Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) by Douglas Niles, Michael Dobson Read Free Book Online

familiarity about their great national leader. “Have you met the chairman often?” he asked.
    She shook her head, a shy smile curving her full lips. “Just today,” she said. She hesitated a moment, then held out her hand to show him the small silver medal. “I am honored to say that he awarded me with the People’s Medallion.”
    Krigoff was impressed; the award was one of the highest nonmilitary medals in the Soviet hierarchy. “Congratulations,” he said sincerely. “You must have performed valiant service in the name of Mother Russia.” He took her open hand in his and lifted the medal up to get a better look at it. “What was the nature of your heroism, if I may ask?”
    She shook her head dismissively, another gesture that he found appealing, but she didn’t pull her hand away. “It was a small thing, only—nothing
compared to the sacrifices made by the men and women who wear the uniform of the Red Army.”
    Krigoff, who had never been within twenty miles of a front line, waved away the compliment even as he felt a flush of pride. “No, please, I would like to know,” he said encouragingly.
    Her hand went to the patch over her eye, a self-conscious motion, as she drew a breath. “I was merely a camera operator—assigned to a documentary project. We were filming a movie called One Day of War. Many of my colleagues were killed as we tried to capture the heroism of the soldiers. I was wounded, but survived … . I accepted this medal on behalf of those who lost their lives.”
    “The work of the film industry has been a great comfort and encouragement to our people during the Great Patriotic War,” Krigoff said in a sincere voice. “I have been privileged to see many of these great works. I am sorry to admit, though I have heard of One Day of War I have yet to see it. But I shall make it a point of doing so, especially because I will think of its camera operator.”
    “You are too kind, Major,” she said with that shy smile.
    Krigoff smiled in a self-deprecating manner. “There is a place in Gorky Park,” he noted. “A bluff above the River Moskva, from where one can see the towers of the Kremlin and so much of this great city. I go there often, to reflect upon the greatness of our people, and the immensity of the task before us. The next time I am there, I shall share a moment of reflection for those of you who have risked your lives to uplift the spirits of our great people.”
    “Comrade Major, I would be honored if you did.” She straightened as if a soldier coming to attention.
    “Please,” he said. “My name is Krigoff, Alexis Petrovich. Alyosha to friends, Comrade … ?”
    “Mine is Koninin,” she replied. “Paulina Arkadyevna.”
    Krigoff was eager to say something else, to continue this conversation, when the inner door of the waiting room was pulled open and he looked up to see the genial, avuncular face of the chairman himself. Immediately the woman was forgotten.
    “Ah, Alexis Petrovich,” said Stalin, ignoring Paulina. “Please, come in!”
    Krigoff hastened to obey, and moments later he was shaking the chairman’s strong hand, then stammering his acceptance to the glass of vodka that Stalin offered him, having poured two as soon as he had led his visitor into the spacious inner office.
    “To the confusion of our enemies!” toasted the leader of the Soviet Union, his voice underlain by an easy chuckle.
    Krigoff drank, and as the clear liquid ignited its fire over his tongue and down his throat he found that he was breathing a little easier. Stalin extended
the bottle and the major reflexively held up his glass for a refill, noting that the chairman had not yet touched his own glass.
    “That was good insight you showed yesterday, when you perceived how Rommel’s surrender would play into the hands of my own policies,” remarked the chairman, idly waving his hand toward a seat. Alyosha sat across from the great desk, and watched as Stalin took a sip from his vodka and