Last Citadel

‘What is your name and rank?’

Filip translated in a monotone. For Katya, the German tongue was guttural next to the fluid mouthings of Russian.

The prisoner lifted his chin and gazed up to Plokhoi. He seemed timid, Katya decided, afraid to give offense. Or no, something else.

Calculating. He wanted something.

‘Standartenfuhrer Abram Breit.’

‘What is your unit?’

‘Erste SS Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler.’

Plokhoi mulled these words. He hated everything German, this prisoner, the language of the enemy. Hitler’s name here in the cool barn under the glare of Colonel Plokhoi was like a match to straw, Katya sensed Plokhoi smoldering.

‘Filip.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell him everything I say. Word for word.’

‘Yes.’

‘Listen to me, Nazi.’

Filip translated this.

The prisoner did as he was told, raising his face full to the partisan leader. Filip spoke a quiet stream beside Plokhoi’s words.

‘It’s hard for me to keep from killing you right now. I have you here and no one would miss you. Your army thinks you’re dead already in that plane crash. You understand?’

Katya watched the translation strike home. The prisoner’s eyes tumbled for a moment, then returned to Plokhoi’s, and she saw the man did understand. He was going to be left alive. He was relieved, the lines in his face smoothed, and more. He seemed sorry for Plokhoi’s hatred, as though he knew and accepted the reasons for it.

Plokhoi and Filip continued.

‘If you do not do exactly what you are told, I will have you shot and nailed to a tree.’

The prisoner nodded, agreeable. This bothered Katya, that an SS

officer would behave this way, without defiance, with such cooperation. His name was Breit. He didn’t seem frightened. He didn’t know Plokhoi, or he would have been.

The prisoner said, ‘Ja.’

‘I’ve been given orders to have you taken back across the lines to be interrogated. My superiors think you know something. Do you know something, Standartenfuhrer?’

‘J a.’

‘Good. Pray you live long enough to tell it.’

The German did not watch Filip speaking. Instead, he searched Plokhoi’s face for clues, gathering what he could out of Plokhoi’s tone.

‘Nazi?’

‘Ja.’

‘I have seen and lost far too much. So have my men. I am going to trust you to the mercies of the Witch here. She and this old man will deliver you across the lines tomorrow morning.’

Katya did not wait for Filip to make the full translation. She stepped to Plokhoi’s side. The partisan leader did not look at her, his eyes were screwed on the German.

‘Colonel,’ she said. ‘Colonel.’

Plokhoi glared down at her, the black furls of his beard wavered over his working jaw. She sensed the malice in him.

‘Colonel, a word.’

Plokhoi drew a deep breath. He’d heard her and ascended from whatever pit he’d been in. He turned to her. He bore her a smile, a strange counterpoint to his anger. Plokhoi was mercurial this way, it made him charismatic and dangerous.

‘Yes, Witch.’

‘I believe I know where Leonid Lumanov is.’

‘Your pilot.’

‘Yes. I intend to rescue him.’

‘You intend.’

Katya did not hesitate. ‘Yes. Tomorrow.’

Plokhoi said, ‘I don’t have orders for that.’

‘Yes you do. You had them a week ago. You never said they were rescinded.’