Simon Montefiore - Red Sky at Noon

‘ Oh my God. Have you started it? I can’t wait to read it.’

‘I’ve been reading it all night. My father came in and I had it hidden in his Short Course and he didn’t notice. It’s so romantic, brilliant. The American Communist, named Jordan, fights in Spain and falls in love with this Spanish girl who’s much younger than him, and damaged by her tragic and difficult life. She’s called Maria.’

‘Sounds familiar!’

‘Yes of course, Lev is Jordan and I’m Maria. Oh, Lev’s so clever, so interested in everything…’

‘Is there anything in the newspaper?’

Sveta had Red Star in her satchel; she slipped it out and scanned the front page and there was Lev’s article, telling of a terrible battle on the Don Bend to stop the German advance, and then she felt herself almost gasping for air. She read:

Is the sun shining in Moscow, on the roses in the Alexandrovsky Gardens? Standing here as the cannons fire, as your heroic Red Army struggles against the Nazi hydra, I think of our capital and I believe the flowers there are blossoming. You can see the Kremlin’s crenellated battlements from your window…

The flush swept up Svetlana’s body like a scarlet tide and she fanned herself so energetically with the Short Course that several of the other pupils looked around . She passed the paper under the desk to Martha who read it avidly.

‘Mother of God, Sveta! He’s crazy! What would your father say? He might read it!’

But Svetlana was exhilarated. ‘He LOVES me! Anyway, it could be anyone looking at the flowers in the gardens. Only we know it’s addressed to someone inside the Kremlin.’

‘True. But your father wouldn’t believe that, would he?’

‘No, but I don’t care! I can’t wait to kiss my Lion again.’

The entire class was now looking at the two girls, who always sat at the back. The teacher, the loathsome and pedantic time-server, Dr Innokenty Rimm, hesitated. He was afraid of Svetlana and she enjoyed that. He couldn’t tell Stalina to be quiet. He wouldn’t dare. Instead he picked on Martha.

‘Peshkova! Are you with us today?’

‘Yes, sorry, Dr Rimm, I am listening.’

‘Good! So tell us about Marx’s view of the class struggle and the role of the bourgeois during the 1848 Revolution?’

Martha gave her gorgeous smile. ‘Well, that’s easy…’

‘Where the hell have the scouts got to?’ murmured Consul Malamore. The scouts would have bivouacked somewhere but the sun was up now. He and his posse had spent the night in a village and risen before dawn. Malamore lit a cigarette and he rode ahead with a silhouette like a statue of equine bronze. He had no wish to talk obscenities with Dirlewanger or listen to the whinings of Montefalcone; and no one wished to ride with Kapto and the little girl.

Over the Don the teal-coloured sky was stained jet with burning fuel dumps and illuminated with orange flashes of big guns; Malamore could almost feel the blasts now. The Germans were destroying the last Russian bridgeheads on the bend of the river. When that was done, the Germans would charge across the steppe from the Don to Stalingrad – and perhaps put the last nail in the coffin of Russia. But Malamore knew that the closer to the battle, the more likely that Fabiana and the Russian prisoner would be killed in the crossfire – or, perhaps worse, make it to the Russian lines, and be lost forever. What would Fabiana’s life be in Soviet hands? And he would never know what had become of her.

They passed reinforcements of Romanian and Hungarian troops and then a column of panzers, waiting for their fuel tankers. ‘To Stalingrad!’ was painted on to one tank. ‘From the Don to the Volga!’ read another. ‘Stalin kaput!’ the third. The boys sat smoking on the turrets, shirts off, shoulders sunburnt, writing letters: the roar of the fighting at the Don Bend focused their minds on home, sweethearts, the tranquil past.

Dirlewanger asked a sergeant where the Sixth Army staff headquarters was, pointing his whip at Kapto. ‘This man needs to deliver something important to Colonel von Schwerin, Intelligence, Sixth Army.’

‘That way,’ said the sergeant, who had a Bavarian accent. ‘Towards the Don.’ He paused and looked at Dirlewanger and Kapto properly. ‘What unit are you?’

‘Commander, Sonderkommando Dirlewanger, attached to Einsatzgruppe D. Anti-partisan Aktion .’

The sergeant raised his eyebrows. ‘Anti-partisan, eh? Who’s the girl? She’s just a kid.’ His boys laughed rudely at Kapto and the child. ‘Is she your daughter or just a friend?’

Dirlewanger swished his quirt and rode on, ears red.

‘You make us a laughing stock,’ he hissed at Kapto. ‘Pull yourself together.’ The little girl was fast asleep in the saddle, her head lolling against Kapto’s shoulder, held there by his arm.

‘Come on,’ called Malamore, spurring Borgia out into the grasslands. Soon they were almost alone again on the steppes. ‘They have to come this way. Stop wasting time.’

‘You’re the one who’s let a Jew run off with his lady friend,’ said Dirlewanger.

‘Don’t mention her again, Dirlewanger.’ He glanced back at Kapto. ‘When can we hand our doctor friend over to the Sixth Army?’

‘We should be meeting outlying units of the Sixth Army any time now,’ said Kapto, catching up with them. ‘She sleeps as we ride,’ he said breezily, gesturing to the child.

There was a pause.

‘I’m no prude,’ said Dirlewanger, and Malamore noticed he was swaying as he rode, half-cut as usual, ‘but do you think noble Prussian officers such as General Paulus or Colonel von Schwerin of the Sixth Army will be impressed with a man that rides around with a child of the Untermenschen on his saddle?’

‘I am taking care of the child,’ said Kapto. ‘Those we heal we must also cherish.’

‘The Kalmyks are back,’ called out one of the Hiwis, Bap.

Altan and Gushi rode up and saluted.

Malamore pushed up his tank goggles, his eyes just slits in that sun-gorged face. ‘You’re hours late,’ he snarled. ‘Well, where are they?’

The Kalmyks were excited, pointing, their ponies caracoling.

‘Very close. We should be able to see them,’ said Altan.

‘We’ve tracked them.’ Gushi indicated ahead. ‘See that dust?’

Malamore pulled up his horse and raised his binoculars. Yes, there was something out there. Across the naked steppe, in the high grass in blurred golden light, he could make out the little pirts of dust: two riders. ‘It’s them,’ was all he said. ‘Montefalcone, take the second squadron and come at them from the rear. The rest of you follow me. No one is to shoot or charge without my orders. Obersturmführer, ride with me.’ He wanted Dirlewanger close to him so that no harm would come to Fabiana.

Dirlewanger did not protest. His men would deal with the Jew as they saw fit, collect his earlobes on a necklace if they wished it (and sometimes they did just that) – but the old Italian owned the girl; this was his show.

Throwing up dust, Malamore and his horsemen galloped across the fields, hoping to steal up on the riders before they realized how close they were.

The bandits in love were riding with a giddy recklessness towards the Don. Fabiana had even let her hair down, and was galloping so fast that Benya feared she might be thrown. He sensed she was enjoying their last time together, and relished the sheer stun of his good fortune – that somehow he knew must end, and end soon.

‘There!’ He pointed ahead. Right before them rose the Donside hills with their woods, and beyond them and down in its valley swept the majestic river. Benya knew he was almost home and his heart was racing – but the closer he came to the Donside hills, the nearer the battle of the Don Bend – and the sooner he must part with Fabiana. And she knew it too. She smiled when he saw the rise in the terrain but then her face fell and he could tell she was brooding. They rode on, almost dizzy with a last-chance joy in a headlong panic of happiness.