The Kindly Ones Read online

  We went back down to the town by the Verkhnyi rynok, where the peasants were finishing packing up their unsold chickens, fruits, and vegetables onto carts or mules. Around them the crowd of sunflower seed sellers and boot polishers was dispersing; boys sitting on little wagons improvised from boards and baby carriage wheels were still waiting for a lingering soldier to ask them to cart his packages. At the foot of the hill, on Kirov Boulevard, rows of fresh crosses were lined up on a small knoll surrounded by a low wall: the pretty little park, with its monument to Lermontov, had been transformed into a cemetery for German soldiers. The boulevard heading toward Tsvetnik Park passed in front of the ruins of what had been the Orthodox cathedral, dynamited in 1936 by the NKVD. “Have you noticed,” Voss remarked as he pointed to the collapsed stones, “they didn’t touch the German church. Our men still go there to pray.”—“Yes, but they emptied the three surrounding villages of Volksdeutschen. The czar had invited them to settle here in 1830. They were all sent to Siberia last year.” But Voss was still thinking about his Lutheran church. “Did you know that it was built by a soldier? A man named Kempfer, who fought against the Cherkess under Yevdokimov, and settled here.” In the park, just after the entrance gate, stood a two-level wooden gallery, sporting turrets with futuristic cupolas and a loggia that wrapped around the upper level. There were some tables there where they served, to those who could pay, Turkish coffee and sweets. Voss chose a place on the side of the park’s main path, above the groups of grizzled, cantankerous, grouchy old men, who came in the evening to sit on the benches and play chess. I ordered coffee and brandy; they also brought us some little lemon cakes; the brandy came from Daghestan and seemed even sweeter than the Armenian, but it went well with the cakes and my good mood. “How are your studies going?” I asked Voss. He laughed: “I still haven’t found an Ubykh speaker; but I’m making considerable progress in Kabard. What I’m really waiting for is for us to take Ordzhonikidze.”—“Why is that?”—“Well, I’ve already told you that Caucasian languages are only my subspecialty. What really interests me are the so-called Indo-Germanic languages, especially the languages of Iranian origin. And Ossetic is a particularly fascinating Iranian language.”—“How so?”—“You can see the geographic situation of Ossetia: whereas all the other non-Caucasian speakers live on the rim or in the foothills of the Caucasus, they straddle the massif, just at the level of the most accessible pass, the Darial where the Russians built their Voyennaya doroga from Tiflis to Ordzhonikidze, the old Vladikavkaz. Although these people adopted the clothing and customs of their mountain neighbors, it’s obviously a late invasion. It is believed that these Ossetes or Osses are descended from the Alans and hence the Scythians; if that is correct, their language would constitute a living archeological remnant of the Scythian language. And there’s something else: in 1930 Dumézil published a collection of Ossetian legends having to do with a fabulous people, half-divine, whom they call the Narts. Now Dumézil also postulates a connection between these legends and the ancient Scythian religion as it is reported by Herodotus. Russian researchers have been working on this subject since the end of the last century; the library and institutes in Ordzhonikidze must be overflowing with extraordinary materials, inaccessible in Europe. I just hope we don’t burn everything down during the attack.”—“In short, if I’ve understood you correctly, these Ossetes are an Urvolk, one of the original Aryan peoples.”—“Original is a word that is much used and misused. Let’s say that their language has some very interesting archaic characteristics from a scientific standpoint.”—“What do you mean about the notion of ‘original’?” He shrugged his shoulders: “Original is more a fantasy, a psychological or political pretense, than a scientific concept. Take German, for instance: for centuries, even before Martin Luther, people claimed it was an original language under the pretext that it had no recourse to roots of foreign origin, unlike the Romance languages, to which it was compared. Some theologians, in their delirium, even went so far as to claim that German was the language of Adam and Eve, and that Hebrew later derived from it. But that’s a completely illusory claim, since even if the roots are ‘native’—actually, all derived directly from the languages of Indo-European nomads—our grammar is entirely structured by Latin. Our cultural imagination, however, was very strongly marked by these ideas, and by this peculiarity German has in contrast to other European languages: the way it can sort of self-generate its vocabulary. It’s a fact that any eight-year-old German child knows all the roots of our language and can take apart and understand any word, even the most abstruse compound, which is not the case for a French child, for instance, who will take a very long time to learn the ‘difficult’ words derived from Greek or Latin. That, moreover, has a lot to do with the idea we have of ourselves: Deutschland is the only country in Europe that doesn’t have a geographic designation, that doesn’t bear the name of a place or a people like the Angles or the Franks, it’s the country of the ‘people’ per se; deutsch being an adjectival form of the old German Tuits, ‘people.’ That’s why none of our neighbors call us by the same name: Allemands, Germans, Duits, Tedeschi in Italian which also stems from Tuits, or Nyemtsi here in Russia, which means ‘the Mutes,’ those who don’t know how to speak, like Barbaros in Greek. And our whole present-day racial and völkisch ideology, in a certain way, is built on these very ancient German pretensions. Which, I will add, are not unique to us: Goropius Becanus, a Flemish author, made the same argument in 1569 about Dutch, which he compared to what he called the original languages of the Caucasus, vagina of peoples.” He laughed gaily. I would have liked to continue the conversation, especially about racial theories, but he was already standing up: “I have to go. Would you like to have dinner with Oberländer, if he’s free?”—“Of course.”—“Shall we meet at the Kasino? Around eight o’clock.” He ran down the steps. I sat back down and contemplated the old men playing chess. Fall was advancing: already the sun was passing behind the Mashuk, tinting the crest with pink and, farther down on the boulevard, casting orange-colored reflections through the trees, up to the windows and the gray roughcast of the façades.

  Around seven thirty I went down to the Kasino. Voss hadn’t yet arrived and I ordered a brandy, which I carried into an alcove set a little back. A few minutes later Kern came in, examined the room, and headed toward me. “Herr Hauptsturmführer! I was looking for you.” He took off his cap and sat down, casting glances around him: he looked embarrassed, nervous. “Hauptsturmführer. I wanted to let you know about something that concerns you, I think.”—“Yes?” He hesitated: “They…You are often in the company of that Leutnant from the Wehrmacht. That…how should I say it? That’s giving rise to some rumors.”—“What sort of rumors?”—“Rumors…let’s say dangerous rumors. The kind of rumors that lead straight to the concentration camp.”—“I see.” I remained impassive. “And might this kind of rumor by chance be spread by a certain kind of person?” He turned pale: “I don’t want to say anything else about it. I think it’s low, shameful. I just wanted to warn you so that you could…could act in a way that would prevent it from going any further.” I got up and held out my hand: “Thank you for this information, Obersturmführer. But I have nothing but contempt for those who spread sordid rumors in a cowardly way instead of confronting someone face-to-face, and I ignore them.” He shook my hand: “I completely understand your reaction. But take care all the same.” I sat back down, overcome with rage: so that’s the game they wanted to play! What’s more, they were completely mistaken. I’ve said it already: I never form bonds with my lovers; friendship is something else entirely. I loved a single person in this world, and even if I never saw her, that was enough for me. But narrow-minded scum like Turek and his friends could never understand that. I resolved to get my revenge; I didn’t know how yet, but the opportunity would present itself. Kern was an honest man, he had done well to warn me: that would give me time to think.

  Voss arrived soon after, accompanied by Oberländer. I was still
plunged in my thoughts. “Hello, Professor,” I said as I shook Oberländer’s hand. “It’s been a long time.”—“Yes, yes, lots of things have happened since Lemberg. And that other young officer, who had come with you?”—“Hauptsturmführer Hauser? He must still be with Group C. I haven’t heard from him for a while.” I followed them to the restaurant and let Voss order. They brought us some Kakhetian wine. Oberländer seemed tired. “I heard you’re commanding a new special unit?” I asked him.—“Yes, the Bergmann Kommando. All my men are Caucasian mountain tribesmen.”—“Of what nationality?” Voss asked curiously.—“Oh, a little of everything. There are Karachai and Circassians, of course, but also some Ingush, some Avars, a few Laks whom we recruited in the Stalags. I even have a Svan.”—“Magnificent! I’d very much like to talk with him.”—“You’ll have to go to Mozdok, then. They’re engaged in anti-partisan operations there.”—“You don’t have any Ubykhs, by any chance?” I asked him maliciously. Voss giggled. “Ubykhs? No, I don’t think so. Who are they?” Voss choked to hold in his laughter and Oberländer looked at him, perplexed. I made an effort to remain serious and replied: “It’s an obsession of Dr. Voss’s. He thinks the Wehrmacht should absolutely carry out a pro-Ubykh policy, to restore the natural balance of power between the peoples of the Caucasus.” Voss, who was trying to drink some wine, almost spat out what he had just swallowed. I also had trouble restraining myself. Oberländer still didn’t understand and was beginning to get annoyed: “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said dryly. I tried to explain: “They’re a Caucasian nationality deported by the Russians. To Turkey. Before, they dominated a whole part of this region.”—“They were Muslims?”—“Yes, of course.”—“In that case, support of these Ubykhs would be entirely in keeping with our Ostpolitik.” Voss, red, got up, murmured an excuse, and made for the bathroom. Oberländer was startled: “What’s wrong with him?” I tapped my stomach. “Oh, I see,” he said. “That’s common here. Where was I?”—“Our pro-Muslim policy.”—“Yes. Of course, it’s a traditional German policy. What we hope to accomplish out here is in a way only a continuation of the pan-Islamic policy of Ludendorff. By respecting the cultural and social achievements of Islam, we are making useful allies for ourselves. What’s more, it’s a gesture toward Turkey, which still remains important, especially if we want to go past the Caucasus to take the English from the rear in Syria and Egypt.” Voss returned; he seemed calmer. “If I understand you correctly,” I said, “the idea would be to unite the peoples of the Caucasus and especially the Turkic-speaking peoples into a giant Islamic anti-Bolshevist movement.”—“That’s an option, but it hasn’t yet been accepted high up. Some people are worried about a pan-Turanian resurgence that could give too much power to Turkey, on a regional level, and encroach on our conquests. Minister Rosenberg favors a Berlin-Tiflis axis. But that’s the influence of that Nikuradze.”—“And you, what do you think?”—“At the moment, I’m writing an article on Germany and the Caucasus. You know perhaps that after the disbanding of the Nachtigall, I worked as the Abwehroffizier with Reichskommissar Koch, who is an old friend from Königsberg. But he’s almost never in the Ukraine and his subordinates, especially Dargel, carried out an irresponsible policy. That’s why I left. In my article, I try to demonstrate that in the conquered territories we need the cooperation of the local populations to avoid overly heavy losses during the invasion and occupation. Any pro-Muslim or pro-Turanian policy should fit within this framework. Of course, only one power, and one alone, should have the last word.”—“I thought that one of the objectives of our advance into the Caucasus was to persuade Turkey to enter into war on our side?”—“Of course. And if we reach Iraq or Iran, it certainly will. Saraco?glu is cautious, but he won’t want to let this chance to recover ancient Ottoman territories slip by.”—“But wouldn’t that encroach on our Grossraum?” I asked.—“Not at all. We are aiming for a continental empire; we have neither the interest nor the means to burden ourselves with distant possessions. We’ll keep the oil-rich regions in the Persian Gulf, of course, but we can give all the rest of the British Near East to Turkey.”—“And what would Turkey do for us, in exchange?” Voss asked.—“It could be very useful to us. Strategically, it holds a key position. It can procure naval and land bases that would allow us to finish off the British presence in the Middle East. It could also provide troops for the anti-Bolshevist front.”—“Yes,” I said, “they could send us an Ubykh regiment, for example.” Voss was overcome again with uncontrollable laughter. Oberländer got angry: “But what is it with these Ubykhs? I don’t understand.”—“I told you, it’s an obsession of Dr. Voss’s. He’s desperate because he keeps writing report after report, but no one at HQ wants to believe in the strategic importance of the Ubykhs. Here, they stick to the Karachai, Kabards, and Balkars.”—“But then why is he laughing?”—“Yes, Dr. Voss, why are you laughing?” I asked him very seriously. “I think he’s nervous,” I said to Oberländer. “Here, Dr. Voss, have some more wine.” Voss drank a little and tried to regain control of himself. “For my part,” said Oberländer, “I don’t know enough about this question to judge it.” He turned to Voss: “If you have reports about these Ubykhs, I’d be delighted to read them.” Voss nervously shook his head: “Doktor Aue,” he said, “I would be grateful if you changed the subject.”—“As you like. In any case, the meal is arriving.” They served us. Oberländer seemed annoyed; Voss was very red. To get the conversation going again, I asked Oberländer: “Are your Bergmänner effective in the struggle against the partisans?”—“In the mountains, they’re formidable. Some of them bring us heads or ears back every day. In the plains, they’re not much better than our own troops. They burned a lot of villages around Mozdok. I try to explain to them that it’s a bad idea to do it systematically, but it’s as if it’s in their genes. And also we’ve had somewhat serious problems of discipline: desertion, especially. It seems that a lot of them got involved only to go home; ever since we’ve been in the Caucasus, they keep disappearing. But I’ve had all the ones we caught shot in front of the others: I think that calmed them down a little. And also I have a lot of Chechens and Daghestanis; their homes are still in the hands of the Bolsheviks. Speaking of that, have you heard of an uprising in Chechnya? In the mountains.”—“There are rumors,” I replied. “A special unit attached to the Einsatzgruppe is going to try to parachute in some agents to make contact with the rebels.”—“Oh, that’s very interesting,” said Oberländer. “Apparently there is fighting going on and the repression is fierce. That could create some possibilities for our forces. How could I find out more?”—“You should go see Oberführer Bierkamp, in Voroshilovsk.”—“Very good. And here? Are you having a lot of problems, with the partisans?”—“Not too many. There’s a unit roaming around Kislovodsk. The Lermontov detachment. It’s rather fashionable, here, to call everything Lermontov.” Voss laughed, this time heartily: “Are they active?”—“Not really. They stick to the mountains, they’re afraid of coming down. They mostly provide information to the Red Army. They send kids to count the motorcycles and trucks in front of the Feldkommandantur, for example.” We finished eating; Oberländer was still talking about the Ostpolitik of the new military administration: “General Köstring is a very good choice. I think that with him the experiment has a chance to succeed.”—“You know Dr. Bräutigam?” I asked.—“Herr Bräutigam? Of course. We often exchange ideas. He’s a very motivated man, very intelligent.” Oberländer finished his coffee and took his leave. We saluted each other and Voss went with him. I waited for him while I smoked a cigarette. “You were odious,” he said to me as he sat back down.—“Why?”—“You know very well why.” I shrugged my shoulders: “It wasn’t very mean.”—“Oberländer must have thought we were making fun of him.”—“But we were making fun of him. Except: he’ll never dare admit it. You know professors as well as I do. If he acknowledged his ignorance of the Ubykh question, that could harm his reputation as ‘The Lawrence of the Caucasus.
’” We left the Kasino. A fine, light rain was falling. “There it is,” I said as if to myself. “It’s autumn.” A horse tied in front of the Feldkommandantur neighed and snorted. The sentinels had put on their waxed cloaks. In Karl Marx Street, the water was flowing down the slope in little streams. The rain intensified. We parted in front of our quarters, wishing each other good night. In my room, I opened the French door and stayed for a long while listening to the water streaming on the leaves of the trees, on the windows of the balcony, on the metal roofs, on the grass and the wet earth.