From then on Yershov remained a favourite of Keyze's. The other people in the barracks also treated him with respect; his unbending severity was tempered with gentleness and gaiety.
Brigade Commissar Osipov, one of the men who had sung 'Suliko', was furious with Yershov after the incident with Keyze. 'A very tricky customer indeed!' he said of him. Mostovskoy, on the other hand, soon christened him 'the Master of Men's Minds'.
Another man to dislike Yershov was Kotikov, a silent fellow who seemed to know everything about everyone. Kotikov was colourless; everything about him – his eyes, his lips, even his voice – was colourless. The lack of colour was so pronounced that it became a colour in its own right.
Keyze's gaiety during roll-call that evening made the prisoners tense and frightened. They were always expecting something bad to happen; day and night their anxious premonitions waxed and waned.
Towards the end of roll-call eight kapos came into the special barracks. They wore ridiculous, clown-like peaked caps and a bright yellow band on their sleeves. You could tell from their faces that they didn't fill their mess-tins from the general cauldron.
The man in command, Kônig, was tall, fair-haired and handsome. He was dressed in a steel-coloured greatcoat with torn-off stripes; beneath it you could glimpse a pair of brilliantly polished boots that seemed almost white. A former SS officer, he had lost his commission and been imprisoned for various criminal offences. He was now head of the camp police.
'Mutze ab!' he shouted. [36]
The search began. With the trained, habitual movements of factory workers, the kapos tapped tables for hollow spaces, shook out rags, checked the seams of people's clothes and looked inside saucepans… Sometimes, as a joke, they kneed a prisoner in the buttocks and said: 'Your good health!'
Now and again they turned to Kônig with something they had found: a note, a razor-blade, a pad of paper. With a wave of his glove, Kônig let them know whether or not it was of interest. Meanwhile the prisoners remained standing in ranks.
Mostovskoy and Yershov were standing next to each other, glancing at Kônig and Keyze. The faces of the two Germans looked as though they had been cast from metal.
Mostovskoy swayed on his feet; he felt dizzy. He pointed at Keyze and said: 'A fine individual!'
'A truly splendid Aryan,' replied Yershov. Not wishing to be overheard by Chernetsov, he whispered: 'But some of our lads aren't much better.'
Keen to join in the conversation he couldn't hear, Chernetsov said: 'Every people has a sacred right to its own heroes, saints and villains.'
Mostovskoy turned towards Yershov, but what he said was also addressed to Chernetsov: 'Of course we've got our share of scoundrels too, but still, there's something unique about a German murderer.'
The search came to an end and the command was given to go to bed. The prisoners began to climb up onto the boards.
Mostovskoy lay down and stretched out his legs. Then he realized he hadn't yet checked to see if his belongings were all in place. He sat up with a wheeze and began to go through them. At first he thought he must have lost his scarf or his gingham foot-cloths. In the end he found them, but his feeling of anxiety remained.
Yershov came over and said in an undertone: 'Kapo Nedzelsky's been gossiping. He say's our block's being split up. A few of us are being kept for further interrogation; the rest are being sent to general camps.'
'What does it matter?' asked Mostovskoy.
Yershov sat down.
'Mikhail Sidorovich!' he said in a very clear whisper.
Mostovskoy raised himself up on one elbow and looked at him.
'I've been thinking about something important, Mikhail Sidorovich. I need to talk to you. If we're going to die, I think we should do it in style.'
Yershov went on in a whisper. As he listened, Mostovskoy grew more and more excited. It was as though some magical wind was blowing on him.
'Time is precious,' said Yershov. 'If the Germans ever take Stalingrad, then everyone will just sink back into apathy. You only have to look at someone like Kotikov to see that.'
Yershov's plan was to form a military alliance of prisoners-of-war. He went through this plan point by point, as though he were reading from notes.
'… The imposition of discipline and solidarity on all Soviet citizens in the camp. The expulsion of traitors. Sabotage. The setting-up of action committees among the Polish, French, Yugoslav and Czech prisoners…'
He glanced up at the dim light and said: 'There are some of our own men in the munitions factory. They trust me. We can start hoarding arms. Then we can widen our horizons. Three-men cells. An alliance with the German underground. The use of terror against traitors. Our final goal – a general uprising, a united free Europe.'
'A united free Europe! Oh Yershov, Yershov…'
'I'm not just talking. I mean business.'
'Well then,' said Mostovskoy, 'you can count on me.' He shook his head and repeated, 'A free Europe… Now we've even got our own section of the Communist International here in the camp… With two members, one of them not even a Communist.'
'With your knowledge of English, French and German we'll be able to make thousands of contacts,' said Yershov. 'What price your Comintern now? "Prisoners of the world unite!" '
Looking at Yershov, Mostovskoy pronounced a phrase he thought he had forgotten long ago: 'The Will of the People!' He felt quite surprised at himself.
'We'll have to talk to Osipov and Colonel Zlatokrylets,' Yershov went on. 'Osipov's an important figure. But he doesn't like me – you must talk to him yourself. And I'll talk to the Colonel today. That makes four of us.'
70
Day and night Yershov mulled over his plans for an underground movement embracing the whole of Germany. He worked out a system of communications between the various organizations and learned the name of each different camp together with its railway station. He would have to devise a secret code. And the organizers would need to be able to move freely from camp to camp – he would have to find a way of getting the clerks to include their names in the transport-lists.
His soul was inspired by a great vision. The work of thousands of underground agitators and heroic saboteurs would culminate in an armed take-over of the camps. The men involved in the uprising would need to capture the camp anti-aircraft guns and convert them to weapons that could be used against tanks and infantry. He would have to pick out the prisoners who had experience of anti-aircraft guns and form them into gun-crews.
Major Yershov knew what camp life was like; he was aware of the power of fear, bribery and the desire for a full stomach. He had seen how many people had exchanged honest soldiers' tunics for the epaulettes and light-blue overcoats of Vlasov's volunteers. He had seen apathy, betrayal and grovelling obsequiousness. He had seen people's horror at the horrors inflicted on them. He had seen them petrified with fear before the officers of the dreaded SS.
Yes, ambitious though he was, he was no mere dreamer. During the black days of the German blitzkrieg he had been able to rally men whose stomachs were distended with hunger; his boldness and enthusiasm had been a source of encouragement to all his comrades. He was a man whose contempt for violence was passionate and unextinguishable.
Everyone could feel the bright warmth that emanated from Yershov. It was the same simple, necessary warmth that comes from a birch log in a Russian stove. It was this good-hearted warmth-not just the power of his intellect and his fearlessness – that had made him the acknowledged leader of the Soviet officers in the camp.