A Man Without Breath

‘I doubt that.’ I grinned at him. ‘You were right what you said back in the marketplace when I was just a kraut buying brewski. For a clever man I’m also a stupid one. I rather imagine you planned this touching little scene, Doctor Batov. I might not have had my balls cut off by partisans, nonetheless you did a swell job of bringing me here to your parlour so you could put a tattoo on my chest like a drunken Cossack in one of your oversized novels. I don’t blame you. Really I don’t. Blame is for people with clearer consciences than mine. But don’t overplay your part, doctor. The audience doesn’t like it. That’s lesson one in the Stanislavski book of acting like someone who’s on the level.’

Batov grinned back at me. ‘You’re right, of course. I might not have been selling vodka or brewski but I’ve got something to sell just like anyone else who goes to the market. When you showed up here at the hospital the first time with that Polish intelligence report it was obvious to me where you must have got it from. I wanted to tell you about the lieutenant then, but I didn’t quite have the guts. Then you left and I figured my chance was gone. That is, until I spotted you in the market this afternoon. When I saw you it seemed too good to be true that you should be back here in Smolensk.’

‘I get a lot of that.’

‘So. Do we have a deal?’

‘I think so. Only it might take a little while. You’ll have to be patient.’

‘I’m Russian. Patience is something we’re born with.’

‘Sure, sure. That’s out of the same book as not putting any empties on the table. You don’t believe that shit any more than I do. But here’s something that you can believe. And this comes straight from the shoulder-holster. When you made that crack about not trusting Germans you implied you know what you’re doing, but I still wonder if you do. You tell me you’ve got evidence of what happened in Katyn Wood and I tell you I’m prepared to buy your story. But I’m not the one who owns the store. You’ll be making a deal with the devil here, not me. You appreciate that, don’t you? Once you’re out in the open with this I can’t protect you. Unlike me, you see, the Nazis are not the kind of people who can handle much disappointment. If they think for a minute you’re holding out on them in any way, they’re liable to reach for their pistols. The Gestapo is just as likely to put a bullet in your head as your own secret police. At that point I’ll be looking out for myself, see? Generally speaking it’s what I do best. I won’t have time or even the inclination to do any special pleading for you and your daughter’s ballet lessons.’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve thought about the risks. Really, I have. And I don’t think I have anything to lose.’

‘When people say that kind of thing, mostly I don’t believe them, or I think they haven’t thought things through. But I imagine you really do know what you’re doing. You’re right, I don’t think you have anything to lose. Just your life. And what’s that worth in the current market? In my case it’s not much and in yours it’s nothing at all. And in between there’s probably just a lot of misplaced optimism. Mine, mostly.’

CHAPTER 3

Monday, March 29th 1943

‘How did Saturday’s execution go?’ asked Field Marshal von Kluge. ‘Did those two sergeants die well?’

‘Only one of them was a sergeant, sir. The other was a corporal.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. But the question still stands, Gunther.’

‘I’m not sure it’s even possible to die well when you’re struggling for breath on the end of a length of cord, sir.’

‘Do you take me for an idiot? What I mean is, did they die bravely? As bravely as any German soldier ought to die? After all, there’s always the chance that a condemned man will do or say something that reflects badly on the German army. Cowardice in the ranks is even more intolerable than wanton criminality. How did they acquit themselves?’

‘They died bravely, sir. I’m not sure I could have met the hangman with such apparent equanimity.’

‘Nonsense, captain. I don’t doubt your own courage for a moment. Any man with an Iron Cross like you knows what real bravery is. A German soldier should know how to die well. It’s expected.’

We were in the field marshal’s office at Krasny Bor. Von Kluge had made a start on a large cigar and, in spite of the subject matter, was about as relaxed as a man can look when he’s got a red stripe on his leg and a Knight’s Cross around his neck. Of his pet Russian, Dyakov, there was no sign, although there was a large dog occupying a space next to the heat vents in the brick wall that could easily have been mistaken for him. The dog was licking his balls, and as I envied his ability to do something like that I reflected that he was almost certainly the happiest creature in all of Smolensk.

‘And did they say anything? Any last words of contrition?’

‘No, and they didn’t say anything about the murders of those two NCOs either,’ I said. ‘Which was a pity.’