Our faithful advocate of the Wlassow-Aktion raised a finger for silence. Far away, they both could hear the short blasts of the early warning siren. Then he shrugged and said to Vlasov: I fear that certain assumptions are obstructing you again. Think about it. Would it be rational to harm anybody who can contribute to the war effort?
No. Not rational—
Did you really care for her all that much? If so, perhaps I can—
She was the merest flirtation, replied Vlasov in his flat way. But I’m concerned for her as a human being.
Most likely she’s working in an armaments factory. Meanwhile, how do you feel about Heidi? I want you to know that in recognition of your hard work, certain regulations have been waived. Your union with Heidi has been sanctioned at the highest level.—Or is there some obstacle? By the way, what are you playing with in your pocket?—Oh, I see, it must be that stupid cartridge of yours…
On 22.3.43 we find him presiding over the graduation of the first officers’ class at Dabendorf. He was very happy with his Russian Liberation Army cockade, which made use of the same three colors as the French tricouleur and the American stars-’n’-stripes. Gripping the lectern, which barely came above his waist, he continued the commencement speech: I expect each of you not only to take a stand, but to be a fanatical fighter for our ideal. What do I mean by fanaticism? Well, let’s momentarily consider the logic of this war. Logically speaking, we are incapable of forcing the Bolsheviks, with their incomparably greater forces, to withdraw. Logic compels us to abandon our struggle. Therefore, I call on you to abandon logic. When I led the Fourth Mechanized at Lvov, we attacked Sixth Army—long before Stalingrad, you understand, so they were close to full strength, while we hardly had any tanks (Kroeger, stop filling up my glass!)—and so logically speaking we shouldn’t have hoped for any success. But that was when General von Kleist himself paid me a real compliment. He said…
Let’s hope he can pull this off, one officer muttered to another.
Anyhow, better here than in a camp!
What if he’s been tricked?
The Führer says…
At her own request, and against the wishes of her mother, who’d warned: Liebchen, stay out of politics. It’s not healthy for a woman!, Vlasov’s fiancée attended the reception. I’ve read that she was wearing her German National Sports badge, whose interlocking letter-tendrils had been encircled by a wreath whose fruit was a single swastika. A Russian prisoner-of-war complimented her on it, with what might have been an ironic smile. Heidi said to him: I have to pass a test every year, or they’ll take it back.
On the morning of 13.4.43, a few hours before Radio Berlin made a spectacular announcement to the world, launching what Goebbels would call a hundred-percent victory for German propaganda and especially for me personally, Vlasov was sheltering listlessly in the arms of Heidi Bielenberg, enduring her endearments (the only Russian words she was ever to learn), when the telephone rang. Praying that it be a summons to command, execution, or anything other than more of this, he reached for the receiver. It was Strik-Strikfeldt.
My dear Vlasov, am I disturbing you? Listen, I have some extremely important news. I’ll be over in a quarter-hour.
Ya tebya lyublyu, his wife was saying.
I love you, too, he said mechanically. Rising, he began to dress.
Andrei, be prepared for everything. Be ready; be healthy—
(He was choking within his tightly buttoned collar.)
Andrei, did you hear me?
The buzzer assaulted him. He went downstairs.
Well, well, Vlasov, and have you been keeping busy?
I’ve been making up a list of words which are considered to be obscenities in both Germany and the USSR. Want to hear a few? Internationalism. Cosmopolitan. Plutocracy. Intellectual. Softness. Weakness. Mercy.
And what would you expect, my dear fellow? We’re at war with each other, so it’s natural that both our systems would get a trifle hardened and bunkered down…
That’s good, murmured Vlasov, that you always show respect…
And how’s your pretty wife?
She’s pretty, and she’s my wife.
I take it she’s en déshabillé, or you’d have invited me up…
Wilfried Karlovich, I’m the son of peasants. I don’t understand French.
Let’s take a walk, said his jocular genius, and before Vlasov knew it, they’d passed the Zeughaus and were crossing the river by means of the dear old Schlossbrücke whose wrought-iron horses Strik-Strikfeldt rarely failed to caress in a triply echeloned offensive. This time, however, he denied himself the snaky fish, the martial seahorse and even the cheerfully grotesque merman whose tail transformed itself into horse-legs. He was very excited. Beneath a winged Victory who proudly watched them from her pink-granite pillar he paused and said: I wanted to be the first to tell you…
I’m listening.
Although I flatter myself that I’ve become your friend, of course there are certain aspects to your situation here that… well, you haven’t always been fairly treated. I admit that, and I’m sorry. But there’s one matter very dear to my heart in which you’ve never quite believed: the honor of the German soldier. To get right down to it, Germans really are honorable people. They don’t murder women and children. I don’t deny that there’s been occasional wartime harshness, but not—not what you think.
So? said Vlasov.
Well, the news is going to be broadcast this afternoon. Lieutenant-Colonel Ahrens of our Five Hundred and Thirty-seventh Signal Regiment first made the report last month, but it was classified top secret until the forensic teams had made a complete investigation.
Vlasov stared at him.
It seems that a wolf was nosing around in the forest near Smolensk, and uncovered bones. Some Hiwis on work detail found the pit. They erected a cross. In due time Ahrens was notified.
You love to spin out a story, don’t you?
The site is riddled with graves! The largest one is stacked twelve bodies deep. We’ve uncovered four thousand victims so far, and Ahrens believes there will be ten thousand more. We’re already calling it the Katyń Massacre. Do you want to guess who’s buried there?
Jews, I suppose. Maybe Russians—
You joker! No, no, no! They’re all Polish officers, and from their identity documents we’ve established that they were murdered between April and May of 1940.
Well, and why not? muttered Vlasov dully. You were already in Poland by then—
My dear fellow, you’re really beginning to offend me! We’re recording their names, and when the exhumations are completed those names will be given to the world. Without exception, those officers were in Soviet custody.
I can’t—
It’s incontrovertible. Some of them were finished off with bayonets. The German army doesn’t use four-cornered ones—
All right, I believe you. So the NKVD murdered fourteen or fifteen thousand prisoners of war. Well, but—
Don’t you want to know about the ammunition? his friend demanded triumphantly.
What about it?
Geco, 7.65 millimeter.
Vlasov froze. And his wooer, seeing that deep penetration had been accomplished at last, moved instantly forward to exploit the initial success.
You know very well that the Reich sold many thousands of rounds to Latvia, Estonia, Lithuania and even the Soviet Union. Apparently your NKVD preferred the reliability of German death, as it were. (That’s right; reach into your pocket and take a look.) Now, I beg your pardon if I’m trespassing on some private grief, but whatever it was that you saw in that burned village, wouldn’t it be just as well now if you could lay your prejudices to rest? Wouldn’t you be better off, not to say happier, if you could be fair and logical? With this discovery, your hopes have been exonerated. So try to relax and trust in us—