Garden of Salt and Stone

by A. L. Burgess Jr.

  “Look at the timing,” Yakob reasoned. “The war has turned. The Nazis are finished. High Command doesn’t want field officers second guessing their orders.” He looked down at his steaming coffee. “They have no choice.”

  Yuri shook his head. “Surely they must know that your actions saved us? Hell, the entire division knows it.”

  “Of course they do, but the orders were to advance at all costs—at any cost.” Yakob sighed and drank his coffee. “I disobeyed them.”

  “But you saved the offensive. It would’ve taken days to mount another attack.”

  “They don’t see it that way—they can’t,” Yakob opined soberly. “I knew what I was doing when I ordered the retreat. It was a tactical decision that had to be made—even if it meant my life.”

  Yuri sipped his coffee and contemplated the communiqué. “I think you’re reading too much into it. It does say transfer. Perhaps they’re moving you to a non-combat command?” Yuri thought for a long moment and then added, “Or releasing you back to the university to continue your work?”

  “It’s worded like that so I won’t run,” Yakob said. “Besides, my university career is over. All my research was shipped off to the Urals the day I was conscripted. It’s gone, and all because they wanted less science and more men in the field. That life is a distant memory—I’m a soldier now.”

  Yuri shook his head. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Yakob lamented. “This war has been a living hell. It can’t end soon enough for me. Besides, if I can’t give my life for my men, who can I give it for?”

  Yuri didn’t respond because he agreed with that blunt assessment. All of the men relied on the decisions that Yakob made on a day-to-day basis. It was a difficult task being the leader of a combat unit, and yet, even with the hardships they had all endured, the troops would surely sacrifice their lives for that of their commander. Yuri raised his coffee as a gesture of appreciation and took a small drink.

  Yakob acknowledged and drank in return.

  A loud, metallic BANG broke the silence. Out in the field, one of the soldiers had opened a loose hatch on a derelict tank causing it to come crashing down onto the side of the overturned behemoth.

  Shaking his head at the carelessness of the trooper Yakob yelled out, “Careful out there, they might be rigged with explosives.”

  The soldier sheepishly acknowledged the advice and then carried on with the search.

  Yakob snickered at the sight.

  “There’s something funny with all of this?” Yuri asked curiously.

  “Do you remember that time, outside of Moscow, when your extra pair of trousers had frozen solid?”

  Yuri smiled and nodded. “My other pants were blown to shreds; I had nothing else to wear. All of the men were making fun of me.”

  “Lucky for you we found some clothes in that old barn,” Yakob laughed, “or your balls would’ve gotten frostbite and we’d have had to cut them off!”

  They both laughed heartily for a moment, but soon the gravity of the current situation came back to the forefront.

  “It was cold that day,” Yuri said quietly.

  “Like today,” Yakob replied. “But I still wouldn’t trade those days for anything.”

  Yuri crumpled up the communiqué and threw it onto the floor. “I don’t know what to say—we’ve been through so much together.”

  Yakob smiled warmly at Yuri. “Say that you’ll take care of the men for me. Be strong, but fair. Do your job and make sure you give them every chance to make it home. Will you do that for me?”

  “I could never lead these men like you have.”

  “The men trust you. They look up to you like a father. You’ve been in this army for what—twenty years now?”

  “Twenty-one this December.”

  “You should’ve been leading these men instead of me. I had no experience—my education allowed me to be commissioned a higher officer,” Yakob said, bitterly remembering the circumstances surrounding his induction.

  “Your intelligence gave us a fighting chance. I never could’ve done those things.”

  “You know tactics. You know the game. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  Yuri shook his head. “I’ll try my best.”

  “I know you will, Yuri.” Yakob patted the older man on the back.

  Approaching from the city side of the farmhouse, the two men could hear the rumbling of an out-of-tune engine. They listened to the raspy noise as it ebbed and flowed its way through the narrow and rubble strewn streets of Zhitomir. But instead of passing by, the car slowed and came to a squeaky stop outside the abandoned house. Several car doors creaked open and slammed closed. Low voices could be heard and several pairs of footsteps entered the old building. The uninvited guests clumsily ambled their way through the house and back toward the kitchen.

  Yakob sighed. “I guess the courier was early this morning.”

  Three large and rather well-fed men dressed in dark military overcoats and caps squeezed through the doorway and into the kitchen. The shortest of the three led the way carrying a piece of paper.

  The small statured leader studied Yakob and Yuri. Instantly keying on the older of the two men, he asked, “Are you Colonel Yakob Alexandrov?”

  Yuri stood up and confronted the short interloper. “What gives you the right to question front line officers?”

  Not the least bit amused, the short man responded bluntly, “Let me see your identification.”

  “I don’t have to show—”

  “Yuri, please,” Yakob interjected. “I’m Colonel Yakob Alexandrov—who might you be?”

  The short man eyed Yakob. “You’re a little young to be a colonel, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps,” Yakob scoffed, “and aren’t you a little fat to be running around the front lines?”

  Yuri chortled.

  “Enough,” the small man retorted. “My name is Pavel Belyakov,” he said and motioned to the other men. “These are my associates.”

  Taking their cue, the two larger men pushed their way past Yuri to stand next to Pavel.Pavel smiled at Yakob. “It gives me great pleasure placing you under arrest, Comrade.”

  “On what charges?” Yuri asked angrily.

  “Insubordination and cowardice,” Pavel stated and handed the paper to Yuri.

  Yuri threw the paper on the ground. “You can’t arrest him!” He stepped forward, positioning himself between Yakob and the new arrivals.

  “I have absolute authority to do so. Move aside,” Pavel ordered. “Or perhaps you’d like to speak with my boss at the NKVD?”

  Yuri stared menacingly at Pavel with his hand on the holster of his sidearm.

  “Yuri,” Yakob said, trying to defuse the situation. “They’re just doing their job.”

  Yuri looked back at Yakob and reluctantly moved aside.

  Yakob stood and extended his arms in a show of goodwill.

  “You would do nothing?” Yuri asked incredulously.

  “What would you have me do?” Yakob responded, knowing that it was a soldier’s duty to obey orders, even if it ultimately meant his own demise.

  Pavel stepped forward with a set of handcuffs.

  Yuri felt enraged at the injustice of it all. Who were these men to arrest one of the most valiant and trustworthy officers ever to be on the front line? He looked to the only other resource he could muster: the soldiers in the field. He could see that they had been following the drama and were itching for a fight. Yuri barked out to his men, “Weapons!”

  A metal-on-metal chorus of slides, bolts, and bullets being chambered filled the surrounding area and echoed through the farmhouse kitchen.

  Pavel stopped cold. He had witnessed this kind of behavior more than a few times in his tenure as an enforcer. He sized up Yuri and the resolution of the soldiers wielding the firepower. “Your loyalty to your superior is duly noted,” he said, nodding slowly, “but your first order as a new commander would be to defy Red Army High Co
mmand?” Pavel chuckled wryly. “I don’t believe that would look good on my report.”

  Yet again, Yuri let his emotions get the best of him and his resolve waivered. He looked to Yakob for guidance. “Sir?”

  Yakob looked at the men’s faces and the firepower that they wielded. He knew that Pavel and his men would certainly die, but where would that lead? Yakob’s job was to assess what might be gained over that which would be lost. He felt that in this case the only positive outcome would be his temporary freedom. It would not take long for High Command to realize what had happened and to send out a larger contingent to forcibly arrest Yakob and his sympathizers. Perhaps they could run, but eventually they would be caught and subjected to the full wrath of Russian military justice. He could not let the men share in his punishment.

  Pavel could see Yakob’s uncertainty and in a matter-of-fact and almost friendly tone Pavel said, “Have your men lower their weapons and I’ll overlook this unfortunate incident,” Pavel paused for a moment to let the words sink in. “For your friend’s sake.”

  Yakob nodded. “Stand down.”

  Yuri shook his head in bewilderment and gestured to the soldiers in the field to lower their weapons.

  Yakob was touched by Yuri’s emotional irrationality. He never knew the old officer had such a large soft spot. “I’ll be okay, Yuri.”

  “Of course he will,” Pavel affirmed Yuri. “I will take good care of him.” He stepped forward and finished handcuffing Yakob. He tested the locks and then motioned to his associates to search the prisoner.

  The henchmen rummaged through Yakob’s pockets and winter camouflage, throwing a service pistol onto the kitchen table. Finished, the men grabbed Yakob by the arms and escorted him toward the door.

  Yakob resisted. “My things.”

  Yuri stepped between Pavel and his men, pouring out Yakob’s coffee as he went. As a show of disrespect to the small statured enforcer, Yuri repacked the cup into the rucksack and gave it to Pavel as if handing a common house maid the laundry.

  Pavel scoffed at the childish insubordination. He searched the rucksack and, upon finding nothing out of the ordinary, tossed it to Yakob. “Carry your own things.”

  “Thank you for everything,” Yuri said sincerely to Yakob as he was being led away.

  Yakob smiled. “I’m still counting on you to get the men to Berlin, my friend.”

  “I will,” Yuri said quietly.

  ❖❖❖

  The Russian staff car sped along the icy road as it made its way through the snow-covered, rolling hills of the Ukrainian countryside. A smattering of trees dotted the open plain, but for the most part the vastness of the steppe went on for miles in every direction.

  From his vantage in the backseat, Yakob looked out through the fogged-over windows at the meticulous white blanket speeding by. No damaged equipment or dead men could be seen anywhere. He could not believe that such a pristine area still existed. It was a strange sight, almost as if the area had been passed over by the war.

  Try as he might, Yakob could not keep his mind off of his predicament. He knew what awaited him in Kiev. He would receive a military tribunal and be found guilty of disobeying a direct order. The verdict would bring a sentence of death by hanging which would be carried out brutally and with all haste. Later, pictures of his execution would be used as propaganda to dissuade soldiers in the field from making the same mistake. Yakob looked away from the serene visage outside and sighed. It would be a truly ignominious end.

  Pavel was seated next to Yakob and studied his new prisoner carefully. He was impressed with the prisoner’s calm demeanor, but did not buy it. Often, during the ride back to headquarters, prisoners tried all manner of ill-conceived escape attempts. They were all too common for Pavel’s team. Generally, the last ditch efforts only served to hasten the prisoner’s own demise; as in most cases Pavel or one of his team was forced to shoot them. Each and every time it happened, it cost Pavel and his men dearly. Not only did they have to hunt down the fugitive, they had to do mountains of paperwork and sit through drawn-out inquiries with superiors. It did not look good for Pavel or his team. This time he wanted the upper hand and decided to try a new tactic: the time honored tradition of soothing conversation. “I read your file.”

  “You read?” Yakob asked wryly.

  Pavel chuckled. “You have a good sense of humor for a dead man.”

  “Yes, I guess I do.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “About being a big shot at the university—before the war?”

  Yakob shrugged him off.

  Pavel chuckled. “You’re what—twenty-five, twenty-six?”

  Yakob nodded.

  “Did you know you were being considered for the Order of Lenin?” Pavel asked seriously. “I had to confirm my orders three times with High Command.”

  Yakob pursed his lips and shook his head.

  “You know your old boss at the university—Katusha—Kapurcha—” Pavel stumbled, trying to remember the name.

  “Professor Kapitsa—Department Chair at the Institute of Theoretical Physics.”

  “You know, he asked for your return many times. He wanted you out of the army and back to work on those rockets.” Pavel laughed. “Each time High Command turned him down.”

  Yakob remembered the old professor fondly. He was Yakob’s mentor through most of his university years and a good friend. After Yakob was forced into conscription he never got to see his old friend again. It was painful to hear that the professor tried to get him back, but all he could do now was lament the irony.

  Pavel kicked the seat in front of him and bellowed, “It seems, Comrade, that you’re too good at everything!”

  Yakob sat quietly, enduring the humiliation. Pavel and his men were oafs. They didn’t know anything about anyone, nor did they care.

  “What?” Pavel asked, and slapped Yakob on the shoulder. “You don’t find this funny?”

  Yakob shook his head and tried to block out the out-of-tune guffawing. After several moments of straining to hear anything above the clamor, he detected a faint, high-pitched sound. The noise was distant, but quickly grew in intensity. Yakob did not know what to make of it at first, but as the sound got closer he realized what it was and yelled out, “Be quiet!”

  The laughter ceased immediately.

  “You insolent bastard—I’m in command here!” Pavel barked. “No one must be quiet for you!”

  Ignoring Pavel, Yakob cocked his head to the side. “Listen.”

  “I will not,” Pavel replied, reaching into his overcoat pocket and producing a revolver. “You have no authority here.”

  “Just listen.”

  The small droning noise grew louder until everyone in the car could hear it. It was an aircraft engine.

  “So what—one of our airplanes?” Pavel said, amused. “We’ve had air supremacy for months.”

  “The pitch is wrong, it’s German.”

  “Call me a fool? There’s been no air activity in this sector for over a year,” Pavel assured. He motioned with his pistol to the countryside. “Look around you, there’s nothing here to bomb.”

  “We’re here,” Yakob stated flatly, staring back at Pavel. “Stop the car immediately—we need to find cover.”

  The car began to slow, but Pavel slammed his revolver against the back of the driver’s seat. “Idiot, he’s trying to trick us!”

  “A black car on a white road—we’re an easy mark,” Yakob said. “I’m trying to save your lives.”

  “You’re trying to escape,” Pavel replied coldly. “No, I understand completely.”

  Yakob located the source of the engine noise and pointed through the car’s front window at a black dot on the horizon. “There,” he said, “it’s a Foke-Wulf.”

  Pavel eyed the plane in the distance. “How do you know it’s not Russian?”

  “I was bombed and strafed for four years—I can tell the difference.”

  “You k
now nothing.” Pavel chuckled.

  Yakob peered at the closing fighter and then looked at the pistol gripped tightly in Pavel’s hand. “Yes,” he replied smugly, “you’re right, it must be Russian.”

  Pavel pounded the seat of the car with the pistol and caterwauled, “Front line commander indeed. We’ll have to check your identification again—I think we have the wrong man!”

  Yakob watched the German plane lower its nose and begin its strafing run.

  The fighter closed on the staff car with incredible speed. Muzzle flashes from the front of the plane signaled the beginning of the attack. Its heavy gunfire impacted the dirt and snow of the road tracing a path toward the oncoming car. The high-pitched scream of the fighter’s engine coupled with the report of the large-caliber discharge overwhelmed the men’s senses.

  “Stop the car!” Pavel barked.

  The driver slammed on the brakes, but the icy road sent the car spinning out of control. The driver overcorrected and the car slid directly into the path of the onslaught.

  Yakob’s battle-hardened senses went into overdrive. He gauged the trajectory of the bullets and the probable angle of the car at impact. He leaned back and brought his feet as far onto the seat as room permitted, trying to make himself as small a target as possible.

  It was over in an instant. A sharp, metal-piercing-metal noise filled the interior of the car. Bullets tore through the engine compartment and hit the driver causing him to let out a short scream. The car continued its slide into a roadside embankment where it overturned, starting a fire in the engine compartment.

  Yakob was disoriented, but he shook it off and took stock of the situation. Blood dripping from a hole in the back of the driver’s seat immediately told him that the driver was probably dead. Although the front passenger was alive and moving, he appeared to be pinned in between the front seat and dash. Pavel, who had come to rest next to Yakob, seemed to be no worse for the wear. Yakob could see the fire building in the car’s engine compartment and the acrid smoke began to fill the passenger compartment, but he did not panic. He took a deep breath, and using his handcuffed wrists, he pushed the car door open. Yakob grabbed his rucksack and exited the overturned vehicle.