Philip Kerr - A Man Without Breath

‘I see.’

‘That might also be what got them killed,’ I added. ‘Maybe someone thought he wasn’t getting his proper cut.’ I shook my head. ‘Any ideas?’

‘None,’ admitted Lutz.

‘It didn’t bother you, for example, that you were being kept out of the action.’

‘Not enough to kill them,’ he said, calmly. ‘If that’s what you mean.’

‘It is.’

Lutz shrugged and might have said something more but for the fact that the telegraph sprang into action.

‘This looks like your reply from Berlin,’ he said, as he began to decipher the message.

When he’d finished, he turned to the typewriter.

‘No need to type it out,’ I said. ‘I can read your capital letters.’

The message was from Goebbels himself; it read:

TOP SECRET. KATYN INCIDENT HAS TAKEN SENSATIONAL TURN. SOVIETS HAVE BROKEN OFF DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS WITH POLES BECAUSE OF ‘ATTITUDE OF POLISH GOVERNMENT IN EXILE’. REUTERS ISSUED EARLIER REPORT TO THIS EFFECT. AMERICAN PUBLIC OPINION NOW DIVIDED. AM WITHHOLDING NEWS HERE IN GERMANY FOR PRESENT, HOWEVER. POLES ARE BEING BLAMED BY BRITISH GOVT FOR NAIVELY PLAYING INTO OUR HANDS. I AWAIT MORE DEVELOPMENTS TO SEE WHAT I CAN DO WITH THIS NEWS. REPRESENTS A 100 PER CENT VICTORY FOR GERMAN PROPAGANDA. SELDOM IN THIS WAR HAS GERMAN PROPAGANDA REGISTERED SUCH A SUCCESS. WELL DONE TO YOU AND ALL CONCERNED AT KATYN WOOD. HAVE ASKED KEITEL IN CAPACITY AS CHIEF OF OKW TO ORDER VON KLUGE TO COMPLY WITH POLISH RED CROSS REQUEST REGARDING VOLKSDEUTSCHE. GOEBBELS.

‘All right,’ I told Lutz. ‘Now you can type this out neatly. There are others who need to see this, including the Polish Red Cross.’

When Lutz had finished typing out the message I folded it up and placed it carefully in an envelope. As I was leaving the castle I bumped into Alok Dyakov. As usual he was carrying the Mauser Safari rifle that had been a gift from the field marshal. Seeing me, he snatched off his cap respectfully and grinned, almost as if he knew that I knew he was there to see Marusya, one of the castle kitchen maids with whom he had a romantic attachment.

‘Captain Gunther, sir,’ he said. ‘How are you, sir? Good to see you again.’

‘Dyakov,’ I said. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something. When we first met, Colonel Ahrens told me you were rescued from an NKVD murder squad that was going to shoot you. Is that right?’

‘Not a squad, sir. It was an individual NKVD officer called Mikhail Spiridonovich Krivyenko and his blue-hat driver. German soldiers found me handcuffed to his car after I killed him, sir. He was taking me to prison in Smolensk, sir. Or possibly to execute. I hit him and then couldn’t find the key to the manacles. Lieutenant Voss found me sitting at the side of the road beside his body.’

‘And the NKVD arrested you because you were a German teacher. Is that right?’

‘Yes sir.’ He shrugged. ‘You are right. Today, if you are not working for NKVD and you speak German is virtually the same as to be a member of fifth-column community. How Peshkov stayed out of their hands I don’t know. Anyway, after 1941, when Germany attacked Russia, this made me suspicious to the authorities. It is the same as if I had been a Polish-Russian.’

‘Yes, I know.’ I gave him a cigarette. ‘Tell me, did you know any other NKVD officers in Smolensk?’

‘You mean other than Krivyenko? No, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘Mostly I tried just to keep out of their way. They’re easy to recognize, sir. NKVD wear a very distinctive uniform. Names I hear, sometimes. But like I say, I keep away from these men. Is only sensible thing to do.’

‘What names did you hear?’

Dyakov was thoughtful for a moment and then looked pained. ‘Yezhov, sir. Yagoda. These were famous names in NKVD. Everyone heard their names. And Beria. Him of course.’

‘I meant lower-ranking than those names.’

Dyakov shook his head. ‘It’s been a while, sir.’

‘Rudakov,’ I said. ‘Ever hear about him?’

‘Everyone in Smolensk knows that name, sir. But which Rudakov do you mean? Lieuntenant Rudakov was head of local NKVD station, sir. After he was hurt, his half-brother Oleg came back to Smolensk to look after him. From where I don’t know. But when Germans took Smolensk he got the job as doorman at Glinka to stay on and keep an eye on his brother, sir. You know what I think, sir? I think he found out that Dr Batov had told you about what happened here in Katyn. And so he killed Batov and took Arkady away somewhere safe. To protect him. To protect them both, I think.’

‘You might just be right about that,’ I said.

Dyakov shrugged. ‘In life we can’t always win, sir.’

I smiled. ‘I’m not sure I ever learned how.’

‘Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?’ asked Dyakov, unctuously.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘You know, sir, now that I come to think about it, there is someone who might know something about Oleg Rudakov: Peshkov. Before he got his job translating for the adjutant at Krasny Bor, Peshkov was translating for the girls at the Hotel Glinka. So that the madame could tell the German boys about how much and how long.’

*

The experts in the international commission were accommodated in one large hut at Krasny Bor which had been vacated by German officers – most of whom went to live in the GUM department store in Smolensk; and that night, in the absence of half his general staff, Field Marshal von Kluge offered these distinguished professors the hospitality of his mess, which he had not done with the members of the Polish Red Cross. Perhaps this wasn’t so strange: of the many countries represented in the international commission, five were friendly to Germany and two were neutral. Besides, the field marshal was keen to speak French – which he did excellently – with Professor Speelers from Ghent and Dr Costedoat from Paris. I won’t say that we were a jolly party. No, I wouldn’t have said that. For one thing, Ines absented herself from the dinner, which, for me at any rate, was like someone blowing out a beautifully scented candle. And after Tanya’s story about the river Zapadnaya Dvina, I had little stomach for more lamprey pie. But I had no choice but to swallow a dull conversation with Judge Conrad, who had been spending most of his time examining some reluctant Russian witnesses about what had happened at Katyn – which was the last thing I wanted to talk about.

After an excellent brandy and a cigarette from the field marshal’s own silver box, I went for a walk around the grounds at Krasny Bor. I hadn’t gone very far when Colonel von Gersdorff caught up with me.

‘It’s a fine night,’ he said. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Be my guest. But I’m not much company tonight.’

‘Nor am I,’ he said. ‘I missed dinner. Somehow I didn’t fancy dining with all those forensic scientists. It looked a bit like the aquarium at Berlin Zoo in there. All those cold fish in their precise little spaces. I was speaking to one of them this afternoon: Professor Berruguete, from Spain. It was like talking to a very unpleasant species of squid. So I went for a walk instead. And now here you are.’

Try as I might it was hard to imagine the colonel holding that bayonet; a duelling sabre, maybe – even the broom-handle Mauser – but not a bayonet. He didn’t look like someone who could ever have cut someone’s throat.

‘What did you talk about?’ I asked.

‘With the professor? He holds some very unpleasant opinions about race and eugenics. Seems to think that Marxists are degenerates and will enfeeble our German race, if we let them live. My God, I swear some of these Spanish fascists make the Nazis look like models of reason and tolerance.’

‘And what do you think, colonel? About Marxists?’