The observer, who is lying in the grass close to the local collective farm office a little further, and higher, up the same ridge, scans back over the high grass. Behind the fugitives ride two Kalmyks on their scratchy ponies; and then a posse of riders, twenty, thirty, forty horsemen in some disorder: an Italian Blackshirt colonel on a black stallion, Germans with SS runes on their tunics, Russian traitors in Wehrmacht field grey. Amidst them a man carries a female child on his saddle: a refugee rescued? A rare kindness in these flint-hearted times? Amongst these barbarians? Well, that would be a surprise.
He sees the shots spanging into the grass around the two riders. The pursuers are closing in and now he spots a second squadron of Italians appearing around the copse at the top of the hill, firing down at them. This odd couple have his full attention. They are being attacked by the enemy, and his Stavka orders from Comrade Ponomarenko, Chief of Partisan Operations in Moscow, are clear: ‘Harass and destroy all enemy forces, communications and weapons in rear of the Sixth Army.’
He turns to the men beside him. He always speaks softly in a tone that commands obedience. ‘Fire all four Dashkas now. And mortars. Quickly or we’ll be too late!’
‘Done, Comrade Elmor!’ says Smiley as the heavy Degtiarev–Shpagin machine guns, known as Dashkas, open up with their metallic chug-chug to pump lead into the squadron of Italian horsemen.
V
Fabiana saw the church tower and onion dome of a little Cossack village of colourfully painted cottages, yards and stables. A signpost read: Shebinkino. A foaming riderless horse caught up with them, dragging its German rider, his shirt forming a bundle over his head. She could still hear the machine guns and the whistle of mortars close behind them. Such was their panic that she and Benya had galloped headlong into the main lane of the village without checking what was ahead.
It was noon but the village seemed deserted. A dead dog lay in the road; cats shrieked somewhere. It was sweltering, and Fabiana could smell rotting hops, sweet vines, wormword and dank water. She looked up and now she could see the shells exploding over the Don Bend where the battle raged just a few miles away. She was still out of breath and when she glanced at Benya, he was white, almost slipping off his horse, his hands shivering uncontrollably.
The horses suddenly balked and tried to turn. A mangy wolf stood in the middle of the street. Fabiana looked into its hungry and astonishingly white eyes. Once the wolf had been a symbol of wild ferocity; now it was just another hunted creature in a world where man had outdone the wolf in savagery. ‘Ciao, bello,’ she said to it, remembering how Natasha had seen the wolf in War and Peace. It trotted away – and the horses, sweating yellow foam, staggered to a halt.
Fabiana scissored off Violante in time to catch Benya as he slipped off Socks into her arms, relieving him of the sub-machine gun – she hung it on her shoulder – and leading the horses away. She heard the rattle of traces and the clip of hooves. Benya was lying on the ground in the space between two cottages while she looked around.
A waxy old woman dressed in bright red was approaching them. Halting her tarantass and getting down off its box, she hobbled into a nearby cottage without tying up the horse.
Glancing at Benya, who nodded at her, Fabiana tied up their horses and followed the woman through the open front door. How fast we brigands learn, she thought, unhooking her gun, we bandits in love.
In the main room, the crone was putting dried cherries into a bowl and Fabiana also spotted some salo and buckwheat gruel.
‘You steal from Afonka and you’ll die in agony,’ said the crone without looking up. Fabiana peered at the shelves around the room, packed with jars of seeds and bottles of cloudy liquids. ‘A Jew and a foreigner come into the home of a woman abandoned by all and steal from her at gunpoint. You’ll bring the curse of the water spirit of the Don on yourselves. Who’s this now?’
Fabiana looked round and Benya was behind her, shakily levelling his pistol. Fabiana wanted to get out quickly but Benya did not look good and the woman had the food.
‘The Jew thinks of killing me. But the Immaculate Virgin will decide when I go. You’ll be struck down by lightning or steel or poison.’ She sucked her bare gums.
‘Tell us then, Matushka, what should we do?’ asked Benya, lowering his Parabellum.
‘Let me cleanse you unbelievers with holy Don water, and I shall give you something.’
‘We have no Don water.’
‘I have it in the bucket. Bring it.’
Benya brought the bucket and the crone glared right at him. Fabiana could see that her eyes were a veined blue-whiteness with no irises.
‘I see well for a blind one?’ the crone said, making the Cross with a yellowed nail on his forehead. ‘The enemy of Christ is forgiven by the Immaculate Virgin, who drives out the beast in the heart. Amen!’ Then she repeated it on Fabiana. ‘I see a field of sunflowers, faces raised to the sun and in the middle of them a couple are kissing, oblivious to the world. I see a kind doctor and a happy little girl, a Jew child who walks away into the distance. Eat your food – here – and water.’
‘Thank you, Matushka,’ said Benya, gulping down some bread and gruel with his fingers. Fabiana poured water for both of them.
‘Leave me something. I don’t need much,’ the woman said as Fabiana gathered the food, longing to get away.
‘Go out the back,’ the crone continued. ‘That way’ – she pushed them through the back door – ‘and you’ll learn how I never threaten lightly. Go!’
Holding the food, Fabiana stepped into the back yard and recoiled. The body of a soldier, a German, lay on the sandy ground, his mouth wide open, with greenish vomit streaked down his cheek and flies buzzing out of his agape mouth.
VI
‘How many dead do we have?’ Malamore asked, holding a lit Africa cigarette, goggles on his forehead, patting a sweat-soaked Borgia on the withers. Under heavy fire, they had made their escape over the hill and into a Cossack village but not all his men were with him.
‘Six dead,’ replied Montefalcone.
‘And seven wounded,’ added Malamore’s young adjutant, Brambilla. ‘Two missing.’
‘Figli di puttana! Motherfuckers!’ said Malamore.
The Kalmyks rode up. ‘Village is empty,’ they said. ‘And there’s food.’
Malamore noticed Dirlewanger was fritzing and twitching, like the drug addict he was. Malamore himself had survived many ambushes and he showed no nerves even now. ‘All right, place careful pickets all around. The partisans aren’t far away. Collect grapes and apples from those orchards. Bury the dead and dress the wounded.’
Wiping his brow, he led his squadron down into the village, riding slowly, even majestically, hunched craggily in his saddle. When he reached the priest’s house, he dismounted and sat on the verandah in an old basket chair brooding while Dirlewanger popped another Pervitin tablet, then paced up and down, his temples pulsating, and Montefalcone watched him, sipping from a flask – both awaiting further orders as the windows shook from the big guns.
Malamore was chain-smoking and took a swig of cognac. The partisans had ambushed them from their flank on the adjacent hill, and he knew it was his fault. Fabiana had distracted him and he had watched her carefully when they were close to them. She had looked as if she was waiting for an opportunity to escape. The Russian had the weapons. Still it nagged at him. Could she be collaborating with the Russian Jew? Could they even be… no, that was impossible.