She replaced the receiver and settled back into her seat, prepared to defend the privacy of her commander against all comers.
A patrol of Czech police were summoned to the forest on the southern outskirts of Meziroli, where children playing had discovered a body.
Those children that remained were quickly chivvied away by the younger officer, as the senior took in the scene and started making notes.
It was quickly apparent that they were dealing with a murder, or more likely an execution, given the fact that the man had been hung from a tree and carried a placard stuck in the bindings that would have prevented him from struggling as he was trussed and hoisted up off the forest floor.
His partner returned and wordlessly the sergeant indicated the line holding the corpse aloft.
It was quickly cut and the senior took the weight and lowered the emaciated corpse to the leafy earth.
“There’s nothing to him, Svoboda. No weight at all.”
“Not surprising is it, sergeant?
“No… I suppose not.”
He pulled the placard out of bindings, although the single word had been easy enough to read, even when six foot or so above the ground.
‘Jüden.’
Sergeant Kolar fished in the dead man’s pockets, pulling out documents, some of which had official military markings.
He sat down on a nearby fallen bough and lit a cigarette to help him concentrate.
“French Army travel documents.”
“Shall I get the…”
“Do nothing for the moment, Svoboda.”
Annoyed at being interrupted, Kolar snapped at his partner, and quickly held up an apologetic hand.
“Just sit for a moment, man.”
He continued rummaging through the documents.
“Letter here… Biarritz eh?”
“That’s in France.”
“Thank you so fucking much, encyclopaedia man. I’m not a total fucking peasant.”
“Sorry.”
“Safe conduct note… bollocks… definitely something to do with the military then… that Legion uni… ah, now I understand.”
He chuckled knowingly.
“Old habits die hard, Svoboda.”
“How do you mean, Sergeant?”
“That Legion bunch are all ex-SS hard nuts. A Jew’d be a red rag to them. But they’ve played it safe, giving him lovely paperwork so they could say ‘wasn’t us Mister American, we now love the Jews’.”
“Really, Sergeant?”
“Damned fucking right, and we’re having fuck all to do with it as far as those legion bastards are concerned. Go get the spade.”
“Eh?”
“Go get the spade, We’ll bury him.”
“What?”
“You need a bloody picture? We report this in and Lieutenant Marek’ll have the military all over us, including those SS bastards. Bring nothing but a fucking world of hurt down on our heads.”
“OK… but…”
“But nothing. We report back and say that we’re satisfied that there was a body but that family must have come and claimed it. Clear suicide from the children’s description and crime scene. That bastard Marek’s due to transfer in two weeks, at which time I’m back in charge. We’ll have another look at it then. Meantime, I’ll send the papers off to this address in Biarritz… which is… apparently… in fucking France… with a note stating the facts, or actually nothing like the fucking facts… and when the army and Marek have fucked off, I’ll send a note with the results of our proper investigation.”
“Err… I don’t understand.”
“That’s why I’m a fucking sergeant and you’ll be the one digging, Svoboda my son.”
He flicked his cigarette off to one side and shivered involuntarily, the temperature drop suddenly finding its way into his consciousness.
“Military authority is going to be removed, all good and well, and the area will again become civil police jurisdiction… my jurisdiction… I’ll then reconsider the investigation… and keep the bloody SS and the rest out of it. Quick paperwork exercise and the job’s done, just in case the kids get mouthy. Clear?”
“Yes, Sergeant. I understand.”
“Excellent. Now… go and get the fucking spade and let’s get Mister Mandl in the ground.”
[Meziroli is modern day Sittmesgrün.]
1533 hrs, Thursday, 14th November 1946, Vnukovo Airfield, Moscow, USSR.
The band waited expectantly as the unfamiliar aircraft rolled slowly into its allotted position, the waiting dignitaries shuffling uncomfortably in the driving rain.
As the engines were switched off and their throaty roar stopped rivalling the noise of the impressive wind and rain, the C-54 Skymaster’s door opened.
A version of the Stars and Stripes greeted the ears of the first man down the stairs who was, unfortunately for the Soviet protocol officer, British.
Lieutenant General Brian Gwynne Horrocks KCB, KBE, DSO, MC led the delegation that had come to Moscow to establish military protocols for the new frontline to be.
The Swedish camp was a diplomatic mission primarily and both sides had agreed a different venue should be selected for the purely military exchanges, and the Soviets had suggested the first visit be to Moscow, much to the surprise of the Allies.
Future exchanges would take place in NATOFE Headquarters in Frankfurt, or back in the Soviet capital, close to where the senior military men controlled the nascent peace.
Malinin stepped forward and saluted the senior British man, thankful that the band had at least recognised the protocol error enough to stop playing.
They shook hands and Malinin was shocked as Horrocks spoke in excellent Russian.
“Marshall Malinin, thank you for the welcome, and congratulations on your recent promotion. Perhaps we should wait for the formal introductions until we are somewhere dry?”
“Agreed, Comrade General Horrocks. My car.”
Malinin indicated a large black staff car and ushered his visitor towards it.
The rest of the Allied deputation paired up with their Soviet counterparts and were directed towards a large coach with comradely gestures and declarations of friendship, all save for the two German officers, for whom there was at best reserve, and at worst a blank face that hid both memories and feelings.
The final Allied officer to board, a British colonel, had some difficulty in getting his leg up to the high step, but refused the offered hands, preferring to overcome by himself.
His counterpart, a procurement Colonel from the Ministry of Armaments, spoke reasonable English.
“So, Comrade Colonel. You are stiff from big flight, eh?”
“Something like that, Colonel.”
“Oleg Panteleimonevich Laranin, once being of 2nd Guards Rifle Division, since I got this.”
He indicated the scar adjacent to his left eye, a wound that had clearly claimed his sight.
Laranin stuck out his hand and it was accepted.
“John Ramsey, once of His Majesty’s Black Watch, until I lost these.”
He rapped a quick pattern on his two wooden legs.
“Ah, I understanding. So, we both are on the heap now, eh?”
“Seems so, Colonel.”
‘You speak for yourself, Colonel. I’m not on the ‘heap’ by a long bloody way!’
Ramsey looked around him and suddenly realised why the light was strange.
The coach windows were all painted grey, obscuring the view.
He pretended to drop off, whilst debating with himself whether the obscuration was to stop the Allied officers seeing out, or the Soviet population seeing in.
0900 hrs, Monday, 18th November 1946, the Georgievsky Hall, Grand Kremlin Palace, Moscow.