The Folks at Fifty-Eight (12 page)

“Do you remember that time we went to Kazan, and you first saw the Volga there? You said it was so big, it had to be an ocean?”

Anna smiled and nodded.

“I do not remember saying that, but I do remember the river was impressive.”

He ignored her good-humoured denial and pressed his point.

“However vast that expanse of water might seem, it begins life as a simple stream in the Valdai Hills, joining with other rivers that also began their lives as simple streams. Flowing through the wilderness, and turning the arid land fertile as it travels, growing in strength, until it becomes a mighty torrent that carries everything before it and will stop an army in its tracks.

“That was always the ideal of communism, Anna, nourishing minds as it spreads, nurturing and growing until it, too, becomes an unstoppable force.

“You cannot nourish minds with threats and bombs. You can only do such a thing with knowledge and ideas, by convincing others to believe in those things that you believe in.”

“And you think Stalin wants to threaten the Americans?”

“I think that one day he will do more than just threaten.”

“Go to war with America, you mean? Why would he do such a stupid thing?”

Anna Paslov sat open-mouthed. He met her incredulity with a shrug of resignation.

“Ioseb Vissarionovich runs with the wolves; he always has. He kills sometimes to survive, but mostly he kills because it is in his nature to kill. Now he has tasted the blood of Europe’s sheep and he likes it. He thinks the blood of America will taste even sweeter. For now, he lacks the teeth to attack, but in the space of four days last year he saw two bombs turn America from a country fighting an endless war against Japan into the most powerful nation on earth. He imagines how powerful he might become with a hundred such bombs.”

“And when he has his hundred atom bombs, then he will attack America?”

“Sooner or later he will summon the courage. It is in the nature of wild animals to attack that which they are afraid of, and he is frightened, Anna. He is terrified. He cannot see that a similar fear is the last thing we should be creating in such a wealthy and powerful nation as America.”

“My God! But, can we stop him? Can anyone stop him? What does Beria say?”

“I have not spoken to him yet. I am not supposed to know about this. It is highly secret, but somehow we must find a way to distract Stalin from this foolishness before he destroys us all.”

Paslov saw the concern in her and knew he had said too much. He knew his wife as well as she knew him. Anna was such a worrier. Something like this would nag at her. He smiled an apology, hoping to allay her fear and lighten the moment.

“I am sorry, my love. I am getting carried away again. You know how I get. I am just worried about this girl. This business with Stalin and the bombs will probably come to nothing. Things like that usually do.”

He got to his feet, headed for the kitchen, and called to her over his shoulder.

“And now, I think, we should open a bottle of wine and relax.”

She called back.

“You are just trying to get me drunk, so you can get back to your papers and files.”

“Not true.” He popped his head around the door, and delighted in the smile that met his suggestion. “I just thought we might have an early night.”

“Those Bolshevik pigs are stealing our eggs.”

He heard Catherine Schmidt cry out from the next bedroom. Apparently, she had also seen the two soldiers. Unlike Hammond, she had greeted the sight with all the recklessness of youth. He followed her as she stormed downstairs and into the kitchen, but wasn’t quick enough to stop her as she snatched up a carving knife from the dresser.

“If they take the eggs, we will have nothing,” she said, marching towards the door.

The old woman called out from where she had been sitting in the rocking chair.

“Catherine, no! Wait!”

She was also too late. In an instant the girl was out of the door. Hammond pulled the automatic and then watched from the kitchen window as she strode towards the soldiers. When they saw her, one of them laughed, and reached out to take the knife. She feigned a thrust, and then suddenly slashed down. The blade cut through the coarse material of his uniform and bit hard into his forearm. He gave a cry and clutched at the wound.

The second soldier was made of sterner stuff. He parried the lunging blade and punched her in the stomach. She squealed and sank to her knees, dropping the knife as she clutched at the pain. The soldier watched dispassionately for a moment, then put his boot against her shoulder and sent her sprawling to the ground.

A few moments later she made a grab for the knife. He had obviously anticipated that. He stamped down on her hand when she reached out, and smiled a smile of malicious triumph when he heard the resulting shriek. Again he shoved her back to the dirt, but this time held her pinned beneath his boot.

With blood seeping from the cut on his arm, the first soldier bent down and picked up the knife. He stood weighing it in his hand and then looked down on her with murder in his eyes.

“You vicious Nazi bitch!”

The second held out a restraining hand.

“No, Comrade, not that. It is only a scratch. You want to kill her for that? Look at her.” The wounded soldier stared blankly at his accomplice, who nodded to the pinioned girl. “Look at her face, and her hair. She is beautiful. Look at those tits. See how round and firm they are. I bet those little nipples are like bullets.” He hooked his boot under the hem of her skirt and lifted it high. She scrambled to push it back down, while he leered at the momentary exposure and shoved her back to the dirt. “Did you see that? She’s young, too, really juicy and tight. So tell me, Comrade, what would you rather do: cut her throat or fuck her?”

The girl struggled and tried to rise, but he held her pinned beneath the sole of his boot, while she loudly cursed him. The two men stood in silence as they watched her struggling and cursing. Then they turned and looked blankly at each other. Then they smiled.

That was when Hammond knew. He would have to kill them both.

The old woman stood in the doorway to the garden. Hammond watched from behind the curtains. He had the HDM and was now checking the load and waiting for the right moment. The distance from the kitchen to where they had the girl pinned to the dirt in front of the chicken coop was more than thirty paces. The soldiers still had their rifles close at hand. He couldn’t risk them getting in a shot. He also had to be careful not to hit the girl.

The HDM was a special weapon, but at thirty-odd yards the benefit of silence came at the cost of power. The manufacturers claimed the silencer improved the weapon’s accuracy but he had never found that, and hitting two out of three closely grouped and struggling figures from distance was too risky. He would have to wait until their distraction was complete. Then he could move nearer. Then it would be over.

The old woman called out.

“Please, Comrades! She is my granddaughter. Please let her go. She was only trying to save our food. She meant no harm.”

They ignored her. It was clear that neither man spoke German. The first soldier threw the kitchen knife to one side and started unbuttoning his slacks. The second grabbed the girl’s wrists.

One was kneeling in the dirt now, with his trousers unfastened, carefully avoiding her kicks as he shoved her skirt to the waist and started dragging her knickers down. The other held her arms pinned above her head with one hand, and began separating the fastenings on her jacket with the other.

With the jacket undone, he fondled and mauled, and bent down to kiss her mouth. She turned her head aside, then turned back and spat into his face. She called him a Bolshevik pig and spat again. He wiped away the spittle, slapped her across the face, and called her a bitch. The force of the blow rocked her head to the side, but she immediately turned back to him and bravely spat for a third time. He made to strike her again, but she didn’t flinch. He held back the blow and looked to where his comrade was having problems of his own; avoiding lunging feet and separating disobedient thighs.

He watched the struggle for a moment, and then sneered.

“For the sake of God, get on with it!” He laughed, loudly and artificially. “I tell you, this is a little wildcat we have here, a real little Nazi wildcat. If you ever manage to get her legs apart, she is going to be a fuck to remember. . . and you wanted to cut her throat.”

The girl was clearly tiring, her struggles subsiding, her curses falling into silence, and her previous mask of hatred replaced by a look of hopelessness. As one soldier continued to maul and gloat, the other pushed unresisting limbs apart and moved to take his prize.

Hammond heard her groan of despair and watched them closing in for the kill. Their distraction was complete. It was the moment he’d waited for. He inched towards them and levelled the silenced automatic. They would never know what hit them.

But then a voice called out, from somewhere to the side of the house. It startled the two soldiers, and sent Hammond hurrying back into the kitchen.

“What are you men doing?”

The two men heard the voice of authority and instantly released the girl.

“It’s Reznikov.”

The old woman had obviously recognized the voice. She whispered to Hammond. The name meant nothing to him.

“Who?”

She whispered again.

“Marat Reznikov; the local commissar.”

Hammond stayed behind the curtains, and watched. Outside, the two soldiers had scrambled to their feet. They stood, hastily refastening their uniforms, as the commissar came into view.

Marat Reznikov was tall and thin, with sallow skin and sunken features. His prematurely-grey hair had been cropped. His eyes were dark and emotionless. He wore a black leather coat and highly-polished black boots. In his right hand he carried a Walther. The protruding indicator pin showed there was a round in the chamber. The safety catch, in the off position, told Hammond that Reznikov was ready to kill.

Catherine Schmidt scrambled to her feet, pulling her knickers up and tugging her skirt down as she rose. The first soldier answered, with a waver in his voice that betrayed the fear.

“She attacked us, Comrade Commissar. She tried to kill us. We were arresting her.”

He held out the wounded arm in mute testament. Marat Reznikov smiled coldly.

“Arresting her? And do you always arrest women with your cocks sticking out?”

“No, Comrade.”

“Wait there.” He stopped speaking and stood silently watching while she refastened her jacket. He spoke to her in German. “And who are you, young fräulein?”

The old woman called out.

“Her name is Ingrid Riefenstahl. She is my granddaughter, Comrade Commissar. She is staying with me for a few days. She meant no harm.”

“If she meant no harm, why did she attack these men?”

“They were stealing our eggs. It is all the food we have. She did not understand. She is just a child. I apologize, Comrade Commissar.”

Reznikov stared his obvious admiration at the young woman.

“A child she is certainly not.”

Catherine Schmidt played her part to perfection. With jacket rebuttoned, she stood brushing away the dirt and looking back at him with an expression that offered a seductive mixture of gratitude and helplessness.”

Reznikov held out a hand, and then theatrically led her back to where the old woman stood waiting. As they reached the kitchen doorway, Catherine Schmidt looked up at him, with a timid smile on her lips and her eyes held wide.

Like so many before him, Marat Reznikov was instantly and obviously captivated. He smiled back at her, and then left her at the doorway, while he returned to the two men.

“Why were you looting eggs?”

“We were not, Comrade.”

“I find this girl lying pinned to the dirt with her knickers down and her legs spread, and you tell me you were not raping. I find the door to the chicken coop open, with the hens clucking and the eggs scattered, and you tell me you were not looting? Do you think me a fool?”

“No, Comrade Commissar.”

“This is our country now, and these people are now our comrades. Do you understand? We do not loot any more, and we do not rape any more. I thought I had made that clear.”

“Yes, Comrade Commissar.”

The two soldiers hung their heads and said nothing further. Hammond knew something of Russian commissars. They were not known for their forgiving natures. Reznikov spoke again.

“Turn around.”

Hammond continued watching, from behind the curtains, seeing this most real and terrible of dramas being played out before his eyes. Both men obviously knew what was about to happen, but said nothing and did nothing to avoid their fate: no cowering or pleas for leniency, no arguments or attempt at flight. They merely turned around and waited for death, with their limbs trembling and their eyes closed.

Marat Reznikov showed no qualms as he shot each man. No pity, no shame, no disgust, and not the slightest hesitation. He calmly aimed the pistol at the back of each head in turn, and just as calmly pulled the trigger. He didn’t look to see the holes he had made in their skulls, or consider the blood and bone and matter that sprayed across the chicken coop. He didn’t look to see where they had slumped, or check to ensure their deaths. He simply took each life with no more emotion than he might have shown when wringing the necks of the chickens beyond.

He shoved the pistol back into his coat pocket, and casually gestured for his men to remove the bodies. Then he returned to the doorway and spoke to Catherine Schmidt.