The dark girl lay by herself, beside the bed, her hair drifting away from her head to mix with that of the dead woman. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth where Kulomsin had hit her. Galitsin knelt beside her, raised her skirt. They had torn her drawers into strips, and the tight white belly heaved in short gasps. But there was no blood. Not even what might have been expected from a virgin. Had there been blood he would have vomited. But there was no blood. Galitsin knelt above the fluttering love forest,
She scratched her name in the dust with her forefinger. 'Irena Szen.' Her name was her only remaining possession. Her name and the pain. It began in her breasts, where the older man had bitten her, and where the man who laughed had playfully cuffed her. It deepened in her groin, reached all the way down into her womb. Possibly she was pregnant. Certainly she must have cancer. Mama had said that girls who were violated always contracted cancer.
'Irena Szen!' She wished the dust were mud, and would set hard, that her name might remain, carved on this floor, forever. Here Irena Szen had been raped and murdered. Because that would come next. They had murdered Fraulein Hipp for no reason at all, that she could see. They had relieved themselves in the middle of the floor; the place smelt like a stable. That had been the laughing man, Schabski. Now he slept on his back, trouserless, legs spread wide, beer bottles filling the rest of the bed. She turned her head. Kirsten lay on her face. Kirsten was a very beautiful girl—Fraulein Hipp had been in love with Kirsten—and so they had stripped her naked. The older man, the brutal one, the one who had murdered Fraulein Hipp and savaged Irena, had undressed Kirsten like a child peeling paper from a toffee, and beaten her with his leather belt, after lying on her and before lying on her again. Now Kirsten lay still, streaks of blood on her back and thighs. The man Kulomsin lay beside her, gazing at the ceiling, smoking a cigarette. As Irena watched him, he stubbed out the cigarette on Kirsten's back. Kirsten opened her eyes, closed them again.
And the third man? The boy, who had not been allow
ed to touch Kirsten, and so had
had to lie on little Irena, and had panted, and exploded,
with a pent-up desire which had
added his sperm to the mess already on the floor. She looked upwards, eyes turned backwards, and saw him, sitting against the wall behind her head, also smoking, with the jerky, uncertain puffs of a novice. He was gazing at her. What had Fritzi said? Fritzi had said, 'Oh, sweetheart, you think we Germans are bad? Wait until the Ivans get here. We destroy, but only to build something better. The Ivans live only for destruction. You wait, Irena. You explain it all to the Ivans.'
The young one had hurt her. But only because she had already been hurt by the older man; he had not intended to hurt her. His caress had been almost gentle, and when he had ejaculated he had wept. Now his face was sad. She thought that perhaps she could explain to him. She rolled on her stomach, gazed at him, put up her hand to push the hair from her face.
'I only worked here,' she whispered. 'I did the laundry. I had a Nazi boy friend. But everyone had a Nazi boy friend. Kirsten was the secretary. She is not really Swedish. She was born in Hamburg. She believes in the Nazis. She slept with the officers. And then she slept with Fraulein Hipp.' What betrayal. But it was true. And she did not want to die. She would do anything rather than have a bullet in her, like Fraulein Hipp.
The young soldier put up his hand in turn and ran it through his hair, as she had done. But of course he had no hair, merely a meadow of close-cropped stubble, scarcely thicker than an unshaven chin. She wondered if he shaved at all, yet.
He leaned forward, his face changing. Because he was a boy, where the others were men, he wanted her, again. Or perhaps he knew that he would not be allowed to have the lovely one. She waited, and was suddenly aware of the cold air streaming through the shattered windows, where all the moming she had known only heat, and sweat. Now she was 'freezing, and afraid. Not of him. Of the pain he would inflict. But to attempt to refuse him was impossible. That might mean the older one back again. And then she would die.
The boy was kneeling beside her, bending low, until their faces were inches apart. Do soldiers kiss when they rape? No one would dare kiss Kirsten. She'd bite off their tongues.
The boy was saying something in a low voice. Irena glanced at Kirsten. Kirsten's eyes were shut, but Kirsten was listening, and understanding. An expression of contempt had settled on her lips. Irena gazed at the boy, as he pronounced words, so painfully, so carefully, as if she could ever understand suc
h an incomprehensible language.
But she nodded. She was sure he wanted her to nod.
He smiled. When he smiled, his face, so broad, so typically Russian peasant, became almost intelligent, because the pleasure spread to his eyes, and when serious his eyes were too solemn to be truly intelligent
He lay beside her, on his elbow, like a friend. She rolled on her side to gaze at him. They were playmates, lying in the hay, as once she had lain in the hay with Andreas, before she, or he, had known enough to be lovers, and bodies were strange and marvellous playgrounds, to be explored, and enjoyed, without fear and without pain. She realised that she was older, in every possible way, than this boy who had fought his way across Europe. Killing does not age a man. It keeps him young. He only ages when he realises the enormity of what he has done. She thought this boy might be about to grow old.
She touched his hand, lightly, with her fingers, stroking them across the back of his knuckles. She wanted him to know that she understood, his need, his desperation, his fear. She wanted him to know that she did not hate him, like Kirsten. Not at this moment, anyway. Later, perhaps.
He spoke, and not in Russian. Incredibly, it sounded like English, or perhaps Dutch. A very Western tongue. He said, 'Alexander.'
She nodded. 'Sandor,' she said, and touched herself, 'Irena.'
'Irena.' His fingers closed on hers, and then his gaze drifted, down to her rumpled skirt, her legs. One of her shoes had come off, and her toes lay in the blood and the urine and the semen. Her toenails were painted red. Fritzi had made her paint her toenails. He had thought it was very sophisticated; the commandant's wife had painted hers. She gazed at the boy. He was searching for words, for some way to make her understand what he was trying to say. But she knew what he was trying to say. She squeezed his hand, and smiled, and nodded, and heard boots on the stairs.
III
'Bastards,' Maljutin said.
With the sergeant, fear re-entered the room. The five people, the soldiers no less than the girls, knew now of what they were capable, and of what they were incapable.
Maljutin was an unknown quantity to the girls. He was too well known to the men, and their fear spread like an invisible cloud. Galitsin released Irena's hand, scrambled to his feet. Kulomsin pulled on his pants.
'This is what war is all about, Sergeant,' he said. 'Winning, eh?' With his toes he nudged the blonde girl in the back. She kept her eyes closed.
*You were ordered to check the upper floors,' Maljutin said.
Schabski laughed, emptied another bottle of beer into his mouth. 'Nothing to check, Sergeant They're all dead. Except these two.'
'What about her?' Maljutin pointed at the dead woman.
'Tried to brain me, she did,' Kulomsin said. The blonde girl opened her eyes, gazed at the sergeant.
'Does she understand Russian?' Maljutin demanded.
Kirsten sat up. Yes,' she gasped. 'I speak Russian. They murdered the Fraulein. They shot her as she lay on the floor.'
Sergeant Maljutin walked across the room, stood above the German girl. His presence seemed to remind her that she was naked. Her hands fluttered down to her groin, as if she were posing for a photograph, and colour flared in her cheeks.
'They raped us,' she muttered. 'Irena and me. They spewed all over us.'
"Bloody collaborationist whore.' Maljutin squatted in front of her, took her chin between his fingers, turned her face left and right. "But those scum can pick them, all right You listen to me, Fraulein. Get yourself dressed, and stay here, and keep your mouth shut. I'll come back to you in a little while, and then you can cook for the squad, and we'll look after you. Keep hollering about rape and we'll hand you over to the underground. Tell your friend.'
Kirsten gazed at him, pale blue eyes gleaming like diamonds. Then she spat, the spittle spraying across his face.
Schabski laughed, and threw a beer bottle against the wall, where it shattered. 'Oh, she's rough, Sergeant.'
Maljutin wiped the back of his sleeve across his face. He closed his right fist and drove it into the girl's belly. The white skin explo
ded into red
like a star shell bursting in t
he noonday sun. Kirsten retched
and fell forward.
Maljutin twined his fingers in her hair, and struck her on the face, again with his closed fist. The skin on her cheek burst, and blood flooded her chin. Kirsten gasped, and leaned against the Wall, head sagging, eyes shut. 'Beer!' Maljutm said.
Schabski stood beside him, emptied two bottles of beer over the yellow hair. Kirsten shook her head, opened her eyes, and Maljutin hit her again, just below the navel.
The dark girl screamed, and staggered to her feet. Galitsin grasped her arm, held her against him. She kicked him on the ankle, scratched at his face. He put both arms round her chest.
Kirsten lay on her face, vomit trailing out from her mouth. Maljutin stood above her, swung his foot. The boot crashed into her kidneys, and she moaned, rolled further on to her face. Her fingers opened and closed. Irena turned her head away, buried her face in Galitsin's tunic.
'Don't kill her, Sergeant,' Schabski spoke very reasonably. 'She has a nice pair of tits.'
Whoever could have suspected that Schabski would be a hero? A life-saver, Schabski. Maljutin checked his swinging foot, allowed it to brush the white thigh. 'You remember,' he said. 'And you, downstairs. All of you. Full kit. The commissar is coming.'
Galitsin released the dark girl, picked up his rifle. She allowed her back to slide down the wall until she squatted, staring at him. The moment of communication had gone. Galitsin gathered pieces of equipment, tucked his hand grenade back into his belt. How sorry. How sorry. She had tried to understand.
They went
downstairs, joined the rest of
the squad, stood to attention. The radio chattered, reassuringly. There were comrades all around them, raping and drinking and shooting women, and Germans. Because that was what victorious soldiers did. His crime was no
t so terrible. Besides, it had
already been committed, by Kulomsin, and by Schabski. So he was excused. He could say, That was for Mother. Or should he say, Now I have reached the level of the Nazi supermen? But Irena Szen had not hated him. Not
him.
For just a moment
Tigran Dus might just have stepped off an aircraft from Moscow. His schlem was on square, the red star winking at them. His boots were polished; the leather of his holster gleamed. He was accompanied by another man, shabby in comparison. This man was taller than Dus, and broader than Galitsin. He had
a
large nose, coloured red as if freshly sunburned, and
a
huge chin. His mouth crinkled, as if used to smiling. His hair was red, and he wore
a
ginger moustache. His eyes were blue, and, like the mouth, were filled with an amused delight in being alive. His uniform was khaki, and needed pressing; unlike a Russian officer, his collar was open rather than buttoned, and he wore
a
scarf; his boots reached no farther than his ankles.
'The Nineteenth Regiment in the hour of its victory,' Tigran Dus said, somewhat drily. 'Heroes of the Soviet Union, every one. But this is the boy who will interest you, Captain. Private Galitsin! Forward!'
Galitsin stepped away from the rank, shoulders back, rifle
a
straight line at his side, stomach once again ballooning.
'Private Alexander Galitsin,' Tigran Dus said. 'His mother was a Scotlander. What did you say her name was
s
Alexander Petrovich?'
As if
a
political commissar ever forgot anything. 'Margaret Gibson, Comrade Commissar.'
'How very odd,' said the stranger. This will make very popular reading in England.'
'About how our two great nations are united by blood as much as by common purpose,' Tigran Dus suggested.
'Oh, quite,' agreed the stranger.
'Captain Shirley is with British Intelligence, Alexander Petrovich,' Tigran Dus said.
Galitsin clicked his heels, bowed slightly from the waist