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Authors: David Downing
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Hanningham’s overweening arrogance, Russell was beginning to wonder which man was the more objectionable of the two. The mass murderer Palychko just sat admiring the view, offering the occasional friendly smile. Only when the American’s jeep had finally shrunk to a dot on the road heading north, did he offer more than a single syllable. ‘Where did you spend the war?’
Russell had no desire to tell this man his life story. ‘In the States, and then with the US Army in France and Germany, as a war correspondent.’ All of which was true enough, if hardly the complete picture. ‘How about you?’
‘In Poland and Ukraine.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Fighting communists. And losing.’
‘Any regrets?’ Russell couldn’t help asking.
‘You know who I really am, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
He offered up that smile again. ‘That’s more than I do.’
Oh shit, Russell thought, a psychopath with an identity crisis.
It must have shown on his face. ‘My father was a priest,’ Palychko said, as if by way of explanation. He looked at Russell. ‘Were you old enough to fight in the First War?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you know what men can do to each other.’
‘I still don’t why,’ Russell said, getting drawn in despite himself.
‘Neither do I. That’s what I meant—evil is a mystery, even to those who do it. Especially those.’
‘That’s why we have courts.’
Palychko shook his head. ‘Do you really believe after everythingyou’ve seen and heard that men are capable of judging their brothers?’
‘What’s the alternative—universal absolution?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’
Moving to the lounge when two women arrived to clean the dining room, Russell found an English newspaper from several days earlier. A report from the paper’s correspondent in Palestine claimed, with what appeared good authority, that Jewish fighters had massacred nearly all the Arab inhabitants of a village named Deir Yassin. And so it went on, he thought, remembering Shchepkin’s list of villages that his current companion had laid to waste. Now even Jews were doing it.
‘Do you play chess?’ Palychko asked him. He had found the set reserved for the use of guests.
‘Badly,’ Russell said discouragingly, just as Boris appeared in the doorway.
‘I’ve just had a telephone call,’ the hotel proprietor told Russell. ‘I’m to tell you that there’s been a hold-up, and that your friend won’t be here until tomorrow morning. I assume that means you need the rooms for another night?’
Russell sighed. ‘I suppose we do.’ He explained the delay to Palychko, who seemed neither surprised nor upset.
‘So how about a game?’ he asked.
‘Why not?’
It took the Ukrainian about ten minutes to checkmate him, and the subsequent re-match was shorter still. ‘You really do play badly,’ Palychko agreed belatedly.
After finishing lunch an hour or so later, Russell was wondering what to do with the afternoon when the Ukrainian suggested a walk. ‘I’d like to find a church,’ he said, and Russell was still swallowing an unspoken gibe about the other man’s need to confess when Palychkoadmitted that this was indeed his intention. ‘I don’t think I’ll be running into any enemies by accident,’ he added, when Russell hesitated.
They found a church on the road heading into the centre, and the first priest they found was willing to take Palychko’s confession. Russell briefly wondered how they were going to understand each other, settled for being grateful that he wasn’t the listener, and sat in a convenient pew for twenty minutes, wondering whether confessing one’s sins really was good for the soul, or was just another way for the church to keep its flock under some sort of control.
When Palychko eventually reappeared, they decided on walking on into town. ‘I’d like to try a real Italian coffee,’ the Ukrainian told Russell, as they both surveyed the cafés spread around the central piazza. One
Russell had no desire to tell this man his life story. ‘In the States, and then with the US Army in France and Germany, as a war correspondent.’ All of which was true enough, if hardly the complete picture. ‘How about you?’
‘In Poland and Ukraine.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Fighting communists. And losing.’
‘Any regrets?’ Russell couldn’t help asking.
‘You know who I really am, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
He offered up that smile again. ‘That’s more than I do.’
Oh shit, Russell thought, a psychopath with an identity crisis.
It must have shown on his face. ‘My father was a priest,’ Palychko said, as if by way of explanation. He looked at Russell. ‘Were you old enough to fight in the First War?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you know what men can do to each other.’
‘I still don’t why,’ Russell said, getting drawn in despite himself.
‘Neither do I. That’s what I meant—evil is a mystery, even to those who do it. Especially those.’
‘That’s why we have courts.’
Palychko shook his head. ‘Do you really believe after everythingyou’ve seen and heard that men are capable of judging their brothers?’
‘What’s the alternative—universal absolution?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’
Moving to the lounge when two women arrived to clean the dining room, Russell found an English newspaper from several days earlier. A report from the paper’s correspondent in Palestine claimed, with what appeared good authority, that Jewish fighters had massacred nearly all the Arab inhabitants of a village named Deir Yassin. And so it went on, he thought, remembering Shchepkin’s list of villages that his current companion had laid to waste. Now even Jews were doing it.
‘Do you play chess?’ Palychko asked him. He had found the set reserved for the use of guests.
‘Badly,’ Russell said discouragingly, just as Boris appeared in the doorway.
‘I’ve just had a telephone call,’ the hotel proprietor told Russell. ‘I’m to tell you that there’s been a hold-up, and that your friend won’t be here until tomorrow morning. I assume that means you need the rooms for another night?’
Russell sighed. ‘I suppose we do.’ He explained the delay to Palychko, who seemed neither surprised nor upset.
‘So how about a game?’ he asked.
‘Why not?’
It took the Ukrainian about ten minutes to checkmate him, and the subsequent re-match was shorter still. ‘You really do play badly,’ Palychko agreed belatedly.
After finishing lunch an hour or so later, Russell was wondering what to do with the afternoon when the Ukrainian suggested a walk. ‘I’d like to find a church,’ he said, and Russell was still swallowing an unspoken gibe about the other man’s need to confess when Palychkoadmitted that this was indeed his intention. ‘I don’t think I’ll be running into any enemies by accident,’ he added, when Russell hesitated.
They found a church on the road heading into the centre, and the first priest they found was willing to take Palychko’s confession. Russell briefly wondered how they were going to understand each other, settled for being grateful that he wasn’t the listener, and sat in a convenient pew for twenty minutes, wondering whether confessing one’s sins really was good for the soul, or was just another way for the church to keep its flock under some sort of control.
When Palychko eventually reappeared, they decided on walking on into town. ‘I’d like to try a real Italian coffee,’ the Ukrainian told Russell, as they both surveyed the cafés spread around the central piazza. One
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