Rokossovsky was sitting beside the young telephonist who was his PPZh. Satinov took his place at the other end of the table.
‘Comrade Satinov,’ Rokossovsky called down the table, pointing to a pale man. ‘You already know Comrade Genrikh Dorov from the Central Committee?’
‘I certainly do. Comrade Dorov, welcome!’ said Satinov. He smiled, remembering that George and his friends called Genrikh the Uncooked Chicken. How right they were, he thought, feeling an unexpected stab of longing for the company of his sons (and the one he’d lost).
‘Thank you. I’m here to inspect food supplies and root out wreckers and profiteers,’ said Dorov.
Ah, that made sense, Satinov decided, recalling how, in 1937, Genrikh Dorov had metamorphosed from an inky-fingered, hero-worshipping assistant in Stalin’s private office into a demented executioner. The more executions, the whiter his hair, the paler his skin became. In the first year of the war, his shootings (sometimes using his own pistol) and military bungles cost the lives of thousands. Finally Stalin himself (who regarded him as a talentless but devoted fanatic) had demoted him.
‘I report to the Central Committee tomorrow,’ said Genrikh, so that everyone could hear. ‘It’s a den of iniquity out here. Adultery. Booze. Corruption. We must restore Bolshevik morals.’
But Satinov was looking at the woman sitting next to Dorov. ‘My wife,’ said Genrikh, following his gaze. ‘Have you met her?’
And
‘Dashka Dorova,’ she said, offering her hand. Satinov noticed her slightly plump, amber-skinned wrist. ‘Yes, we’ve met before.’
‘Of course but…’
‘But what?’ A crooked smile, challenging caramel-brown eyes.
What was he trying to say? That he was surprised that the unattractive pedant Dorov was married to this beautiful doctor?
She leaned towards him. ‘Did you know our children are at the same school? My daughter Minka knows your sons.’
‘School 801? I didn’t, but you know, I’ve never been there. I’ve been at the front for so long.’
‘Where did you meet?’ asked Dorov. ‘You just said you’d met. I’d like to know.’
‘At a little hospital in a village a few days ago,’ explained Dashka soothingly. ‘A whole unit was poisoned by alcohol…’
‘Christ! What a waste of manpower,’ Dorov said. ‘Did you shoot the suppliers for sabotage?’
‘No, dear,’ Dashka replied. ‘I was trying to save their lives.’
‘Did we lose any more?’ asked Satinov.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Oh, and thank you so much for the mattresses and supplies. I was very surprised when they arrived.’
‘You didn’t think I’d remember, did you?’
‘No,’ she said, smiling, her features softening. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Would you have bothered with the supplies if she’d been an ugly male doctor?’ asked Dorov.
Satinov looked at him coldly. ‘How long are you with us, Comrade Dorov?’
But Dorov had turned away.
‘Excuse me, comrades, but Comrade Dorov, your plane for Moscow is waiting,’ reported one of the aides-de-camp, saluting.
‘I’ll help you pack,’ said Dashka, standing up.
After the Dorovs had gone, there was silence around the table. Genrikh Dorov was as disliked as he was feared. Then Rokossovsky winked, everyone laughed, and the conversation started again.
A few hours later, and the dinner was over. Stalin had telephoned to discuss the offensive and Marshal Rokossovsky had retired. Around Satinov, the other officers and Losha were singing ‘Katyusha’ beside the fireplace. But he craved a quiet smoke and some cool air. Pulling on his fur-lined greatcoat and wolf-fur hat, he stepped through the doors at the back of the house and out into the night.
It was bitterly cold. The snow glowed on the statuary in the well-kept grounds. Where were the house’s owners now? Were they even alive? How quickly fortune could change. Satinov lit a cigarette and sipped at the cognac in his glass.
War was simply a slaughterhouse on wheels, he thought. For most men, soldiering was tragedy expressed as a profession. And yet he liked this life, the straightforward comradeship of the front, the sense of shared mission, the moral clarity of war against evil.
The orange tip of another cigarette: he wasn’t alone.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought you’d flown back to Moscow.’
‘I’ll be here a while yet,’ she replied. ‘The medical services on this front need reorganization and I can’t trust anyone else to do it.’ She was wearing, he noticed, that full-length sheepskin greatcoat that, out here, made her look like a wild animal.
‘I prefer to do everything myself too. I didn’t realize you were from Moscow.’
‘I’m from Lvov originally. Is it so obvious I’m from Galicia?’ She laughed with a singing sound, throwing back her head so that he caught a glimpse of her throat.
‘No, not at all. You’re at the Kremlevka?’
‘Yes, I’m its new director. But I’m a cardiologist. What’s your speciality?’
‘Not hearts,’ Satinov said tersely. ‘Hearts are the last organs that I consider.’
