Sniper's Honor(119)

Finally the Peasant presented himself to a young officer at a table; he wore wire-frame glasses, was overworked, maybe a little drunk. The Peasant was very nervous, for talking to authority was not an ordeal he had much practice with. No matter that the Teacher had told him, just before it was his turn, to be calm, to be relaxed, to cling to his story. He gave his name, presented his tattered papers.

The young man did not bother to look up. “Explain your presence,” he said as he examined the paperwork, a flyblown red-covered pamphlet enclosing his ID card.

“I was rounded up by German soldiers two years ago. I have been working as a laborer over that time, building roads for tanks, laying wire, digging trenches. When the offensive came, there was shelling and confusion. I managed to make it to the forest, where I have remained for a week or so.”

He went on haltingly.

“Stop, stop,” said the young man. “Now, I ask you, sir, are you familiar with a partisan group in this area run by a man called Bak?”

“I have not heard of any Bak, sir.”

“You did not fight with his partisans in the mountains?”

“I did not.”

“All right, tell me this. Have you ever heard of a woman called Ludmilla Petrova? Also called the White Witch. She was with Bak’s partisan army.”

“I have never heard of Mili Petrova,” said the Peasant.

“Excellent,” said the young officer. “Now I see clearly. Show me your hands, please.”

The Peasant put his hands out.

“No, no, you idiot, palms up.”

He turned them over.

“Explain, please, why after two years of hard labor under German conscription, you have no calluses? Your hands, though filthy, are soft. You haven’t touched a shovel or a hoe in years.”

“I, I—I have never heard of Mili Petrova,” said the Peasant.

The officer nodded to two soldiers, who walked over, grabbed the Peasant, and pulled his shirt open. Tattoos covered his chest. The soldier pointed to one, a design that featured a mandolin flanked by outward-facing R’s, though all of a single line.

“That is the tattoo of the Trizubets,” said the officer. “It is the Ukraine national emblem, it is the emblem of Bak’s Ukraine National Army. You lied to me; you were a soldier in that army and thus a traitor to the Soviet union  . You may well have aided the traitor Ludmilla Petrova, who is on a death list. Only someone intimate with her would know that her nickname is Mili, not Luda, unless you read of her in the magazines years ago, and I doubt that you can read.”

“Sir,” said the Teacher, “may I speak for the man? His tongue is clumsy.”

The officer looked up at the Teacher. “Who are you?”

The Teacher raced forward and handed over his document.

The officer examined it. “So, a teacher.”

“Sir, this man is—”

“I ask the questions here. Were you also conscripted? Are you with him?”

“These peasants get tattoos all over their bodies. It amuses them. They have no idea what the tattoos mean. I am a teacher here. I know this.”

“I asked you, were you with him? Were you conscripted?”

“Sir, I am only pointing out—”

One of the soldiers hit him in the stomach with his rifle butt.

“Teacher, fool, I ask questions. You do not explain. I am not one of your children. Show me your hands.”

The soldier who had hit him dragged him to the table, turned one hand over to show the officer. “Another man at labor with soft white hands. Yours are even clean. I doubt you have tattoos because you consider yourself refined, but you speak for him, you lie for him, you attempt to evade Soviet justice. Take them both away to the—”

“Sir, if I could show you but one thing.”

He was hit hard across the neck and went to his knees. The Peasant stepped in to intervene, was clubbed equally hard, and went down, blood leaking from his skull.

“Get this vermin out of here,” said the officer. “I’m done wasting time with criminals.”

“Sir, I beg you. Just let me show you my papers. I believe you’ll find them very interesting.”

“I have no more time to waste,” said the officer, holding up the Teacher’s document.

The Teacher squirmed free, grabbed it, twisted it, and with his deft fingers separated the rear cover into two halves. A card shook out. He handed it to the young officer.

The officer looked at it; his face went white, his jaw dropped, and he began to gibber.

“Major Speshnev, I apologize, sir, I was hasty, I had no idea, sir, sir, please, I was only trying to—”

The Teacher stopped his yammering with one raised hand. “Listen to me, Lieutenant, if you don’t care to spend the rest of your life building a road to the North Pole on the off chance that The Boss decides to go for a ride up there. You will do exactly what I require, and you will do it instantly.”