A Family Madness (25 page)

We're going to fight to extend the
Wehrdorfer
system, garrisoning the countryside with our expanded armed forces. In return, villages who take part in the
Wehrdorfer
system will be exempt from requisitions of grain and livestock by the Army. Could not help but think, Why didn't Germans let us do this years ago, instead of waiting for this late stage when their authority—as ours—is diminished?

Same thought raised by Mikolai Redich that evening. Took me aside during a party arranged by Kappeler at Hotel Europa. Redich has been administrator of Rogachev for past two and a half years. His reputation is strong. A large man who stoops down to talk to people, even to tall people like myself. Has a very engaging and forgiving irony in his eye. Kappeler's party was first-rate and at time Redich approached me, would have guessed he'd already taken too much herring and vodka for anything he said to have more than sentimental value. In fact, though his breath was fiery and wavered around my ear, his intent very political.

“We young ones, Kabbelski,” he said, flinging his arm around my shoulder, “have to consider the realities of our present situation. It's like old Stankievich says—not only might we fall with the Germans, we might also find ourselves labeled with their crimes. Old Stankievich himself, he organized events in Borissow which the British and Americans, when they become our allies next year or the year following, may find they can't countenance.” He was referring to the Borissow action in late 1941 when Stankievich's Belorussian police were given too much work to do and too much liquor at same time. All this leading to the sort of barbarism against which Ganz always inveighed and which, I can testify in front of any tribunal, I have always attempted to avoid in the oblast of Staroviche.

“Even Ostrowsky,” said Redich then. He even winked. “Ostrowsky may have too many so-called crimes on his slate to be acceptable to the Western nations.”

Asked him was he trying to lobby me to support an alternative to Ostrowsky. “Don't misunderstand me,” he said. “I know Ostrowsky is your son's godfather. I am simply raising the possibility that the Allies might not see Ostrowsky and Belorussia as exactly the same entity, even though we are in the habit of so doing. Ostrowsky has become so thoroughly identified with the German cause.”

“So—even though they can't say so yet—are the Allies,” I suggested to Redich.

“We'll have to see about that. America, we should remember, is in some ways more Jewish than the Pale of Settlement itself. For one thing, they run the film industry, and I, like Dr. Goebbels, do not for a minute underestimate the power of that medium. We may like to think of ourselves as brethren of the Americans. When we think of them we think of Boston Brahmins and Minnesota Swedes. But what are Lieutenant Biberstein and Captain Goldberg going to think of us, in particular of our respected leader whose activities in Smolensk are so well documented, so widely witnessed, so resented by the Soviets who
are
—de facto and either for the moment or forever—the Allies' comrades in arms?” Got very angry at this defeatism, this hypocrisy. “Let's not have this brand of bullshit! We all with equal alacrity threw our cause in with the Germans. Two short Christmases ago the Soviets were reeling and the Waffen SS were in the suburbs of Moscow.”

He said dismissively, “Do you think I forget the chimeras and delusions of that winter. But I don't want a man of your quality, Kabbelski, to continue to delude himself.”

“But if Ostrowsky will offend the Allies because of his anti-Soviet activities in Smolensk, I will offend them because of mine in Staroviche, and you likewise because of the cooperation you gave—of your free will, I emphasize—in Rogachev.”

He spread his hands and dared to wink at me. “I was simply a civil administrator. I was a Belorussian governing a populace who saw a chance of honorable independence in the events of 1941.”

“Forty-two percent of that populace were Jewish. Perhaps Hollywood will ask in its powerful way where they are now. And if Hollywood asks, so also does Roosevelt.”

“Damn it, Kabbelski,” said Redich. “You're no political novice. You and I are not responsible in law for the activities of the Special Action Squads, and responsibility in law is all that matters politically. A case could be made against Ostrowsky which could not be made against us, and I am not speaking of a case in moral terms but of one in legal terms. You, for example, were a friend of Herr Kommissar Ganz, who championed moderation and protected Jews in his home and his office. You yourself protected certain Jews. There was a sergeant in German Military Intelligence name of Jasper shot down in the Staroviche railroad yards by partisans too for all his moderation!—and in Jasper's belongings was a detailed account of certain Staroviche events in late sumer 1941, including a conversation he had with you. That document you wisely destroyed.”

Astounded that he possessed this sort of knowledge, but said nothing for moment.

“To protect Ostrowsky and make him acceptable to the Allies,” Redich went on, “you would have to destroy enough documents to fill a library. Messing about with the jottings of a mere sergeant in the intelligence wouldn't suffice. These are the facts.”

Asked him, “Whom do you represent?” Knew the answer I might get, but surprised nonetheless the faction involved had spies in the Staroviche police—
vide
knowledge of Sergeant Jasper's belongings, and implication that Jasper's assassination might have been connived at by someone, Bienecke or—I suppose he intends to convey this—me. Accusation scarcely worth dignifying—idea that I am fearful of a distressed young man's jottings, that they could sap my authority, is contemptible. So limited myself to asking Redich only the political question, since he makes such fuss about being purely a politician rather than a moral being. “For whom are you lobbying me, Mikolai?” A good lobbier, I think, a true bullying political gangster.

“It's the Vatican Group of course,” said Redich. “You don't need to be told that.”

Vatican Group so called because apparently supported by Vatican funds. Led by Abramtchik, a good Catholic but a former Communist—his brother still works for Soviets. Abramtchik has powerful French intelligence and Vatican connections, or so his supporters like to claim. Ever since his conversion back to moderation, he's made fuss about those of us who are Catholic sticking together. The Orthodox, including Ostrowsky himself, are apparently culturally the inferiors of the Jesuit-educated. Have never tolerated this view myself. “So you are prepared to use the religions of our oppressors as a tool to divide us?” I asked him.

“We have friends in the West,” said Redich. “If the Reich cannot hold on to Belorussia, do you think we should continue to be unilaterally loyal to a defeated power which until now hasn't shown much loyalty to us? Ostrowsky talks like a habitual servant of the Reich, come what may. Perhaps he has no choice. We however possess magnificent contacts back there, in the heart of civilization, and are helped in that regard specifically by our Catholic background. You don't think we need friends in the West? Our friends in the East we can hear right now?”

Tossed his head, referring to the continuous wail of police sirens in the street, referring also to the way explosions and shouting and either far-off or close gunfire could be heard, adequate to wake even a good sleeper four or five times a night. Our conversation interrupted at this stage by Dr. Kappeler, who made a speech of welcome. But like a true political messenger, Redich came to me again before the end of the evening, shook my hand, and said, “Keep an open mind, eh? And a nimble set of feet.” It sounded like his political philosophy.

Ostrowsky came to my room hour ago, 2
A.M.
Resembles a man who has just got over a fever—or more like someone whose body has gone to sleep but whose brain blazes on. So at the one time enormous energy and almost unspeakable exhaustion in way he talks. His face ageless and hollow. Says he wants me to direct his favorite program—the extension of the fortified village setup, the reclaiming of the countryside. Has absolute guarantees from von Gottberg that SS and other German security arms will not be admitted to fortified villages except at Belorussian request in emergencies. Such Belorussian forces to be placed in fortified villages as to enable them to come down with vengeance on disaffected elements in surrounding countryside. This policy tried up till now on an ad hoc province-by-province basis, sometimes by mayors, sometimes by police chiefs. Now to be centralized effort under control of a cabinet minister. Since whole business will require a certain amount of shifting around of rural populations, the title will be Minister for Relocation. This process essential in all aspects—economically, to ensure a harvest; in terms of security to make partisans' hold on the countryside so difficult that at least they will again be restricted to the deepest forest areas.

My reflection is that this is at first sight a Ganz-like policy, but will enable everyone found outside the fortified village system to be pursued and harried with a most un-Ganz-like vengeance. Partisans will on a national level be separated from their recruiting base and so wither on forest floor.

I'll be working with Franz Kushel, who'll have command of the Belorussian Defense Force. Remark to Ostrowsky all this could have been done two years back if Reich had then let us form a Belorussian national army, as they were so belatedly permitting now. Ostrowsky said, “Stanek, you must not call it a Belorussian national army except when you are among friends.” He smiled. “The term terrifies von Gottberg.”

Cannot sleep for happiness. Feel I will have in my hands once Republic is proclaimed, and even earlier—once conscription begins—the most complete means to defend the nation, which has till now been increasingly defined for me in terms of Danielle, Genia, Radek. So be it. Truth is that through this portfolio, I can liberate the children of Belorussia back onto the streets!

36

When Denise let him in, the hallway of Stanton's place felt cold, so the sacrifice of the old tree the year before had been for nothing. Denise looked creased and pretty, so much a sister to the widow at Dyson Engineering that Delaney suppressed the memory and turned on the jovial uncle act. He carried under his arm a carton of Resch's Pilsener and a bag of small Violet Crumble bars for the Stanton girls. A man so burdened (he meant to convey to Stanton) did not come to your house to do you in, betray your secrets. He was cementing loyalties. By all the rules of mateship,
that
was visible. “Where's your old man?” asked Delaney, putting his lips to Denise's cheek and finding it very cold.

“Shaving,” she said.

“I didn't think he worked tonight.”

“He says he might have to go out.” She believed it with all the glands of her belief, the terrifying trust of women burned for a moment in her.

“Well,” he said, “they'd be a bit short-staffed now.”

She led him into the living room, where all the heat of the house was localized. The warm Stanton girls were in their dressing gowns, ready for the night which pressed against the window beyond the television set. Remarkably they were playing a game—a board and plastic markers and dice lay on the floor. Into the midst of it all Delaney irresponsibly dropped the bag of goodies.

“Have to ask your mother,” he said, too late.

“I've got to watch the little one,” said Denise. “Confectionery sets her off.”

It was the older one, the one whose attention could be taken only by serious wonders like television and Violet Crumble bars, who tore the bag open with a dark ferocity that reminded Delaney of her father.

“Glad you came around,” whispered Denise. “He's not happy with that Kabbel crowd.”

Stanton appeared in the doorway. He looked pink-faced from the razor. “Well,” said Stanton. “It's the Governor bloody General. And I see he brought his own bloody beer.”

“Which I can't drink much of. Playing in reserves tomorrow.”

“Jesus.” Stanton was distracted from fear of what Delaney knew to an honest envy of Delaney's match fees. Denise rushed in with best wishes. It was a little like the poor praying for the economic health of IBM or Mitsubishi.

Denise stayed with the children and let the men go out to have serious professional talks in the kitchen. Stanton drank his beer gratefully, for the glow, even though the weather was too cold for it. It stuck like porridge in Delaney's gullet. Gagging, forcing the words up past the gaseous liquor, Delaney expressed his regret over the Dyson Engineering fiasco.

“What a thing for mates to fall out over,” said Stanton, and made a speech Delaney had heard from him in the past. “Look, Delaney, I could live happily with just enough cock to knock out a few kids and keep your missus happy. They say that's what it's all for, but then they give you twenty times more than you need. It's like driving a fucking sports car in a twenty-five-kilometer zone. Got me beat!”

Delaney suggested he might find Doig understanding to talk to, but Stanton laughed that off. It struck Delaney that Stanton didn't like his sins understood or lessened. If you fornicated you had to break and enter an engineering plant to find the right place for it, the right level of daring. Maybe that's what made for the thrill of the fornication motel in North Parramatta. To face the brunette in the front office and tell her you wanted a temporary occupancy was a kind of adventure.

“I suppose you want to know how Danielle is?” asked Stanton.

“No. I wanted to tell you Kabbel's selling out.”

Delaney could see by Stanton's bewilderment that Kabbel had not yet told him. Despite himself, he was pleased to kick off the friendship again with such a painful favor. “He says your job's safe—that's one of the conditions of sale. But maybe you should start looking around anyhow.”