Tin Sky (27 page)

He shared what he’d learnt through Bruno Lattmann, which wasn’t much.

“This is as far as I have got for now, Herr Oberstarzt. I have confirmation that Master Sergeant Weller did not ask for reassignment. It was by direct order at Army Corps level that he was transferred from this hospital on 6 May. At Army
Detachment Kempf HQ in Poltava, where he was supposed to report three days later for a new assignment, they have no record of his arrival. Which doesn’t mean he wasn’t there: we know how sometimes bureaucrats bungle things the moment paperwork doesn’t fit exactly the norm they’re used to. Alternatively, he could still be in transit.”

“It’s been a week!”

“This is Russia. Rail transport: unreliable. Roads: worse. A flat tyre, and you’re stuck; two flat tyres, and you walk.”

The surgeon’s white gown was missing a button. Seeing Bora’s eyes wander to the curl of thread that remained in its place, he took off the garment and tossed it onto the clothes stand by the door. “Well, I did some local checking, and Weller isn’t serving in any of the other medical units in Kharkov. My concern is
why
they did this to him.”

Bora glanced around the room with non-judgemental, attentive coolness. Cover and pillow were stacked at the head of the camp bed; the glass cabinet still contained some of the painkillers he’d brought last time. From the bulletin board on the wall the surgeon’s family photo had been taken down. The four tacks that had held it in place seemed to Bora singularly forlorn, a mark of prudence or pain. He often took his time in answering, and not only because it was typical of his training. It also allowed him to take in – as now – signs of his counterpart’s level of comfort. Or lack thereof. “We don’t know that
they
did anything to your medic,” he observed at last, “other than reassign him. And as far as the incident you seem to entertain as a motive, if there’s one who could in any way be brought to task for a prisoner’s death it’d be myself,
not
Weller.”

“You will agree it’s easier to punish a non-com than a regimental commander.”

Or a surgeon.
A measure of sarcasm was expected, but Bora had no desire to foster an argument. Besides, at the
Abwehr
Branch Office in Kiev they’d taken Platonov’s death in bad
humour; it was not beyond possibility that they’d sacked Weller for it.
They wouldn’t necessarily tell me, either
.

“As promised, I’ll keep looking for him, Herr Oberstarzt. There are some other channels I can tap. What about you? Did you have any luck?”

Mayr put an unlit cigarette between his lips, possibly to keep from blurting out what he had in mind. He handed over a summary of Tibyetsky’s post-mortem, copied by hand since the colleague who’d filled it out was no doubt forbidden to share it.

Bora thanked him. “I asked for a regional casualty update,” he felt the need to volunteer. “In case Weller suffered an accident en route to Poltava. With all the mines being laid overnight, we can’t always keep up with the clearing. Not that I think…but one never knows.” The gown tossed onto the clothes stand was slowly beginning to slip off the top knob. Without looking at it directly, Bora kept it in his peripheral vision, secretly impatient for it to reach the floor. “About the autopsy: may I ask whether you detected anything out of the ordinary?”

Facing away from the door, the surgeon could not see the lingering downward motion of the white garment behind him. The cigarette he’d put in his mouth stayed there as he spoke, an unlit paper cylinder stuck to his lower lip. “I had no access to the body, but the findings seem consistent with poisoning. Although a small part of the food ingested was regurgitated, the stomach contents revealed enough nicotine to cause death within minutes. Concentrated, it’s deadlier than strychnine, and not difficult to find. Farm women everywhere use tobacco leaf solution to kill garden parasites.”

On the clothes stand, having silently rounded the top knob, the surgeon’s gown slid off it and came to rest on the transverse bar of a lower knob, where its downward progress began again. Bora eyed it with something beyond lack of patience, on the threshold of physical discomfort. “Does nicotine have no odour or taste?”

“It tastes very bitter, which is why most accidental deaths are due to poisoning through the skin. It’s amazing the victim ate the whole bar. Was he a smoker?”

“Yes.” By the door, the inanimate drama continued. The choice was between waiting for the cloth to creep down until it glided off of the support altogether or stepping in to interrupt the process. Bora kept from intervening because it would give away his impatience, but he refused to keep watching. He lowered his eyes to the handwritten notes. “Forgive one last question. What are the symptoms of this kind of poisoning?”

“Toxicology isn’t my field, Major. Alkaloids in general – ergot, hemlock, atropine, strychnine, they’re a huge family – can cause anything from extreme agitation, even hallucinations, to a lucid and progressive paralysis, vomit, diarrhoea, convulsions. Not a good death, Socrates notwithstanding.”

Bora nodded. When he raised his eyes, the gown had finally reached the floor, and lay in a heap at the foot of the clothes stand.

Unaware of the distraction he’d indirectly provoked, Mayr fished out a lighter from his pocket and lit his cigarette at last. “My part of the bargain was fulfilled, Major. In these difficult times, Oberfeldwebel Weller was a caring and attentive helper, whose well-being I had at heart and for whom I hoped there’d be an opportunity to earn his medical degree. I am truly sorry he’s gone. And I hold you responsible for whatever befell him.”

Why do I put up with him? I no longer need his help
. The ungenerous thought went through Bora’s mind while he saluted. “No need to speak of him as if he’d died, Herr Oberstarzt. Weller may have arrived in Poltava as we speak.”

His second errand in Kharkov was at divisional headquarters, where he was to pick up the authorization to collect a special shipment of fresh mounts for his unit, due to arrive by rail in Smijeff by the middle of the following week. Von Salomon, however, wasn’t at the office. Bora assumed at first the absence
might be connected to the debacle in Tunisia: news of over one hundred thousand German prisoners fallen into Allied hands had caused noticeable turmoil in the building. The lieutenant who took care of the colonel’s paperwork did not confirm his suspicions either way, and provided some assistance. However, not being empowered to sign for his commander, he could only invite Bora to return in the afternoon.

“Is there a possibility I could find the colonel at his lodgings?”

“You could try, Herr Major.”

Von Salomon was staying in the same large flat on Pletnevsky Lane, overlooking the river, where Bora had been a guest the night of the folk dance. Too spacious by his own admission, the colonel often had visitors, mostly colleagues in Kharkov for service-related business, and was known to do some of his work from there. Bora headed there. Here the Kharkov River flowed west, to merge not far away with the Lopany. On the other bank, beyond half-demolished buildings, the Donbas station marked the terminus of the rail line that would bring the regimental mounts from southern Ukraine. Due to the presence of German bureaus and officers’ quarters, Army police patrolled this district made up of charming houses from the turn of the century painted in warm colours with stucco festoons above their windows and classical façades. It was very warm, and felt like it would rain again.

In von Salomon’s second-floor flat, there was music playing: a radio or a gramophone; Bora could not judge from outside the door. He had to ring twice before someone heard and came to open up. A colonel in an
Organization Todt
uniform, complete with armband and cuff title, stood there and frowned. Clearly not expecting a visit, he said brusquely, “Yes? Who are you?” When Bora introduced himself and gave the reason for his presence, the colonel added, “Lieutenant Colonel von Salomon was up until very late last night, Major. He’s resting at present.”

Someone else was in the room, invisible to Bora because the OT officer held the door ajar. Behind him, on the wall,
the glassed-in watercolour of von Salomon’s estate reflected the figure of a middle-aged lady in a morning suit. With more than an impression that he’d interrupted something, Bora apologized. “Forgive me for sounding insistent,” he said. “It regards an important shipment, and is somewhat urgent. I do need the colonel’s signature at his earliest convenience. Should I call again after lunch?”

The officer glanced at his watch. “Not before 14.30.”

Politically well-connected wives and fiancées did visit the higher ranks occasionally, and friends literally made room for those special times if they could. Von Salomon had probably left his flat to this colleague, who – Tunisian news notwithstanding – was making the most of the opportunity. After all, it was Russia; it was wartime. And honestly, even before the war, Bora had laid Dikta wherever he could. He saluted and left.
But the few times I had this luck
, he enviously told himself,
at least I took a hotel room and did not inconvenience colleagues.

The lunch hour dragged on. Before returning to Pletnevsky Lane at the appointed time, Bora sought the divisional office again, to no avail. “You could try again around 16.30, Herr Major.” When he rang the bell at von Salomon’s flat (he could have bet money on it, yet still it vexed him), no one answered the door. So he decided to at least get something done and drove to the
Kombinat
, a bit closer to Kharkov than if he had travelled back to Merefa.

Behind closed doors, Commissioner Stark was berating somebody in Russian. Over the telephone, if one was to judge from the lack of other voices and the brief silences during which he most likely was listening to excuses being made at the other end of the wire. The words “black market”, “typewriters” and “former Starshin Infantry School” stood out from the others. A longer pause was followed by a less irate conversation in German. Bora waited, and eventually Stark’s assistant made the major’s presence known to his superior. “Well, let him in,” was Stark’s reply.

“I can’t get any madder than I already am, Major Bora,” he added half-seriously when Bora walked in. “What with getting our arses kicked in north Africa, what with nuisances here… So if you want to pester me, this is as good a time as any. These Russkis are the same as ever – they work for you but they’ll rob you blind the moment they can. And then this unseasonable warmth, this damned humidity. It’s about the cavalry mounts, right? Have you got the signed authorization?”

Without giving details, Bora explained there had been a delay in the paperwork, which he hoped to obtain before office closing time.

“I understand what you’re saying, Major, but we can’t make exceptions. You’ll have to come back when you have the signed authorization. While I have you here, though, let me tell you that we haven’t forgotten about your babushkas, and are looking into the confusion. Both you and Hauptsturmführer Mantau requested female personnel at the same time. Are you sure you didn’t swap lists with him?”

“Positive. Why should I do such a thing, Commissioner? I wasn’t even aware that he’d asked for labourers until you mentioned it the day he and I had words.”

Stark set aside a number of folders, slapping their covers closed and securing them with their elastic bands. “In that case, the mix-up must have occurred after the two requests left this office. Imagine, the women originally assigned to him arrived this morning. In light of all that happened, I believe they should by rights be turned over to your unit.” Around him, little by little as his role took shape, the accoutrements and signs of political standing coalesced. Flag, portrait of the Führer, a brand-new map on the wall. “Speaking of the devil, Major Bora, you don’t happen to know where Mantau is, do you? He isn’t returning telephone calls, and I just heard he’s been out of the office since he was summoned to Kiev on Wednesday night.”

More likely than not, Kiev meant Gestapo Headquarters. Bora had to make an effort to resist a malicious smile at the
news. “I don’t know where he is, Herr Gebietskommissar. May I take a look at the list of labourers?”

Stark showed him a typewritten sheet of names and patronymics, and rose to open the window. “I wish it’d rain; the mugginess is unbearable.” A view of the old factory beyond the gravelled area of machinery and stacked materiel became visible; the brick building where Bora had seen the Karabakh stallion stood etched against a thundery sky. “As you’ll judge from the first names, Major, they’re a younger lot than last time: Barrikada and Revolutsya aren’t anything they’d call females in the old days. You haven’t got anything against young washerwomen, have you?”

“Not at all. When may I send for them?”

“As soon as I inform Mantau – which is why I’d like to get hold of him.”

Bora returned the sheet. He’d actually looked for Avrora Glebovna’s name on the list, unsure whether it was because he wished it would be there, or else because he’d ask to remove it if it was.

Shaking his head, the commissioner placed a paperweight (it was actually a large pebble) on the sheet. “This being in effect still Army-administered Ukraine,” he continued, rocking in his swivel chair and staring at his desk, “I may have arrogated to myself a role that doesn’t belong to me, but I demanded that the two women executed last Friday be taken down from the improvised gallows. I never authorized that hanging, you know.”

It was the very thing Bora had thrown in Mantau’s face. He said, “A little kindness goes a long way, even in Russia.”