The Beast in the Red Forest (7 page)

‘It’s time for me to go home,’ said Podolski. ‘My wife will be wondering what’s happened.’

‘Patience, Podolski,’ replied Kirov. ‘Think of your cat.’

‘He’s not married,’ grumbled Podolski. ‘He can afford to be patient.’

Two hours later, just as Podolski was closing up his shop for the day, sweeping the floor for scraps of leather and tooth-marked wooden pegs, Kirov located the symbol among the tanneries beginning with the letter K. By then, he was so dazed that he had to stare at it for a while before he could be sure. ‘Kolodenka Leather Cooperative,’ he read aloud.

Podolski’s broom came to a rustling halt across the floor. ‘Kolodenka! Where the hell is that?’

‘No idea,’ replied Kirov, ‘but wherever it is, that’s where I’m going.’
        ‘Then I hope it’s some place in the sun.’ Podolski propped his broom in the corner. Removing a small can of ground meat from the shelf above his head, he opened it with a key attached to its side. The lid peeled away in a coil like an old clock spring. Then he emptied the food into a bowl and placed it on the window sill for the cat.

The two men walked out into the dusk.

While Podolski locked the shop, Kirov glanced uneasily up and down the street.

‘Are you expecting someone?’ asked Podolski.

‘I wish I was,’ muttered Kirov. ‘Then, at least, I could explain why I always feel as if I’m being watched.’

‘You are being watched,’ Podolski told him.

‘But by whom?’

Podolski tapped the glass of his shop window, drawing Kirov’s gaze to the Manx cat. With eyes as green as gooseberries, it stared clean through into his soul.

‘You’re going
where
?’ demanded Stalin.

‘To the village of Kolodenka in western Ukraine,’ replied Kirov. ‘I believe that Pekkala may have been there recently, or somewhere near there, anyway.’

‘And this is based on what?’

Kirov paused. He knew he could not tell Stalin the truth. To do so would be to sign the death warrants of Linsky and Poskrebychev. ‘Unsubstantiated evidence,’ he stated categorically.

At that moment, in the outer office, Poskrebychev muttered a silent prayer of thanks. As usual, he had been eavesdropping through the intercom system between his desk and that of Stalin. Relaying Linsky’s message to the major had been the greatest act of faith that he had ever undertaken, and the days since then had been filled with terror at each unfamiliar face he encountered in the hallway, every noise outside the door of his apartment. Even the casual glances of people he passed in the street caused sweat to gather like a scattering of pearls upon his face. When Kirov had passed by on his way into Stalin’s office, he had not said a word to Poskrebychev. Kirov didn’t even look in his direction, which had caused Poskrebychev’s heart to accelerate completely out of control, and to flutter about his chest like a bird trapped behind the flimsy caging of his ribs. As soon as Kirov entered Stalin’s room, Poskrebychev had leaned forward and, with trembling fingers, switched on the intercom so as to hear every word of what he felt sure was his impending doom.

‘In other words,’ said Stalin, ‘you have nothing to go on but more rumours.’

‘That is correct, Comrade Stalin. Rumours are all we have.’

‘How did you plan on getting to this place? Kodo . . .’

‘Kolodenka. I took a look at the map and the nearest airfield is just outside the town of Rovno, only a few kilometres from Kolodenka.’

‘Rovno.’ A flicker of recognition passed across Stalin’s face. ‘That’s partisan country.’

‘Yes, and I believe it’s possible that Pekkala has been living among them.’

‘I suppose this should come as no surprise, given how much trouble they have caused us in that region.’

‘Trouble?’ asked Kirov. ‘But the newspapers are filled with reports of their heroism in fighting behind the lines.’

Stalin barked out one sarcastic laugh. ‘Of course we are calling them heroes! That sounds a lot better than the truth.’

‘And what is the truth, Comrade Stalin?’

‘The truth,’ boomed Stalin, ‘as always, is complicated. And people don’t want complications. They want a simple narrative. They want to know who’s good and who’s not. Some of them have been fighting bravely against the Fascists, but others fought alongside them when the tide of war was flowing the other way. There are heroes among them and there are traitors as well. Deciding which is which has become very difficult. There is even a danger that some of them might turn their guns upon us, now that we are recapturing that corner of the country. The situation has become so serious that, just last week, I dispatched Colonel Viktor Andrich to Rovno, with the job of sorting out this mess. If anyone knows where Pekkala might be hiding, it is Andrich. I will see to it that you have letters of introduction, which will guarantee his full cooperation in your search. In the meantime, you may requisition whatever means of transport you might need to get you there. But you had better leave now, Kirov. If Andrich fails in his mission, a war could break out any day now between the Red Army and the partisans.’

Two minutes later, Kirov was striding down the hallway, bound for the nearest airfield and the first plane he could find which might be heading west. Then he heard someone calling his name. Kirov spun around and realised it was Poskrebychev, galloping unevenly towards him. Poskrebychev’s balance was offset by a bundle, wrapped in paper and tied with string, which he carried tucked under his arm.

‘Not again,’ Kirov muttered to himself. He had avoided even making eye contact with Poskrebychev on his way into Stalin’s office. Given the risks both of them had taken in keeping information from Stalin, the less the two men had to do with each other the better, at least for the present. And now, here was Poskrebychev, bounding through the Kremlin and shouting out his name as if everyone in Russia knew their secret.

Poskrebychev skidded to a halt in front of Kirov. He tried to speak but was so winded that at first he could not even talk. Instead, he held up one finger, nodded, then bent over and rested one hand upon his knee while he struggled to catch his breath. In his other arm, he continued to clutch the package he’d brought with him. ‘I have something for you,’ he gasped, still staring at the floor.

‘Something for me?’

Poskrebychev nodded, wheezing.

A woman passed by on her way to the records office, carrying a bundle of files. She eyed them suspiciously and then hurried on her way.

Kirov smiled at her and patted Poskrebychev on the shoulder, as if they were the best of friends. Then he lowered himself, until his lips were almost touching Poskrebychev’s ear. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he whispered, his teeth clenched in a skull-like grin. ‘Are you trying to get us both killed?’

With a final gasp, Poskrebychev righted himself. His face was a liverish red. ‘From Linsky,’ he announced, shoving the parcel into Kirov’s hands. ‘Your new tunic, Major.’

Kirov had forgotten all about it. ‘Well,’ he said, flustered, ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘Just bring him back,’ whispered Poskrebychev. ‘That will be more than enough.’

The following day, out of a gently falling rain, a two-seater Polikarpov UTI-4 roared down on to a grass strip runway which ran beside the railway tracks, a few kilometres northwest of Rovno. The Polikarpov, normally used as a training aircraft, had been pressed into service earlier that day when Kirov, in his perfectly fitted new tunic, had interrupted a young pilot’s first day of flight instruction. Shortly after Kirov had transmitted instructions to the newly established Red Army garrison in Rovno that he would require transport upon his arrival, the Polikarpov had taken off towards the west, the pilot instructor still protesting loudly through the headphones and the student standing by himself on the runway, watching as the plane rose up into the clouds.

At the edge of the runway stood the ruins of a building which had once housed the ground controller. All that remained of it now was a silhouette of ash, and the smell of the damp, burned wood filled Kirov’s lungs as he walked towards a mud-splashed American Willys Jeep, one of thousands sent to Russia as part of the Lend-Lease programme, which waited for him by the railway tracks. The rails, destroyed by the retreating German army, twisted into the air like giant snakes charmed from a basket.

The only thing that Kirov carried with him was a canvas bag with a wooden toggle closure, intended for an army-issue gasmask. Its original contents had been disposed of, in favour of Pekkala’s Webley, the box of bullets, a lump of half stale bread and a piece of dried fish wrapped up in a handkerchief.

The driver of the Jeep was a thick-necked man with a wide forehead and narrow eyes, his upper body cocooned in a
telogreika
jacket. The
telogreika
’s tan cotton exterior was faded by washing in gasoline, which soldiers at the front often used instead of soap and water. The white fluff of raw cotton used to pad the jacket peeked from numerous tears in the cloth.

‘Welcome, Comrade Major!’ said the driver. ‘I am your driver, Sergeant Zolkin.’

Kirov climbed into the Jeep, dumping the bag on the floor at his feet. The seats smelled of sweat and old smoke. ‘Do you know where I can find Colonel Andrich?’

‘Yes, Comrade Major!’ exclaimed the driver, a broad smile sweeping across his face. ‘He is expecting you.’

Soon, the Jeep was racing along the muddy roads, its wipers twitching jerkily back and forth, like the antennae of an insect, smearing the raindrops from the windscreen.

‘So you have come from Moscow?’ asked Zolkin.

‘That’s right.’

‘It has been a dream of mine to visit that great city.’

‘Well,’ said Kirov, ‘perhaps you will get there some day.’

‘I do not have long to wait, Comrade Major! You see, I have been loaned to you by Commander Yakushkin, who is in charge of the Red Army garrison here in Rovno. This Jeep belongs to him and so do I. Commander Yakushkin will soon be transferred to Moscow, and I will be travelling with him. Once I am there, I intend to fulfil my life’s ambition, which is to shake the hand of the great Comrade Stalin.’

Although Kirov knew that the odds against that were slim indeed, he said nothing to dampen the sergeant’s enthusiasm.

By now, they had entered the outskirts of Rovno.

As two white chickens scattered from beneath the heavy-lugged tyres of the Jeep, Kirov glanced at the abandoned houses, their thatched roofs slumped like the backs of broken horses. He wondered how long it would take to rebuild a village like this. Perhaps, he thought to himself, they won’t even try. That was what had happened to his family’s tavern after the opening of the railway between Leningrad and Moscow. Within a year or two, traffic on the old road almost disappeared. There weren’t enough customers to keep the tavern open and they had to close. The building was left to rot. He had only seen it once since his family moved out, one winter’s day as he rode past in a train bound for Leningrad. By then, the roof had collapsed. The chimneys, one at either end of the tavern, leaned as if swooning into the ruins of what had once been the dining room. Snow had swept up against one side of the building and the jagged teeth of broken window panes glittered with frost. He had found it strangely beautiful to see how the structure, once the centre of his universe, had surrendered to the gravity of seasons.

The meandering of his thoughts was interrupted as the Jeep came to a sudden halt, slewing almost sideways in the mud.

‘What happened?’ asked Kirov, who had barely saved himself from being thrown out of the vehicle.

Zolkin didn’t reply. He left the engine running and launched himself from behind the wheel, drawing the pistol from his belt.

Seeing the gun, Kirov hauled out his Tokarev, jumped from the car and dived into the wide ditch, which was chest deep in water. The crack of the sergeant’s gun was the last thing Kirov heard before he went under. A moment later, he popped to the surface, spluttering out a mouthful of the oil-tinted ooze. The gunfire continued, but Kirov couldn’t tell what the driver was shooting at since his view was obscured by the wall of mud in front of him. He scrambled up the side of the ditch, one hand clawing at the dirt slope and the other still gripping his gun.

The shooting stopped abruptly and Kirov knew the man’s magazine must be empty. He rolled on to his back and chambered a round in the Tokarev, catching sight of his cap floating upside down in the ditch water like a child’s lopsided boat.

Cautiously, Kirov raised his head, ready to fight off the ambush into which he felt certain they must have driven. Instead, what he saw was the driver, standing in the middle of the road, the pistol tucked into his belt. In each hand, the man held a dead chicken. ‘What on earth are you doing, Comrade Major?’ asked the sergeant.

For the first time, Kirov became aware of the cold slime which filled his boots, the trickles of grit running down into his eyes and the taste of dirty water, rank and metallic in his spit. ‘What am
I
doing?’ he bellowed in reply. Then he sloshed back to the bottom of the ditch, retrieved his hat and squashed it on to his head. ‘If this is how you drive a car,’ he called out, ‘I don’t think you’ll last long in Moscow! And what are you doing with those birds?’

‘They’re for you, as well, of course,’ the driver told him, as he tossed the chickens into the back of the vehicle, splashing the seats with blood and feathers.

Kirov didn’t reply. He returned to the Jeep, climbed in, and stared off down the road. Water seeped from his cap and trickled down the side of his face.

‘I just couldn’t pass up—’ the sergeant began to explain.

‘This was a brand-new uniform!’ interrupted Kirov.

They finished their journey in silence.

Coils of smoke snaked upwards from the devastated centre of the town, obscuring the powder-blue sky. From what Kirov could see, not a single home was left intact.

Slowly the Jeep made its way forward over broken glass and pieces of smashed stone. Here and there, work crews made up of German prisoners were clearing the rubble, pitching brick after fire-blackened brick into rusty wheelbarrows.

In what had once been the display window of a shop stood a mannequin of a woman, naked except for a helmet which someone had put on her head. With one arm extended, her crumbled plaster fingers seemed to beckon them, like a leper begging for charity.

In the middle of this bombed-out street, their progress was halted by a huge crater, at the bottom of which a 20-ton Russian T34 tank lay upside down. There was no way to get past on either side.

Kirov climbed out of the Jeep, shouldering the bag, which had escaped being soaked in the ditch. Leaving the Jeep behind, the two men continued on foot.