Last Citadel

Katya sighed with impatience. She took a knee beside Filip. The old starosta leaned close.

‘This is Colonel Abram Breit. He’s an intelligence officer. He says he’s not a combat soldier.’

‘Look at him, Filip. He’s covered in dirt. Look at his face, he was wearing damn goggles. He’s a tanker, an artillery man. He’s been fighting on the front lines. He’s even got a medal for it.’

While Katya growled, pointing at Breit’s uniform, medallion, and gritty face, Filip turned her words into quiet German so Breit could follow and reply. The German waited until Katya paused. He spoke to Filip, still avoiding Katya’s eyes.

The elder translated while the German talked.

‘I’m not dirty from fighting. I rode a motorcycle from Belgorod to the airfield. I wore goggles then, the road was crowded with trucks. Look, I carried no gun on me, not even a holster or a knife. The medal is for administrative work. I was an art historian. I am not a fighter. I have never shot anyone.’

Filip whispered all this to Katya. She listened, watching Breit’s lips while the elder spoke for him.

‘I don’t believe you. You were shot down in a bomber.’

‘I was heading back to Berlin. A bomber was the plane arranged for me. I had nothing to do with it.’

‘Why were you going to Berlin?’

‘I’m an intelligence officer. I was going to make a report.’

An art historian. An intelligence officer. If that’s what you say, good.

Now you’re a prisoner. That’s all you are anymore.’

‘No. I’m something else.’

The German looked squarely at Katya. He studied her face. He pivoted his eyes to Filip and whispered a question.

Filip turned to Katya.

‘He wants to know if he can trust you.’

Katya almost laughed when Filip gave these words to the German.

She laid a finger to her own breast.

‘Me? Trust me? I’m not the one he has to worry about. If he tries anything, Ivan over there will break his neck. Or Josef will cut it.’

The German shook his head even before Filip had translated any of this.

Filip said to Katya, ‘No, Witch. I don’t think that’s what he means.’

The starosta sat on crossed legs in front of the prisoner. The elder liked the mystery of this tied-up German, he was intrigued with the secrets that came in the barn with him. Filip was a Russian peasant, the ancient kind who had always loved his betters, a slave for the Tsars and now the Soviets. It was plain this prisoner had been schooled, he had bearing even tied to a post, he might even be a gentleman in Berlin. He worked some thrall over simple Filip.

‘Why are you here?’ Katya asked Breit. She wanted the German to say it, to admit in front of Filip that he beheld himself the master race, a destiny in his bloodline, to rule. She would kick him again for it and go back to her horse.

‘I was hit on the head.’

‘No…’ He tested Katya’s patience. ‘No, why is Germany here? In Russia. Making war.’

Breit composed his answer. He said only ‘Conquest.’

‘There,’ she said, slapping Filip’s arm when he translated the word.

The starosta nodded that she was right.

The prisoner continued. Filip perked up and listened, then sweetened more harsh German into Russian.

‘Conquest is merely a shorthand to greatness. It’s a sickness that every nation endures at some point when its pride has grown too fast. The urge to take overwhelms the will to create. It’s a malady of power. It’s something your country will go through, young lady. If you win this war, you watch. Keep an eye on what Russia does, then judge Germany.’

These words spilled from Filip, making the old man more eloquent than he likely had ever been. Filip had a German speaking for him now. A shiver crept through Katya. Filip talking this way seemed very wrong, a little invasion and occupation here in the barn.

She meant to put a stop to the conversation. She didn’t want to know any more about this SS officer. She was going to deliver him across the lines or see him killed in the process. She would send him back into his prisoner’s silence and give Filip back his volnitsa from this German’s tongue.

‘We will win,’ she said. ‘We are winning.’

‘Are you? What do you know?’

Breit cocked his head at her. Katya took in the gesture, then glanced over at Filip. The starosta was dumb, waiting for the German’s next utterance.

‘Do you know,’ Breit said through the elder, ‘that in the south the SS

has penetrated to your last defense belt? That the fighting has moved within sight of the towers of Oboyan? Your Soviet army is losing three men for every German soldier. Three tanks for every German tank. Planes.

Artillery. Everything. Do you know how long you can stand this kind of carnage until the weight of the battle shifts away from you? Do you? I don’t.

And I know a great deal more than you can imagine.’