Sniper's Honor

CHAPTER 56

The Peasant and the Teacher hastened along the high trail on the far side of the crest. They had not gone a mile when, back at the canyon, they heard the Russian attack. It was a sharp, harsh firefight, all kinds of automatic fire and explosions. They paused, listening, as behind them men fought and died. It seemed to last forever, but in reality, it was only seconds.

“Who won?” asked the Peasant.

“I don’t know. If enough Germans survived to blow the passage, I suppose they won the battle of Natasha’s Womb. If the Russians killed all the Germans, the passage stays open, and it’s another glorious victory for Stalin.”

“If they blow it, that should be a show.”

“If you like seeing things blown up, yes, it should be. Come on, I’m sure we’re safe now, but we should move as far as we can, anyway.”

They continued, following the track through the ragged forest trees. To their right, the mountains stiffened considerably, almost unclimbable, until they towered above. To the right, through an occasional hole in the trees, they could see more mountains, a sea of mountains stretching away limitlessly.

The explosion was loud even when it reached them, over two kilometers away. Both turned, slightly adjusted their position on the track for greater vision, and watched as a mushroom of hot, gritty gas rose, then drifted apart in the wind.

“The Germans are very good at blowing things up,” said the Teacher.

In time, as the dust settled, and through a gap in the trees, they were able to see three tiny vehicles move down the road to Uzhgorod, then disappear, swallowed by trees.

“The SS swine,” said the Teacher. “Why does God favor the wicked with such luck?”

They continued another few kilometers, until full dark.

“I think this is far enough,” said the Teacher. “We should be safe here.”

They went off the track, slipped another half-kilometer into the woods, and found shelter where two giant boulders lay together. Fiercely they attacked their bread and carrots and smoked the German cigarettes they had been given and fell into silent sleep. If nightmares haunted either, he was silent about it the next morning.

“All right,” said the Teacher, “now we head back to the passage to see if our troops are in command. Or maybe, after it was blocked, there was no point for them to stick around, so they went back to Yaremche. In that case, we shall have to walk there to find somebody to report to.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Peasant, rising.

“Wait, I must talk with you before we go. Sit down.”

Obediently the Peasant sat.

“We may be separated when we report. For various reasons. Look, let me tell you something that will help you.”

“All right.”

“You love her, I love her, she was a hero, she deserves to be remembered forever. But under no circumstances should you tell anyone of your time with Mili Petrova.”

“What? Why—”

“There are politics here. You do not understand them. It would take to the end of the war for me to explain them to you. But it may have developed, by certain realities, that she is considered a traitor. Trust me. I know it’s wrong, but it can’t be helped at this time. So instead of being applauded for assisting the White Witch, you might be interrogated and executed for it. Do you see?”

“She killed the monster Groedl. She—”

“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is: who is in charge? And whoever he is, he will seek to eliminate anyone who had close contact with Mili. That is how it is. Furthermore, please do not claim membership in Bak’s army. If the Soviets see him as a Ukraine nationalist, they may decide you were criminal for being with him. Who knows, perhaps they were the ones who killed him. I’m only warning you, that’s the way they work. Do you see?”

The Peasant, it was clear, did not.

“Trust me, my friend. I want the best for you. Your story is that you were hauled off by the Germans as conscripted labor. Somehow you ended up in this area. When the big offensive came, you made your escape. You hid in the forest for a few days, and now you are back. That is your story, you know nothing about Bak or about Mili, and you stick to it. Do you understand?”

“I suppose,” he said, even if he did not.

In the town of — or rather, the smoldering ruins of — Yaremche, the Soviet army set up a clearance center to which all unassigned or nonlocal citizens, uprooted by the carnage of war, had to report, for categorization and permission to return to their own lands or, worse, some dark fate unknown. The lines were long, and the Peasant waited patiently for his turn, while the Teacher was just behind him.

In the distance, Red Army investigators pawed through the burned wreckage of the town and caused a great sensation when they discovered 135 burned bodies in the ashes and charred timbers of the church. Meanwhile, at least temporarily, a tank company had taken up residence, primarily as support and logistics for the NKVD processors who ran the clearance center. A tent city grew, where those released by NKVD were sent to recover their strength before beginning their return home. It was the Soviet empire reclaiming control after the German occupation, a rough bureaucratic procedure. A small field hospital took care of the wounded; a small field kitchen prepared the food, none of which could be considered memorable; a few political officers supervised.

Finally the Peasant presented himself to a young officer at a table; he wore wire-frame glasses, was overworked, maybe a little drunk. The Peasant was very nervous, for talking to authority was not an ordeal he had much practice with. No matter that the Teacher had told him, just before it was his turn, to be calm, to be relaxed, to cling to his story. He gave his name, presented his tattered papers.

The young man did not bother to look up. “Explain your presence,” he said as he examined the paperwork, a flyblown red-covered pamphlet enclosing his ID card.

“I was rounded up by German soldiers two years ago. I have been working as a laborer over that time, building roads for tanks, laying wire, digging trenches. When the offensive came, there was shelling and confusion. I managed to make it to the forest, where I have remained for a week or so.”

He went on haltingly.

“Stop, stop,” said the young man. “Now, I ask you, sir, are you familiar with a partisan group in this area run by a man called Bak?”

“I have not heard of any Bak, sir.”

“You did not fight with his partisans in the mountains?”

“I did not.”

“All right, tell me this. Have you ever heard of a woman called Ludmilla Petrova? Also called the White Witch. She was with Bak’s partisan army.”

“I have never heard of Mili Petrova,” said the Peasant.

“Excellent,” said the young officer. “Now I see clearly. Show me your hands, please.”

The Peasant put his hands out.

“No, no, you idiot, palms up.”

He turned them over.

“Explain, please, why after two years of hard labor under German conscription, you have no calluses? Your hands, though filthy, are soft. You haven’t touched a shovel or a hoe in years.”

“I, I–I have never heard of Mili Petrova,” said the Peasant.

The officer nodded to two soldiers, who walked over, grabbed the Peasant, and pulled his shirt open. Tattoos covered his chest. The soldier pointed to one, a design that featured a mandolin flanked by outward-facing R’s, though all of a single line.

“That is the tattoo of the Trizubets,” said the officer. “It is the Ukraine national emblem, it is the emblem of Bak’s Ukraine National Army. You lied to me; you were a soldier in that army and thus a traitor to the Soviet Union. You may well have aided the traitor Ludmilla Petrova, who is on a death list. Only someone intimate with her would know that her nickname is Mili, not Luda, unless you read of her in the magazines years ago, and I doubt that you can read.”

“Sir,” said the Teacher, “may I speak for the man? His tongue is clumsy.”

The officer looked up at the Teacher. “Who are you?”

The Teacher raced forward and handed over his document.

The officer examined it. “So, a teacher.”

“Sir, this man is—”

“I ask the questions here. Were you also conscripted? Are you with him?”

“These peasants get tattoos all over their bodies. It amuses them. They have no idea what the tattoos mean. I am a teacher here. I know this.”

“I asked you, were you with him? Were you conscripted?”

“Sir, I am only pointing out—”

One of the soldiers hit him in the stomach with his rifle butt.

“Teacher, fool, I ask questions. You do not explain. I am not one of your children. Show me your hands.”

The soldier who had hit him dragged him to the table, turned one hand over to show the officer. “Another man at labor with soft white hands. Yours are even clean. I doubt you have tattoos because you consider yourself refined, but you speak for him, you lie for him, you attempt to evade Soviet justice. Take them both away to the—”

“Sir, if I could show you but one thing.”

He was hit hard across the neck and went to his knees. The Peasant stepped in to intervene, was clubbed equally hard, and went down, blood leaking from his skull.

“Get this vermin out of here,” said the officer. “I’m done wasting time with criminals.”

“Sir, I beg you. Just let me show you my papers. I believe you’ll find them very interesting.”

“I have no more time to waste,” said the officer, holding up the Teacher’s document.

The Teacher squirmed free, grabbed it, twisted it, and with his deft fingers separated the rear cover into two halves. A card shook out. He handed it to the young officer.

The officer looked at it; his face went white, his jaw dropped, and he began to gibber.

“Major Speshnev, I apologize, sir, I was hasty, I had no idea, sir, sir, please, I was only trying to—”

The Teacher stopped his yammering with one raised hand. “Listen to me, Lieutenant, if you don’t care to spend the rest of your life building a road to the North Pole on the off chance that The Boss decides to go for a ride up there. You will do exactly what I require, and you will do it instantly.”

“Yes sir, of course. I had no idea—”

“You have caused me to blow cover on an important operation. Let me just say that you will never uncover the missing Bak. I have already done your work for you, and now you expose me. Do you see what I could do to you?”

“Yes sir. I had no—”

“I did so because this man here is my bodyguard and has done extraordinary work in service to NKVD and the security of the Soviet Union.”

“Yes, Major Speshnev, my God, everyone knows of Major Speshnev, of his activities with the partisans all over the occupied zones, of his—”

“Get him the highest clearance so that he may return home as the hero he is. I will move paperwork shortly to award him the medals he deserves.”

“Yes sir.”

“As for me, I require air transportation to Moscow at my earliest convenience. Do you understand?”

“It will be done.”

Speshnev went up to the Peasant. “All right,” he said, “they will treat you well now. Go home, my friend, live well, have many children.”

“Sir, you will speak for Mili? Make them see—”

“It is not time yet. Politics, as I have said. Much needs to be unraveled. I will try. Vengeance is a different matter, however. Now get out of here. Return home. Have more children.”

“I will name them after you.”

“It’s of no importance. If you have a daughter, name her after Mili. That would be something.”