Postwar Drifter: The Kellner Chronicles, #1

Chapter One

Early Spring, 1948

The clock in the elaborate and richly decorated Moscow railroad station showed 7:30 in the morning and the train from Volgograd (Stalingrad) was 90 minutes late.

Harold was patiently waiting near the center of the platform. He was close to eighteen years old, about 5’11" tall and dressed in a Soviet military cadet school uniform.

He was originally a German by birth but after Germany had surrendered in 1945, he had been adopted by Bayan Godunov, a highly placed Soviet political Kommissar. Currently he enjoyed a Russian military education. At the same time he also received extensive private political schooling because the Kommissar wanted Harold to join him in the services of the intelligence arm of the KGB, the Soviet Secret State Police.

We could have slept another hour and would still have been on time he spoke in ‘Buryat’ to Alex, his huge Tatar friend. He enjoyed using the somewhat obscure Mongolian language.

Getting up early never bothered me, but if it upsets you, I will have a little talk with the ‘loc’ driver. Alex used the Russian abbreviation for the locomotive since there was no translation into Buryat language.

Harold suppressed a grin. He knew what his friend meant by suggesting a little talk. Alex was a good ten years older than Harold and in spite of being an ex-body guard for the Soviet Kommissar, he did not speak the Russian language. Instead he used his huge hands to make himself understood.

Alex, you can’t beat up a public transportation employee because a certain train is late. You’ve been out of the army for a long time and should know better.

Alex shrugged his shoulders. Yes, I know, but it was a lot more fun when I was allowed to kick civilians in the behind. In any event, if the train delay spoils your day, I need to do something about it. He scanned around the sparsely populated platform to find someone he could possibly hold responsible.

Harold looked down on the telegram he had received last night. It was short and to the point.

Meet me at 6:00 AM at the Paveletsky Railway Station. I’m arriving on the train from Volgograd. It was signed: Major Tesslov.

Harold knew the major very well. Tesslov was a friend and a team member of KGB Kommissar Godunov’s inner circle. He had been Harold’s tutor and language instructor during the first few weeks after the war. It was several months since he had seen him last and he had no idea what the meeting could be about. However, he looked forward to exchanging some ideas with him about his future in the intelligence service.

His thoughts were interrupted by angry shouts from Alex. The burly Tatar had found an unkempt older man in the drab grey uniform of the railway employees. He was berating him loudly in his Tatar language and to drive his point home, he hit the hapless victim repeatedly with the flat of his hand on the forehead.

The unfortunate fellow stood nearly frozen in place. Not only was Alex an impressive opponent, but the few passengers waiting for the train cheered him on. The Russian peasants had no sympathy for any kind of a public employee. They considered them leeches of a corrupt government and were hoping to witness a good beating. Before Harold could intervene, the massive glass dome structure of the station reverberated from the screech of the brakes from the incoming train.

Somehow, Alex construed this to be the result of his lecture and he started to pat the rail man on his shoulder who scurried away as fast as he could.

Have you eaten today? The booming voice of Major Tesslov greeted Harold who was searching the railway platform for the officer. The major used the Tatar greeting in Buryat so that Alex could also understand him.

Not ‘Hello’, like the American greeting or a Russian ‘Good Morning’. Just the old Asian inquiry if the friend had already been fortunate enough to enjoy a meal today.

Yes, we have, Harold answered, how about you?

He was a little uneasy when he detected a serious expression on the major’s face.

Good for you. You might not find the time for another meal before the evening. The middle-aged robust major was answering quietly and Harold noted that Tesslov’s Soviet uniform sported some medals he had not seen on him before. His blue-topped round cap with a narrow red stripe around the upper rim identified him as a member of the almighty and feared KGB. As he handed Alex his small satchel to carry, his intelligent gray eyes scanned the remaining passengers on the platform.

You will need to change your uniform. Follow me. Not waiting for an answer, the major crossed the station plaza and turned into a quiet side street of dismal, three- and four-story high tenement buildings. Harold had never been on this street before and made a few mental notes of where they were going. He knew that the KGB maintained isolated discreet sanctuaries all over the city and expected to see a measly flat. He was surprised when Tesslov walked through a wide house entrance and then up to the first floor where he unlocked the door to a well-furnished, almost plush apartment.

This belongs to a girlfriend of mine, Tesslov answered Harold’s questioning eyes with a shrug of his shoulders. She is also a ballerina at the state ballet, he added.

Harold said nothing and shot an enquiring glance at the major’s cap which Tesslov deposited on the window sill.

Yes, she too, on your silent question. Now stop staring and hurry up. He took the bag from Alex and handed Harold a clean and freshly pressed Soviet uniform. The uniform identified the wearer as belonging to a Belarussian regiment. There was no rank insignia and when Harold was dressed, the major pinned a KGB emblem on his chest.

You heard of the Butyrka Prison? he asked Harold, still using the Tatar language so Alex could follow their conversation.

It’s supposed to be the central transit prison. I know that it is located in the Tverskoy (administration) District of Moscow. Harold tried to remember what else he knew about the ancient Russian prison fortress.

Why are you asking? He started to get an acid feeling in his stomach.

The major’s hurry, together with his question, was not a good sign.

Captain Pajari got himself arrested. He is presently being interrogated in the Butyrka prison. We have to get him out before he spills any beans.

Harold’s fear was confirmed. Major Tesslov’s visit was not of the social kind. He knew that they had their work cut out for them.

It was not that unusual for the Soviet State Police to arrest one of their own; however, he also knew that Captain Pajari was more of a trusted officer of Kommissar Godunov’s personal team than a faithful KGB officer.

Do you carry authorizations from the Kommissar or how do you plan to go about it? Harold wanted to get to the heart of it.

No, Godunov doesn’t want his name mentioned. Instead, I carry transfer papers signed by a Zampolit (Soviet Political Deputy Commander). His name is Grunsky and he is the Chief of the newly formed Bureau of Siberian Prison Camps, the major answered with a twinkle in his eyes.

Harold understood. He had never heard of such a Bureau, but he was well aware that Kommissar Godunov had lofty ambitions and often invented fictitious names and even non-existing agencies to achieve his own goals. This had always been effective when the intelligence officer dealt with the bureaucracy of the Soviet military. However, the Butyrka Penitentiary, as well as the notorious Lubyanka Prison, was run by a special unit of the KGB itself.

Don’t worry about the outcome right now. We will be in and out before you know it. Tesslov could see that Harold had doubts and tried to alleviate them with his confident words and assured manners.

What about Alex? Harold wanted to know the role his Asian friend was supposed to play in this ploy.

If there are any old-timer agents in the Butyrka complex they will recognize him and connect him to Godunov. He added to his question.

Just follow my orders. The less you know the better for all of us. Tesslov’s voice sounded assertive as always. Harold had trusted the major more than once with his life during the weeks in Berlin and in spite of their age differences they had become something like friends. He knew that he could depend on Tesslov. But taking on the Soviet intelligence agency in Moscow, in their own backyard, was a different matter. He had heard about the terrifying interrogation practices of the secret police in their Lubyanka Headquarter and hoped that Tesslov had more than a single plan in mind. Just in case.

You never surrendered your badge to the Kommissar. Do you still have it? the major asked Alex, who grinned a tad slyly and produced the red Soviet star emblem from his pocket. It featured the downward pointing sword, the badge of the secret police.

Stick it on your front pocket, Tesslov instructed the Tatar. No you don’t get to wear a uniform. He answered Alex’s inquiring grunts.

Harold was astonished, because Alex had never confided the existence of the star to him. Sometimes he wondered if Godunov had transferred the Tatar into his supervision to help the nomad to become civilized, (as the Kommissar had told Harold) or, if the Mongol was in reality, assigned to protect him. Maybe both, he told himself whenever he was in doubt.

Ready? I planned to give us three hours to prepare this morning, but the train delay cost us half of it. There should be a military car waiting for us at the railroad station.

Tesslov gathered up the discarded clothes from Harold and stowed them in a side board drawer. Placing his impressive cap back on his head, he led the way to the street.

*****

It was a sunny spring morning and the air smelled from the birch trees lining the road.

There was indeed a small military car standing in front of the station. The driver, a sergeant, was visibly surprised when the trio approached the car from the street and not from the train platform. His erect posture slumped when he heard the destination.

Lubyanka Headquarter. Administration entrance, Major Tesslov announced.

Harold was surprised too. Just a moment ago Tesslov had told them that their target was the Butyrka compound, but he didn’t ask for any clarification.

Comrade Major, may I drop you off outside the entrance? I could wait for your return across the plaza, yes? The sergeant was visibly concerned that he was supposed to drive through a prison gate.

Nyet, (no). But as soon as the guards allow us to enter you may leave. It might also serve your longevity if you forget that you saw us. Harold could sense that the major’s answer did nothing to alleviate the fear of the driver. His hands were trembling on the steering wheel and his eyes darted back and forth from the husky Tatar sitting next to him to the scant traffic ahead.

The heavy doors of the side entrance opened the moment the car drove up. There was no waiting. Getting in was easy, it was the getting out that worried Harold. As three uniformed guards approached their sedan, Harold looked around the rather small courtyard. There were two doors leading into what seemed to be a mixture of a guard house and a small office building. Directly in front of them was a heavy stone wall with a fortified gate leading into a secondary backyard and towards the yellow brick prison structure.

The major produced a bunch of papers and asked the guards for the officer in charge of inmate transfers. He was told to wait a few minutes. In the meantime, Harold marveled at the highly polished wooden floors. The sentry room had no visible resemblance to a prison whatsoever. The beautiful inlaid parquet gave the chamber an almost elegant atmosphere. Tesslov used the time to dismiss his driver, who couldn’t leave fast enough.

You want to borrow one of my vehicles? When will I get it back? The captain in charge of the motor pool was not exactly pleased when he read the request from the Zampolit Grunsky to render all possible assistance to the major. The officer was a total stranger to him but the paperwork looked authentic and was properly sealed and stamped in all the correct places.

You need not worry. Your truck will be back by tomorrow morning. Tesslov beamed his most convincing smile at the captain.

I am not so sure. This is a highly unusual request. I really don’t think that I am able to accommodate you. The captain mumbled some more objections under his breath. It was his common practice to delay any favors until he could obtain a bonus or some other personal compensation for himself.

Tesslov read him like a book.

I have an admission pass for the Bolshoi Theater tonight. But it is only a single ticket. You could not bring your wife. Are you interested? He tossed out the bait.

I have never seen a ballet performance, I guess without a woman on my side it will be a rather lonely experience. The captain mumbled a little louder.

Tesslov understood. Perfect.

Oh, there is no need to be alone. I could arrange for a dancer to keep you company. Maybe even after the show.

You mean one of the ballet dancers? The captain’s facial expression had changed and a little spittle showed between his lips. I like the ones with the firm long legs, he added.

Tesslov had the captain exactly where he needed him to be.

Yes, of course. I will be happy to arrange this for you.

The major reached into his pocket and produced a richly decorated invitation entitling the bearer to a private audience with a ballerina after the performance. Let me enter your name, and here is your admission pass. While the captain was counting his blessings and admiring the impressive credentials, the major quietly retrieved the Zampolit’s request from the desk and placed it back into his briefcase.

Within a few minutes Tesslov’s group was back on the road. This time with Harold behind the steering wheel. They had been given an armored vehicle which was routinely used to transfer inmates between the political prisons. It bore the identification of the Lubyanka Penitentiary.

That went rather smooth. The remainder of our mission should go just as easy.

Major Tesslov sounded more confident than he actually was. Getting a truck with false documents was not a big deal for him, but retrieving a political inmate from the prison administration of the State Police was an entirely different matter.

There was no doubt that his personal position within the ranks of the KGB was a great asset in his undertaking, but the prison authorities had their own hierarchy. Besides, he was actually a convicted officer himself. During the war he had been caught in an affair with the wife of a fellow officer and it was only due to Kommissar Godunov’s influence that he was a free man. At least for the time being.

As soon as we are inside the courtyard, turn the truck around, Tesslov advised Harold as they made their way to the Butyrka Prison citadel.

At first it appeared that they had to wait at the gate, but as soon as the guards recognized the truck markings of the feared Lubyanka they were waved through.

I am here to pick up the inmate Pajari.

The major opened the dialog without introducing himself or his crew to the junior lieutenant in charge of the first control point.

You will have to register with the administration office. The Lieutenant was not impressed by Tesslov’s rank and took his time to study the transfer documents. However, when he saw the huge frame of Alex moving away from the door and slowly approaching his desk, he reconsidered. Tatars in civilian clothing but wearing a KGB badge were not regular prison guards. In his experience they were unpredictable and only answered to their direct superiors. If they did at all. He also knew that they were exclusively employed to guard the transfer of the most notorious criminals. He had no desire to delay the seemingly impatient Mongolian.

On second thought, let me speed up this process. I will take you directly to the interrogation facility and will do the necessary paperwork for you.

The lieutenant got up and, without wasting another moment, he led the party out of his office.

Within a short walk through several hallways they reached the main office of the interrogation chambers.

The officer in charge was a gray-haired captain who looked in astonishment at the junior lieutenant who entered without bothering to knock.

We have a transfer request for a prisoner named Pajari. I checked the documents. They’re in order and the Lubyanka transfer team is ready to receive him.

Good. Maybe their experts can crack the mind of this stubborn mule without breaking his head. Captain Michalski was only too happy to cooperate and dispatched a guard to fetch the prisoner.

He knew nothing about Pajari other than that a few days ago a high ranking State Police officer had brought him in with the directives to grill him in regard to the whereabouts of a lost shipment of narcotics and other medical supplies. The captain was to treat the prisoner with respect and to keep the results of the questioning confidential. Further instructions would follow.

So far there had been no tangible results. His department was not known for ‘respectful’ treatment of prisoners and because of the orders the captain was afraid to use excessive force. The prisoner Pajari had been very cooperative except that he answered all the pertinent questions as if he was in a trance. He spoke in a language which nobody in the Butyrka prison understood.

To Michalski the answers sounded like a central Asian dialect and he feared that his captive had been either brainwashed by some experts or was a master at counter-interrogation techniques.

He looked up when the door opened and the guard pushed a disheveled water-drenched prisoner towards his desk.

Chapter Two

Harold’s heart nearly missed a beat. He hardly recognized the captain who had been his secondary language instructor when Major Tesslov was unavailable. The trusted friend of Kommissar Godunov kept his eyes down to the floor and appeared to have a difficult time standing upright. His clothes were totally soaked and hardly resembled a uniform. His feet were shackled to each other, causing him to shuffle.

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