Chapter Eight.
Through December, and on into late February, 1938, the journey to and from the Academy from Karyn's Hotel was made in old Sergei's friend's "Troika," drawn by three pure white Orlov Trotter horses, the traditional breed used for this purpose. It was like something out of a Russian folk-tale, all tinkling bells... warm and snug in the open sleigh, wrapped in thick furs against the icy winds. The NKVD shadows had no chance to keep up; slithering about on the packed, frozen snow in their "Black Raven." Exhilarating wasn't the word for it. By this time, Karyn had deciphered and translated the second volume. She had also slept with Sacha... thirteen days after the Western Christmas, on January 7th.
On the Eve of the Russian Christmas, it was traditional for all family members to gather to share a special meal. Sacha could not be with his family in Moscow. He had been ordered to remain in Minsk. The Hotel had prepared the Christmas Eve meal for the guests and staff. No one had eaten anything that day, in keeping with old Russian tradition rooted in the Orthodox faith, of The Fast; which typically lasts until after the evening worship service or until the first star appears in the night sky. The dinner that followed was very much a celebration, although, meat was not permitted. The primary dish was "Kutya"... a type of porridge. It was very symbolic with its ingredients being various grains for hope, and honey and poppy seed for happiness and peace. Afterwards, a little the worse for wear due to the copious charkas of vodka, Karyn had invited Sacha to her room. He had been nervous, and sweet, and gentle, and they had awakened on Christmas morning in each other's arms, to the sound of church bells pealing out all across the City.
As they were taking morning coffee, there was a knock on the door. Sacha disappeared into the bathroom with his coffee, as Karyn slipped on a dressing gown and went to the door. Peeking through the spy-hole, she saw it was Hans von Herwarth, Second secretary at the Moscow Embassy... the young German who had met her at Minsk airport; the one who had seemed frightened of her. Opening the door, Von Herwarth wished her a happy Christmas and handed her a bulky envelope. He said it contained twenty thousand Roubles... her exchange incidental expenses; and that she was to hand over such Reichsmarks that she still possessed, from the original five thousand that Himmler had provided in Berlin. Karyn had used about one thousand, five hundred Reichsmarks at Rastenburg, allowing for the re-fuelling of the Heinkel.
Twenty thousand Roubles worked out at close on ten thousand Reichsmarks at present exchange rates, it seemed a very reasonable swap. She still had the five tubes of Reichsbank Prussian Twenty Mark Gold Pieces. Von Herwarth knew nothing of these. She signed the receipt and von Herwarth departed. She quickly put the envelope into the Attaché case. What Sacha didn't know would not worry him. She moved to the bathroom door. The sound of the running shower greeted her. Pushing the door ajar, she saw Sacha under the shower, his hard, muscled body glistening through the steam, under the needles of hot water. With a little smile, she slipped the dressing gown off her shoulders and joined him. Later, she said that perhaps, it would be sensible if he came to stay at the hotel. Knowing this would be frowned upon by the management, she arranged that they would have adjoining rooms. The hotel was half-empty, and the management would probably welcome the trade.
At first, Sacha was uncertain. He couldn't afford the room tariff... he could barely afford the dingy, cramped little room he rented. Karyn would have none of it. The Reich Government could afford it. She would pay the tariff from her incidental expenses fund. Eventually, Sacha agreed. He moved in on January 14th. They were careful that he returned to his room each morning... so it would at least look as though he had spent the night there. In truth, he spent each night in Karyn's bed. And slowly, they fell in love with each other. This would eventually prove to be extremely risky, but, such risk was, as yet, far away in the future.
Friday, March 25th, 1938, was a typical Minsk morning. The slush was lying ankle-deep as the weather slowly warmed, and the icy grip of the Russian winter receded. Their "Troika" ride was finished; the sleigh was too heavy to be dragged through the cloying slush. So, they walked. Their NKVD shadows were there... as always, as they walked to the Academy.
In the reading room, they sat with the second great volume open on the mahogany table. Old Sergei had filled the ancient samovar with hot, sweet tea, and said that later, his wife would prepare a pile of Blini. These small pancakes were traditionally prepared at the end of the winter to honour the rebirth of the new sun. They were to be eaten with a topping of sour cream and caviar.
Karyn beckoned to Sergei.
'Sergei; this is a special occasion. I'm about to read this second volume to Sacha. Do
you know if you can get hold of real caviar in Minsk?'
Sergei nodded,
'Yes, Lapushka. Old Abram Likhta, the Jewish fishmonger down on Zybitskaya street will have some, but it will be expensive... it always is from the Jewish traders.'
Karyn smiled,
'How much is "expensive," Sergei?'
He gave a rueful grin;
'He will charge at least two hundred Roubles a tin. Somehow, he gets his hands on it from the cartel that sells it to the rich and stupid westerners. Before the Tzars and the European aristocrats decided it was a delicacy, it was mostly a peasant food; the true name being "Ikra," and was eaten by poor farmers and fishermen as a substitute for meat during religious fasts. Now, we can hardly afford it at all.'
Karyn nodded,
'Tell me, will he want Roubles or Chervonets?'
The Russian monetary system was odd. In 1922, the Soviet government introduced a new denomination with the name of Chervonets. The two currencies... Roubles and Chervonets circulated side by side. Where it got complicated, was that one Chervonet was equal to ten Roubles. State Treasury notes replaced the State Currency notes after 1928; and in 1937, Lenin's portrait first appeared on the Chervonet banknotes. Sergei pondered for a moment,
'I don't think he really cares... money is money.'
Karyn reached into her attaché case and handed Sergei a wad of twenty-five Chervonets denomination notes. She smiled at his surprise.
'See what you can get with this. My treat, or rather; that, of the German High Command. Caviar, sour cream... vodka... whatever you can get. Then, we'll lock the door and have a party!'
Within the hour, Sergei returned. He brought three pale blue, 120-gramme tins of Beluga "Pajusnaya" pressed caviar; a litre of sour cream, and five bottles of "Moskovskaya Osobennaya"… "Moscow special," from the Moscow Distillery-Kristall. Sacha was dumbfounded.
'How the hell did you manage to get those, you old rogue?'
"Moskovskaya Osobennaya" was probably the finest Russian vodka available. Patented by the Russian Government and strictly controlled by the State Monopoly, it was rarely seen outside Moscow, and then, only in selected circles. It had only been in production since 1936 and was not yet in mass production. Sergei grinned and tapped the side of his nose with his finger,
'If you have money, you can get almost anything. Wave enough of it in front of old Abram and he'll probably manage to broker a deal for the statue of Lenin in front of the House of Government... if you wanted it for a garden ornament!'
He made to hand the remainder of the wad of banknotes back to Karyn. She told him to keep them. He looked at her, astonished. In his hand, he held seven, twenty-five Chervonets notes. One-hundred-and-seventy-five Chervonets... seventeen-hundred-and- fifty Roubles; when the average monthly wage was two-hundred-and-fifty Roubles; and for a lowly librarian... one-hundred-and- fifty. He gazed at the notes, and then at Karyn. He was holding almost a year's wages in his hand.
With a frown he said,
'Lapushka, I cannot accept this much. I have never held this many Roubles, what could I possibly do with them?'
Karyn smiled;
'You can enjoy a little comfort for once, Sergei. They are only a small part of my expenses. The Moscow Embassy spends more than this in petty cash each day.'
Sergei hesitated for a little while longer, and then with a typical, resigned Russian shrug, folded the notes away into his pocket. There was a tap on the door and Sergei's wife appeared carrying a dish piled high with blini. She was a handsome woman; tall, blonde, and sturdy in the way that Belarus rural women are. She must have been very beautiful in her youth.
She set the dish down on the reading table and hurried away, returning with a bucket of ice and a small porcelain stand which contained three tea-light candles. She lit the candles and placed the dish of blini on the stand. This would keep them warm. She placed four traditional charka glasses in the bucket of ice, together with the bottles of Moskovskaya Osobennaya, and bustled off to bring a dish for the caviar. She returned with a crystal container packed with crushed ice, upon which sat another crystal bowl into which would be spooned the caviar... and not just any old spoon; a beautifully carved Mother-of-Pearl spoon. She also brought a crystal dish for the sour cream. Sergei smiled.
'We are honoured. These belonged to her mother. My wife's mother was at the Court of Tzar Nicholas in Petrograd, and brought them out after the February Revolution. They are her revered heirlooms and rarely used.'
Sergei's wife placed the four chilled charka glasses on the table and lifted the first bottle of Moskovskaya Osobennaya from the bucket of ice. With a shy grin, and in typical Russian fashion, she pulled the cork from the neck of the bottle with her teeth and filled the glasses. Then, she performed the old Russian Hostess tradition of placing a glass before each of them, and kissing them. She raised her glass and said:
"Zhelayu vam schast'ya, zdorov'ya i lyubvi"... "I wish you happiness, health, and love."
They all raised their glasses and threw the contents back. The vodka was icy cold, and Karyn felt it slip smoothly down her throat... no harsh burning like schnapps... then it hit her stomach and began to glow. Sergei's wife banged her glass upside-down onto the table, smiled and departed. Karyn asked; was she not staying to enjoy the blini? Sergei replied that she had things to do, and that she had completed her Hostess toast to her guests as demanded by custom.
He slipped the elastic band from the first tin of Beluga "Pajusnaya" pressed caviar, and lifting the lid, began to spoon the contents into the caviar dish. Karyn had not known what to expect. She thought that caviar was round... like peas, but this looked more like thick, black marmalade. Sergei explained. "Pajusnaya" was made from the damaged roe which always occurred when the roe were processed. Actually, the Russians preferred it to the true caviar, because it was oilier, saltier, and more pungent than the intact roe, which had a soft, buttery, delicate taste, which was more to the liking of the rich, and stupid westerners.
He had tried to get hold of the "Osiot" caviar, which was horribly expensive and came in a yellow tin. This type was golden yellow to brownish in colour, and had an intensely hazelnut flavour and an oilier, silkier, melts-in-your-mouth texture. Old Abram Likhta, the Jewish fishmonger couldn't get hold of any at present, but had said he would see what he could do for next time.
Sacha showed Karyn how to slather sour cream onto the blin, drop a spoonful of caviar in the centre, and roll the whole thing into a tube. Sergei poured more vodka into the charka glasses and raised his for the next toast. This one would be for Karyn...
"Zhelayu tebe vsegda ostavat'sya takoy zhe miloy i krasivoy, Lapushka"... "May you always remain so sweet and beautiful."
Again, the liquor was tossed back and the glasses were banged upside-down on the table. Phew! This was going to be some session! But, as Sergei had said,
"The first charka comes like a stick in your throat, the second flies in like a falcon; the others just dive like small birds."
The blini were gorgeous, the vodka was icy; the toasts came thick and fast. Karyn thought it might be a good time to start reading the second volume translation before they all drank themselves under the table. With the blini, the Pajusnaya, and the sour cream consumed, and three and a half bottles of Moskovskaya Osobennaya still to go; she cleared the remnants of the feast away from the reading table, slipped on her white cotton gloves, and, as Sergei locked the library door, opened the second volume and spread her translation notes beside it. Sergei seated himself, and poured each of them another charka, raising his glass and saying,
"Pust' sbudutsya vse tvoi mechty!"... "May all your dreams come true!"
Again, the vodka was tossed back and the glasses banged down. Karyn could feel her toes getting warm. Time to stop drinking and start reading! She opened the volume and said,
'I shall read this exactly as I have deciphered and translated the contents. See if it makes any sense... if it stirs any old memories, Sergei. We don't know if it's real, or whether it's just a story.'
Three hours later, Karyn carefully closed the second great volume and tidied her scattered translation notes. She looked up at Sacha and old Sergei, who sat silent.
'Well... does that make any sense at all? Is it just a fairy tale, or does it ring any bells?'
Sacha shrugged.
'It's the same as the first book, there's nothing familiar in it as far as I'm concerned. But, it's too detailed to be just a fable.'
Old Sergei was quiet. He reached for the third bottle of Moskovskaya Osobennaya and pulled the cork with his teeth. He poured three more charka glasses and passed them around. Still, he said nothing. There was no toast this time, he merely tossed it back and poured himself another. Karyn glanced at Sacha, who shrugged again. The reading room was silent as Sergei stared into his charka of vodka, turning it round and round in his hands.
At length, he looked up. They saw his old grey eyes were troubled. Karyn was about to speak, but he put down his charka keeping his little finger between it and the surface of the table... in keeping with the custom that you never put down your vodka until the charka was drained. Turning to the youngsters, he spoke, quietly and carefully,
'There is something there, Lapushka. I was born and raised in Kyrola, Finland, about a hundred kilometres north of Petrograd. I came to Russia about the time of the February Revolution as a young, committed Bolshevik. I was at the storming of the Winter Palace in 1917. Back home, I grew up, knowing a long, wonderfully musical, Finnish poem about Wizards and Magic. It is composed of ancient heathen songs called "Runos," never written down, but sung from memory by one generation to another. It is called "Kalevala." Kalevala means "The Land of Heroes." This poem has many similarities to the story you have just read.
This Guardian... this one they call Eldamar; in Suomi, this word is not so very far from the sound of the word "Kalevala". These native songs are being forgotten and lost. There are no more heroes in my native country. The Whites saw to that in the Civil War. This story troubles me. It has too many whisperings of memories of stories I grew up with. It might be the vodka, but, I think it is the truth, and not some fable... some fairy tale.'
Then he gave a rueful grin.
'Pay no heed; it's probably just the vodka talking.'
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Karyn though, was intrigued.
'No Sergei, I don't think it's the vodka. The one thing that's been annoying me with this whole thing is the continual mention of these "Shining Lands." We had thought that if they existed, then they must be somewhere in Russia, though we could never find anywhere that remotely resembled this place. But, Finland... it could make sense. All the lakes, and the snow and ice. The frequent Northern Lights... I think you have uncovered "The Shining Lands" for us. What do you think, Sacha?'
Sacha nodded,
'Yes, it does make sense. But, I've never heard of this "Kalevala."
Sergei smiled;
'And no reason that you should have, unless you have lived in my homeland and can understand Suomi.'
He tossed down the remains of the vodka and banged his charka onto the table, upside-down. Scraping back his chair, he leaned on the table, and said,
'Don't put too much faith in what I have told you, it was all a long time ago, and my memory is not what it was. But, now, it's late, and time to clear this away and call it a day.'
Outside, the wind was gusting cold from out of the east. The slush was freezing again, and crunched underfoot as Karyn and Sacha came out from under the colonnade of the Academy into Zakharievskaya Street. Across the road, the black GAZ saloon, the "Chyornye Voronki," NKVD "Black Raven" was parked in its usual place in the shadowy darkness between the boundaries of the pools of light cast by the two adjacent street lamps. Karyn snorted,
'I'm really getting fed up with these annoying bastards!'
And before Sacha could stop her; she had stalked across the road towards the ominous black car. Standing at the driver's window, she rapped sharply on the glass with her gloved knuckles. The driver's window was slowly wound down. There were only two of them in the car that night. Sacha held his breath. What the hell was she doing?
Karyn thrust the NKVD service identity card that Sacha had passed to her, that first day at the Europe hotel, into the dark interior of the car, right under the nose of the driver.
'Read that!'
She said, in perfect Standard Moscow Russian. Her tone was icy and ominous. The driver struck a match, and stared at the identity card. The cold hand of fear clutched at him as her read the signatures... Yezhov... and Stalin, himself, had signed it! Suddenly, he was nervous... very nervous. You just didn't tail, or piss about with people who had these sorts of credentials. That fucking controller down at Minsk Central had really dropped him in the shit, this time. He blurted,
'My apologies, Comrade Doktor, we were only following instructions...'
Karyn watched him squirm, thinking… Not such a big man now, when you're not hauling people out of their homes in the middle of the night, are you? She smiled, at least, her lips smiled... however, her eyes did not. The driver saw this and became even more nervous. She was speaking again.
'Seeing as how you've been tailing us now for five months, the least you can do is to give us a lift back to the hotel. You should know where it is, by now.'
The NKVD goon in the front passenger seat jumped out and nearly fell flat on his face in the freezing slush as his foot struck out. His blue-topped, red-banded Furashka went tumbling merrily across the pavement. He left it where it fell, and quickly came around the back of the "Black Raven," to open the rear door for Karyn and Sacha, who by now had crossed the road to her side. As soon as they had climbed into the rear seat, Karyn wished she hadn't. The car stank of Machorka smoke... and something else. A flat, musty smell... the smell of fear. A smell that permeated the thick brown cloth material of the seats and the cloth of the headlining… the sweaty terror of those countless victims who had taken their last ride in this black abomination, out of the city to the shadowy pines of Brod woods.
She reached for, and clutched Sacha's hand as the driver grated the car into gear and lurched away from the pavement. The journey down to Lenin Square only took five minutes, but it was, without doubt, the longest five minutes of her life. The two NKVD goons were silent. The atmosphere in the smelly interior of the car was oppressive and unnerving. Would they turn into the square or would they drive on out of the city to God knows where?
When the driver turned off Lenin Square and stopped outside the Europe hotel, Karyn and Sacha breathed a silent sigh of relief. The goon in the front passenger seat climbed out and opened the rear door, ingratiatingly offering Karyn his hand. She declined, with the same icy stare that she had employed to the driver. As they hurried into the hotel, the goon called goodnight. With no response, he clambered back into the car, and with another grating of gears, the "Black Raven" drove away, the rasp of its exhaust echoing back across the wide expanse of the great square. Karyn glanced at Sacha and shivered, but it was not from the icy-cold wind that gusted across the city that night.
Tuesday, May 10th, 1938, was a beautiful spring morning. The sun was shining, and the bitter winds from the east had faded. They reached the Academy at about nine o'clock. Sergei had already brought the third ancient volume and her translation notes from the vast safe in the reading room, and was fussing over the old samovar that sat on the side table. He wasn't happy with the way the charcoal in the central funnel was burning. As they walked into the reading room, he was letting fly with a stream of obscenities as he struggled with the obstinate samovar... "Chyort poberi!... Suka sranaya!" ...'Damn it!... 'Fucking Bitch!" He turned and saw them as they came into the room. Sacha looked shocked. Karyn pretended she couldn't understand. Sergei turned scarlet and began to apologise. She smiled sweetly.
'No need to apologise Sergei, I haven't learned those words yet. 'She knew exactly what he had said, and was hard-pressed not to laugh at his expressive usage of very profane Russian. They sat at the table and Karyn slipped on her white cotton gloves in readiness to start the translation. She turned to Sergei, who was still muttering under his breath at the samovar. Even Sacha was now struggling to conceal a smile.
'Any new thoughts on the truth of these volumes, Sergei?'
Sergei looked at her.
'Not much, According to what I remember of "Kalevala," beyond the land was the entrance to the Finnish underworld and the land of the dead. It was called "Tuonela," and ruled by the Lord of the dead. It was seen as a region of dark sorcery. Tuonela was guarded by serpents and huge worms, and was filled with these monstrosities, as well as with witches, sorcerers, and demons. Perhaps, this could be this "Abyss" that is spoken of. Other than that, there is little more to tell. The rest of what I remember is different.'
Karyn smiled again,
'Well, thank you for trying to remember, Sergei. Perhaps this last volume might give us a few more clues.'
She carefully opened the volume, arranged her translation papers, and began to read.
Much later, with the samovar growing cold; Karyn carefully closed the great volume and looked at Sacha and Sergei. For a little while, there was dead silence. She studied their faces... their bemused and confused expressions; then she spoke.
'And there, Gentlemen, is the paradox of these volumes. By their very nature, the last few paragraphs cannot possibly refer to the 1908 Tunguska event. These volumes are countless hundreds of years old. The recorded location of where these volumes were discovered is precisely the same as is recorded in this last volume. This cannot be a coincidence. Therefore, it is my opinion that these volumes are exactly what they purport to be; that is, a valid, and truthful record of a lost civilization. Having established this theory... for that is all it can be at present; there must be some common link between the catastrophe described in this third volume, and the 1908 event.'
Sacha nodded,
'That's what I was thinking. We must go there and do the archaeology. Then, we might establish the truth of this. I need to inform Moscow of these findings, and, I suppose you need to inform your Embassy.'
Sergei snorted,
'It's all too much for me. Best thing to do is to crack our last couple of bottles of Moskovskaya Osobennaya. Berlin, Moscow, and those "zhopi"... those assholes who are hatching this dangerous journey they expect you to take soon... they all "Pizdeet kak Trotsky"... "Bullshit like Trotsky." Let's get pissed.'
Karyn laughed,
'You don't like the system very much, do you Sergei?'
He snorted,
'Do you blame me? Just look at what these "Govniuki" have done to my country. The "Apparatchiks"... the party members loyal to Stalin... get all the best new flats, jobs, holidays etc. In May 1935, nearly three hundred thousand ordinary Russians had their membership cards taken away. New penalties were introduced. Anyone leaving the country without permission faces the death penalty if caught. If they succeed, then their relatives will be imprisoned. Penalties including death now apply to anyone over the age of twelve. The Great Terror has affected Russians all across the country, as they now live in constant fear that they will be arrested and jailed, tortured, or shot.
It is commonplace for ordinary citizens to accuse their neighbours or even family members of criticising Stalin, so as to project a patriotic and loyal image of themselves in the hope that they will appear to possess an acceptable "class essence," and not be killed. He is praised in the newspapers, books and in films and posters. Poems published in Pravda praise his deeds; speeches are made exalting his skills, his modesty, his wisdom, and his brilliance.
People who attend these meetings are careful to applaud long and loudly, and the person who stops first is most likely to be arrested by the NKVD... who are always in attendance there… for showing great disrespect and disloyalty to Stalin. In fact, people have been known to applaud so wildly at these meetings that some have actually given themselves heart attacks. So no, Lapushka; I don't much like the system. You can be arrested because someone has chosen to denounce you... just because of anyone's guess. There will be no official bill of indictment. It is as simple as that. Too many innocent people have been victimised; so many, that there is even a saying for it: "There will always be wood cuttings whenever someone is planing."
He tossed down a charka of vodka, banged the glass upside-down onto the table, and continued.
'I fear there will be nothing left of my Russia when they are finished. Your own idiot, Adolf, and all his strutting, fanatical, ruthless, henchmen are babes-in-arms compared with our home-grown psychopaths.'
Karyn was about to say something when the door to the Library burst open. There stood the President of the Academy: Ivan Surta, flanked by two men dressed in bluish-grey uniforms with broad red stripes running down the seams of their black trouser legs; black high-boots, and blue-topped, red-banded Furashky displaying the prominent, enamelled Red Star... NKVD! Ivan Surta was exactly as Karl Wolff had described to her in Berlin. A solidly built man in his mid-forties; medium height, with a great walrus moustache, and a kind face. He opened his mouth to speak, and was immediately silenced by the older of the two uniformed men. They marched across the library and stood, looming over Sergei. The older of the two snapped...
'Comrade Sergei Kivikoski? You are under arrest. You are denounced as an Old Bolshevik, intent on conspiring with Trotskyite and "Rightist" elements to undermine communism in the USSR. You will come with us immediately.'
There was complete silence in the Academy library. The two NKVD officers' brutal, Slavic faces were impassive, and their eyes were hard and mean. Sergei shrugged, and scraped back his chair. Karyn quickly laid her hand on his arm and prevented him from rising. She turned to the two NKVD men. They saw the cold, icy stare in her cornflower-blue eyes, and for a moment, they hesitated. It was enough.
Karyn looked them up and down with the same distasteful look one gives when they have just stepped in some dog droppings on the pavement. Drawing a sheet of notepaper to her, she asked, very quietly, in perfect, Standard Moscow Russian...
'And who might you be, Comrades? I take it you possess a warrant from the District Troika for this intrusion?'
She was taking an awful risk. They might well have a warrant, but her intuition told her that they hadn't. This visit was certainly just based on hearsay... probably given to them by some "seksot"... some informer that Sergei had rubbed up the wrong way. Maybe, it had been the Jewish fishmonger who had resented him having enough Roubles to buy the caviar and vodka.
The older of the two NKVD looked at this blonde as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then he exploded. Blood rushed to his face, his eyes bulged, and a tiny trace of foam appeared at the corners of his mouth. He looked like a nutcase who had just escaped from an asylum.
"Zakroy svoy grebanyy rot, suka"... 'Shut your fucking mouth, bitch.'
He screamed.
'I could send you to Siberia to do hard labour for such disrespect of a representative of the people of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics! I am Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti... Lieutenant of State Security Lifshen and this is Sergant Gozbezopasnosti... Sergeant of State Security Tretyak. We are from the Minsk Office.'
He snatched his Tokarev from his service holster, thumbed back the hammer, and pointed it at her, waving his hand wildly in the direction of Sergei.
"Zatknis'... ili ty prisoyedinish'sya k nemu"... 'Shut the fuck up... or you'll be joining him.'
Karyn knew the dreadful danger that she was now in. Back in Berlin, Karl Wolff had warned her about the Tokarev TT pistol. It had no manual safety on the single action trigger, other than the disconnector to prevent accidental discharge and the half-cock notch on the hammer… and Lifshen had fully cocked his weapon. The slightest twitch on his trigger finger as he ranted and raved at her, and she'd get a 7.62mm bullet for her trouble. He stared in disbelief as Karyn simply ignored him and wrote down both names on the sheet of paper. Then she looked at him again, and, in an icy, and ominous tone, said…
'I take it then; that The Organizational Head of the Office of the NKVD, Minsk Oblast: Starshiy Major Gozbezopasnosti… Senior Major of State Security, Tartakow, has failed to inform you of our presence in your fine city, and what we are engaged in here at the Academy? Perhaps you'd better take a look at this...'
She drew out the NKVD Service Pass, signed by Yezhov, and Stalin, himself; and held it out to Lifshen. She knew, from the panicky admission of the NKVD Goons who had shadowed them during those first days, when she showed it to them; that a Directive had come down from Moscow Central, signed by Yezhov himself, specifically stipulating that no-one in the Minsk office was to meddle in her affairs.
She watched Lifshen. The blood drained from his brutal face, and his hands trembled very slightly, as he stared at the identity card. He read the title heading of the card: "Special Section OO-GUGB... The Main Administration of State Security, the "Glavnoe Upravlenie Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnost"... one of the most powerful, and influential agencies in the NKVD State Security Directorate.
GUGB departments, or Sections, as they were called; dealt with intelligence, internal security, counter-intelligence; protection of government, and secret communications. This was a card of the OO "Osobyi Otdely" or Special Section that included the State Assassins. He had never seen such an identity card, and suddenly he was clutched by the overwhelming need to go to the lavatory.
This "chyortov suka"... this fucking bitch, was speaking again... with a perfect, Standard Moscow accent; and she was actually smiling; a sweet, beautiful smile. No one ever smiled when the NKVD came calling.
'Comrade Kivikoski is a vital member in our research team. I would suggest you return to Minsk Central and enquire of Senior Major of State Security Tartakow concerning the content of the Directive he has received from Moscow Central. Now, if you would be so kind...
"A teper' poshli k chertu i prodolzhay svoi dolbanyye dela"... 'Now piss off, and mind your own fucking business.'
Sacha and Sergei stared at her. Surta looked aghast, hardly able to believe what he had just heard her say. They had no idea that this pretty, demure, young German blonde could swear in Russian like a seasoned sailor of the Northern Fleet. Tretyak was stunned. They were the NKVD, for Christ's sake. Nobody ... but nobody ever spoke to them like that. He looked at Lifshen, who gaped at her and had no idea what to do next. No one had ever dared to speak to him in that manner… especially in front of a subordinate. Lifshen's first instinct was to blow her fucking head off. He hadn't heard anything like it in close on twenty years since he joined "Cheka," the forerunner of the NKVD, just after the October Revolution in 1917. His finger tightened on the trigger of his Tokarev TT. He hesitated. That identity card... if he got this wrong…
All his instincts were now shrieking that he had just dropped himself into "Pizdets"... deep shit. His arrogance cowered away into some dark corner, as his imagination frantically visualised a trip into the "meat-grinder"... the arrest, the interrogations under the notorious Article 58 of the Criminal Codes of the Union Republics, which defined punishment for various forms of "counter-revolutionary activities"… the early, and horrible death inside some God-forsaken Gulag whose gates were now yawning open, beckoning to him.
Maybe they wouldn't even bother with that. It was just as likely that his next car ride would be a one-way trip in the back seat of one of their own sinister "Chyornye Voronki," the NKVD "Black Ravens." A one-way trip out to Brod Woods in the forest north of Minsk, and the inescapable Nagant or Tokarev bullet in the nape of the neck... if he was lucky.
Very carefully, he eased the hammer of his Tokarev forward, and lowered the weapon. Karyn afforded him a winning smile, although her stomach was knotted with nervous stress.
'If that is all, Lieutenant of State Security Lifshen, then you will excuse us. We have a great deal of research to accomplish on behalf of the Supreme Soviet. I am sure you would not wish to hinder us in our endeavour for the Motherland.'
Lifshen glowered at her. He understood the sinister intimation in her pleasant, parting remark. He understood it as well as if she had spoken the words plainly. It would be in his own best interests if he decided that this old librarian was more trouble than he was worth. He had no idea how much authority this bloody woman might have, or with whom. Against that... although it rankled; maybe an unverified denunciation by an old Yid Fishmonger just wasn't worth the nightmare he might find himself in if she blew the whistle on him. Besides, there were plenty more victims out there; and this "Chertovski suka"... this fucking bitch had him by the balls. Desperately gathering what remained of his deflated authority about himself, he snarled,
'Very well. The denunciation was, at best, tenuous. We shall investigate this allegation further. Rest assured, if it is found that there is any substance in the charge, we shall return.'
He spun on his heel, and pushing Surta aside, stomped out of the Library. His henchman, Sergeant of State Security Tretyak, almost fell over himself as he scurried in pursuit of his boss.
As the echo of their high-boots receded down the corridor, Surta let out his breath with a deep, audible sigh.
"Gryaznyy biznes!"... a messy business! We must get Sergei and his wife away from the Academy. They will certainly be back. We can shelter them at my dacha on Lake Vezhkhne, about thirty-five kilometres north of here. We can fool them completely with this place. About three kilometres to the south-west of my dacha is a little village named Cherkasy. However, there is also a place named Cherkassy in the Ukraine, about two-hundred kilometres to the south-west. When they come again, I shall say that I discovered that my librarian Sergei Kivikoski and his wife had fled after the first NKVD visit, and the rumour was that they were heading south to some old Bolshevik comrades somewhere in the Cherkassy area. The NKVD have a nose for lying, and I shall be effectively telling them the truth! That should put them off the scent for quite a while.'
Karyn shook her head.
'That's one hell of a risk, Comrade President. I think I should take a trip down to NKVD Headquarters and have a word with this Senior Major of State Security Tartakow. Perhaps he'll be a little more amenable than that idiot Lifshen when I show him my identity card.'
Surta studied her intently, and with disbelief. She actually intended to stroll into the huge NKVD building on Zakharievskaya Street, and intimidate The Organizational Head of the Office of the NKVD, Minsk Oblast. He shuddered at the thought; but, if anyone could pull it off, it would be her.
With the NKVD, there were no insurance policies; but the NKVD would never arrest one of their own. They could never admit to a mistake; therefore, no NKVD officer would ever be arrested by one of his organisation. But, even with this surety, she would need some help. He drove a year-old black GAZ M1... just like the dreaded "Chyornye Voronki," the NKVD "Black Ravens." He would drive her there. The guard outside... and anyone else who happened to be watching, would see her arrive, and would think that she was exactly what she seemed to be. She would need a uniform, and Surta still had his contacts.