Meanwhile, Kostyshakov thought, You’re bluffing, Hun. If you knew I was here you’d just drag me out.
But the Germans, in their methodical way, kept prodding the haystacks. Perhaps inevitably, one bayonet thrust took Daniil in the backside, digging into flesh about half an inch deep. He managed to stifle his own scream. This wasn’t quite enough.
The searcher, keyed perhaps by a degree of resistance not normally to be expected in a haystack, noticed an area of blood on the end of his bayonet. Drawing the rifle back and examining the point of that bayonet, he was quite sure it hadn’t been there before. “Herr Feldwebel!”
Shit.
Northern Gate, Citadel of Brest-Litovsk, Belarus
He had the face of a butcher, that man, an impression only strengthened by the six-foot, four-inch, and very heavyset, frame above which that face rested. Mind, if he had the face of a butcher it was also the face of a highly astute, well-cultured, and remarkably intelligent butcher. He was fat, to some considerable extent, but the fat didn’t extend to his brain.
Butcher-faced, he may have been. Fat? Yes, that too. but Major General Max Hoffmann was not a butcher of men or, at least, not of his own men. Aged forty-eight now, and having served his country, in peace and in war, for thirty years, Hoffmann stood at the pinnacle of his profession. A mere major general? At the pinnacle of the warrior’s profession?
Even so; Hoffmann was the chief of staff—a position very unlike that of the chief of staff of any other army of that day or any other—of Ober Ost, the German high command in the east. Moreover, not only did the German Army follow the orders and plans he crafted, so did both the Austro-Hungarian and the Bulgarian armies. This was because, under the system prevailing in the German Army at the time, the Chief of Staff was the brains of an army. A man with character could command—and Hoffmann was most fortunate in that his nominal chief, Prince Leopold of Bavaria, could command—but thinking deep, hard, and above all, well was a different matter entirely.
An evening walk was normal enough, when time permitted. Tonight, though, upset and annoyed with the Bolsheviks, Hoffmann felt the urge for a longer walk.
“I think, Brinkmann,” said Hoffmann to the major—also of the general staff—accompanying him on his walk, “that I could not have taken another minute of that Bolshevik peasant eating with his fingers and using his fork as a toothpick… or, come to think of it, another second of that murderous Bitsenko bitch regaling Prince Leopold about her murder of Sakharov.”
The other man, Brinkmann, pulled cold air through his nostrils, contenting himself with, “Indeed, and I don’t mind you inviting me, sir; Admiral Altfater, with whom I was sitting in the anteroom, is a fine gentlemen, but everything he says about the disintegration of the Russian Imperial Army is depressing. It could have been us. If we’re not both careful and lucky, it could still be us.”
“I know, Friedrich; I’ve spoken to Altfater myself. It’s depressing because, as you say, there but for the grace of God, go we. It’s a damned thin line we hold, and that across a long border, between our people and the Reds.”
Stepping through the brick gate of the town’s citadel—which was also the site of the peace negotiations with the Bolsheviks now ruling Russia—Hoffmann led the major into the town or, rather, what remained of it after the Russian Army, in its retreat, burnt it to prevent its use by the German Army. Beside him, Brinkmann’s cane echoed louder than his footsteps.
A more sensitive man might have bemoaned the destruction of the town and the hardship inflicted on its people. Hoffmann, however astute, was not sensitive.
Even so, the town was starting to come back to life a bit, too, as some of its former citizens returned to recreate their old homes and businesses. There hadn’t been a huge improvement yet, even so.
“We’re being foolish, Brinkmann,” said Max, “and in more ways than one. We shouldn’t be making peace with the Bolsheviks; we should be marching on Moscow to restore some kind of civilized government.”
“It wasn’t so long ago,” Brinkmann reminded him, “that you were all in favor of letting the Bolsheviks rule Russia… and ruin it, that Germany needed a break from the Russian threat. What’s changed?”
Hoffmann didn’t answer immediately but continued walking, in silence. Finally, turning right to take up Masharova Prospect, he answered, “I didn’t know everything then that I know now. I didn’t know about the terrorism, the murders, the oppression and persecution of faith. I’m not ashamed; who could have predicted such a thing from a people as faithful to God as the Russians? Primitive in many ways they may be, but faithful they have always been, too.”
They reached a point where, normally, Hoffmann would have turned around. This night, however, he could not. Snowflakes began to fall as the pair continued plodding to the east.
“You served there, didn’t you?” asked Brinkmann. “In Russia? Before the war?”
“Yes, for a while, six months, to learn the language, and then, too, I was for a number of years, five, actually, in the Russian Department of the General Staff.”
“Ah, that would explain your faculty with the language then.”
“That, yes, but… did you hear something?” Hoffman rotated his head in the direction from which the sound—an odd and strange sound—had come.
“No,” the major shook his head; “I was listening to you.”
“There it is again.” The cry was faint, but it sounded liked, “Nie, nie, nie; Adpusci mianie!”
“Now that,” said Brinkmann, “I heard. A woman, I think. Or a girl. She seems upset.”
Keeping his head and eyes fixed on the direction from which the woman’s—or girl’s—cry had come, without another word, Hoffmann undid the retaining strap of the holster on his belt. Without any particular notion of what his chief had in mind, Brinkmann followed suit. It wasn’t necessary for Hoffmann to say, “Follow me.” He led off and Brinkmann followed as surely as a rainbow follows the rainstorm.
The sounds—the cries—ended. Even so, Hoffmann followed the heading he had set for himself. The pair crossed a space distinguished only by charred timbers before coming to a cobblestone road.
“There will be four of them,” Hoffmann whispered. “Well, at least four.”
“Four of what?” asked Brinkmann. To that Hoffmann didn’t give an answer. There was no need to because shortly they came to a waist-high stone wall, against which also lay four rifles, outlined in the quarter moon’s worth of light. They both could see someone holding down a woman’s arms with one hand, and another covering her mouth, another two forcing her legs apart, and a fourth holding something in front of his crotch, dropping to his knees between the spreading legs.
I suppose it’s only logical, thought Brinkmann; there has to be four for efficiency’s sake. This is something I’d just as soon not have known.
Hoffmann, for all his undoubted military skills, was considered to be one of the worst horsemen and—literally and absolutely—the worst fencer in the entire German Army. There was nothing wrong, however, with his hand-eye coordination when a pistol was involved. Besides, at this range I can hardly miss.
The pistol barked.
So much for Herr Schwanz-im-Hand.
The second shot released the woman’s—or girl’s—hands and mouth, allowing her to release an instant ear-splitting shriek. If the shooting upset her at all it was tolerably hard to tell.