That’s a phantom of the first order.
Like a loyal friend, Strik-Strikfeldt concealed this new disappointment from Vlasov as long as he could. (He did think it best, however, to sit the poor fellow down and show him a report whose correctness had been confirmed by Himmler himself: Vlasov’s Russian wife had been arrested and put to death in retribution for his treason. In the interests of that highest good, rationality, it was needful to show Vlasov that there could be no turning back.) At that point it was already July, by which time the Soviets had developed breakthroughs into a scientific operation performed first with tank and mechanical corps, then with tank armies. The front was becoming a sieve. But Germany’s slogan continued to be Cling to every inch!
In 9.43, due to desertions, his fledgling Russian formations were all transferred to the Westfront. This defeated their very purpose. (On the Ostfront, the enemy had now taken to calling their trench-lice Vlasov’s men.) Vlasov fell despondent—unhealthily so in Heidi’s opinion. Towering over the others, he stood cradling his head as he gazed hopefully down at the smiling Germans, his mouth downcurled in readiness to form the shape of disappointment. Himmler, to whom he was that Russian swine Herr General Wlassow, had forgiven his Gatchina speech provided that he write a direct order to his men: forget Russia; go to France. He paced the room, muttering: This is worse than a betrayal. It’s an insult. We’re not even to fight on our own territory now…—But his best friend reminded him that the Germans and the Vlasov Men were all in this together now. Anyhow, there wasn’t time to complain about it very long; the Red Army had broken through again…
On 6.11.43, when Kiev fell, he became as pale as Hitler had, Hitler pacing, stabbing his finger at the map, shouting to Zeitzler: We won’t be able to save anything! The consequences will be catastrophic in Romania. This is a major position here…—But Heidi said: Andrei, I have faith in you. Don’t give up hope. The unhappiness you feel, it’s just your Slavic blood dragging you down! You can overcome this if you fight; let me help you fight…
Meanwhile the Americans had broken through at Normandy, it seemed. (How could it have been otherwise? All our Westfront had left were divisions of an obsolete static character.) In the interim, the Führer and Guderian kept trying to increase the production of Panther tanks. Vlasov sat reading the newspapers and muttering: That’s an untenable line.—He often quarreled with Heidi, who thought that he should at least exercise. Twice now he’d called her stupid; she kept count. He kept accusing the German people of a lack of generosity, at which she reminded him that we had bestowed upon him his life, his command, and even a new wife. He was getting pale and flabby now. He couldn’t stop drinking. Upon her mother’s urging, she strove to keep silent.—You married him, Liebchen. Now you have to hold fast. Like it or not, there’s no going back.
I know. I’m not even angry with him really. I just wish he could somehow overcome himself…
She approached her husband’s desk. (He was upstairs brooding.) Dear Herr Strik’s business card lay beside the telephone. She dialed.
I’ll talk with him, her kind friend agreed. Just don’t tell him that we’ve had this conversation. And don’t worry about a thing; I’ve studed your Andrushka for quite awhile now…
The telephone rang.
Vlasov, said Vlasov.
Do you know Rilke, my dear fellow? Of course not. You’re the son of peasants. Well, one of the early poems is often on my mind nowadays. It’s called “Herbsttag,” and it goes: Lord, it is time. Summer was very grand… and then in the last stanza there’s a line that runs: Who owns no house now will build no house anymore. Do you see what he’s driving at, Andrei Andreyevich?
The voice turned stern.—I said, do you see the point?
Oh, I can hold on a little longer. Don’t worry about me. I’m not—
That’s not what I’m getting at. You need to consider Heidi now. Don’t build your future without a foundation of loyalty and—
Vlasov hung up the telephone.
The plot to kill the Führer on 20.7.44 resulted in the execution of several Vlasov supporters. Heidi’s husband had been well acquainted with them all.—I don’t know them, was the epitaph he uttered. You see, I have been through Stalin’s school.
On 25.8.44, when Paris fell to the Anglo-American Jewish enemy, Vlasov lay down to dream. Heidi wasn’t there at that time. All leisure for sunning herself had been overrun, so that her breasts were now as pallid as the Very lights of our military positions. Oh, yes, she was going gaunt; she’d lost her color. And now little Frauke was sick. Meanwhile Vlasov’s integrity had agreed to see him just one more time to extend or complete their goodbye, and so all the previous day Vlasov found himself in a state of crazy elation because until the end of their forthcoming meeting he could say to himself that she’d taken him back and was really his again; ordinarily they wouldn’t have been sexual together at that time and place, so it wasn’t as if anything were different; he’d be meeting her just as they used to do (except that this time the meeting would have no sequel). I myself cherish a certain envelope, sealed by me, which lies entombed in my desk drawer; on it I’ve written GREEN STONE. She picked this up from the sea on our last trip together, with the date. She actually picked up two stones and asked me if I wanted one. I chose this. I wonder if she already knew that she would leave me two Fridays later? I don’t dare open the envelope to disturb the green stone which she touched when she still loved me. And if I were to try to tell you more, all I could do would be to stammer something about her big brown eyes. As for Vlasov, we know that he kept a certain copper cartridge in his pocket! (Just as Guderian said, these men remain essentially unable to break free of recollections of positional warfare.) He went to bed drunk on happiness, dreamed of drowning, and awoke after an hour. For the rest of the night he stared at the ceiling weeping.
On 8.9.44 Himmler, who’d once referred to him as “a Bolshevistic butcher’s apprentice,” finally received him and agreed to let him command some troops. The action would be called Operation Skorpion. Vlasov nodded. Himmler put on a solemn, almost gentle look for the camera as he shook the hand of Vlasov, who was smiling earnestly, his confusion as dark as the smoke from an antitank gun. (Please remember to tell me what he’s wearing, Heidi had asked him. He came to my first wedding, you know. I thought he looked awfully splendid.)
In that official photograph, Vlasov seems uncomfortable. But even in the old days he always kept his collar more tightly buttoned than the other Soviet generals, who glared or bleared into the camera, with their heads thrown wearily back. Vlasov was a formal scarecrow, drawn in on himself.
We guarantee that at the end of the war you’ll be granted the pension of a Russian lieutenant-general…
But I don’t—
Look here, fellow, don’t you know whom you’re interrupting? And in the immediate future, you will continue to have schnapps, cigarettes and women. The problem, Vlasov, is this. We can only entrust our defense to politically reliable elements. Now, in the present situation, you Slavs, with all due respect, can’t exactly be armed and sent off on your own, and until the front gets shortened we just don’t have the manpower to stiffen you up with German personnel…
Surely our fate in the event of capture by Soviet troops ought to make for a guarantee!
Ah, we don’t know about that. You changed sides once; maybe you’ll do it again. The other possibility is simply to convert all you Russians to Buddhism. You see, Buddhists are pacifists, so they don’t cause trouble.