"It was nothing, sir," said Alexander, lowering his head.

The Winter War ended days later on 13 March, 1940.

The Soviets never did regain Vyborg.

In Front of Mekhlis, 1943 The question before him was who he was. His time was up. He knew. Standing up, he remembered verse of Kipling's "If," almost as if his own father were speaking to him.

If you can make one heap of all your winnings, and risk it on one turn of pitch and toss, and lose, and start again, at your beginnings, and never breathe a word about your loss.

They called for him, and when he was led back before the tribunal, he was almost cheerful.

"Well, Major, have you thought about it?"

"Yes, sir."

"What is your answer?"

"My answer is that I am Alexander Belov, from Krasnodar, a major in the Red Army."

"Are you the American expatriate Alexander Barrington?"

"No, sir."

And then they were all quiet. Outside was a fresh May day. Alexander wanted to be outside again. The faces on him were somber, unblinking. He became somber and unblinking himself. One of the generals was tapping a pencil against the wooden desk. Stepanov's eyes were discreetly on Alexander and when their glances locked, Stepanov nodded lightly.

Finally General Mekhlis spoke. "I was afraid that would be your answer, Major. Had you said yes, we would be talking to the U.S. State Department. Now the question before me is what do I do with you? I have been given complete authority over the disposition of your fate. My colleagues and I have conferred while you were outside. The decision before us is a difficult one. Even if you are telling the truth, the accusations against you rest on your shoulders along with all your bars and follow you in the Red Army wherever you go. The swirl of rumor, of suspicion, of innuendo, it doesn't end. It won't end. And if makes your job as an officer so much harder, and our job of defending you against other false accusations, against men afraid to fight under your command, so much harder."

"I'm used to challenges, sir."

"Yes, but we don't need them." Mekhlis raised his hand. "And don't interrupt, Major. If you're lying, however, all the same things apply, except now we as a government and a protector of our people have made a terrible mistake and will be made to look foolish and humiliated when the truth is eventually revealed. And you know one thing about truth-it always comes out in the end. Do you see how, whether you are lying or telling the truth, you are tainted property to us?"

"If I may, General," interjected Stepanov. "We are fighting a frantic war in which we are losing men faster than we can conscript them, we are losing weapons faster than we can make them, and we're losing ranking officers faster than we can replace them. Major Belov is an exemplary soldier. Surely we can find something for him to do in the name of the Red Army?" When Stepanov encountered no argument, he continued. "He can be sent to Sverdlovsk to make tanks and cannons. He can be sent to Vladivostok to mine iron ore, he can be sent to Kolyma, or to Perm-35. In any of those places he can remain a productive member of Soviet society."

Mekhlis scoffed. "We have plenty of other men to mine iron ore. And why should we waste a Red Army major on making a cannon?"

Alexander imperceptibly shook his head with amusement. Well done, Colonel Stepanov, he thought. A moment from now you will be having them beg for me to remain in the army, whereas a moment ago they were ready to shoot me themselves.

Stepanov continued on Alexander's behalf. "He is not a major any longer. He has been stripped of his rank upon his arrest. I see no problem with sending him to Kolyma."

"Then why are we still calling him Major?" Mekhlis puffed.

"Because he remains what he is even if the bars have been removed from his shoulders. He has been a commanding officer for seven years. He commanded men during the Winter War, he has fought to keep the Germans on the other side of the Neva, he has manned the Road of Life, and he fought alongside his men in four Neva campaigns last summer trying to break the blockade."

"We have been made aware numerous times of his record, Colonel Stepanov," Mekhlis said, painfully rubbing his forehead. "Now we need to decide how to dispose of him."

"I suggest sending him to Sverdlovsk," said Stepanov.

"We cannot do that."

"Then reinstate him."

"We cannot do that either."

Mekhlis was silent for a while, thinking. After a heavy sigh, he said, "Major Belov, near Volkhov in the valley between Lake Ladoga and the Sinyavino Heights there is a railroad that is getting bombed by the Germans from their hilltop positions several times a day. Are you familiar with it?"

"Yes, sir. My wife helped build that railroad after we broke the blockade."

"Please don't bring up your wife, Major, it's a sore subject. In any case, that railroad is vital for getting food and fuel to the city of Leningrad. I've decided to sentence you to a penal unit in charge of rebuilding the railroad along a ten-kilometer stretch between Sinyavino and Lake Ladoga. Do you know what a penal battalion is?"

Alexander was silent. He knew. The army was filled with thousands of men sent to storm bridges without cover, to cross rivers without cover, to build railroads under fire, to go first into battle without artillery support, without tanks or rifles for each man. In penal battalions, the men were given alternating rifles. When the man next to you fell, you picked up his rifle, unless it was you who fell. Penal battalions were Soviet walls of men sent before Hitler's firing squads.

Mekhlis was silent. "Anything to add, Major? Oh, and you are formally relieved of your rank."

"That's fine. I'm being asked to be part of a battalion, not to command the men, correct?"

"Incorrect. You are being ordered to command the men."

"In that case, I have to keep my rank."

"You cannot keep your rank."

"Sir, with all due respect, I cannot command a squirrel, much less hardened and fearless men in a penal battalion constantly under threat of death without authority bestowed on me by the Red Army. If you want me to be in charge, you have to give me the tools required to command men. Otherwise I will be no good to the Red Army, no good to the war effort and no good to you. The men will not obey a single order from me, the railroad will remain unbuilt, and supply people and soldiers will perish. You cannot ask me to remain in the army-"

"I'm not asking you, I'm ordering you."

"Sir, put me in a penal battalion, certainly, but do not ask me to be in charge. I will be an NCO, a sergeant, a corporal, whatever you decide is fine with me. But if you actually want to use me to the army's advantage, I must keep my bars." Alexander was unflinching when he said, "Certainly you as a general understand that better than anyone. Have you forgotten General Meretskov? He sat in the dungeons of Moscow waiting for his execution. The powers-that-be decided he should command the Volkhov front instead. So he was promoted to general and given an army instead of just a division. How do you think he would have fared commanding his army as the peasant he actually was? How many men do you think he would have been able to send to their deaths if he had been a non-commissioned corporal instead of a commissioned general? Do you want to get the Germans out of Sinyavino Heights? I will get them out for you. But I must keep my rank."

Mekhlis was staring at Alexander with frank, resigned understanding. "You have worn me out, Major Belov. You will be sent to Sinyavino in one hour. The guard will escort you back to your cell to collect your things. I will demote you and allow you to keep the rank of captain, but that is all. Where are your medals?"

Alexander wanted to smile but didn't. "Taken from me before the interrogation. I'm missing the Hero of the Soviet Union medal."

"That's unfortunate," Mekhlis said.

"Yes, sir, it is. I also need new BDUs, new weapons, and new supplies. I need a knife, and a tent-I need new gear, sir. My old gear has disappeared."

"Have to keep better track of your equipment, Major Belov."

Alexander saluted him. "I'll keep that in mind. And it's Captain Belov, sir."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Running into Ouspensky, 1943 ALEXANDER WAS ESCORTED TO the rear of the current front, where he resupplied himself, dressed appropriately and rode in a truck to the barracks that housed a penal battalion of hundreds of used-up men, men who were either criminals or political survivors. They were on the wet ground resting, smoking, playing cards. Three of them were engaged in a fight which Alexander broke up. One of the men in the struggle was Nikolai Ouspensky.

"Oh, no, not you," said Ouspensky.

"What the hell are you doing here, soldier?" Alexander said, shaking his hand. "You have only one lung."

"What are you doing here? I was sure you were dead," Ouspensky said cheerfully. "I thought they shot you. Certainly after the interrogation I got on your behalf I thought nothing would be left of you."

Alexander offered Nikolai a cigarette and led him away. "What's your rank here? Are you a corporal?"

"I'm still a lieutenant," Ouspensky said indignantly and then quieter, "demoted from first to second lieutenant."

"Good. I am your commanding officer. Choose twenty men and take them to lay the tracks for the train to get through. Do me a favor and don't fight with your charges anymore. It diminishes your authority."

"Thanks for the tip."

"Go pick your men. Who was your superior officer before me?"

"You're joking. No one. We had three captains die in the last two weeks. Then they started sending the majors to the railroad. Two of them died. We've got no one left. The idiots have not yet figured out that if the Germans have such a good view of the railroad they're constantly blowing up, they have just as good a view of the vertical men who are fixing it. Just this morning we lost five men before we laid a single millimeter of track."

"Let's see how we do under the cover of night."

It turned out not much better. Twenty men went with Ouspensky, and thirteen came back, including Ouspensky. Out of the thirteen, three were injured critically, two were superficially wounded, and one man was blind.

The blind man escaped in the night, was stopped at the Lake Ladoga shore and shot on the spot by the NKGB.

The army base between Sinyavino Heights and Lake Ladoga was set up on a flat, boggy stretch of land with canvas tents and some wooden structures erected for the colonels and the brigadier generals. Two battalions were quartered here, comprising six companies, eighteen platoons, and fifty-four squads, 432 men in all. Because of a lack of commanding officers, Alexander had a battalion all to himself, 216 men he could send to their deaths.

Stepanov was not here. Alexander didn't get to see Stepanov again after the tribunal hearing. He must have gone back to the Leningrad garrison, his only home for many years. Alexander hoped so.

Meeting Dasha Metanova, 1941 Alexander was at Sadko, standing near the bar as usual. He preferred going to the officers' club; he found it awkward socializing with noncoms. The gulf between them was too large now.

On this June Saturday night, Alexander was standing talking to Dimitri when two girls came and stood near them. He glanced at them briefly. The second time he looked, he found one of them staring at him with frank interest. He smiled politely. Dimitri turned his head, looked them both over, raised his eyes at Alexander, and stepped around so the two men could face the two women.

"Could we buy you girls a beer?" Dimitri asked.

"Sure," said the taller, darker one. She was the one who had been staring at Alexander. Dimitri was making friendly conversation with the shorter, less attractive one. It was hard to talk in the bar. Alexander asked if the dark girl wanted to go for a walk. She smiled. "Sure."

They went outside into the warm barely dusky night. It was just after midnight, and still quite light out. The girl sang a bit, then took his hand and laughed into his face. "So am I going to have to guess," she asked, "or will you tell me your name?"

"Alexander," he said, and did not ask for hers because he had trouble remembering names.

"Aren't you going to ask me my name?"

He smiled. "You sure you want me to know?"

She looked at him with surprise. "Do I want you to know what my name is? Is that what you soldiers have regressed to? You don't even ask the girl's name anymore?"

"Hey, listen," said Alexander, patting her. "I don't know what the other soldiers regressed to. I just know that I tend to forget names."

"Well, maybe after tonight, you will never forget my name." She smiled suggestively.

Slightly shaking his head, Alexander wanted to tell her that she would have to do something pretty extraordinary for him not to forget her name, but he said nothing except, "All right. What's your name?"

"Daria," she said. "But everyone calls me Dasha."

"All right, Daria-Dasha. Do you have a place you want to take me to? Is anyone at home?"

"Is anyone at home? Where are you living? Of course. I'm never alone for a second. I've got everybody at home. Mama, Papa, Babushka, Dedushka, my brother. And my sister sleeps in the same bed as me." She raised her eyebrows and laughed. "I think even an officer would have trouble having two sisters at the same time?"

"It depends," Alexander said, putting his arm around her. "What does your sister look like?"

"About twelve," Dasha replied. "Is there anywhere you can take me?"

Alexander took her to his barracks. It was his turn tonight.

Dasha asked if she should undress. "I don't want anyone to walk in on us."

"Well, this is the army barracks," said Alexander, "not the European Hotel. Undress, Dasha, but at your own peril."

"Are you going to undress?"

"They've all seen me," Alexander pointed out.

Dasha undressed, and so did Alexander.

He enjoyed her as much as many other girls. Her body was a typical Russian fleshy body-large hips, large breasts-the kind that drove men like his quartermate Grinkov crazy. What Alexander liked about Dasha, though, was a slightly familiar quality, a friendly, easy-going manner that came from knowing someone a while. Also, her response to him was somewhat above the mill. She actually said, "Oh, my...Alexander, where do you come from?"

They had an hour together until Grinkov came back with a girl and wouldn't take no-it's-not-your-day for an answer.

After they dressed, Alexander walked Dasha to the sentry gate. "So, tell me," she asked, "are you going to remember my name next week when I come by?"

"Sure...Dasha, right?" He smiled.

Next week she came by with her friend again; unfortunately Dimitri had already gone with someone else, and Dasha didn't want to leave her friend in the lurch. The three of them ended up walking down Nevsky Prospekt together. Then-finally-her friend caught a bus back home, and Alexander took Dasha back to the barracks, where it wasn't his turn and his quarters were already full.

"You've got two choices," Alexander said. "You can either go home, or come inside and ignore the other soldiers."

Dasha looked at him. He couldn't quite tell what was in her eyes. "Well," she said, "why not? My mother and father have to ignore us kids as we pretend to sleep. Are they sleeping?"

"Not even close," said Alexander.

"Oh. That's a bit too strange for me."

Alexander nodded. "Do you want me to walk you home?"

"No, it's all right." She came up close to him. "I had a really good time last week."

Alexander paused. "Me too," he said. "Let's go to the Admiralty Gardens."