pressed and kitted out with his rank badges and medals.
Bokov laughed in his face. “Fuck you, fuck your mother, and fuck the Geneva Convention, too.” It would have sounded better in Russian, but German would do. “You’re dead meat. You’re dogshit, nothing else but. Have you got that?”
Fenstermacher stood mute. Bokov murmured to a Red Army man beside him. Grinning, the trooper stepped up and whacked the German on his bad wrist. Fenstermacher wailed. He went white. He started to sag to his knees, but managed to catch himself.
“Have you got that, dogshit?” Bokov asked again.
Obergefreiter
Fenstermacher hesitated. “Don’t screw around with me,” Bokov advised him. “If you were a hero, you would’ve died yesterday. Last chance, arselick—have you got that?”
The German licked his lips.
“Ja,”
he whispered, just before Bokov told the soldier to give him another lick.
“Better,” Bokov said. And it was. Once a girl who’d been holding out let you get a hand between her legs, everything else was easy. Interrogations worked the same way. “So…do you speak Russian?”
Another hesitation—a shorter one this time. “Not much. Mostly bad words,” Fenstermacher said.
Plenty of Russians Bokov knew spoke bits of German the same way. Which didn’t mean this snake was telling the truth. The right lie now could give him his chance later. He’d think so, anyhow. Bokov didn’t intend to let anything like that happen.
The U.S.-built truck waited not far from the house General Antipov had commandeered. The driver stood outside, leaning against a fender and smoking a cigarette. By the look of him, Gorinovich didn’t care whether he stayed there another half hour or another week.
“Tie the German up,” Bokov told Antipov’s men. “Don’t hurt him more than you have to unless he gives you trouble. You, you, and you”—he pointed to three soldiers, one after another—“you’ll come back to Berlin with us and make sure nothing happens to him. Get moving.”
They did. Had he said they were going to London, they would have done the same. After they hogtied Gustav Eduard Fenstermacher, they half-frogmarched, half-lugged him over to the truck. When they were about to throw him in the back, he finally asked the question that must have burned in his mind since Bokov got him out of the shed, or more likely since he let himself be taken alive: “What…will you do to me?”
Images formed in the NKVD officer’s mind. A cell too small to stand up or lie down in. Not nearly enough food. Not nearly enough sleep, which could be even worse. Bright lights. Pain. Fear. Always fear.
Fenstermacher had to be imagining most of those same things. For Vladimir Bokov, they weren’t imaginary. They were the tools of his trade, like a mechanic’s wrench and pliers or a sculptor’s mallet and chisel. But that was all right…to Bokov. Imagination and anticipation were tools of his trade, too. What a prisoner imagined his captors doing to him could break him faster than what they did.
Bokov trotted out a couple of small tools: a pitying sigh and a shake of the head. “You won’t like any of it,” he said. “And by the time it’s over, you’ll tell us everything. You’ll be glad to, and you’ll wish you could tell us more.”
“I won’t.” Even Fenstermacher had to hear how hollow his defiance sounded.
“Oh, you will,” Bokov promised him. “One way or another, you will…. You
could
come clean before it all starts. Believe me, it won’t change anything in the end, except you’ll be a lot happier.” He eyed the German. “Think about it on the way to Berlin. I’ll ask you again then. If you say no—you’ll find out just what we do to you, that’s all.”
“I—” Fenstermacher began.
“Chuck him in the truck,” Bokov told the Red Army men, cutting him off. Let him stew in his own juices all the way back to the ravaged capital of the ravaged
Reich.
After that…The NKVD would get its
Bokov laughed in his face. “Fuck you, fuck your mother, and fuck the Geneva Convention, too.” It would have sounded better in Russian, but German would do. “You’re dead meat. You’re dogshit, nothing else but. Have you got that?”
Fenstermacher stood mute. Bokov murmured to a Red Army man beside him. Grinning, the trooper stepped up and whacked the German on his bad wrist. Fenstermacher wailed. He went white. He started to sag to his knees, but managed to catch himself.
“Have you got that, dogshit?” Bokov asked again.
Obergefreiter
Fenstermacher hesitated. “Don’t screw around with me,” Bokov advised him. “If you were a hero, you would’ve died yesterday. Last chance, arselick—have you got that?”
The German licked his lips.
“Ja,”
he whispered, just before Bokov told the soldier to give him another lick.
“Better,” Bokov said. And it was. Once a girl who’d been holding out let you get a hand between her legs, everything else was easy. Interrogations worked the same way. “So…do you speak Russian?”
Another hesitation—a shorter one this time. “Not much. Mostly bad words,” Fenstermacher said.
Plenty of Russians Bokov knew spoke bits of German the same way. Which didn’t mean this snake was telling the truth. The right lie now could give him his chance later. He’d think so, anyhow. Bokov didn’t intend to let anything like that happen.
The U.S.-built truck waited not far from the house General Antipov had commandeered. The driver stood outside, leaning against a fender and smoking a cigarette. By the look of him, Gorinovich didn’t care whether he stayed there another half hour or another week.
“Tie the German up,” Bokov told Antipov’s men. “Don’t hurt him more than you have to unless he gives you trouble. You, you, and you”—he pointed to three soldiers, one after another—“you’ll come back to Berlin with us and make sure nothing happens to him. Get moving.”
They did. Had he said they were going to London, they would have done the same. After they hogtied Gustav Eduard Fenstermacher, they half-frogmarched, half-lugged him over to the truck. When they were about to throw him in the back, he finally asked the question that must have burned in his mind since Bokov got him out of the shed, or more likely since he let himself be taken alive: “What…will you do to me?”
Images formed in the NKVD officer’s mind. A cell too small to stand up or lie down in. Not nearly enough food. Not nearly enough sleep, which could be even worse. Bright lights. Pain. Fear. Always fear.
Fenstermacher had to be imagining most of those same things. For Vladimir Bokov, they weren’t imaginary. They were the tools of his trade, like a mechanic’s wrench and pliers or a sculptor’s mallet and chisel. But that was all right…to Bokov. Imagination and anticipation were tools of his trade, too. What a prisoner imagined his captors doing to him could break him faster than what they did.
Bokov trotted out a couple of small tools: a pitying sigh and a shake of the head. “You won’t like any of it,” he said. “And by the time it’s over, you’ll tell us everything. You’ll be glad to, and you’ll wish you could tell us more.”
“I won’t.” Even Fenstermacher had to hear how hollow his defiance sounded.
“Oh, you will,” Bokov promised him. “One way or another, you will…. You
could
come clean before it all starts. Believe me, it won’t change anything in the end, except you’ll be a lot happier.” He eyed the German. “Think about it on the way to Berlin. I’ll ask you again then. If you say no—you’ll find out just what we do to you, that’s all.”
“I—” Fenstermacher began.
“Chuck him in the truck,” Bokov told the Red Army men, cutting him off. Let him stew in his own juices all the way back to the ravaged capital of the ravaged
Reich.
After that…The NKVD would get its
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