Man Who Wanted Tomorrow by Brian Freemantle Page B

Kurnov’s personal records. Several times it was noted that data confirming the information supplied were unavailable because all records had been destroyed by the blitz upon Berlin or were thought to be held by one of the other three occupying powers. Nearly all the information, Mavetsky realized, was that supplied either directly or inadvertently by the man himself. Unusual, decided the minister. Although well aware of the chaos and destruction of those last days in Berlin, he would have expected some corroborative evidence to have been available.
    There were ten affidavits, he saw, from Russian prisoners, who had been interviewed in rehabilitation hospitals, attesting to Reinhart’s treatment of them, often in open contradiction to the known instructions from superior officers. A brave man, thought the minister. Would Kurnov defy authority? he wondered. Of course he would, he answered himself, immediately. He did it practically all the time. He paused, reconsidering the thought. Although not so certain as the other critics, Mavetsky had always thought the man’s defiance based upon arrogance, not principles. He found himself unsure whether Kurnov would flout a directive merely from conscience.
    He stared down at the papers strewn over the desk. There was no answer there, he decided.
    The pages were numbered and he began collating them in order to replace them upon the spiral. He stopped, staring down at Kurnov’s picture. A brave man, he reflected, someone who knowingly faced death in a concentration camp rather than sacrifice the lives under his care. He looked away from the picture, back across the room, remembering the man’s remarks about Potma. Kurnov’s principles about human suffering had altered dramatically in thirty years, he realized suddenly. What he had not been prepared to accept in the extremity of war he was now able not only to countenance but participate in during peacetime. It was the jarring illogicality from the entire file. He read again the affidavits from the survivors. “Compassionate,” said one. “Humane,” asserted another. “Selfless disregard for personal safety,” listed a third. Never, thought Mavetsky, would he have chosen such words to describe the man who had sat before him an hour earlier. He started again replacing the affidavits, re-sealing the box, then sat back, forming a tower with his fingertips, parading the thoughts before him. An inadequate file, certainly. But not unusual in the circumstances.
    A character now that did not reconcile completely with the prisoners’ accounts of the man who had treated them over thirty years ago. Too flimsy to permit an official investigation, dismissed the minister.
    An abhorrence of human suffering apparently now completely overcome. Coupled to the other disparities, an inexplicable change. By itself?—he considered the question, objectively. Kurnov was undoubtedly imbued with a Russian pride, elevated to a position of honor and stature, well aware his privileges were linked with the continuing progress of Soviet space exploration. Was it surprising, then, that a humble prison-camp doctor had been able to temper his morality? Of course not.
    And that’s all there was, realized Mavetsky. The other sufferer from any investigation, no matter how circumspect, would be himself, decided the minister. Irritably, he summoned the woman from the outer office and handed her the file.
    Remembering the cigarette litter in front of her desk, she said hopefully, “What shall I do with it?”
    Mavetsky looked up.
    â€œPut it back,” he said, simply.
    â€œDownstairs? In records?” she pressed.
    â€œOf course. Where else?” said the minister.
    The woman walked from the room, disappointed. Mavetsky watched her leave. It was ridiculous, he thought, angrily. He’d wasted nearly two hours, just because he’d allowed one man’s attitude to annoy him into believing an