The Longest Pleasure (2 page)

'Her name was Margaret Gibson. Her father was also an engineer, who went to the Soviet Union with other Britishers to build a factory. He believed in socialism, and decided to remain there. He took his family with him.'

'What happened.to him?'

Trains, rifle butts, men with red stars in their hats. 'I do not know, comrade. He may still be alive. Perhaps in Siberia.' 'Your mother resented this?'

"He was convicted of treasonable activ
ities, comrade. My mother never
spoke of him after his arrest.'

'What did your mother speak of, Alexander Petrovich?'

'She spoke of Scotland. Of the hardships there. Of the great strike which paralysed the whole country. Of how the upper classes in Britain mistreat the working people. Especially in Scotland.'

The commissar smiled. 'Go on.'

'She told me also of the beauty of Scotland, comrade. Of the mountains, and the lakes.'

"You are an admirer of beautiful things, Alexander Petrovich ?'

"Nature is beautiful, comrade.' 'But not humanity?'

The blood filled the navel, because there was a bayonet thrust right through the navel, holding the belly firmly to the wall. But now the flesh was tearing, and the blood raced down, flooding the hair, the legs dangling below. If the blood still poured, then the heart still beat. That was the worst thought of all. 'No, comrade.'

'Surely you mother was beautiful to you.'

'No, comrade.'

'When was the last time you saw her?' 'September 1941.'

The commissar nodded. 'In the Ukraine. Would it help you to speak of it?' 'No, comrade.'

'The captain spoke of a sister. Did the Germans also rape and murder her?'

'No, comrade. Helena and I escaped. We lived with the partisans for some time, and then we were sent to Moscow.'

'And your sister is still alive ?'

'I have not heard from her for several months, comrade. But I hope she is still alive. She is very young; younger than me.'

The commissar took out a packet of cigarettes, struck a match. 'Sit down, Alexander Petrovich. I would say that you had as much reason as any man for wishing to kill Germans.'

Galitsin sat down. 'Yes, comrade.'

'Tell me about last night.'

Galistsin sucked in his lips. But suddenly he wanted to talk about it. To explain. To understand, himself. 'There is a balloon in the belly,' he said. 'It is small, at first. You think it must be bad water, or bad sausage. You think, it will come out, at the latrine. But it is there, always. And it seems to grow. Gontscharow had one, too.'

'Gontscharow was your friend?.'

Yes, comrade. He is over there. In the post office.'

'So his balloon never had the time to burst,' the commissar said.

Galitsin turned his head. You know about the bursting?'

'Oh, yes,' said the commissar.

'I knelt beside Gontscharow,' Galitsin said. 'And I put my hand on his face, but there was only blood, and soft things. And then the captain called us forward. I stood up, comrade. I crossed the street with the unit, and the Germans were firing, and there were bullets hitting the cobbles. I do not remember being afraid. But urine was running down my legs, and I remember stopping, and thinking, My boots are full of piss, and I must take them off. I sat down to take them off, and found I could not move. The captain hit me with the butt of his revolver.'

The commissar nodded. 'There is blood on your hair.'

Galitsin put his hands up, took off his helmet, stroked the hardness mingled with the soft growth. His head began to hurt.
‘I
could not move, comrade.'

'You can move now.'

Galitsin stared .at his legs. 'Now is too late, comrade.' 'Only I can say that, Alexander Petroviqh. Tell me about your mother.' "No, comrade.'

'Then think about her.' The commissar lit another cigarette.

'I have thought about her for three years. I would like to stop thinking about her.'

'To do that you must kill Germans, Private Galitsin. I want you to rejoin your unit'

'They will not accept me now, comrade.'

They have all had their balloons, which have burst.' The commissar stood up. 'Perhaps at less embarrassing or dangerous moments.
Rejoin them, Private Galitsin.'
He straightened his schlem, put out his cigarette, glanced at the boy on the ground. 'And stand to attention when speaking with an officer.'

Galitsin scrambled to his feet 'I would like to thank you, comrade.'

'For what?'

'Comrade Helbach would have shot me.'

'Then Comrade Helbach did not understand his duty. My business is to make you fight. There is nothing to thank me for.'

‘
Nevertheless, I am grateful, comrade. And I do not know your name.'

The thin face relaxed, the hard mouth almost smiled. 'My name is Dus. Tigran Dus. You will hear of me again, comrade.'

II

The tank waddled down the street, scattering snow and slush. Its tracks rattled, and its gun swept the houses on either side. When the tank had entered the street it had been greeted by small-arms and machine-gun fire. When it reached the other end there was no sound above the clatter of the tracks. Then some masonry crumbled, and the sound rumbled over the morning. It was daylight now, and the houses burned, on either side of the street It was almost warm.

Captain Ascherin pointed. The white building had turned brown, from the heat and the grime of war. But incredibly the swastika flag still drooped above the doorway. Had the tank missed the flag? Or had the tank deliberately left this trophy for the infantrymen?

They scrambled out of the snow-filled gutters, ran across the street, bayonets glittering in the dancing flames. Galitsin ran between Kulomsin and Schabski. Neither was a friend as Gontscharow had been a friend. But they were comrades. In war a man needs comrades. Even comrades like Kulomsin and Schabski.

Captain
Ascherin placed his boot against the door, and pushed. It fell inwards, its hinges shattered. The captain stepped inside, swept his pistol to and fro. The unit crowded behind him. But the hall was empty, save for a single man, wearing a black uniform, lying head down on the stairs. Captain Ascherin took out his map, checked their position. Gestapo headquarters, Ferenczvaros Suburb, was his objective. 'Set up the radio here, Sergeant Maljutin,' he commanded. 'We will clear the next street. Kulomsin, check the upper floor. Take Galitsin and Schabski.'

Kulomsin saluted, touched Galitsin on the arm, looked over his shoulder. Schabski was the last man through the door. He carried the swastika flag, draped around his neck like a huge scarf. He grinned with delight.

They went up the stairs, rifles thrust forward, kicked the dead man aside. There w
as a wireless room on the left;
the shattered equipment still smoked. Five men were dead in the room, crouched around the remnants of their machine gun. Then there was a bedroom, with linen sheets. No war had reached in here. The room smelt of perfume.

'Bastards,' Kulomsin said. 'They know how to live.'

Schabski climbed on to the grand piano. His fly was open, and he urinated on the keys. He played a tune with, flowing water. And laughed. Schabski enjoyed war.

Galitsin stood in front of a painting. A nude woman, reclining on a couch. Now he knew what he wanted, more than food, more than the thirst which was drying his throat. More than beauty, and the woman in the painting was beautiful.

'Bourgeois scum.' Kulomsin jabbed with his bayonet, and the frame fell sidways. The reclining woman seemed to jerk; the canvas was cut, and her arm drooped downwards. Kulomsin was. a savage. So was Schabski. So was Galitsin. He stood in front of a bookcase, took out a leather-bound volume. He loved books. When he had fled from Pobredikov he had taken a volume of Chekhov's short stories. His mother had written in the fly-leaf, in English, 'This is for you, Alex.' No one had called him Alex since September 1941.

The leather-bound book was by Goethe. He opened it, tore out the pages in great handfuls. He no longer possessed the volume of Chekhov. He dropped the leather covers on the floor and stepped on them.

Schabski was laughing, as he jumped down from the piano, sprayed it with bullets. Chords clinked, and sprang out of the top as if possessing life.

'Trouble up there?' Sergeant Maljutin shouted from the stairs.

'Not now, comrade,' Schabski laughed, and paused before the next door, eyes wide, mouth still smiling. He placed his finger on his lips, jerked his head. Kulomsin tiptoed to his side, listened to the sound beyond the door. Galitsin watched them from the window. Soldiers did not, even when they belonged to the Gestapo, hide behind locked doors. He seemed to be enclosed in a wall of heat from his navel to his knees, a hardness which must surely be permanent. A paralysis.

Schabski aimed his rifle at the door, squeezed the trigger, smashing bullets into the wood. From beyond the panel there came
a
moan. Schabski laughed, pulled the door open. A woman fell out, lay on the floor. She wore a white blouse and a grey skirt, low-heeled shoes, and dull brown stockings. Blood welled through a hole in the skirt, over her left thigh, where Schabski's bullet had entered. She raised her head, gazed at the Russian soldiers with wide eyes. Her brown hair, once confined in a tight bun, was slowly unwinding, like the blood from her body. Her face was pale,
a
tight mask.

Kulomsin hooked the point of his bayonet under her skirt, flicked it up, prodded her buttocks. She moaned again, tried to get to her knees. Galitsin leaned on the mantelpiece, the pages of the book fluttering against his boots, the balloon swelling in his belly. He had seen Kulomsin at work before, in Bucharest. Schabski chuckled, and fired, aiming between the legs. The woman gasped, but this time she had not been hurt. The bullet had only scorched the cotton of her khaki drawers.

The legs had closed, after the shot, the bleeding muscles dragged tight, ridged beneath the stockings. Kulomsin inserted the bayonet between the clamped flesh, turned the woman on her back. Her lips moved, but no words came. Now her hair was scattered, like wisps of seaweed on the old flooring.

'Look at those!' Schabski unwound the swastika flag, threw it on the bed. Inside the dressing room there crouched two girls. They had their arms around each other, stared at the Russians. One of them was a blonde, with long, straight hair, and a lovely face, rounded features, delicately carved. Galitsin thought she might be twenty years old. The other was younger, dark, with sharp features. Her hair was also long, a gentle brown, flowing down her back, resting on her shoulders. They also wore skirts and blouses, but their legs were bare.

'More my type,' Kilomsin said, and shot the woman in the chest three times. She died with her lips still moving. Galitsin opened the door, found another bedroom. The bed in here was a double, and the sheets were rumpled. Perhaps those girls had slept here. He lay on his face across the bed, listened to screams, to a voice s
aying urgently, 'Magyar! Magyar!
'

'German whores,' Kulomsin said. 'Bloody collaborators. Hey, Schabski
...'

'We'll shave them,' Schabski agreed. 'But not now. Later.'

'Magyar,' said the frightened voice.

'I am Swedish,' said another voice, amazingly in Russian. 'I am a neutral. You cannot
...'
The slap sounded like a pistol shot.

Galitsin pushed himself off the bed, ran into the next room, slammed the door. This was an office. He sat at the desk, pulled open the drawers, tumbled the contents on the floor. He listened to the firing, coming from the next street. The unit was fighting over there. Why had Captain Ascherin chosen these three to search the house? Because, they were Schabski t
he layabout, Kulomsin the woman
iser, Galitsin the coward. Three men the unit could do without where there was fighting.

He threw the last drawer on the floor. The papers were all in German. Perhaps the captain could understand them. No, the commissar would be able to read German. Tigran Dus. He wondered if he was afraid of Tigran Dus.

He opened the door, listened. The noise was confused, now. Laughter, Schabski. Some weeping. A voice trying to explain. The girl who claimed to be Swedish. He went back into the bedroom. The blonde girl lay on her back, on the floor, staring at the ceiling, Kulomsin on her chest, working up and down. She spoke, in that even, hate-filled voice. 'I am Swedish,' she said, over and over again. 'You cannot touch me. I am a neutral.'

Schabski was drinking beer, on his back, lying on the flag spread across the bed. Schabski was naked from the waist down, and was still in a state of erection. Schabski was a horrible sight.