eyes.”
She suddenly directed her anger to the old woman.
“You’re German. I shouldn’t need to tell you. You must have seen enough of them.
“Well, I swore an oath on the grave of my mother, and I swear it again now. I don’t give a damn if you think I’m a murdering lunatic bitch. I won’t stop and I won’t rest. Not until I’m dead, or until I’ve wiped every single filthy Bolshevik pig from the face of this earth.”
A long uncomfortable ten seconds followed, during which nobody spoke.
Hammond didn’t quite know what to say. He just knew that he suddenly felt so sorry for her, and, for a reason he didn’t fully understand, he also felt ashamed.
The old woman broke the silence. She placed a comforting arm around the girl’s shoulders and led her from the table.
“I understand, my dear. We both understand, and we’re sorry. Now you’re cold, and shivering. Come and sit by the fire, warm yourself while I make some more coffee.”
8
Stanislav Paslov was a worried man; not that he advertised the fact. Publicly advertising such insecurity would have been both foolish and dangerous for a man in Paslov’s position, and Stanislav Paslov was no fool.
Paslov was a man to instil terror in friend and enemy alike, and panic in all those who considered themselves somewhere between the two. Obeyed without question and avoided if possible, he held the power of life or death over every captive German between Berlin and the Czechoslovakian border. Stanislav Paslov was also a man who had more reason than most to hate those same captive Germans.
Not that Paslov was, at first sight, a striking or imposing individual; all appearance to the contrary. Stanislav Paslov was short and thin, with greying hair, bad skin, and bad teeth, the product of a desperate childhood spent under the yoke of Romanov indifference.
Twenty-five years of personal sacrifice in the Bolshevik cause, topped off by two years of malnutrition and abuse in a Nazi labour camp, had aggravated that earlier decay. However, and despite his lack of immediate presence or stature, Paslov terrified everyone he met, important official and lowest proletarian alike. This was partly due to him being the regional head of state security, and in part because Stanislav Paslov was known to be a close friend of Lavrenti Beria.
It was gone seven when Paslov walked through the door of his Leipzig apartment. He dropped a stack of folders on to the table, and turned to his wife as she came out from the kitchen with his customary evening glass of schnapps.
To those who knew them both, Anna was everything Stanislav was not. She was round and plump, with homely features and soft brown eyes, a gentle and pleasant woman, with a ready smile and a genuine warmth of spirit.
“You are late,” she said, then noticed his downcast demeanour. “What is the matter? What is wrong, Stanislav? Tell me.”
She passed him his drink, and then brushed his cheek with her hand. He took her hand in his and softly kissed each fingertip in turn. It was a demonstration of affection and gentleness that anyone who knew Comrade Colonel Paslov, the cold and calculating state policeman and infamous public tyrant, would have found hard to believe. But this was the other side of Paslov, the personal and private side. He forced a smile, and shrugged.
“We lost her.”
“Lost who? What happened?”
Paslov didn’t want to say too much. There was so much about his work he couldn’t tell her; so much that was too secret, or too sensitive, or simply too grisly to relate. So much, too, that made him feel ashamed.
“Just a girl who killed some Red Army officers. We were taking her down to Prague by train. Someone helped her to escape, and now we do not know where she is.”
Anna stared pointedly at the folders on the table.
“So you think being late is not bad enough? Now you want to ruin what is left of our evening by going through that lot as well.”
“I am sorry, Anna, just for
She suddenly directed her anger to the old woman.
“You’re German. I shouldn’t need to tell you. You must have seen enough of them.
“Well, I swore an oath on the grave of my mother, and I swear it again now. I don’t give a damn if you think I’m a murdering lunatic bitch. I won’t stop and I won’t rest. Not until I’m dead, or until I’ve wiped every single filthy Bolshevik pig from the face of this earth.”
A long uncomfortable ten seconds followed, during which nobody spoke.
Hammond didn’t quite know what to say. He just knew that he suddenly felt so sorry for her, and, for a reason he didn’t fully understand, he also felt ashamed.
The old woman broke the silence. She placed a comforting arm around the girl’s shoulders and led her from the table.
“I understand, my dear. We both understand, and we’re sorry. Now you’re cold, and shivering. Come and sit by the fire, warm yourself while I make some more coffee.”
8
Stanislav Paslov was a worried man; not that he advertised the fact. Publicly advertising such insecurity would have been both foolish and dangerous for a man in Paslov’s position, and Stanislav Paslov was no fool.
Paslov was a man to instil terror in friend and enemy alike, and panic in all those who considered themselves somewhere between the two. Obeyed without question and avoided if possible, he held the power of life or death over every captive German between Berlin and the Czechoslovakian border. Stanislav Paslov was also a man who had more reason than most to hate those same captive Germans.
Not that Paslov was, at first sight, a striking or imposing individual; all appearance to the contrary. Stanislav Paslov was short and thin, with greying hair, bad skin, and bad teeth, the product of a desperate childhood spent under the yoke of Romanov indifference.
Twenty-five years of personal sacrifice in the Bolshevik cause, topped off by two years of malnutrition and abuse in a Nazi labour camp, had aggravated that earlier decay. However, and despite his lack of immediate presence or stature, Paslov terrified everyone he met, important official and lowest proletarian alike. This was partly due to him being the regional head of state security, and in part because Stanislav Paslov was known to be a close friend of Lavrenti Beria.
It was gone seven when Paslov walked through the door of his Leipzig apartment. He dropped a stack of folders on to the table, and turned to his wife as she came out from the kitchen with his customary evening glass of schnapps.
To those who knew them both, Anna was everything Stanislav was not. She was round and plump, with homely features and soft brown eyes, a gentle and pleasant woman, with a ready smile and a genuine warmth of spirit.
“You are late,” she said, then noticed his downcast demeanour. “What is the matter? What is wrong, Stanislav? Tell me.”
She passed him his drink, and then brushed his cheek with her hand. He took her hand in his and softly kissed each fingertip in turn. It was a demonstration of affection and gentleness that anyone who knew Comrade Colonel Paslov, the cold and calculating state policeman and infamous public tyrant, would have found hard to believe. But this was the other side of Paslov, the personal and private side. He forced a smile, and shrugged.
“We lost her.”
“Lost who? What happened?”
Paslov didn’t want to say too much. There was so much about his work he couldn’t tell her; so much that was too secret, or too sensitive, or simply too grisly to relate. So much, too, that made him feel ashamed.
“Just a girl who killed some Red Army officers. We were taking her down to Prague by train. Someone helped her to escape, and now we do not know where she is.”
Anna stared pointedly at the folders on the table.
“So you think being late is not bad enough? Now you want to ruin what is left of our evening by going through that lot as well.”
“I am sorry, Anna, just for
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