“As you wish, Comrade Korsak. Bring me the telephone, Corporal.”
This change of heart saved the life of Captain Zubachyov. Had he not provided the machine, Korsak had the authority and the will to bring him to summary justice, and Korsak was not a man who dealt in idle threats.
Following a brief conversation, the Captain turned to Korsak.
“The machine will be ready at the gatehouse, with a full crew.”
“I did not request a crew. I will personally drive the machine to the destination.”
“As you wish, Comrade Korsak,” said the captain, returning the salute of Dimitri Korsak who turned on his heel and marched quickly out of the building.
Captain Zubachyov returned to watching the dance and his eye alighted on a slim young nurse with stunning blond hair. She was sitting alone by the side of the dance floor. In his new state of sobriety Zubachyov resolved to make his move while there was still time. Moving swiftly across the floor, Zubachyov was immediately into his stride.
“Forgive the intrusion, Miss. Would you honour me with the pleasure of a dance?”
“Sorry, no, I have to leave when my friend returns. I am on duty at nine in the morning,” replied the young woman.
Despite the rebuff, something in her manner suggested that she was not altogether uninterested in him. Everything about her seemed perfect to Zubachyov, who could hardly believe he’d missed her all evening.
“That’s a coincidence, so am I,” replied Zubachyov with a smile.
“I regret I have to be in charge of a ward in five hours’ time.”
“I regret I have to be in charge of the whole fortress in five hours’ time… so I can always come round and order you to dance with me,” replied Zubachyov, now warming to his theme.
“Then perhaps it might be easier if I did dance after all,” said the pretty young nurse with the fine blond hair and striking blue eyes.
“A gracious decision, by which I’m honoured, Miss…?” said Zubachyov, inviting the missing information.
“Er… Ostermann… Bettina Ostermann,” replied the young woman with the air of someone who is about to embark on a depressingly familiar conversation.
“Are you German?” asked Zubachyov, posing the inevitable question. “You certainly look it.”
“Perhaps I may have been, one day long ago,” sighed Bettina, “but my family has lived in eastern Volhnyia for three hundred years. I’m as Russian as you, but we still do keep some of our old German customs and language. In Germany they call us the Volksdeutsche.”
“It certainly is a mixed up world we live in,” said Zubachyov warmly. “I grew up in Saratov on the middle Volga. When I was young there were so many families of German extraction that it was originally an autonomous republic. It was called the Soviet Socialist Republic of the Volga Germans.” With that he offered his hand and was about to give his own name when it was shouted out from across the dance floor.
“Captain Zubachyov! Urgent message for Captain Zubachyov!”
A breathless corporal rushed up.
“This had better be good, Corporal,” said Zubachyov.
“Your presence is urgently required at the Terespol gate. There are massed German infantry and tanks moving through the woods on the other side of the river. Artillery of the highest calibre is being deployed. Cavalry is moving up.”
“And what do you want me to do? It’s their side of the river. They can do what they like. They can carry out as many manoeuvres as they like on any scale they like. There’s no war.”
“Lieutenant Orlov is concerned that the Germans plan to attack us by surprise.”
Captain Zubachyov was aware of the growing circle of listeners. The orders from Moscow were very clear◦— under no circumstances were provocative actions to be taken.
“That’s enough, Corporal. Thank the lieutenant for his report and ask him to remain vigilant. Dismissed.”
As the Corporal dutifully turned to depart, his place was taken by a young private.
“I dutifully report, sir, that Sergeant Siminov requests your presence in the western bunker. There are very large troop movements on the other side of the Bug River.”
“I order you to stop now, Private!” barked Zubachyov. “I will not hear one more word about German troop movements. Let the Germans do as they wish —”
Before Captain Zubachyov could go any further he was interrupted by Commissar Fomin who, noticing a further bevvy of messengers assembling in the foyer, stopped the band and raised his arms.
“Comrades! Captain Zubachyov is correct. It is true that we have recently seen an increase in activity in the German sphere of activity. However, the peace treaty remains in force. The standing orders remain as before. We are at peace with the friends of the Soviet Union. There must be no provocation or anything remotely like an act which could be misinterpreted and lead to an unnecessary war.”
“Thank you for the clarification, Comrade Fomin,” said Zubachyov. Turning to the band leader, he gestured with his left hand while leading Bettina Ostermann to the middle of the dance floor. “Maestro, if you please. I believe we were in the middle of a slow waltz.”
The eager young couples soon forgot the intrusion and began to dance once more. However, as they circled the floor the rumours of impending war were heard under discussion.
“So the Germans will definitely not attack us?” asked Bettina who had clearly been troubled by what she had heard.
“They are our allies. They’ll never attack us… Well, not on a Sunday,” said Zubachyov, seeking to lighten the mood.
“I hope there’s no war. My family suffered enough last time.”
“Look, it’s a Sunday. We both have time in the afternoon. Why don’t we take a no-war picnic down by the river and watch the silly real Germans run around and tire themselves out?”
Bettina gave a soft laugh. “Oh, I’m not too sure.”
“If I made it an order, youd have to come.”
From the corner of his eye Captain Zubachyov saw Bettina exchange glances with a very plump nursing sister who coyly waved back by wiggling her fingertips and gestured with her eyes towards the door.
“All right, Captain Garrison Commander. I dutifully report that I will attend the picnic… and so will my friend Anastasia.”
As von Schroif walked back along the column of Sturmgeschütze to where his own vehicle awaited him Wohl fell in and kept pace, hoping that the conversation might spark up again and break the mind-numbing tedium of life as a patrolling sentry.
For his part however, von Schroif was again lost in contemplation. His mind, racing in all directions, somehow found its way back to January of the previous year when SS-Sturmbannführer Helmut Voss had first introduced him to the new machine of which he was now so proud. He could visualise the scene perfectly and recalled almost word for word the old man’s final summing up. In his mind’s eye he could visualise Voss standing on the engine deck as he concluded his speech.
“So that, gentlemen, is the Sturmgeschütz, the new breed of Sturmartillerie. The Führer has been kind enough to trust you with 80,000 Reichsmarks’ worth of modern fighting vehicle, so please don’t let him down, eh? Like every good commander, you will take care to play to its strengths and, of course, take careful note of the weaknesses of which you must be constantly aware. Note that, unlike the main battle tanks that the public so often mistake them for, which as you know are crewed by five men, the absence of a turret means a much reduced fighting compartment has to be fitted inside the Sturmgeschütz, and this in turn of course dictates that the vehicle can only be crewed by four men which, let’s face it gentlemen, is a bad thing. Something had to give, and in consequence the radio has to be operated by the loader. Not ideal, but it allows you to take to the field in an armoured vehicle no taller than an average man, which makes you very hard to hit, which I’m sure you’ll agree, gentlemen, is a very good thing!”