Taras barked and picked up the pace immediately, and so did the two Przewalski’s horses.
Kalinka took a tighter hold of Börte’s simple bridle, squeezed her thighs against the mare’s flanks and, before long, all three were running across the steppe.
“This is great!” she yelled. “Clever old you, Temüjin, for suggesting this.”
Taras looked at Temüjin and growled in disgust, as if to say, “Yes, clever old you, Temüjin.”
CAPTAIN GRENZMANN LOOKED AT the scorched yellow cloth star that the sergeant had given him and nodded gravely.
Everything was clear to him now—it was clear what had been going on, and it was equally clear what he was going to have to do about it. Not that he wanted to do anything very much about it, of course, but what choice did he have? There were strict orders from Berlin about what to do in situations like the one that now presented itself. Under the circumstances, he had no alternative but to act, and act harshly. That was the discipline the SS lived by. Without that, they were nothing, just a rabble. His men knew that, too. They liked Max as much as he did, but he could see that they already knew what was going to happen.
Grenzmann took off his battered gray hat and rubbed the short blond hair on his head slowly, almost as if he was hoping to make his twisted Nazi brain find another solution to the problem that was in front of him. In fact, he was rubbing his scalp because it delayed him from striking the old man, which was his first inclination on seeing the yellow star. It was odd how that made everything so very different; but for this simple insignia, he could probably have ignored all of the old man’s many misdemeanors. The orders from his superiors were crystal clear about this sort of thing, however; retribution was absolute. There could be no room for maneuvering.
All Kaspar Grenzmann wanted to do in the world was ride horses, paint pictures, listen to Mozart and help his father run the business in his hometown of Munich. Before the war, he had been studying to become a lawyer, and he thought of himself as a gentle, civilized man. But there was nothing civilized about what he and hundreds of men like him had been asked to do all over eastern Europe. He knew that it was highly unlikely he would ever feel civilized again. But what could he do? This foolish old man had pushed him into a dark corner where he had no choice but to behave ruthlessly and without mercy—to be that which he was increasingly reluctant to be: the inflexible SS man of blood and honor.
Finally, the irritation of this realization was too much for Grenzmann and he hit the old man hard on the side of the head with the back of his gloved hand; it wasn’t hard enough to knock him over, but it was hard enough to make Grenzmann feel a little ashamed of himself.
“You foolish old man,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now look at what you made me do. You see? Everything is different now between you and me. It didn’t have to be like this, Max. But you have painted me on your wall. I am fixed there like one of those blasted horses. Me and what I am now required to do. Which is my duty, of course. I have no alternative now but to punish you.”
Grenzmann clenched his fist for a moment and turned away for fear of hitting the old man again. He took a deep breath, let it out and then turned back to face him.
“I’m sorry,” he sighed wearily, “for losing my temper like that. It was unforgivable. And let me add that it gives me absolutely no pleasure to find myself obliged to act here, but you leave me no choice. You know that, don’t you? I’ve given you every chance, wouldn’t you say? But you seem intent on betraying my trust. First, the Przewalski’s horses, and now this. Really, it’s too much, Max. I’m very disappointed. Honestly, I thought we were friends.”
Max wiped his mouth and found a little blood on the back of his gnarled hand, which seemed to make him realize something, too: that the time had surely come to tell the young German officer the truth—not about Kalinka and where she had come from, but about the captain himself and his being there at Askaniya-Nova.
“No,” he said quietly. “You were deluded. We were never friends, you and I, Captain. How could I be friends with a man like you—a man who has systematically tried to destroy everything I hold dear in this world? Not just the people who lived peacefully in this country but also the animals that lived on this great nature reserve at Askaniya-Nova. How could I be friends with a monster like you, Captain? You and your men have made everything ugly by your presence here in Ukraine. And I pity you as I would pity a man-eating bear—as something that needs to be destroyed for the good of everyone. Friend? No. I’m sure we can both spell it, Captain Grenzmann. Even in German. But only I know what it means.”