Philip Kerr - A Man Without Breath

‘ Chekuschka is really what we call the size of the bottle, not the stuff that’s in it,’ he said. ‘The vodka is cheap stuff but nowadays that’s all there is.’

I nodded. ‘Your wife,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. Really, it’s none of my business.’

‘It’s not because I didn’t love her that I keep her photographs hidden,’ explained Batov, ‘but because in 1937 she was arrested by the NKVD after she had been accused of anti-Soviet agitation and wrecking. It was a difficult time for the country. Many were arrested or simply disappeared. I don’t display her photographs because I’m afraid to do so would be to risk the same thing happening to me. I could hang them up again, of course. After all, it’s not as if the NKVD are likely to come calling while you Germans are here in Smolensk. But somehow I haven’t had the courage. Courage is another thing that’s in short supply in Smolensk these days.’

‘What did happen?’ I said. ‘To Jelena, I mean. After she was arrested.’

‘She was shot. At that particular time in Soviet history, arrest and a bullet in the back of the head were more or less synonymous. Anyway, that’s what they told me. A letter came in the post, which was thoughtful of them; so many people never learn these things for sure. No, I was lucky that way. She was Ukrainian-Polish, you see. I think I told you before – when you came to the hospital – she was from the Subcarpathian province. As a Pole she was a member of a so-called fifth-column community, and this made the authorities suspicious of her. The charge was nonsense of course. Jelena was an excellent doctor and devoted to all of her patients. But that certainly didn’t stop the authorities from alleging she had secretly poisoned many of her Russian patients. I imagine they tortured her to get her to implicate me, but as you can see I’m still here, so I don’t think she could have told them what they wanted. Now I blame myself for not leaving Russia and going to live with her in Poland. Perhaps she would be alive if we had left. But that’s true of millions, I shouldn’t wonder. Jews especially, but Poles, too. Since the war of nineteen-twenty it’s been almost as difficult to be Polish under the Bolsheviks as it is to be Jewish under the Germans. It’s an old historical scar, but as always these scars run deep. The Russians lost, you see. Soviet forces under Marshal Tukhachevsky were defeated by General Pilsudski outside Warsaw – the so-called miracle on the Vistula. Stalin always blamed Tukhachevsky, and for his part he blamed Stalin. There was no love lost between them, so really it’s amazing that Tukhachevsky lasted as long as he did. But he was arrested in 1937 and he and his wife and two brothers were shot; I believe his three sisters and a daughter were sent to penal camps. So I suppose I and my daughter can count ourselves lucky in that we’re still here to tell the tale. I told you the name of this street is Gudunow Street. It is. But before the war it used to be called Tukhachevsky Street. And just living on a street with this name was a cause for suspicion. Really, you look like you think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. People were arrested for much less than that.’

‘And I thought Hitler was bad.’

Batov smiled. ‘Hitler is just a minor demon in hell, but Stalin is the devil himself.’

We tossed another couple of glasses back and ate the bread and pickles – Batov called these little snacks zakuski – and it wasn’t long before we had finished the first bottle, which he then placed beside the leg of the table.

‘In Russia an empty on the table is a bad omen,’ he said. ‘And we can’t afford any of those on Tukhachevsky Street. It’s bad enough that I have a fashisty in my apartment. The floor lady will cross herself three times if she sees a Hans in the building and think her building has been cursed. Many at the hospital feel the same way about you germanets . It’s odd but for some Russians there’s really not much difference between you Germans and the Poles. I suppose that might be because there are parts of Poland which used to be German, which became Polish, and now they’re German again.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘East Prussia.’

‘To a Russian that’s much too complicated. Better to hate you all. Safer, too. For us.’

‘You might say that it’s the Poles who have brought me back here to Smolensk,’ I said. I told Batov about Katyn Wood, and how we were waiting for a thaw to begin so we could start digging.

Batov brushed up his thick, Stalin-sized moustache with the inside of his hand. He didn’t say anything for a moment but his dark shadowy eyes were full of questions that were mostly for himself, I think. The face was lean and the nose keen-looking, even fastidious, and the bushy-black moustache almost designed to protect his nostrils from some of the less pleasant smells that afflicted any resident of Smolensk; and probably not just the smells: the words and ideas of any governmental tyranny can stink as bad as any backed-up sewer. For a moment he hung his head almost as if he was feeling shame.

‘You must understand that in spite of all this I love my country, Herr Gunther,’ he said. ‘Very much. I am in love with Mother Russia. Her music, her literature, her art, the ballet – yes, I love the ballet. My daughter, too. It is still her life. There’s nothing she wishes more than to be a great ballerina like Anna Pavlova and dance The Dying Swan in Paris. But I love the truth more. Yes, even in Russia. And I hate all cruelty.’

I sensed he was about to tell me something, so I lit two cigarettes, handed him one silently, opened the second bottle and then refilled our glasses.

‘When I joined my profession I took an oath to help my fellow man,’ he said. ‘But lately this is more and more difficult. The situation here in Smolensk is terrible. Of course, you know that. You have eyes and you’re not a fool. But it was no less terrible before you Germans arrived here with your new street names and your Aryan superiority. Wagner is a great composer, yes; but is he any greater than Tchaikovsky, or Mussorgsky? I think not. Things have been done here in Russia that no civilized country should ever have countenanced doing against another civilized country. Not just by you, but by us, the Russians, too. And one of those things was what was done to the Poles.’

‘If I didn’t know you were here, Doctor Batov, I’d say I was talking to myself.’

‘Perhaps that’s why I feel able to tell you about this,’ he said. ‘When first we met I sensed you are someone who is trying to be a good man. In spite of the uniform you are wearing. Although it’s odd – I could have sworn it was a different one the last time you were here.’

‘It is different,’ I said. ‘But that’s a long story. For another time.’

‘I don’t say that you are a good man, Captain Gunther – you are still a captain, yes?’

I nodded.

‘No, you are not a good man. There are none of us can claim to be that, today. I think we must all make compromises to stay alive. When my wife was arrested, the authorities made me sign another piece of paper saying that I recognized the justice of the sentence given to her. I didn’t want to do that, but I did it all the same. I told myself Jelena would have wanted me to sign it, only the truth is that I signed it because if I hadn’t they would have arrested me. Was there any sense in us both being dead? I don’t think so. And yet-’

He had a smile that was full of brilliantly white teeth, and it returned briefly to his thoughtful, almost preoccupied face, but only as a way of preventing the tears in his eyes from increasing in quantity; he blinked them away and tossed back the drink I had poured for him.