Red Love by David Evanier Page B

him.” Pashin pointed to the commissars and asked Sammy, “Who are these monkeys?”
    Sammy answered, “They’re the judges, and the German is the prosecutor.”
    Pashin’s face had turned beet red. “I heard what you did today,” he shouted at Pohoric. “You slaughtered a whole battalion uselessly, uselessly. And these are the few remnants, huh? And the only thing you can think of is killing them. Don’t you know what you do with demoralized young troops, you asshole? You bathe them, you clothe them, you give them a few drinks, get ‘em all fucked, and then you reorganize them. If you don’t understand these elementary facts of life, you should be ashamed of yourself.”
    The Americans were poking Sammy in the shoulder and asking what was going on, but he was too busy to answer.
    General Pashin had turned back to Sammy. “And as for you, bastard, this is what you get for associating with foreigners. What’s a nice Russian boy like you doing associating with all these scum?” he said, pointing at the Americans.
    The commissars had slunk out of the room, including Krauss. Pohoric was left leaning against the wall. Pashin said to him, “I don’t want to hear anything more about trials or executions for now. If you don’t take my goddamn advice, I’ll have your head.”
    Pashin headed for the door. He stopped and turned back to Sammy. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said. “A young man from the motherland, associating himself with these bastards.”
    The day after the trial, Sammy, flea-ridden and filthy, was ordered to report to brigade headquarters. When he arrived, a sidecar scooted up to him and a mousy man with red hair shouted at him to get in. He drove with insane speed to Madrid and deposited Sammy at a bathhouse for the exclusive use of the Russians. No Spaniards, whatever their rank, were permitted to enter. Two women undressed Sammy, put him in a hot tub, sprayed eau de cologne on him, bathed him, and gave him a manicure. The redhead appeared and handed Sammy silk underwear, a polo shirt, a leather jacket, an elegant pair of trousers, a beautiful pair of Russian boots, and a Russian tank uniform. Then Sammy was driven back at the same speed to headquarters and presented to a Major Vorov, who asked him to fill out a biographical form. When Sammy came to “nationality,” he hesitated for a moment and almost wrote “Jew.” Then he made the smartest move of his career in Spain. Sammy wrote, “Russian.”
    Vorov asked him, “What did you do when you lived with these foreigners in America?”
    “I was a seaman, Comrade Major.”
    “First mate, second mate, or captain?” Vorov asked.
    “No, just a seaman,” Sammy said.
    Vorov looked astonished. “You left the motherland to become a common seaman?”
    “Yes, comrade, but I was an organizer of the union,” he replied.
    Vorov registered no reaction.
    “And I was secretary of the Young Communist League on the waterfront of New York City.”
    Vorov beamed. “Ah, now I understand.” Then he told Sammy of the high honor in store for him. Sammy was to join the Soviet tank corps. “Well, comrade,” Vorov said, “how does it feel to be back with your own?” “Very good,” Sammy replied.
    He was now stationed with the Russians.
    Sammy was driven to Alcala de Henares, the secret headquarters for Russian tank operations located behind an eight-foot whitewashed stone wall. Soviet sailors relayed messages to Russia from mobile equipment in the curtained backseat of a Buick with three retractable fifteen-foot antennas.
    Vorov called him in for another pep talk. “You’ll get along fine,” he said. “Of course, be careful of the Jews.”
    Sammy had a conversation with Vorov about the purges of the Red Army that had taken place in Moscow. He was especially curious about how Vorov felt about the purge of Marshal Tukhachevski, who was after all the commander of the tank corps. Vorov had praised Tukhachevski to Sammy many