Vlasov fitted his fingertips together and said: Two factors must entail our loss of the war: first, the unwillingness of Russians to defend our Bolshevik masters, and second, the inadequacy of a military leadership debilitated by interference from the commissars. That was what I wrote in my memorandum.
Yes, of course. I merely wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind. You told Dürken that we haven’t conquered Russia as of yet—
Well, this Dürken—
Say no more. He just doesn’t realize…
Once, not too long ago, I was lying in the arms of a woman who’d explained that she still loved me but could no longer endure to go on in the dishonest, enervating, frightening, exhilarating and unspeakably sad way that we’d gone on. She, the one who for years had always clung to me, wheedling just a moment more and then a moment more in my embrace, now grew restless there on the bed. She’d already refused to make love with me one last time, because it would be too pitiful and she didn’t know how one ought to go about lovemaking for the last time. Should she put her all into it, or…? Then I too agreed that doing that really would have been too sad. I kissed her once, desperately, then lay back with her still in my arms, her body, having determined that mine was now inimical, trying politely not to squirm away from mine.—But putting it this way is so unfair to her! She really did still love me, you see; it wasn’t that I bored her; it was simply that everything was over.—I wondered whether I should stop calling her darling now or next time we met. I knew that as soon as I stood up, everything really would be over forever. But she was still mine for another five minutes, and then another five minutes while she yawned and asked whether we ought to get up and take a drive or play a board game. And it had come to this point between Vlasov and his immaculateness. (She was always far more admirable, sincere, honest and decent than I.) Strik-Strikfeldt was explaining that under the secret direction of the Experimental Formation Center, a Russian National People’s Army had already been formed!
Wilfried Karlovich, said the prisoner in a tone of almost childish eagerness, what did you really think of my memorandum? Was it clear? And has the German leadership made any comment?
Ah, said Strik-Strikfeldt. Well, it’s an admirable document, but, as drafted, too Russian. Shock tactics!
Do you know, laughed Vlasov irrelevantly, once I gave my parents-in-law a cow, and in consequence they got punished for being kulaks!
My friend, if you don’t mind me asking you, what are you doing with that spent cartridge?
It’s a souvenir, he replied in a suddenly lifeless voice.
May I have a look at it? Why, it’s a Geco, 7.65 millimeter. I’m told that the Führer himself carries a Walther pistol of that caliber. Good for close work, they say. Does it have some sort of sentimental value, or am I getting too personal?
Awkwardly stiff, roundfaced, his hair receding, Vlasov watched everyone through round heavy spectacles which gave him an impression of half-comical surprise. Even his mouth was round. Round buttons descended from the sharp triangular points of his collar. He said: It reminds me not to make any commitments I might later regret.
Hmm. Well, that’s a worthy goal, to be sure, remarked Strik-Strikfeldt in a tone of brooding alertness. I wonder if there’s something you’re trying to tell me? But no, you didn’t call attention to… Well, let me rephrase the question. Is there something that you disapprove of, or that perhaps worries you a trifle?
Vlasov was silent.
Strik-Strikfeldt sighed.—I beg your pardon if I’ve inadvertently offended you. Well, well, here it is, and may it bring you good luck.
Wilfried Karlovich, if I told you that I found this in a burned village, about ten days before my capture, would you understand me?
Of course. Now it’s quite clear. I’m sure you saw something regrettable. But there was a reason…
What reason? No, I—
When Stalin purged the officer corps, did you see what happened to the men who disappeared?
No.
And, you know, we never want to admit the invincibility of death. I myself, well, once I was at the front with some colleagues who’d become dear friends, not too far from here actually, in this same forest terrain, and partisans ambushed us—the spawn of Zoya herself! I was the only survivor. Well, well, Vlasov, I’m sure you’ve seen worse; the point is that even though they were both quite obviously, you know, dead, and I was even drenched with their—
Vlasov was staring at him.
As I was saying, the point is that I couldn’t have forgiven myself if I hadn’t rushed them to the field hospital, just in case. But they were dead, dead, dead. But what if they weren’t? So I understand your position perfectly, my dear fellow, because it’s so difficult to believe in death. So you can’t be sure that Stalin’s actually committed atrocities, whereas what you saw when you picked up this bullet—well, what exactly did you see?
Nothing important, said Vlasov in a strangled voice. A few corpses—
Listen to me. You’ve assured me that you believe in rationalism. There’s always a reasonable explanation. You don’t know who killed those people or why. Now I’m going to tell you something. This is top secret, so if it ever gets out that you heard it here, it’s the concentration camp for me. But I’m trusting you. When our forces entered Poland, the casus belli was an attack by Poles upon a German radio station at the border. Well, that attack was faked. The propaganda organs supplied the bullets, the uniforms and the bodies. They were dead. But how and why they died, and who they were, well, death doesn’t always play a straight hand—
I know that, Wilfried Karlovich.
Good. Just give everyone the benefit of the doubt. That’s all I ask. Don’t be hindered by unverifiable assumptions. I grant that thousands of Russian prisoners may have died from hunger and cold. But let me assure you, my dear General Vlasov, that our own soldiers froze to death on hospital trains last winter! Just consider the conditions under which both of our armies must fight! If anything, the suffering we share should bring us together…
Vlasov longed for Strik-Strikfeldt to think well of him. They had to trust one another. Here was Vlasov’s chance to fight for something he believed in. (Where he came from, one was free to choose: Death at the hands of Fascists, or death in our execution cellars.) He couldn’t demand too many conditions. When he expressed uneasiness about the way that so many Russians were being treated, his new friend replied: Some of that might well be true. But I swear to you, the Führer’s a flexible man. We can persuade him to change his mind.
Vlasov was easily led to assume that Strik-Strikfeldt would never have said such words had they not been authorized at the highest level. In fact, the latter belonged to the category of what Khrushchev privately called “temporary people”—rich and powerful serfs whom their master could cast into the pit at any moment. (Khrushchev, of course, was talking about the minions of Stalin. In our Greater Germany, no such perils exist.)
In fact, many of us disagree with Berlin on a number of important points! And I want you to think about that, General Vlasov. If I were a Russian and I announced that I disagreed with Moscow, what do you think would happen to me?
And so his scruples were crushed by concentric attack.
That evening, the musically talented inmates organized a serenade for Vlasov, on balalaikas provided by the Germans.