by Ben Pastor
“He was killed in a car accident this morning. No, it was a milk truck down the street from his Berlin office. Killed instantly. Ah, here comes the wine: they’ll load it in no time. Nice tan, by the way.”
The street, and the palace named after it, lay in the Moscow district where houses of rich merchants had been designed in the old days by foreign architects. Bora’s natural father had lived on Spiridonovka, as a neighbour to the Morozovs and other patrons of the arts.
It was a place of official receptions where Czarist era crystals and silver hadn’t changed since those days, and tonight’s affair lived up to tradition. Representatives of friendly or neutral nations and anybody who was anybody in town attended. The latest (occupied) Paris gowns found their way there, splashes of Chanel perfume, the favourite with wives of Soviet officials, music by award-winning Artists of the Soviet Union. You’d expect Erskine Caldwell and Maggie Bourke-White to be invited, but apparently they’d left for the south of Russia on one of their triumphal tours of the workers’ paradise.
The entire German diplomatic mission in Moscow was present, including General Köstring, too ailing to do his job as attaché but well enough to be there and outrank his stand-in Colonel Krebs, not to speak of Krebs’ aide Martin Bora (quickly briefed and handed a list of ladies he was expected to dance with). Foreign Minister Molotov, Stalin’s secretary Poskrebyshev (he of the jailed wife), and a swarm of lesser officials trickled in. Deputy Chairman Lavrenti Beria was expected no earlier than eleven o’clock, which would be still more than four hours before the entertainment was likely to end. Getting to bed at four in the morning was not unusual after these bashes. In such cases, depending on the day of the week, usually Bora showered and gulped the sugarless contents of a coffee pot before preparing to go directly to work.
Tonight, after all the week in Crete had demanded of him, he only gave the impression of being in control. In fact, his head swam; drinking the smallest amount of alcohol would knock him under one of the Czar’s tables. He hung on to a half-filled glass of Dafni for dear life. “What is it, Kapitan, you don’t like the wine? You’re not drinking.”
The idea that Deputy Chairman Beria should care enough to ask about him was as credible as the claim that Manoschek had died in an accident.
“Mr Deputy Chairman, the wine is excellent.”
“Then drink it.” Standing on a carpeted dais that allowed him to see eye-to-eye with the tall German, Lavrenti Pavlovich had a mean smile. “You travelled nearly four thousand miles to secure it, did you not? Do justice to this fine vintage.”
Bora drank. In an unprecedented reaction, he could feel the small amount of alcohol erode his lucidity as it slid down his throat. Already the Deputy Chairman was flipping his fingers for the waiter to approach with a full glass. “It’s worth it: it has all of Crete inside.”
After the second glass, a third followed, and a fourth. The only hope was to be rescued by someone from the German Embassy, as it wasn’t thinkable to admit weariness to the Deputy Chairman, much less disinclination to drink. Even Foreign Minister Molotov, who declared himself a teetotaller, was “doing justice” to the Dafni – or Mandilaria, or both.
Bora kept his countenance because there was no alternative. Had he not been so exhausted and sleep-deprived he could have put away wine and hard liquor without blinking. As it was, the white gown of a western official’s wife dazzled him; it hurt his eyes as the Greek sun had done when he landed in Athens. Lavrenti Pavlovich looked at him maliciously through his round lenses and made him drink.
It was minutes but seemed hours. Finally, Colonel Krebs, of his own accord or on Köstring’s suggestion, tactfully started out to reclaim his aide; but not before the Deputy Chairman cornered Bora. His round, swarthy face gave the impression of being twisted, as if his friendly, deadly smile were produced by someone turning his nose like a knob.
“Kapitan, Kapitan… You shouldn’t be spying on your own boss.”
Bora wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Lavrenti Pavlovich mouthed the words more than saying them; conversation was loud all around, the award-winning Artists of the Soviet Union had struck up the first of many dance tunes by Alexander Tsfasman (“On the Sea Shore”, crooned by Pavel Mikhailov). He followed Krebs as in a dream, all the while giving the impression of utter self-control. He fulfilled the duties of dance partner with all the ladies listed for him, moved around, addressed those he had to address and kept from addressing those he was supposed to ignore. But it was as if another Martin Bora, sober and proper, were doing all that. The real one watched the first and needed to throw up.
Thankfully, several of the Russian guests had to attend a ceremony the following morning, so the party wound down early, at 1 a.m. Bora had time to stumble back to his hotel room, where he vomited with exhaustion and fell asleep with his dress uniform on.
MONDAY 9 JUNE, GERMAN EMBASSY, MOSCOW
The reception was a major success. It was all Bora heard about coming to work the following morning. The Cretan wine had won out over Georgian and Crimean reds and vodka from the Kuban.
A civilian pointed out to him a beribboned bottle of Starka on Bora’s desk. “From the office of the Deputy Chairman.”
It was a high compliment, even though the idea of a blend of vodka, port wine, brandy and fruit flavours made him feel nauseous just as his stomach was settling.
Bora’s Monday morning was as busy as always, until nine o’clock, at which time Colonel Krebs called him in.
He expected a routine debriefing by the acting military attaché after the party. What else? Even if they leaked as far as Moscow, in no way could Major Busch’s preposterous opinions regarding Ambassador von der Schulenburg be considered official, and he, Bora, had received no specific warning from his own Abwehr referents in Moscow. Rumours abounded. If asked expressly about any given remarks by the Deputy Chairman, he’d reply truthfully that he took Lavrenti Pavlovich’s comment (“You shouldn’t be spying on your own boss”) as mere provocation, or angling for God knows what hesitation on his part.
Krebs, however, did not bring up the reception. He soberly surveyed Bora from behind the desk, and then walked around it to the balcony door, open despite the nip of the early hour. He wordlessly signalled to follow him outside, where their words were less likely to be intercepted. Leontyevsky Lane was in the shade, and breath condensed in small clouds before the men’s faces.
“You’re being expelled from the Soviet Union.” The words, tersely spoken, travelled the brief space of the balcony between them as if from an unfathomable distance. “Not that it would make much difference to you at this point, all things considered, but Ambassador Count von der Schulenburg believes it would be best if we reassigned you before the demand is made official.”
Bora knew he was holding his breath because no cloud materialized in front of him. He had to force himself to breathe.
“Herr Oberst, was there a reason given for my expulsion?”
“No.” Unlike Busch, Krebs really did wear a monocle, which lent a distinguished air to his otherwise commonplace frown. “We can guess at it,” he said, “that’s all. Don’t take it personally. Count von der Schulenburg and General Köstring – and I too, for that matter – think highly of you, and care about your career. The Deputy Chairman agreed to consider himself satisfied if you leave Moscow at once, better if today. There are no planes flying out of the city in the next few hours, so a seat was secured for you on the next train bound for Brest-Litovsk. You have thirty-five minutes to pack and reach the Baltic and Byelorussia Station. Don’t worry about saying your farewells, I will make sure everyone here is informed that you wish them your best.”
Bora had no real reason to feel as hurt as he did. Such instant transfers were frequent in the diplomatic world, and junior officers could be shuffled without notice from one end of the world to the other. He was simply being sent to Poland, within easier reach of his regiment.
The programme change might even give him an extra night with Di
kta. And in less than two weeks he’d be crossing the Soviet border again as an invader.
So, why was it that he now stood perfectly still in front of his superior, letting out no emotion either way, while he felt that one more word from Krebs would bring him close to tears? For a moment, he was a touchy, introverted twelve-year-old who was being told no.
Half an hour later, he was riding to Smolensk Station (its Russian name), whose westward rails forked outside the city, the northern going to the Baltic, the other to Russian-occupied Poland. In the mile and a half from the hotel to the station his chauffeured automobile followed Gorky Boulevard past the double ring of garden-rich avenues. Tribuk stared at the road ahead and not once did his ferret eyes seek him through the rear-view mirror.
That’s what it’s like becoming a persona non grata. It’s like losing one’s body, turning into a ghost. How muted, how anomalous his state in Moscow had become in the space of an hour was proven by the fact that his NKVD shadows, Max and Moritz, did not follow him. He wished they, at least, would see him off.
But they didn’t.
At the station, a long train idled by the platform. Except for a single passenger coach behind the locomotive, it was an uninterrupted sequence of freight cars, bringing supplies from the Soviet Union to the country about to attack it. Once on it, there would be no getting off before leaving Russian territory, of course, which would not happen until daybreak, considering the break-of-gauge at the border with Soviet-held Poland.
Bora climbed aboard, stored away his bag, took his seat. The coach was empty, and it seemed highly improbable anyone would join him between here and the border. It consoled him to discover that the window at least did open.
He knew the routine. Last station on Russian territory, Niegoreloje, change trains at Stolpce; a guard would climb in, pull the curtains closed and sit with him until they reached the Bug River border with German-occupied Poland. From Brest-Litovsk on to Warsaw (Krebs’ orders), and then take a different train to the Legionowo–Rakowice–Jamielnik line, the border with East Prussia. First station there, Deutsch Eylau, then east to Insterburg, divisional HQ, a short train ride away from Trakehnen.
Perfectly on time, the train moved out of the station. Bora thought how, at the crossroads between Gorky Street and Garden Boulevard, he’d glimpsed a glory of blooming lilacs frothing through an ornate iron fence. While still in the automobile he had tried to take Maggie’s dry sprig out of his wallet and let it fall out of the window, but the back windows were blocked.
Dropping anything on a Moscow street was unthinkable. Any motion in that sense would be highly suspicious. So, the sprig that could not be returned to its owner remained in his wallet, behind his wife’s photograph.
Presently, the long sheds of the “Year of the Revolution 1905” Repair Works went by, in this district of engine and machinery factories and aeroplane assembly works. We’ll bomb them in two weeks, he thought. The idea excited him, troubled him. It troubled him more than it excited him. He liked Moscow. It had been his father’s city for years. As Krebs put it, he regretted leaving it without saying his farewells. But was it really worse than having time to savour his departure?
Link after link, the train gained speed. If he glanced back from the open window, Bora could see the long chain of freight cars carrying grain, timber and ore complete a grand curve as they followed him to the Fatherland. As he grasped the reality of the moment, he couldn’t help wondering whether, beneath or beyond patriotism, he felt up to what was coming.
Mentally, he did what he’d done many times as a boy. He tossed down a pebble to see how far it rolled down, how many rocks it would displace before becoming anchored by exposed roots or reaching a ledge. While the train took him away from Moscow, the imaginary pebble slid in dust, hit a stone, bounced, fell much further down where he could not lean out to see without risking his neck. I’m the pebble, he thought. Didn’t even need a hand to drop me over the rim: I volunteered for it. There’ll be roots and ledges on the way down, or not even that; I might take many with me or perform a solitary slide into oblivion. Less than two weeks and the plunge begins. I can’t wait; but have I got what it takes?
The thought of the vast expanse to be travelled day and night (factories, fields, coal seams, farms, ore, densely populated cities), the reports circulating at the embassy (two million Soviet troops massed at the western border, though it was surely more than that), took his breath away.
Am I sure of my own resolve? Will I accept what comes?
Will I? In his luggage he still had Joyce’s Ulysses with him, and he now took it out. He’d have time to read it during the long journey. Ahead, right and left, the old racing track and Presnenskoe districts ran separated by the railroad. Ahead, the tracks crossed the Moskva and then sped alongside green spaces, where trees and hedges were in full bloom.
If Martin Bora had known that in a thousand days he’d lose all he had (and was), his actions that day wouldn’t have appreciably changed. Today things were as they were.
So it was where trees and hedges were in full bloom that he decided to let go of the lilac sprig. He took it out of his wallet and stood up to drop it outside. In the metallic window frame there was a small imperfection or notch, and speed, as the train accelerated, pushed Bora’s arm back so that his left hand rapped against it. Just as he let go of the flower, the sharp metal cut the back of his hand.
Nothing but a small wound. But after Crete, after churning through the island’s pitiless time machine, it was hard not to take the incident, minor as it seemed, as a portent of sorts. I start my journey away from Russia with blood on my hand, even though it’s just a tear in the skin. Bora pressed his lips on the cut to stop the bleeding, and sat back for the journey.
Will I accept what comes with this war? Will I?
Ulysses, on the seat where he’d tossed it, had randomly flipped open on the last page. Bora was – and was not – one to read the end of a novel first. His eyes fell on the final words, that was all. He didn’t even know to which character the inner monologue belonged, or if it mattered. The words were few, disconnected apparently from his present state, but Bora instantly made them his own.
They read,
And yes I said yes I will yes.
Afterword
One thousand days would make a difference to all of them. Some would lose their lives, among them Bora’s enthusiastic brother in 1943 Ukraine, and Andonis Sidheraki, killed by the Greek Army in the bloody civil war that racked Greece at the close of the conflict. The same fate awaited the Catalan anarchists, fighting for their unachievable revolution.
Ambassador von der Schulenburg and his son would be executed by the Nazis for their part in the anti-Hitler resistance, along with most members of the espionage ring known as “Red Orchestra”. Hans Krebs, promoted to the rank of general, would sign Germany’s unconditional surrender to the Soviets in 1945 Berlin, and then commit suicide. Waldo Preger would survive the war, only to die in 1954 fighting with the French Foreign Legion at Dien Bien Phu, when Vietnam was still called Indochina. One year earlier, a politically disgraced Lavrenti Beria had followed the fate of thousands of his victims.
Others were more fortunate.
Once widowed, Frances Allen returned to the United States and became a professor at her alma mater. Always active in the civil rights movement, she was arrested by the FBI several times in her own country. She continued never to forget or forgive a wrong.
In 1946, Vairon Kostaridis escaped the Greek communists’ blacklist by joining his relatives in New York, where he eventually opened an investigation agency specializing in marital infidelity: The Minotaur Private Investigation Agency.
The return of the victorious British found Rifat Bey still in Crete. He never married Signora, which was probably the reason why he did not kill her, and spent the rest of his life with her. Pericles Savelli went back to Italy after the war. There, he used his close friendship with a politician’s wife to be chosen as head curator at a muse
um of Renaissance art, about which he knew close to nothing. When his mistakes caught up with him, he blamed them on his assistant, and kept his honourable post until retirement.
Major Emil Busch profitably worked for years as a Mercedes automobiles executive in South Africa, and never lost his predilection for soft drinks.
In the 1980s, after a fine career as a journalist, the elderly Bruno Lattmann headed his own radio station in West Berlin: when the Wall came down in 1989, he broadcast worldwide an unforgettable live report of the event.
Martin Bora, as the mermaid-maidens foretold, had four more years of fighting ahead of him. In the process, he was to lose the war, love and physical integrity, but never his moral integrity. That distant day in Serpenten, during his bike ride with Peter, he’d somehow seen into the future. In 1945, the family estate in East Prussia would be lost to the Soviets, along with the entire region, Leipzig and all of Saxony. Today Serpenten no longer exists on the map. And Trakehnen is called Yasna Polyana, in the Russian province of Kaliningrad.
Glossary
Abwehr (Amt/Ausland Abwehr): German Army counter-espionage service in World War II.
Ahnenerbe: “Society of the Research of Ancestral Heritage”. Created in 1935 by Heinrich Himmler as a part of the SS, its task was to “research the places, spirit, acts and heritage of the Indo-German race”.
Au courant: diplomatic French for “informed of the situation”.
Bouzouki: traditional Turkish–Greek string instrument.
Comintern: international organization of communist parties, led by Moscow and active from 1919 to 1943.
CreForce: military forces of the British Commonwealth in 1941 Crete.
Epitropos: police inspector, in Greek.
Ex libris: a label with one’s name applied to a book, to show ownership.
Feldwebel: a sergeant in the German Army.
Frangos: a Greek expression for “foreigner”.