health. Is it a wonder then that she came to hate men – all, that is, apart from Pavel who ‘snuck into her heart’ (a fine phrase that, for is not all love thievery?) while her hatred lay slumbering, huddled inward perhaps from too much cold.

  There you have it, her story. She hated, she loved, and of the rapes she would not speak. Myself, I have no such compunction. After all, you have a right to know.

  Sonia did one more thing that day. Idly, sitting over the remains of their dinner, she unrolled the first few metres of the reel of microfilm, where it was wound a little sloppily. She soon found out why. A metre and a half in, the film came loose in her hand where it had been cut in half. Sonia sat and studied the cut at either end and came to the conclusion that they did not match up. Someone had removed part of the film, literally cut it out of its middle. It wasn’t clear to her what difference it made. She wound the film back onto the reel as tightly as she could manage, and fastened it with a rubber band. Then she leaned over the sleeping boy, and fed the monkey. Outside it had warmed up enough to snow a little, though soon the skies would be clear again, and a thin crust of ice would form upon the powdery lightness of virgin snow.

  4

  3 January 1947

  Midday on the third of January, precisely ten days after his somewhat hasty departure, Colonel Stuart Melchior Fosko pulled into the driveway of his Berlin villa in a newly requisitioned Volkswagen Beetle whose cramped space pinned him awkwardly against the curve of its wooden wheel. He got out, walked over to the front door, unlocked it, and stood in his hallway, a carpet bag in one hand, and the stump of a cigar in the other. There was no answer to his call of greeting. His wife had left for England after breakfast, the driver had taken the rest of the day off, the men were busy with their routine duties, and I was too preoccupied with Pavel to take notice of the somewhat crabby ‘Hello’ that rang through the upstairs of the house. In fact, I only became aware of Fosko’s return when I went up to fetch some beers a quarter of an hour later, and stumbled over the overcoat that he had carelessly thrown on the floor. As I searched the downstairs rooms for a sign of my master, I chanced upon a trail of discarded clothes that led me up the stairs and down the hallway to the main bathroom. The door stood ajar, and I found the Colonel, buck naked, testing the water with one chubby toe. His penis cringed in the relative cold of the upstairs rooms. I was impressed that water pipes and boiler were working impeccably.

  ‘Ah, Peterson,’ he sang out. I felt immediately that he was somehow very angry. ‘How good of you to come.’

  He eased one leg into the bath, then the other, went down into a crouch and stood for a while, his buttocks a half-inch from the steaming water.

  ‘I’m sorry, Colonel. I was down in the basement.’

  He finally settled in the bath. The tub was not made for a man his size, and his stomach and hips stuck to its sides. The combination of electric lighting and white tiles brought out his flesh’s clammy pallor. He reminded me of a cuttlefish.

  ‘So, how is our guest? Well, I trust.’

  ‘Yes. As instructed.’

  ‘Did he spill the beans yet?’

  ‘Beans, sir?’

  ‘Don’t play dim now, Peterson. Did he tell you what he knows?’

  ‘Some of it.’

  ‘Some? What have you been doing?’

  ‘You told me not to hurt him.’

  ‘I told you I didn’t want any visible damage.’

  ‘Ah. I must have misunderstood.’

  ‘Perhaps I should see to him myself. Light me a cigar, will you? There’s a darling.’

  I walked over to the cigar box next to the sink, selected one and cut off its end, keeping my back turned towards the Colonel to hide my agitation. My heart was pounding with the realization that, very soon now, Pavel would be lost to me forever.

  ‘All I need is one more night, sir,’ I told him as I passed over cigar and matches. ‘I’ll have something for you in the morning.’

  Fosko studied me attentively, blowing out a plume of blue smoke.

  ‘One more night, Peterson. After that, he’s mine. It’s time we stopped mollycoddling the bastard.’

  He asked me to stay around until he was done with his bath, and help him dry off. I was working on his left leg when the phone rang in the study next door. Naked as he was, Fosko walked over to it. I followed, towel in hand, like a faithful valet. Truth be told, I had a premonition about the call: it rang to the final act. The Colonel answered with his usual air of self-possession.

  ‘Colonel Fosko speaking.’

  ‘Endlich. Sie sind zuröck.’

  ‘Who is this? Wer da?’

  ‘Paulchen.’

  ‘The head of the arsewipes? Kinder-Gauner-Chef?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll put my man on the line. Warten.’ The Colonel waved me over and handed me the phone. ‘Your German’s better than mine. It’s Paulchen. The boy mobster. Ask him what he wants.’

  I held the phone to my ear and introduced myself formally. A strange three-way conversation ensued.

  ‘Peterson hier. Was wollen Sie?’

  ‘Ich weiβ wo der Film ist.’

  ‘He says he knows where the film is.’

  ‘Well, where is it?’

  ‘Wo ist er?’

  ‘Die Frau hat ihn. Sonia.’

  ‘He says Sonia has it.’

  ‘Dear Lord. I know that myself. But where’s Sonia?’

  ‘Wissen Sie wo Sonia ist?’

  ‘Nein. Aber ich kann sie Ihnen besorgen.’

  ‘He says he can get her for us.’

  ‘When? Tell the nitwit to spit it out, or we’ll pay him another visit.’

  ‘Wie schnell?’

  ‘Heute noch. Ist aber nicht umsonst.’

  ‘Today. He says they can get her today. He says they want something in return.’

  ‘Money? How much?’

  ‘Wieviel?’

  ‘Dreihundert Dollar. In bar.’

  ‘Three hundred dollars in cash.’

  The Colonel sneered. ‘Tell him no problem. I’ll send someone over to stuff it up his tight little rump. He just make sure he gets Sonia. And the film. Tell him if next time he calls he doesn’t have either, he might as well save us the trouble and jump out the window. It’ll be easier that way.’

  I translated this best I could. I couldn’t remember the word for ‘jump’, nor the one for ‘rump’, but the boy assured me he understood perfectly and rang off. I replaced the receiver with great care and turned back to the Colonel. He stood there in the centre of the room, stood naked, the cigar in his hand and smoke curling from between fat lips. I had rarely seen him this pleased.

  ‘Well, what do you know? One goes, breaks a few bones, not thinking twice about it, and a few days later life throws you a line. Must be what those Hindus mean by Karma. What goes around, etcetera.’

  He scratched his stomach and shook water off one leg.

  ‘Make yourself useful, Peterson, and lay out some fresh clothes for me. And fix me some sandwiches. With mustard. I’m starving. You wouldn’t believe the pigswill they serve up back home.’

  ‘Paulchen here.’

  ‘Do you have it?’

  ‘Fräulein Sonia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m so glad you called. Right on cue, too. Yeah, we got it. Pricey, but it’ll do just fine.’

  ‘It’s the right size?’

  ‘You gave us some film, remember? Yeah, it’s the right size. Where do I drop it off?’

  ‘I’ll come and fetch it. It better not be garbage.’

  ‘We’ll be here. Come as soon as you can.�
�

  Sonia hung up and ran a hand over her face. The past few days had not been easy. The boy’s fever had refused to surrender entirely. Every few hours it would flare up and bathe his cheeks crimson. Whenever he felt better, he whined to be let out into the street and hatched childish plans of how they would go rescue Pavel, ‘infiltrate’ the Colonel’s ‘compound’, ‘take out’ Fosko’s ‘stooges’. Then he’d go back to shivers, drenching the sheets in sweat. She wondered where she’d heard it said that a child’s sweat did not smell. The boy’s reeked like gone-off milk. She wrapped cold compresses around his ankles and played him Glenn Miller. He asked her once whether she prayed; folded his hands together when she looked at him uncomprehendingly, and mimed devotion. Perhaps he worried for his life in his childish way.

  She said she didn’t. Pray.

  ‘I don’t either,’ he told her. ‘All it is, is superstition.’

  For some reason he seemed disappointed when she made no move to disagree.

  Twice she considered leaving him. Leaving Pavel, too, and disappearing into the western outskirts of the American sector. She would pay somebody to share their flat until she had arranged for a travel pass out of the city. With luck she might make it to Munich. She’d never been, but she’d seen postcards. Munich looked nice. Full of GIs, of course, but nice.

  The second time around, she went so far as to pack a bag while the boy was asleep. She packed money, whatever was left, and her underwear. As she stood there, zipping shut her small suitcase, it came to her that she packed like a prostitute: cash and work clothes. She slipped out without leaving a note and climbed on a tram headed for Teltow. For two hours she walked around the suburb, looking for a friendly face she might ask for lodgings; found one in the elderly owner of a corner shop, who sold chocolates under the counter, and inner tubes for bicycles. She made up her mind to ask her; queued for some fifteen minutes, her question on her tongue, then bought chocolates instead, and pre-war cocoa powder for the boy. When she returned to Franzi’s place, he hadn’t even woken; lay senseless upon the bed, the blankets in a pile around his feet. She pulled them back up and told herself she should have stayed out longer; long enough for him to miss her. The monkey, by contrast, seemed ecstatic to see her. It even took a break from its methodical destruction of the living-roomsofa and clambered over to sniff at her ankles. She pushed it aside with one tired heel.

  Sonia unpacked the bag, fetched water from the pump and set to scrubbing the floor. The water half frozen in the bucket; hands numb to the wrist. Afterwards the floorboards proved as slippery as sheet ice. When the boy finally woke around nightfall, he demanded to go out for a walk. It was the only time she cursed him to his face. It had darkened then, turned savage in his anger.

  Now, it was looking at her expectantly.

  ‘Paulchen has found one?’ Anders asked.

  ‘Yes. Finally.’

  ‘How’s Pavel doing?’

  ‘I have no idea. As far as I know Fosko’s still out of town. I made inquiries. I doubt they would hurt him while he’s away.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘I go over there and pick up the projector. Then, we have a look at the film and figure out what all this fuss has been about. And then –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll think of something.’

  She gathered up her coat and handbag, made sure she had all the money and jewellery she’d promised Paulchen. The monkey was chattering, and she stroked it absent-mindedly, noting how matted its fur was, crusted with food and worse.

  ‘I’ll go,’ the boy blurted out all of a sudden.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘You’re sick.’

  ‘I feel better. And I want to see Paulchen. Make it up with him.’

  ‘Then we both go.’

  ‘What if it’s a trap?’

  ‘What do you mean, a trap?’

  ‘What if Paulchen tries to hold you. Sell you out to Fosko or something. He wouldn’t sell me out.’

  ‘Why not? You stole his gun, didn’t you?’

  ‘Thieves’ honour,’ he said and winked at her theatrically. ‘I’ll pay up and bring back the projector. And then we go get Pavel.’

  They squabbled a while longer, but in the end she agreed. She gave him the money and valuables, made him repeat how much they owed Paulchen. Wrote out Franzi’s phone number on a piece of paper and stuffed it into his pocket in case he got into trouble. She cautioned him to try the projector on the inch of film she had already passed on to Paulchen, and not to disclose their whereabouts.

  ‘Above all, keep warm. It’s murder out there.’

  The boy promised and she draped an extra shawl around his neck and head. His ugly little mug was alive with excitement as he ran out the door. ‘Good luck!’ she called after him and watched him run down the length of street until he was swallowed up by the dark of late afternoon.

  Then Sonia sat down and picked through the motives of why she had let him go instead of herself.

  ‘It might be a trap,’ she mused aloud.

  ‘If it’s a trap, better him than me.’

  She said it twice, to see how it sat with her, said it to the dresser’s mirror, her mouth shaping words that ran afoul of her stomach.

  I served the Colonel a late lunch up in his office, tying a starched napkin around his thick throat and pouring him a glass of mineral water. He peeled the boiled egg with great fastidiousness, depositing its shell in an ashtray, then sprinkled it with salt; buttered three slices of toast and covered them with corned beef and mustard. At any other time it might have been a pleasure to watch him at his table. That afternoon, however, I could barely stand the thousand details of his culinary ritual, and winced whenever he smacked his lips over some titbit or other. I stuck around long enough to ascertain that he did not want for any ingredient, then quickly excused myself, and returned to the basement.

  As I climbed down the stairs and slipped out of my coat, my agitation must have been ill concealed. I moved my desk next to the cage, set up the chessboard, but rather than taking his customary place across from me on the corner of his mattress, Pavel stood and faced me squarely.

  ‘He’s come back, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fosko. He’s been away, and now he’s back. Don’t look at me so surprised. I can tell he’s back. It’s written all over your face.’

  ‘Pavel,’ I said, and inched closer to his cage. ‘You have to tell me what you know about the microfilm. If you don’t –’

  ‘I understand.’

  We stood not a foot apart, my eye in his. Once again I remarked how delicate his features were.

  ‘Where is Sonia?’

  ‘She’s been hiding. Ever since we picked you up. I think she has the film.’

  ‘Does Fosko know where she is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You swear?’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘If he finds her, you will tell me, won’t you, Peterson?’ I was silent.

  ‘Promise me, Peterson. Promise you’ll tell.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Now, how about you play white for a change? Play for pennies? We can settle up when you’re out and flush.’

  We played without enthusiasm. I promised him some hot buttered rolls for his tea.

  It can’t have been easy for him. Nine days gone and no news about Sonia or the boy, just the two of us talking, and a chessboard full of slaughtered pawns. Time had stopped as far as he was concerned; he could count off the days or measure their passing by the length of his stubble, but these acts did not reference any reality beyond the cellar’s walls. All he could do with time was pass it. Talk took care of that: the pleasure of making speeches. Even this was soured by the constant fear of giving away too much of himself. Just about anything might have slipped out somewhere along the line; slipped out not because it had to, the irrepressible cry of the heart, but simply because it was there. Words feeding away at his mem
ory, like carrion birds, leaving him with the mere bones of things, skeletal outlines of a past he no longer recognised as his own. All traded for a handful of truths, about Sonia and Boyd and the crooked Herr Söldmann, that answered to his curiosity but were powerless to change the fact of his imprisonment.

  All this changed that day. Fosko returned, and time started anew. It energised him; a jolt of fear, and he looked to me for help. A savage look, half plea, half threat, though his voice remained level.

  For the time being I resolved to keep his door securely locked.

  Anders did not walk to Paulchen’s. He skipped. Spurned bus and tram, choosing to brave the winter chill; wiped snot across his jacket’s fur at every other intersection; felt his heart pound at being outside again, the afternoon moon hanging low in the sky. He was certain now that Sonia would come through for Pavel, that soon – perhaps that very night – he would be reunited with his bookish friend. He pictured them shaking hands in acknowledgement of what they both had suffered, then sitting down at the kitchen table to share a cigarette. Blowing smoke in the air, while Pavel outlined the means by which they should take their revenge on the Colonel.

  ‘I’m not a vengeful man,’ he would explain, ‘but the Colonel’s got to go.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ Anders would answer. ‘You just say the word.’

  At the corner of Paulchen’s apartment building, he bumped into one of the Karlsons. He must have run into trouble. His nose was swollen to twice its normal size and both eyes were ringed purple.