Tom did not believe the plan would work, and was highly surprised to find Olga's mother sipping tea with Saenz when he returned. Saenz saw the startled look on Tom's face and laughed, "Meet Anna, my mother-in-law," he cried, leaping to his tea and almost upsetting the table.
"I am pleased to me you," said Tom, offering his hand.
"He did not believe you would come," said Saenz, still laughing, "he did not believe that the message would get through."
Anna smiled, "have some tea Mr Wilson."
Tom removed his coat, and sat down. "I am more surprised that you got here so quickly. I imagined a journey from the Crimea would take days."
"But I haven't been in the Crimea," answered Anna.
"She is a wanted woman comrade," added Saenz. "She is nearly as wanted as us. Well me perhaps. No one is more sought after than you."
"I don't pretend to understand what is happening."
"How did you meeting with Drimov go?" Asked Anna, handing Tom a cup of hot sweet tea.
"Saenz told you?"
"Of course," replied Saenz, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "I trust Anna like no one else in the world."
"It is not looking good," begand Tom, taking the tea and sipping it. He winced at the copious sweetness of the warm syrup. "Drimov claims that we will have to wait at least a week before he will risk moving us."
"It's an old trick," said Anna dryly. "They always say that. They get someone to help them do a job they are too cowardly to perform and then they leave them to hang. You should not have gone to meet him."
"I did not meet him. There is a dead-letter box in a lamp post by the offices of Pravda. I left him a note two days ago and recieved his reply today."
"It is still unwise to believe these people. I have seen it before. The only way to be safe is to be connected to them, to have a threat that you can use if things go wrong. Even then it is not safe. Because they will twist things. We must keep a distance."
"That is easy to say," remarked Tom, "but given our current situation I don't see that there is much we can do. The routes out of the city are teaming with polcie and soldiers. It would not be possible to leave without the correct papers. And it is impossible for me to contact anyone in the British embassy. Our only hope is Drimov."
"Not our only hope," said Saenz.
"What do you suggest?"
Tuesday 6 November 2007
Chapter 16
Drimov waited anxiously in the car. The street was largely deserted just the odd woman winding her way back from the shops. Drimov knew that this was beyond his duty but matters had long since spiralled out of his control.
Chapter 17
"Who are you working for?" asked Oblomov. Maxim did not answer. "You know that Magda is dead?"
"I know," replied Maxim, flatly. A guard had told him the night before. He sat upright in his chair, trying to maintain dignity: despite his torn and filthy clothes. "You no longer have a hold over me."
"Indeed?"
"Indeed."
"I know," replied Maxim, flatly. A guard had told him the night before. He sat upright in his chair, trying to maintain dignity: despite his torn and filthy clothes. "You no longer have a hold over me."
"Indeed?"
"Indeed."
Monday 5 November 2007
Chapter 18
Saenz was anxious. He paced backwards and forwards by the window, occasionally stopping to peer out into the gloom of falling night. Olga watching him from the bed, the baby sleeping at her breast. "He will come," she said, soothingly.
"How do you know?"
"I know," she said, "I can see it in his face. He has a kind face."
"The devil eats kind men."
"He will come." The baby made a mewling noise before licking it's lips and settling back. "She is dreaming," said Olga smiling. "Tom has not abandoned us yet, has he? He could have given us up many times but each time he has helped us. I refuse to believe that he will foresake us now."
"What do you know of people?" snapped Saenz.
The girl smiled gnomically, "do you think you are the only one who has seen life?"
Saenz nodded, and turned to gaze out of the window. He knew that to pursue that line of arguement would be fruitless. He knew very little of Olga's background, what little he did know was that her family had seen much suffering. Indeed, he knew that she did in all likelihood know far more than he about the nature of the human heart.
"How do you know?"
"I know," she said, "I can see it in his face. He has a kind face."
"The devil eats kind men."
"He will come." The baby made a mewling noise before licking it's lips and settling back. "She is dreaming," said Olga smiling. "Tom has not abandoned us yet, has he? He could have given us up many times but each time he has helped us. I refuse to believe that he will foresake us now."
"What do you know of people?" snapped Saenz.
The girl smiled gnomically, "do you think you are the only one who has seen life?"
Saenz nodded, and turned to gaze out of the window. He knew that to pursue that line of arguement would be fruitless. He knew very little of Olga's background, what little he did know was that her family had seen much suffering. Indeed, he knew that she did in all likelihood know far more than he about the nature of the human heart.
Friday 2 November 2007
Chapter 19
A shiver of electricity ran through the building at the sight of the cars drawing up outside. Mother's called their children in from play, hustling them inside the flats and locking the door. Once inside the the children were shushed, or bribed to silence with pieces of bread or sweet treats. The collective breath of the building was held.
A few brave souls, or those who had nothing to fear, peered around around the curtains and saw the policemen gather before the front door of the building. Oblomov was the last to emerge from the cars, and all eyes looked to him. He stood for a moment, straightened his uniform and looked at the facade of the building. The watchers drew back for his gaze. Oblomov gave a signal and one of the policemen, a callow youth hurried to the door and hammered on it with the flat of his palm.
Nothing happened. So the policeman beat on the door again, this time shouting "open the door." Just as he was about to knock again the sound bolts being drawn back from within could be heard. No sooner had the door begun to open than the young policeman forced entry, sending the elderly caretaker reeling back into the hallway. The other policemen piled through the door and took up position at the foot of the stairs and against the doors on the ground floor. Oblomov casually followed.
The caretaker, an old peasant with sly features was forced to sit in a chair beneath the letter rack. He was bewildered by the sudden turn of events. His demenour was not exactly one of terror but he was cetainly frightened. His wife who had emerged from their flat cast him supportive glances.
Oblomov walked towards the old man and stood towering above him. "Have no fear comrade," began Oblomov, "we are here on official business." Oblomov lifted the flap of his jacket pocket and slid three photographs from it. "We are seeking information about enemies of the state." The caretaker nodded, his yellowing eyes looking upwards imploringly. "Have you seen this man?" With a dramatic flick of his fingers Oblomov turned the photograph of Saenz to face the caretaker; carefully watching the his reaction.
The caretaker looked at the photograph carefully, "I'm not sure," he said, in a faltering voice after a moment. He looked at his wife and then back to the photo. "He looks like so many people."
Oblomov turned over the picture of Olga. "How about this girl?" The caretaker gave an involuntary nod of the head, just the slightest movement but enough to condemn him. "He's lying," announced Oblomov, loudly and in a sneering tone. A couple of the policemen grinned. Oblomov indicated that the man stand. He was roughly manhandled to his feet. In a sudden spasm of violence Oblomov grabbed the man by his collar and wrestled him against the wall. The man's body hung in his grasp like a rag doll. "You have no idea what I have planned for you, you piece of pathetic shit. I know all about you. I have seen your file. I know all about the part you played in the Kusnetzov case. Don't think your friends can save you this time." Oblomov threw the man back against the wall and once more pushed the picture of the girl in his face. "Have you seen this girl?" he repeated, in a low menancing voice.
"Yes," the man answered, meekly.
"Is she living here?"
"Yes."
"Show me." The caretaker led the way up the six flights of stairs to the attic. Oblomov tried the door knob but the door was locked. "Have you got a key?" The caretaker lifted a large iron key rign from his belt and rifled through the keys until he found the correct one. He unlocked the door. Oblomov pushed the door open; the room was empty.
Oblomov and the young policeman kept a watch on the caretaker while the other officers began the task of searching the room. In truth, there was not much searching necessary. The room was tiny, and the furnishing pitifully sparse: just a bed, a table with two chairs and a wash stand. The stove was bone cold.
"Take him and keep him in his room," ordered Oblomov, "No one enters this building or leaves. And I want everyone questioned. Take the children from the women and question them seperately. Arrest anyone on the slightest suspicion of not co-operating. Now get to it."
Oblomov entered the room and crossed to the window. He knew the bird had flown. He equally knew that Maxim had lied to him. What he did not know was why. Had the world really changed so much that solid police officers would join in conspiracies against the state? This troubled him. He had known Maxim for many years. He had worked with him. Together they had stepped into blood and bound their fates so tightly together in the bond of police brotherhood that this betrayal was beyond belief.
He traced the paths in his mind of what Maxim had told him. And each time he returned to the central secret; the secret so stark that it could not be spoken. Could it really be possible that Stalin's own son was behind the plot to kill him? Oblomov could not believe this. If such a thing was possible, then how could this girl be involved? It was not possible. He knew that Vasily was a drunkard and a womaniser, but the women with whom he consorted were actresses, starlets, the daughters of senior Party members: not peasant girls from the provinces. And what of the German?
No, Oblomov simply refused to countenance such fantasies.
And yet, the order to arrest Maxim had come from Air Force Intelligence.
Oblomov ran matters over in his mind. In part his problem was who to tell. The wind of change was blowing and he was an experienced policeman: experienced enough to know not to be asking questions about matters tangentially connected to his work. He had seen too many men go to a squalid death out of misplaced patriotism.
The caretaker and his wife were waiting in their flat. Oblomov sat on the battered chaise-lounge, decorated with the faded crest of a long gone aristocratic family. "When did you last see the girl?" He asked.
"Comrade, we do not know the girl," began the woman, "she came here about a month ago. She had the rent money and her papers were in order. We did everything asked of us by the aurthorities. We don't know her. This is an orderly house. Whatever she has done, it has been done without our knowledge."
"She was very private," added the caretaker. "She told us that she had come to Leningrad to visit a sick aunt. You have to believe us comrade policeman, we had no reason to doubt her."
"Did she have a child? A baby?" asked Oblomov.
"Oh yes," said the woman, nodding vigorously, "a girl. A very pretty child. She was an exemplary mother. The child was so sweet natured. And she never spoke a harsh word to it."
"And this woman, did you ever see her?" Oblomov, proffered a picture of Olga's mother. Releuctantly the woman took it, studied it before passing it to her husband. "Well?"
"I haven't," said the caretaker.
"I have," said his wife, to the old man's alarm. "She came here two days ago. She said she was the girl's aunt. I wasn't sure what to make of it. I thought the aunt was in the hospital. Of course I didn't say this to her. It's not my place to interfere with people's business, you understand. The girl wasn't here. I invited her to wait, but the woman said she didn't have time."
"Who is she?" asked the caretaker.
"She is the girl's mother," replied Oblomov, stretching to retrieve the photograph.
"There is something," said the woman, "a letter. May I?" She indicated towards the table, Oblomov nodded and the woman went to the table and took a letter from the drawer. "It came yesterday," she explained as she handed it to Oblomov. "I haven't opened it."
Oblomov took the letter and roughly opened the envelope. The letter was brief. It simply stated that the sender was going home and would try reunite them as soon as possible. Oblomov realised immediately that the sender must be Saenz.
Leaving instructions that the questioning should continue he hurried back to the police headquarters. Not a moment could be lost. A look at the map showed the proximity of Leningrad to the Finnish border, and Oblomov immediately saw the potential escape root. He immediately reported his suspicions to his superiors and asked for orders.
A few brave souls, or those who had nothing to fear, peered around around the curtains and saw the policemen gather before the front door of the building. Oblomov was the last to emerge from the cars, and all eyes looked to him. He stood for a moment, straightened his uniform and looked at the facade of the building. The watchers drew back for his gaze. Oblomov gave a signal and one of the policemen, a callow youth hurried to the door and hammered on it with the flat of his palm.
Nothing happened. So the policeman beat on the door again, this time shouting "open the door." Just as he was about to knock again the sound bolts being drawn back from within could be heard. No sooner had the door begun to open than the young policeman forced entry, sending the elderly caretaker reeling back into the hallway. The other policemen piled through the door and took up position at the foot of the stairs and against the doors on the ground floor. Oblomov casually followed.
The caretaker, an old peasant with sly features was forced to sit in a chair beneath the letter rack. He was bewildered by the sudden turn of events. His demenour was not exactly one of terror but he was cetainly frightened. His wife who had emerged from their flat cast him supportive glances.
Oblomov walked towards the old man and stood towering above him. "Have no fear comrade," began Oblomov, "we are here on official business." Oblomov lifted the flap of his jacket pocket and slid three photographs from it. "We are seeking information about enemies of the state." The caretaker nodded, his yellowing eyes looking upwards imploringly. "Have you seen this man?" With a dramatic flick of his fingers Oblomov turned the photograph of Saenz to face the caretaker; carefully watching the his reaction.
The caretaker looked at the photograph carefully, "I'm not sure," he said, in a faltering voice after a moment. He looked at his wife and then back to the photo. "He looks like so many people."
Oblomov turned over the picture of Olga. "How about this girl?" The caretaker gave an involuntary nod of the head, just the slightest movement but enough to condemn him. "He's lying," announced Oblomov, loudly and in a sneering tone. A couple of the policemen grinned. Oblomov indicated that the man stand. He was roughly manhandled to his feet. In a sudden spasm of violence Oblomov grabbed the man by his collar and wrestled him against the wall. The man's body hung in his grasp like a rag doll. "You have no idea what I have planned for you, you piece of pathetic shit. I know all about you. I have seen your file. I know all about the part you played in the Kusnetzov case. Don't think your friends can save you this time." Oblomov threw the man back against the wall and once more pushed the picture of the girl in his face. "Have you seen this girl?" he repeated, in a low menancing voice.
"Yes," the man answered, meekly.
"Is she living here?"
"Yes."
"Show me." The caretaker led the way up the six flights of stairs to the attic. Oblomov tried the door knob but the door was locked. "Have you got a key?" The caretaker lifted a large iron key rign from his belt and rifled through the keys until he found the correct one. He unlocked the door. Oblomov pushed the door open; the room was empty.
Oblomov and the young policeman kept a watch on the caretaker while the other officers began the task of searching the room. In truth, there was not much searching necessary. The room was tiny, and the furnishing pitifully sparse: just a bed, a table with two chairs and a wash stand. The stove was bone cold.
"Take him and keep him in his room," ordered Oblomov, "No one enters this building or leaves. And I want everyone questioned. Take the children from the women and question them seperately. Arrest anyone on the slightest suspicion of not co-operating. Now get to it."
Oblomov entered the room and crossed to the window. He knew the bird had flown. He equally knew that Maxim had lied to him. What he did not know was why. Had the world really changed so much that solid police officers would join in conspiracies against the state? This troubled him. He had known Maxim for many years. He had worked with him. Together they had stepped into blood and bound their fates so tightly together in the bond of police brotherhood that this betrayal was beyond belief.
He traced the paths in his mind of what Maxim had told him. And each time he returned to the central secret; the secret so stark that it could not be spoken. Could it really be possible that Stalin's own son was behind the plot to kill him? Oblomov could not believe this. If such a thing was possible, then how could this girl be involved? It was not possible. He knew that Vasily was a drunkard and a womaniser, but the women with whom he consorted were actresses, starlets, the daughters of senior Party members: not peasant girls from the provinces. And what of the German?
No, Oblomov simply refused to countenance such fantasies.
And yet, the order to arrest Maxim had come from Air Force Intelligence.
Oblomov ran matters over in his mind. In part his problem was who to tell. The wind of change was blowing and he was an experienced policeman: experienced enough to know not to be asking questions about matters tangentially connected to his work. He had seen too many men go to a squalid death out of misplaced patriotism.
The caretaker and his wife were waiting in their flat. Oblomov sat on the battered chaise-lounge, decorated with the faded crest of a long gone aristocratic family. "When did you last see the girl?" He asked.
"Comrade, we do not know the girl," began the woman, "she came here about a month ago. She had the rent money and her papers were in order. We did everything asked of us by the aurthorities. We don't know her. This is an orderly house. Whatever she has done, it has been done without our knowledge."
"She was very private," added the caretaker. "She told us that she had come to Leningrad to visit a sick aunt. You have to believe us comrade policeman, we had no reason to doubt her."
"Did she have a child? A baby?" asked Oblomov.
"Oh yes," said the woman, nodding vigorously, "a girl. A very pretty child. She was an exemplary mother. The child was so sweet natured. And she never spoke a harsh word to it."
"And this woman, did you ever see her?" Oblomov, proffered a picture of Olga's mother. Releuctantly the woman took it, studied it before passing it to her husband. "Well?"
"I haven't," said the caretaker.
"I have," said his wife, to the old man's alarm. "She came here two days ago. She said she was the girl's aunt. I wasn't sure what to make of it. I thought the aunt was in the hospital. Of course I didn't say this to her. It's not my place to interfere with people's business, you understand. The girl wasn't here. I invited her to wait, but the woman said she didn't have time."
"Who is she?" asked the caretaker.
"She is the girl's mother," replied Oblomov, stretching to retrieve the photograph.
"There is something," said the woman, "a letter. May I?" She indicated towards the table, Oblomov nodded and the woman went to the table and took a letter from the drawer. "It came yesterday," she explained as she handed it to Oblomov. "I haven't opened it."
Oblomov took the letter and roughly opened the envelope. The letter was brief. It simply stated that the sender was going home and would try reunite them as soon as possible. Oblomov realised immediately that the sender must be Saenz.
Leaving instructions that the questioning should continue he hurried back to the police headquarters. Not a moment could be lost. A look at the map showed the proximity of Leningrad to the Finnish border, and Oblomov immediately saw the potential escape root. He immediately reported his suspicions to his superiors and asked for orders.
Thursday 1 November 2007
Chapter 20
There was nothing in the woods that hinted at the change of regime. The trees, now full of life in the sunshine of early summer why no different to those trees they had passed one mile, two miles or even ten miles before. The air was filled with the sounds of birds singing for mates, marking out territory, and making the most of the short summer to forage for food. Despite the momentous rhetoric in distant lands, there was nothing to indicate that in fact they were safe.
They continued to walk onwards, not daring to stop until shortly before dusk, they reached a road. It was a little more than a track winding its muddy tyre gouged way though the endless stands of birch trees.Saenz crept forward to the tree line to check for signs of activity. Crouching low in the ferns he scanned in both directions, but there was nothing. He returned to where Tom was sitting.
"Well?" asked Tom, his voice hopeful.
"I don't know," replied Saenz. "Perhaps we take a chance."
Tom checked his watch, and glanced at the sun. "The road is heading westwards. And if has to be easier than walking through these woods. If we keep our eyes peeled and our wits about us, then we will at least stand a chance."
Saenz nodded.
The biggest fear that had eaten away at each of them, but remained unspoken, was that they had been moving in circles. Despite their best efforts to maintain direction by use of the sun and the position of the stars, this niggle had nagged away at the back of their brain. Logically each man reasoned that they must have been moving away from their pursuers: they had not seen or heard a reconnaissance plane since early morning. But another doubt had persisted, one that carried an equal weight; they had not encountered anything that resembled a border.
"We better get moving before we seize up," said Tom, using Saenz's shoulder as a prop. He took the water bottle from his knack sack and took a sip. Tom swirled it around his gums and spat it out. The water had a brackish taste. "We need to find some water soon."
Saenz smiled, "and a feather bed."
Soon they were lost in a conversation about all the things they would do when they got home. They both agreed that a bath would be top of their list. But they differed over the food they craved. Tom wanted Yorkshire pudding, crisp golden Yorkshire pudding with braised beef in gravy and roast potatoes. Saenz's list was longer, reflecting his years in captivity. And these years had sharpened his memories. He began to describe in great detail the exact salami and cheese sandwich he dreamed of: the exact type of rye bread and the baker he wanted to make it. The idea of food seemed to galvanise him. His longing was no longer for a meal, to fill his empty belly, but for a feast to fill the void of wasted years. Years of abuse and neglect in which he had literally fought and died for green potatoes. His banquet was vast. Out of the simple dream of a cheese and salami sandwich grew a menu of roasted and grilled meats, stews, soups, breads, and cakes of every kind. His low whispered talk reached heights of almost ecstasy as he talked of his perfect peach: teeth sinking softly through the tufted skin, aggravating the juiced of the flesh to break over his lips and run in streams down his chin. The sheer messy delight of holding the points of the stone as his eager tongue and teeth picked and flicked at the pits to release the last strand of orange prink sweetness. And then the childlike pleasure of licking his sticky fingers before wiping them on the seam of his trousers.
And as they walked, and Saenz talked, the sun set and the new moon rose and luminescence spread over the lower sky from the refracted lights of the myriad lakes. The road slipped from the daytime strip of dusty mud into a silver trail. Only once were they shaken from this romantic seen, which acting like aspirin to balm their aching legs and swollen feet. And even this alarm was almost a signal of hope. A young white-tailed deer, which had stayed to, long on the opposite side of the road from it's mother, broke cover at the sound of their approach and rushed across the road. The suddenly burst of activity startled the men and they instinctively stopped in their tracks, hearts temporarily in mouth, both poised to run for the trees and escape.But the moment of panic passed and they resumed their journey westward: Saenz continuing to daydream about food, and family, the small Bavarian town he had grown up in.
It was while discussing this town that an awkward question.
Whilst a prisoner, Saenz had learned of the nature and extent of the allied bombing and he asked Tom if it were true.
"Yes, I'm afraid it is," was Tom's blunt answer.
"I can't say if the particular town you lived in was bombed, but I can tell you that Germany was in a pretty bad shape at the end of the war."
Saenz pondered this reply for a moment. "I figured as much," he said, sadly, "but I don't understand why. We are cousins: the English and the Germans. I don't understand why we should have rained some destruction on each other. It makes no sense."
"It was war."
"War explains the fighting between armies but it doesn't explain the destruction of towns."
"You bombed us, so we bombed you; it's pretty simple really."
"Simple yes: but it does not make it right."
"Matters of right and wrong do not enter into such things. Was it right for the Luftwaffe to destroy Coventry? Besides none of this explains the treatment by the German's of the Jews."
"The Jews? What about the Jews?"
Tom turned his head to look at Saenz, who was staring at the road ahead. "Surely you know what happened to the Jews? About the gas chambers and the extermination camps."
Saenz shook his head, "I don't know what you are talking about."
"Didn't they tell you anything?"
"We were told what they wanted us to hear. And it was best to know nothing. I know that the Furher is dead and that Germany lost the war but after that I choose not to know a damn thing more. Besides what does it matter? Any of it? What you have done has avenged us all, and I am just happy to have played a small part."
"I fear you are in for a shock."
"How so?"
"The world has changed more than you know."
"That maybe so. I do not expect that all of the people I knew will still be around. And those that are, will be as shocked to see me, as I to see them. But I know that every day that passes cannot be worse than the days I have lived through. You forgot comrade that I have been dead for nearly ten years. If they catch me now all that will happen is that they will make an actual fact of something that until now has only been a beaurocratic regulation. Don't you worry about me. I am a survivor. And my country will service, just as we did for centuries when people tried to crush us."
Saenz stopped dead in his tracks. So suddenly that Tom continued walking.
"What?" demanded Tom, half turning.
"Look," said Saenz pointing, an aura of beatification spreading across his open mouthed expression.
Tom followed the direction of the pointed finger and at first saw nothing but the out-stretched road and the darkened gloom of the surrounding trees. Suddenly Saenz broke into a trot, and then a canter and finally a sprint. Tom hurried after him. And as he drew near to Saenz he could see the object that had caused so much excitement: a signpost, on which was written, beneath a picture of a running deer, something in Finnish.
Saenz began to laugh, a loud full-throated laugh that split the silence of the night. And then he began to dance a little jig which developed into something which mimicked a Cossack dance, his hands held above his head, his feet drawing patterns in the dusty dried mud of the road. Then suddenly he turned on Tom, cried, "we have done it!" before embracing him in a rib cracking bear hug.
All caution gone, and hope enflamed, they quickened their pace down the road. Shortly before ten o clock they saw what they dreamed of: the light of house. This quickened their pace even more, and they ran toward the light: stopping only when about fifty yards away at the barking of a large dog. The chained hound's barking grew more furious and angry as they continued to approach the farmhouse.
When they were nearly at the gate, the farmhouse door opened and a man appeared, silhouetted in the thin yellow light of an oil lamp. He was about to shout at the dog when he saw the two men.There followed a brief period of confusion as Saenz and the farmer tried to find a language to converse in: they finally settled on German.
Although suspicious, the farmer invited them into the house. His wife eyed them warily as she gave them vodka to drink and some horse sausage and bread. Tom was struck by the Mongolian features of the pair, high forehead, and wide slanted eyes. But Saenz was too hungry to worry about such matters. He ate the food with gusto and greedily eyed the food on Tom's plate.
Between mouthfuls Saenz talked to the farmer about the nearest telephone, the distance to the Soviet border, though he was careful to avoid describing in detail the circumstances in which he and Tom had come to be wandering in so remote a region. He winked at Tom, as he explained that they were academics from Cambridge University studying the flora and fauna of the region, but that they had got lost. The farmer told him that there was a telephone in the nearby town, and that he would take them there in the morning. When his wife learned that the two men were academics with an interest in flowers, her rectitude subsided: so much so that she went to get her collection of embroidered flowers.
The following morning Saenz awoke Tom at dawn. They washed and breakfasted with the farmer and his wife. Then the farmer got his pony and trap and took them into the town.
The farmer dropped them at the railway station, assuring them that they could telephone from there.
"What will happen when you ring?" asked Saenz, after the farmer had driven away.
"Someone will come and collect me, I suspect."
Saenz nodded. "I understand."
"If it is a lift you want, I am sure it can be arranged."
"I don't think so. I have been thinking." Saenz looked back towards the Russian border. "I'm not much of a man. But there is someone who needs me. It would not be right for me to just walk away."
"You are not thinking of going back?"
"It is the only thing to do."
"But that would be suicide."
"Maybe; and maybe not. But it is the correct thing to do. And therefore I must do it." Saenz held out his hand, and reluctantly Tom took it. For a moment the two men stood, holding hands, before self-consciousness over took them. "You are a good man Tom. You have shown me that there is more to being human than baseness. Without you I would still be dead."
"Get on with you."
"I shall go now. Olga needs me."
And in saying Saenz turned on his heals and set off back towards the border. Tom watched him until he turned the corner and was gone. In his heart they both knew that Saenz would never survive, the chances of seeing Olga and the baby again was practically nil. The police would have renewed their searches of the woods, and anyway, Saenz was walking towards them and not away.
Two hours after making the call, Tom was picked up by a car from the British Embassy. The military attache sent to meet him chattered excitiedly about the successful mission and how he was the talk of the town. He didn't feel much like it. All he walked now was to return to normal life. To get out of the navy. For the promises made to him to be kept.
As Tom was being driven in the British Embassy in Helsinki, Maxim was also making a car journey. His was less comfortable. Three days of interrogation at the hands of the security police had robbed him of all dignity. His head was swollen from being beaten by rubber truncheons, he could no longer see out of his left eye. His body was twisted and shrunken. So beaten down was he that he was totally unrecognisable as the person he had been a short while before.
His journey was also brief. He was driven from the interrogation centre, crammed between two policemen. He sat between them like a crumbled coat. He had no strenght or energy to resist them, and instead sank into the seat, a shadow: another piece of refuse being driven to the place of disposal.
The car drove into a culvet and came to a stop by a clearing. Maxim was bundled from the car and frogmarched to a stand before a narrow pit. A group of bored soldiers stood by their truck smoking. They appeared not to even notice he was there.
One of the policeman told him to kneel. This Maxim did with great difficulty. So weak was he that he would have tumbled forward into it, had not the policeman dragged him back by the scruff of his coat.
As he knelt there, searching for sight through his still functioning eye, a few thoughts recurred and span in his mind. The first was of his mother. She was in an apple tree and he was carrying a crate of apples. She smiled at him and called him her 'little man'. The second was of standing in Red Square in 1937, watching the parade scrunch past and looking up to the mausoleum. There he still saw the smiling Stalin, hand raised to acknowledge the crowd. The cheers of the people rose and rang in his ears. The third, which was accompanied by the sound of the cocking of a pistol and the sensation of a ring of coldness pressing against the base of his skull, was of his daughter. Of her sitting on his wife's knee. An infant, a dribbling infant....
At the sound of the pistol shot the soldiers tapped out their cigarettes, picked up their shovels and wandered lazily across to the pit.
At the orphange school a Lara sat but the domitary window and looked out at the passing crowds and traffic. A deep sadness welled in her stomach. A deep sadness that only comrade Stalin could cure: and now he was gone.
They continued to walk onwards, not daring to stop until shortly before dusk, they reached a road. It was a little more than a track winding its muddy tyre gouged way though the endless stands of birch trees.Saenz crept forward to the tree line to check for signs of activity. Crouching low in the ferns he scanned in both directions, but there was nothing. He returned to where Tom was sitting.
"Well?" asked Tom, his voice hopeful.
"I don't know," replied Saenz. "Perhaps we take a chance."
Tom checked his watch, and glanced at the sun. "The road is heading westwards. And if has to be easier than walking through these woods. If we keep our eyes peeled and our wits about us, then we will at least stand a chance."
Saenz nodded.
The biggest fear that had eaten away at each of them, but remained unspoken, was that they had been moving in circles. Despite their best efforts to maintain direction by use of the sun and the position of the stars, this niggle had nagged away at the back of their brain. Logically each man reasoned that they must have been moving away from their pursuers: they had not seen or heard a reconnaissance plane since early morning. But another doubt had persisted, one that carried an equal weight; they had not encountered anything that resembled a border.
"We better get moving before we seize up," said Tom, using Saenz's shoulder as a prop. He took the water bottle from his knack sack and took a sip. Tom swirled it around his gums and spat it out. The water had a brackish taste. "We need to find some water soon."
Saenz smiled, "and a feather bed."
Soon they were lost in a conversation about all the things they would do when they got home. They both agreed that a bath would be top of their list. But they differed over the food they craved. Tom wanted Yorkshire pudding, crisp golden Yorkshire pudding with braised beef in gravy and roast potatoes. Saenz's list was longer, reflecting his years in captivity. And these years had sharpened his memories. He began to describe in great detail the exact salami and cheese sandwich he dreamed of: the exact type of rye bread and the baker he wanted to make it. The idea of food seemed to galvanise him. His longing was no longer for a meal, to fill his empty belly, but for a feast to fill the void of wasted years. Years of abuse and neglect in which he had literally fought and died for green potatoes. His banquet was vast. Out of the simple dream of a cheese and salami sandwich grew a menu of roasted and grilled meats, stews, soups, breads, and cakes of every kind. His low whispered talk reached heights of almost ecstasy as he talked of his perfect peach: teeth sinking softly through the tufted skin, aggravating the juiced of the flesh to break over his lips and run in streams down his chin. The sheer messy delight of holding the points of the stone as his eager tongue and teeth picked and flicked at the pits to release the last strand of orange prink sweetness. And then the childlike pleasure of licking his sticky fingers before wiping them on the seam of his trousers.
And as they walked, and Saenz talked, the sun set and the new moon rose and luminescence spread over the lower sky from the refracted lights of the myriad lakes. The road slipped from the daytime strip of dusty mud into a silver trail. Only once were they shaken from this romantic seen, which acting like aspirin to balm their aching legs and swollen feet. And even this alarm was almost a signal of hope. A young white-tailed deer, which had stayed to, long on the opposite side of the road from it's mother, broke cover at the sound of their approach and rushed across the road. The suddenly burst of activity startled the men and they instinctively stopped in their tracks, hearts temporarily in mouth, both poised to run for the trees and escape.But the moment of panic passed and they resumed their journey westward: Saenz continuing to daydream about food, and family, the small Bavarian town he had grown up in.
It was while discussing this town that an awkward question.
Whilst a prisoner, Saenz had learned of the nature and extent of the allied bombing and he asked Tom if it were true.
"Yes, I'm afraid it is," was Tom's blunt answer.
"I can't say if the particular town you lived in was bombed, but I can tell you that Germany was in a pretty bad shape at the end of the war."
Saenz pondered this reply for a moment. "I figured as much," he said, sadly, "but I don't understand why. We are cousins: the English and the Germans. I don't understand why we should have rained some destruction on each other. It makes no sense."
"It was war."
"War explains the fighting between armies but it doesn't explain the destruction of towns."
"You bombed us, so we bombed you; it's pretty simple really."
"Simple yes: but it does not make it right."
"Matters of right and wrong do not enter into such things. Was it right for the Luftwaffe to destroy Coventry? Besides none of this explains the treatment by the German's of the Jews."
"The Jews? What about the Jews?"
Tom turned his head to look at Saenz, who was staring at the road ahead. "Surely you know what happened to the Jews? About the gas chambers and the extermination camps."
Saenz shook his head, "I don't know what you are talking about."
"Didn't they tell you anything?"
"We were told what they wanted us to hear. And it was best to know nothing. I know that the Furher is dead and that Germany lost the war but after that I choose not to know a damn thing more. Besides what does it matter? Any of it? What you have done has avenged us all, and I am just happy to have played a small part."
"I fear you are in for a shock."
"How so?"
"The world has changed more than you know."
"That maybe so. I do not expect that all of the people I knew will still be around. And those that are, will be as shocked to see me, as I to see them. But I know that every day that passes cannot be worse than the days I have lived through. You forgot comrade that I have been dead for nearly ten years. If they catch me now all that will happen is that they will make an actual fact of something that until now has only been a beaurocratic regulation. Don't you worry about me. I am a survivor. And my country will service, just as we did for centuries when people tried to crush us."
Saenz stopped dead in his tracks. So suddenly that Tom continued walking.
"What?" demanded Tom, half turning.
"Look," said Saenz pointing, an aura of beatification spreading across his open mouthed expression.
Tom followed the direction of the pointed finger and at first saw nothing but the out-stretched road and the darkened gloom of the surrounding trees. Suddenly Saenz broke into a trot, and then a canter and finally a sprint. Tom hurried after him. And as he drew near to Saenz he could see the object that had caused so much excitement: a signpost, on which was written, beneath a picture of a running deer, something in Finnish.
Saenz began to laugh, a loud full-throated laugh that split the silence of the night. And then he began to dance a little jig which developed into something which mimicked a Cossack dance, his hands held above his head, his feet drawing patterns in the dusty dried mud of the road. Then suddenly he turned on Tom, cried, "we have done it!" before embracing him in a rib cracking bear hug.
All caution gone, and hope enflamed, they quickened their pace down the road. Shortly before ten o clock they saw what they dreamed of: the light of house. This quickened their pace even more, and they ran toward the light: stopping only when about fifty yards away at the barking of a large dog. The chained hound's barking grew more furious and angry as they continued to approach the farmhouse.
When they were nearly at the gate, the farmhouse door opened and a man appeared, silhouetted in the thin yellow light of an oil lamp. He was about to shout at the dog when he saw the two men.There followed a brief period of confusion as Saenz and the farmer tried to find a language to converse in: they finally settled on German.
Although suspicious, the farmer invited them into the house. His wife eyed them warily as she gave them vodka to drink and some horse sausage and bread. Tom was struck by the Mongolian features of the pair, high forehead, and wide slanted eyes. But Saenz was too hungry to worry about such matters. He ate the food with gusto and greedily eyed the food on Tom's plate.
Between mouthfuls Saenz talked to the farmer about the nearest telephone, the distance to the Soviet border, though he was careful to avoid describing in detail the circumstances in which he and Tom had come to be wandering in so remote a region. He winked at Tom, as he explained that they were academics from Cambridge University studying the flora and fauna of the region, but that they had got lost. The farmer told him that there was a telephone in the nearby town, and that he would take them there in the morning. When his wife learned that the two men were academics with an interest in flowers, her rectitude subsided: so much so that she went to get her collection of embroidered flowers.
The following morning Saenz awoke Tom at dawn. They washed and breakfasted with the farmer and his wife. Then the farmer got his pony and trap and took them into the town.
The farmer dropped them at the railway station, assuring them that they could telephone from there.
"What will happen when you ring?" asked Saenz, after the farmer had driven away.
"Someone will come and collect me, I suspect."
Saenz nodded. "I understand."
"If it is a lift you want, I am sure it can be arranged."
"I don't think so. I have been thinking." Saenz looked back towards the Russian border. "I'm not much of a man. But there is someone who needs me. It would not be right for me to just walk away."
"You are not thinking of going back?"
"It is the only thing to do."
"But that would be suicide."
"Maybe; and maybe not. But it is the correct thing to do. And therefore I must do it." Saenz held out his hand, and reluctantly Tom took it. For a moment the two men stood, holding hands, before self-consciousness over took them. "You are a good man Tom. You have shown me that there is more to being human than baseness. Without you I would still be dead."
"Get on with you."
"I shall go now. Olga needs me."
And in saying Saenz turned on his heals and set off back towards the border. Tom watched him until he turned the corner and was gone. In his heart they both knew that Saenz would never survive, the chances of seeing Olga and the baby again was practically nil. The police would have renewed their searches of the woods, and anyway, Saenz was walking towards them and not away.
Two hours after making the call, Tom was picked up by a car from the British Embassy. The military attache sent to meet him chattered excitiedly about the successful mission and how he was the talk of the town. He didn't feel much like it. All he walked now was to return to normal life. To get out of the navy. For the promises made to him to be kept.
As Tom was being driven in the British Embassy in Helsinki, Maxim was also making a car journey. His was less comfortable. Three days of interrogation at the hands of the security police had robbed him of all dignity. His head was swollen from being beaten by rubber truncheons, he could no longer see out of his left eye. His body was twisted and shrunken. So beaten down was he that he was totally unrecognisable as the person he had been a short while before.
His journey was also brief. He was driven from the interrogation centre, crammed between two policemen. He sat between them like a crumbled coat. He had no strenght or energy to resist them, and instead sank into the seat, a shadow: another piece of refuse being driven to the place of disposal.
The car drove into a culvet and came to a stop by a clearing. Maxim was bundled from the car and frogmarched to a stand before a narrow pit. A group of bored soldiers stood by their truck smoking. They appeared not to even notice he was there.
One of the policeman told him to kneel. This Maxim did with great difficulty. So weak was he that he would have tumbled forward into it, had not the policeman dragged him back by the scruff of his coat.
As he knelt there, searching for sight through his still functioning eye, a few thoughts recurred and span in his mind. The first was of his mother. She was in an apple tree and he was carrying a crate of apples. She smiled at him and called him her 'little man'. The second was of standing in Red Square in 1937, watching the parade scrunch past and looking up to the mausoleum. There he still saw the smiling Stalin, hand raised to acknowledge the crowd. The cheers of the people rose and rang in his ears. The third, which was accompanied by the sound of the cocking of a pistol and the sensation of a ring of coldness pressing against the base of his skull, was of his daughter. Of her sitting on his wife's knee. An infant, a dribbling infant....
At the sound of the pistol shot the soldiers tapped out their cigarettes, picked up their shovels and wandered lazily across to the pit.
At the orphange school a Lara sat but the domitary window and looked out at the passing crowds and traffic. A deep sadness welled in her stomach. A deep sadness that only comrade Stalin could cure: and now he was gone.
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