A Man Without Breath

‘In Russia an empty on the table is a bad omen,’ he said. ‘And we can’t afford any of those on Tukhachevsky Street. It’s bad enough that I have a fashisty in my apartment. The floor lady will cross herself three times if she sees a Hans in the building and think her building has been cursed. Many at the hospital feel the same way about you germanets. It’s odd but for some Russians there’s really not much difference between you Germans and the Poles. I suppose that might be because there are parts of Poland which used to be German, which became Polish, and now they’re German again.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘East Prussia.’

‘To a Russian that’s much too complicated. Better to hate you all. Safer, too. For us.’

‘You might say that it’s the Poles who have brought me back here to Smolensk,’ I said. I told Batov about Katyn Wood, and how we were waiting for a thaw to begin so we could start digging.

Batov brushed up his thick, Stalin-sized moustache with the inside of his hand. He didn’t say anything for a moment but his dark shadowy eyes were full of questions that were mostly for himself, I think. The face was lean and the nose keen-looking, even fastidious, and the bushy-black moustache almost designed to protect his nostrils from some of the less pleasant smells that afflicted any resident of Smolensk; and probably not just the smells: the words and ideas of any governmental tyranny can stink as bad as any backed-up sewer. For a moment he hung his head almost as if he was feeling shame.

‘You must understand that in spite of all this I love my country, Herr Gunther,’ he said. ‘Very much. I am in love with Mother Russia. Her music, her literature, her art, the ballet – yes, I love the ballet. My daughter, too. It is still her life. There’s nothing she wishes more than to be a great ballerina like Anna Pavlova and dance The Dying Swan in Paris. But I love the truth more. Yes, even in Russia. And I hate all cruelty.’

I sensed he was about to tell me something, so I lit two cigarettes, handed him one silently, opened the second bottle and then refilled our glasses.

‘When I joined my profession I took an oath to help my fellow man,’ he said. ‘But lately this is more and more difficult. The situation here in Smolensk is terrible. Of course, you know that. You have eyes and you’re not a fool. But it was no less terrible before you Germans arrived here with your new street names and your Aryan superiority. Wagner is a great composer, yes; but is he any greater than Tchaikovsky, or Mussorgsky? I think not. Things have been done here in Russia that no civilized country should ever have countenanced doing against another civilized country. Not just by you, but by us, the Russians, too. And one of those things was what was done to the Poles.’

‘If I didn’t know you were here, Doctor Batov, I’d say I was talking to myself.’

‘Perhaps that’s why I feel able to tell you about this,’ he said. ‘When first we met I sensed you are someone who is trying to be a good man. In spite of the uniform you are wearing. Although it’s odd – I could have sworn it was a different one the last time you were here.’

‘It is different,’ I said. ‘But that’s a long story. For another time.’

‘I don’t say that you are a good man, Captain Gunther – you are still a captain, yes?’

I nodded.

‘No, you are not a good man. There are none of us can claim to be that, today. I think we must all make compromises to stay alive. When my wife was arrested, the authorities made me sign another piece of paper saying that I recognized the justice of the sentence given to her. I didn’t want to do that, but I did it all the same. I told myself Jelena would have wanted me to sign it, only the truth is that I signed it because if I hadn’t they would have arrested me. Was there any sense in us both being dead? I don’t think so. And yet-’

He had a smile that was full of brilliantly white teeth, and it returned briefly to his thoughtful, almost preoccupied face, but only as a way of preventing the tears in his eyes from increasing in quantity; he blinked them away and tossed back the drink I had poured for him.

I looked away out of something like decency and glanced over the books that were piled next to his chair. They all looked like they’d been read, but I wondered if just one of them contained a single truth like the one I guessed he knew as well as I did: that being dead is probably the worst thing that can happen to you – after this nothing matters very much, especially not what other people say about you. As long as you can draw breath you’ve got a chance of turning around whatever nastiness you’ve been involved in; at least that was what I was praying when I prayed at all.

Batov wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘I haven’t drunk vodka like this in a long time,’ he said. ‘Frankly I haven’t been able to afford it. Even before you Germans turned up, things were very hard. And they’re not about to get easier. For me, at any rate.’