Sviridov Georgy Ivanovich

Ring behind barbed wire

Heroism, courage, courage, perseverance and loyalty to the Motherland - all these qualities have been highly valued by our people at all times and under all rulers.

Part one

Chapter one

A short word"Achtzen" (eighteen) was a conditioned signal. It meant: “Attention! Be on the lookout! Danger is near! With this conditioned signal, the prisoners working at the Gustlov-Werke plant warned each other about the approach of the SS men.

Prisoners from the work crew of the boiler room and the adjacent electrical workshop and mechanics jumped to their feet and hastily set to work.

Alexey Lysenko also jumped up. He had just come from the mechanic's shop to the boiler room and was drying his shoes by the fire. A shadow slid across his thin, weathered face. Alexey tried to quickly put his wet shoes on his swollen, sore feet, but he failed. He only managed to put on one shoe when heavy footsteps were heard behind the wall. Alexey hastily stuck his second shoe into the pile of coal and grabbed a shovel. With every movement, his striped convict clothes dangled from his emaciated body, as if they were hanging on a hook.

The heavy figure of Hauptsturmführer Martin Sommer appeared in the doorway.

The prisoners, pulling their heads into their shoulders, began to work even more diligently. Sommer's appearance did not bode well. Alexey watched the SS man sideways. Many people died at the hands of this executioner. With what pleasure he would have fucked this reptile with a shovel on his flattened head!

Sommer walked through the stoker into the electrical workshop. The fitters jumped to their feet and, with their arms stretched out at their sides, froze. The SS man, without looking at them, stopped at Reinold Lochmann's small workbench.

Placing a small radio in front of the frozen prisoner, Sommer muttered only one word:

- Repair!

And, turning, he headed towards the exit.

Alexey looked at the hated SS man. Then he took out his shoe and slowly shook the coal dust out of it. And then his gaze settled on Lochmann’s workbench. Sommer's radio did not have a back cover. Radio tubes glimmered inside. Alexei's breath caught.

He needs a radio tube. One single lamp - “W-2”. All other parts for the radio have already been prepared. Leonid Drapkin and Vyacheslav Zheleznyak got them. The only thing missing was the main part - a radio tube. We decided to “borrow” it from Lochmann. But none of the receivers brought by the guards for repairs had the required lamp. Long weeks dragged on one after another, but the treasured lamp did not appear. Alexei seemed to be running out of patience. Will they never hear the voice of their native Moscow? And today Sommer, the executioner of the punishment cell, brought the radio to be repaired. Alexey felt with all his being that there was a treasured lamp in Sommer’s receiver.

Alexey looked around. The prisoners continued to work, but without nervous tension. Nobody paid attention to him. Without letting go of the shoe, Lysenko headed into the next room, to a small workbench.

Reynold, humming a song, repaired the SS speaker. Noticing the Russian, he raised his head and smiled in a friendly manner with bloodless lips. He liked this Russian guy. Inquisitive, curious and diligent. It’s just a pity that he doesn’t know a damn thing about radio engineering. Totally savage! Reynold remembered how two months ago this Russian had goggled his eyes and openly admired the “miracles” of transmitting music and human speech without wires. Then Lochmann, laughing good-naturedly, spent an hour diligently explaining to him the principle of operation of the radio receiver, drawing on a piece of paper the simplest scheme and argued that there was no supernatural power here. But the Russian, apparently, did not understand anything. However, when he left, Reynold did not find the piece of paper on which he had drawn the radio receiver diagram. She mysteriously disappeared. No, no, he didn’t even suspect that he was Russian. Why does he need her?

Reynold raised his head and smiled friendly at Alexei.

– Have you come to see “miracles”?

Alexey nodded.

- Well, look, look. I don't feel sorry. – Lochmann took a heated soldering iron and leaned towards the disassembled apparatus. “My hands are the hands of a wizard.” They will even make iron speak. Hee-hee-hee!..

Alexey glanced at the lamps. Which one is “W-2”? The gold embossing gleamed dully. Here she is!

Lysenko extended his hand. The lamp sat tightly. My mouth became dry from excitement. He put the lamp in his pocket.

Reynold didn't notice anything. He continued to hum the song.

Alexey handed over the treasured lamp to Drapkin. He beamed. Alexey whispered:

- Don't take it too far. What if... Let's not let Lochmann down.

Until the evening, Lysenko watched the radio technician. Waited. Finally he took up the radio. He examined something for a long time, then, cursing, began to busily disassemble it. Alexei's heart was relieved. It's done!

Sunday, which the criminals were looking forward to, turned out to be unusually warm and sunny. At the appointed hour, at the far end of the camp, near a group of beech trees and a giant oak, the inhabitants of Buchenwald began to gather.

In the first rows around the makeshift ring, the green ones sat down right on the ground. They felt like they were masters of the situation. Today they will show, so to speak publicly, in front of thousands of prisoners what the superior, Aryan, race is. Strength is strength. And the nation possessing this superpower is called upon to rule the world. And those who do not bend before her will be broken.

And thousands of Soviet prisoners of war and prisoners of other nationalities came here to see an unknown Russian daredevil who decided to fight with criminals, to fight with his death.

The judge, political prisoner Frenchman Charles Ramsel, one of the old-timers of Buchenwald, was busy in the makeshift ring. In his youth he boxed for several years professional rings and acted as a judge.

The first to enter the ring was Georges, whose appearance was greeted by the Greens with deafening applause. The criminals were afraid of him and respected him for his strength. He was their idol. They claimed that Georges was the German champion.

Georges, showing off, walked across the entire ring to his corner. He did not sit down on the stool helpfully placed by the second, and, raising his hand, bowed to the audience. The professional boxer was in his element. It was impossible not to admire them. Broad-shouldered, slender, young. Under the soft satin-white skin, obedient muscles roll in bulges. Each of them contains a reserve of explosive energy. Looking at his sleek, trained figure, thousands of prisoners were once again convinced that Georges and others like him were right in choosing Buchenwald instead of the Eastern Front.

Georges sincerely believed in the fascist theory of supermen, considered himself a purebred Aryan, born to rule over representatives of a lower race. He was in good standing with the SS men and served them conscientiously with his heavy fists.

He ended up in Buchenwald almost voluntarily, not wanting to go to the front. However, no one could blame him for cowardice, because Georges was not afraid of death. The reasons for desertion were deeper. The athlete, paradoxically, was not afraid of death, but of injury and injury. And not without reason. What awaited the one-armed boxer or the legless runner after the war? Georges thought all night and by morning he decided that behind the barbed wire he would be able to preserve both his hands and his health. Having come to this conclusion, Georges, as he put it, “broke the trouble.” In one of the Nazi committees, he attacked his leader, a major fascist sports figure, and beat him. But, giving vent to his fists, the boxer overdid it. The victim made a big noise. Georges was tried. Instead of the expected light punishment, he was given “politics,” as he said, and sent to life imprisonment in Buchenwald. But, despite such a harsh sentence, Georges cherished the hope of an amnesty after Hitler’s victory in the war.

Georges appeared in the ring wearing black silk shorts with a wide light rubber belt. The panties were decorated with an emblem: a black fascist swastika inscribed in a white circle. Georges had white leather boxers on his feet. He performed in this outfit at many famous matches.

Andrey entered the ring, thinking sadly. Three years ago, before the war, he passionately dreamed of joining the national boxing team Soviet Union and compete in international competitions. It seems his dream has come true. But did he dream of such an international match?

The Greens greeted Burzenko's appearance coldly. But the back rows, where the political ones were seated, applauded unanimously, and the noise of applause, growing, rolled towards the ring in a wide wave.

Andrei previously had no less beautiful and trained body than Georges. He is still broad-shouldered and slender, but rows of ribs are clearly visible on his powerful chest. Under the thin tanned skin, oblique stripes of muscles were visible - dry, dense and so prominent that you could at least study human anatomy from them. Thinness and exhaustion seemed to make Andrei shorter and weaker. One of the green ones shouted:

Georges, be careful, otherwise the skeleton will fall apart!

Go-go-go! Ha ha ha! - swept over the first rows.

Andrey looked at his opponent, at his massive hands, carefully bandaged elastic bandage and gasped: “Eh, my head is in the garden, I was in the hospital, but forgot to ask for bandages... What now?”

Kostya Saprykin insistently squeezed his way to the ring from the back rows.

They made noise and tutted at him, but he stubbornly climbed.

Skip, skip...

As soon as Georges entered the ring, Saprykin noticed bandages on his hands. But he didn’t get them for his ward. Kostya immediately ran to the hospital.

Seeing that it was still impossible to get to the ring, Kostya handed the bandages to those sitting in front:

Tell the Russian boxer!

The bandages floated over their heads. Soon they were handed over to Andre's second, Harry Mittildorp. He quickly began to bandage his comrade's hands. Burzenko nodded his head to him with gratitude.

Judge Charles Ramsel tried to observe all etiquette international competitions. In the center of the ring, he laid out a white towel and put two pairs of boxing gloves on it. Then he called his seconds over and, after tossing a coin, played out the right to choose gloves. It went to Georges' second. He felt the gloves for a long time, wrinkled them and finally took one pair. Harry gave the second one.

Ramsel carefully checked the lacing of his gloves, making sure that the laces were tied at thumb- this is what the rules require. Then he turned to Georges' second:

Is the boxer ready?

The boxer is ready,” answered the second.

First round! - Charles solemnly announced and immediately the sound of a “gong” was heard, which was a piece of iron hanging on one of the stakes. Next to him sat a timekeeper with hourglass, taken from the SS outpatient clinic.

Georges, burying his head in his shoulders, rushed forward like a battering ram. Lights sparkled in his small eyes. He longed for a fight, wanted to quickly repay this Russian who dared to fight him. Georges promised his friends to show “real boxing class.”

And he showed it. The fighters met in the middle of the ring. As soon as they got close, Georges immediately, without preparation, without reconnaissance, launched a whole series of attacks on Andrei. These were not the random attacks of a beginner, nor the attack of an athlete who had lost his composure. No, Georges launched a complex cascade of combinations that were thought out and worked out over many years of training, each of which included a series of five or six different strikes. The gloves flashed in the air like black lightning.

Georges threw into battle, as the athletes say, his main forces. Advancing rapidly, he took into account that the enemy knew tactics and had high technical training, but was poorly prepared for the match - the hungry diet did its job! This is what the wolf was counting on professional boxing. This was his main bet. Georges sought to demoralize his opponent with a stormy onslaught, break his will, and force him to retreat in disorder. Then, without giving him time to come to his senses, he chased him, drove him into the corner of the ring and several with strong blows suppress any attempt at resistance.

Andrey understood all this. Georges' onslaught was stunning, his hands worked like the levers of a machine gun. Andrey barely had time to defend himself, exposing his gloves, shoulders, and forearms to heavy blows. He defended himself with great skill and kept a close eye on Georges. By the barely noticeable movements of his shoulders, the rotation of his body, the rearrangement of his legs, Andrei guessed the moment of the next blow and instantly took measures to protect himself, he “drew” under the striking hand, skillfully crouched down so that the enemy’s glove passed right over the top of his head, barely touching his hair, he deflected into side, made Georges miss, or instantly transferred his body weight to right leg, as if leaning back, and the enemy’s fist, aimed at the chin, beat the air.

Andrei waited for the attacks to end any moment, for the enemy to run out of steam. Minutes passed, the whirlwind of blows did not weaken, but seemed to increase. Individual blows sometimes began to break through the defense. Taking blows on oneself, pretending to be insensitive in order to deceive the enemy, was risky. Once upon a time, Andrei repeatedly used this, far from brilliant, but effective technique. But then everything turned out differently, and Burzenko was different. Now there is no time for effect. Responding to a flurry of blows with rare straight left blows, only one left, Andrei sought to slip out of the battlefield. Continuing to stay within striking distance became dangerous.

Georges understood Andrei's retreat in his own way and rushed after him. Burzenko retreated with quick sliding steps. It seemed to everyone that he was avoiding getting closer, avoiding battle.

The Russian is a coward! - the green ones screamed.

Finish him off!

Beat the goner!

But retreat in a fight in the ring is not flight, but a tactical technique, a maneuver. The Russian did not move back, but to the side. He walked away so that behind him there were not ropes, but most of the ring, free space, a wide field of actions and maneuvers. And Andrei skillfully maneuvered, slipped away, and made Georges often miss.

The audience had little understanding of the intricacies of boxing art. They saw Georges advancing, Georges attacking. This means that he is the master of the ring, he is the master of the situation. There was noise in the ranks of the green ones. The bandits exuberantly expressed their joy and shouted encouragement to their boxer.

The politicians watched in silence and “rooted” for Andrei. Kostya Saprykin was especially worried. When Levshenkov, Simakov and Küng approached and asked how the battle was going, Kostya hopelessly waved his hand.

And only a few prisoners who understood boxing sat spellbound. Before them, in this primitive ring, unfolded one of the most beautiful fights that they had ever seen, even at the largest international meetings. Two fighters, different in appearance, temperament and character, represented different boxing schools. Temperamental and persistent in achieving his intended goal, Georges was a typical representative of the Western professional sports. His strategy was based on a clearly developed battle plan, which was based on strictly selected tactical elements, consisting of a number of well-practiced and automatic series of blows. Hands, trained for years, worked like the levers of a machine. The brain played the role not of a leader, but rather of a controller, who ensured that all parts of the machine worked smoothly, clearly, rhythmically and strictly carried out the accepted plan. No deviations, no changes. And, it seemed, woe to those who fall under these levers of a living machine gun!

Andrey represented the Soviet sports school. In contrast to Georges, he was deeply convinced that success in the ring, just like victory in a chess match, comes to those athletes who, during the course of battle, in constantly changing situations, are able to unravel the opponent’s plan and oppose them with their own plan, more effective. Andrei believed that boxing is an art, the art of combat. And, like any art, it does not tolerate templates, imitations, much less pre-prepared schemes.

Maintaining composure as much as possible in battle, Andrei already knew all the enemy’s tactics and his technique of constructing serial strikes by the middle of the first round. They alternated with each other and were continuously repeated. In a stormy cascade of blows, Andrei saw what he had read about in boxing textbooks, in the books of memoirs of ring veterans, he saw what coaches had repeatedly talked about: Georges acted in a formulaic manner. Having started a combination, he always tried to carry it through to the end, regardless of whether the blows reached the target or not.

Burzenko took advantage of this. He quickly adapted to Georges' style, guessed the beginning of the next series of blows and instantly found the most advantageous defensive counteraction. Thus, retreating, taking steps now to the right, now to the left, he prevented and neutralized almost all of Georges’ blows. And at the same time, while defending himself, he managed to strike himself. They were rare but accurate.

The sound of a gong separated the fighters. Georges, smiling at the audience, went to his corner and did not sit on the stool. Leaning his hands on the ropes of the ring, he did several squats. He didn’t even pay attention to his seconds, who began hastily fanning his face with a towel and running a damp sponge over his chest, shiny with sweat. He seemed to demonstrate his high fitness and endurance.

“He’s showing off,” Kostya Saprykin nodded angrily towards Georges.

No, this is not an act,” corrected Levshenkov, “but a mental attack that gets on your nerves.” “Look how I am, no amount of fatigue takes me!”

Burzenko sat on a stool, leaning his whole body on the corner of the ring. He put his tired hands on the ropes. A short minute. Only one minute - so little time to rest, to recuperate! Andrey half-closed his eyes, exposing his face to the fresh breeze. Harry Mittildorp waved the wet towel in rhythm with the boxer's breathing. How pleasant is his touch on the heated body!

Keep Georges at a distance,” whispered Harry, “exhaust him...

Andrey smiled. It's easy to say - exhaust! He only defended himself, avoiding exchanging blows, and how tired he was! Oh, if only he had met Georges not today, but two years ago. Then he would show real Russian boxing! And now the treacherous dizziness and nausea begin again. But only one round passed, only one...

Andrey opened his eyes. Directly in front of him in the corner is Georges. Powerful back, big hands. And Andrei hated him even more, his opponent, his enemy - well-fed, healthy, strong.

The sound of the gong raises Andrey. Georges hurries towards him with long strides. The first round did not satisfy him. Although outwardly, it seems that the plan is being carried out: he is chasing this Russian around the ring, he is continuously advancing. But he attacks without feeling like he is in control of the situation. He attacks, but not as much as he would like, he hits, but almost all the blows go in vain. The enemy keeps escaping. What the hell does that mean?

In the second round, Georges decided to drive Andrei into a corner at all costs: “It’s time to finish”... Covering his chin with his raised left shoulder and putting out his heavy fists, Georges rushed into a decisive attack.

Andrei hit him crosswise, hit him in the head with his left hand, from bottom to top. And then, as if after his left hand, he threw his right fist forward.

Georges' face turned red. The eyes were bloodshot. He stopped for a moment, as if perplexed, and rushed forward again.

Bravo! - the green ones screamed.

Andrey, turning pale, stepped towards Georges. They grappled in the center of the ring, agreed on middle distance, showering each other with a hail of blows. Georges hit more often. It seemed that he had turned into a hundred-armed man: his blows rained down from all sides.

But Andrei did not back down. Didn't leave. He fought! And this was enough for the political ones to finally express their feelings.

Pound the green ones!

And everyone understood: the decisive moment had come. Andrey has changed. He is completely collected, stingy in his movements and, at the same time, acts quickly, accurately and calmly. He is the will. He is one clenched fist. And, despite the blows that more and more often broke through the defense, Andrei stubbornly increased the pace of the fight. The pace increased every second. Thus, two oncoming waves collide and, without retreating, foam, boil and rush each other upward.

The audience noisily expresses their feelings. Both political and green people are worried, shouting, arguing. There is a continuous roar over the clearing. Twice the judge in the ring shouted “break” (“step back”) and shook his finger at Georges. He, violating the rules of the competition, hit Andrey with an open glove, elbowed him, pushed him, and even tried to kick him.

Punish him! - the political ones demand.

Down with the judge! - the criminals yell.

The atmosphere was heating up.

And Georges began to lose his composure, to lose control over his actions. His brain still accurately recorded what was happening, but did not have time to understand: what was happening!? Why does the Russian, who was running cowardly throughout the first round, not retreat, but goes towards his heavy blows? And why the hell don’t Georges’ fists hit the target? After all, the Russian’s chin is almost there...

The machine gun, trained for years, could not think or analyze the course of the battle. Especially in a battle with an extremely high tempo. Georges began to get angry. And the Russian “goner,” as Georges contemptuously called him, felt like a fish out of water. He found himself either to the right or to the left of Georges and was still in the center of the ring. Didn't back down. Didn't give in. And he invariably fought at a medium distance, at a distance that seemed advantageous to Georges and not advantageous to him, Andrei. What's going on? Which one is attacking? Who is defending himself? Who the hell is fighting?

Georges was momentarily confused. And he tried to leave the battlefield to look around and understand the situation. But I didn’t have time to do this.

The ability to wait in the ring is the basis of tactics, one of the foundations of the art of combat. Andrei, straining all his will, gathering all his energy and calmness, in a whirlwind of attacks, patiently waited, waited for this moment. I waited for Georges to forget about caution for a tenth of a second, to forget about protection. And this moment has come!

Before Georges could take a short step back, a blow to the body caught up with him. Georges instinctively lowered his hands down - he was used to Andrey striking with paired blows. But this time the blow to the body was a “feint” - a deception. As soon as Georges' hand slid down, at the same second Andrei's right glove drew a short semicircle of a side blow to the chin. Andrei put all his strength and hatred towards the enemy into this blow.

The blow was so fast that the spectators could not notice it. And for them it was completely unexpected and incomprehensible that Georges, absurdly waving his arms, began to fall to the ground...

Silence reigned in the clearing. It became so quiet that you could hear Andrei breathing heavily. He stood alone in the ring, his tired arms hanging down. Then, when Charles, waving his arm widely, counted out nine seconds and shouted “out,” the audience exploded. The Greens jumped up from their seats. How? German champion, let him former champion, but still Aryan, German, the national pride of Buchenwald, lost to some Russian “goon”?!

But the whistles and shouts of the criminals were drowned in the applause of the political ones. They were celebrating!

They hugged Andrei, kissed him, and shook his hands. Friends and complete strangers congratulated him. Yes, it was a real victory, one of the most significant, perhaps the most important in his sports biography....

Boxers behind barbed wire

The basis for the image of the hero of G. Sviridov’s novel “The Ring Behind Barbed Wire” was the sports and combat fate of the boxing champion of Uzbekistan Andrey Borzenko. He was an artilleryman. He was captured seriously wounded. He ran three times and was caught. In Buchenwald, Borzenko became a member of an underground organization and participated in the preparation of an uprising in the death camp. And when the camp was liberated, he went to the front again. Andrei ended the war as he began, as an artilleryman. Later he became the chief surgeon in one of the Tashkent hospitals and a judge in the all-Union category.

From 1935 to 1938, the title of USSR flyweight champion was held by a student at the Moscow Institute of Physical Education Leon Temuryan. During the war, he, a company political instructor, was captured seriously wounded. He was tortured in the Dachau concentration camp, where Temuryan, along with other prisoners, continued to fight the Nazis.

Victor "Young" Perez(French Victor Young Perez, real name - Victor Younki (French Victor Younki). Born October 18, 1911, Hafsia, Tunisia, Tunisia, died March 21, 1945 in the Gleiwitz concentration camp.

Tunisian professional boxer who competed in Flyweight weight category. He is the WBA world champion.

Born in the Jewish quarter of the city of Tunis. From the age of fourteen he was engaged in the boxing section of the local community sports club"Maccabi". 1931 World Super Lightweight Boxing Champion. Since the 30s he lived in Paris. On September 21, 1943, he was captured by the Nazis and, as a foreign subject of Jewish origin, was transported first to the Drancy transit camp, and from there to Auschwitz. Killed on January 21, 1945 in the Gleiwitz concentration camp. In 2013, the film “The Cruel Ring” about the fate of a Jewish boxer was released on world screens.

“People, stand up for one minute,
Listen, listen! -
It flies from all directions.
This is heard in Buchenwald
Death knell...

CHAPTER ONE

SS Major Dr. Adolf Gauvin smoothed his pomaded light brown hair with a small palm, pulled down his jacket and stepped into the reception room of the commandant of the Buchenwald concentration camp. The lower ranks jumped up and stood tall. The major responded to the greetings with a casual nod and walked to the adjutant's desk. The adjutant, who had long since outgrown the lieutenant's age, but still wore the shoulder straps of an untersturmführer, thirty-five-year-old Hans Bungeller, looked at the major with an indifferent glance and pointedly politely offered to wait.

- The Colonel is busy, Herr Major.

And, making it clear that the conversation was over, he turned to Gust, a clean-shaven, healthy SS senior lieutenant.

The major walked arrogantly around the wide reception area, hung up his cap, sat down in a chair by the open window, took out a gold cigarette case and lit a cigarette.

The adjutant was saying something to Gust and looking askance at the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. The major saw that the Untersturmführer was busy not so much with the conversation as with his hairstyle. Bungeller was proud of that. that he had some resemblance to Hitler, and was constantly concerned about his appearance. I dyed my mustache twice a week. I styled my hair, shiny from brilliantine, every minute. But the hard forelock did not lie on the forehead, like the Fuhrer’s, but stuck out like a visor.

Gauvin despised Bungeller. Cretin in an officer's uniform! At this age, men of even average ability become captains.

The doctor made himself more comfortable in the chair. Well, let's wait. A year ago, when work at the Hygienic Institute, of which he, Major Gauvin, is the head, was just getting better, when threatening telegrams arrived from Berlin one after another, demanding the speedy expansion of the production of anti-typhoid serum, and a call to the commandant did not foretell anything joyful, then Adjutant Hans Bungeller He greeted the doctor with a kind smile and let him see the colonel out of turn. And now... Success always causes envy, thought Gauvin, and even more so if a woman contributes to this success, and even one like Frau Elsa. The colonel's wife treated him favorably, everyone knew that; as for Gauvin, he was not indifferent to her. And not only him. In the entire SS “Totenkopf” division, which guarded the concentration camp, there was not a German who would not lose his composure when meeting the mistress of Buchenwald. And this capricious ruler of men’s hearts was always inventing and commanding something. At the whim of Frau Elsa, thousands of prisoners built a playpen for her in a few months. Soon she got bored of prancing around on a stallion dressed as an Amazon. A new hobby has appeared. Elsa decided to become a trendsetter. She saw tattoos on the prisoners, and it occurred to her to make unique gloves and a handbag. Such that no one in the whole world has! Made from tattooed human skin. Major Gauvin, without flinching, undertook to fulfill the wild fantasy of the eccentric mistress of Buchenwald. Under his leadership, Dr. Wagner made the first handbag and gloves. So what? I liked the new product! The wives of some important officials wanted to have exactly the same ones. Orders for handbags, gloves, lampshades, and book covers began to arrive even from Berlin. I had to open a secret workshop in the pathology department. The patronage of Frau Elsa elevated and strengthened the position of the major. He began to speak freely and almost independently before the commandant of Buchenwald, SS Colonel Karl Koch, who had a direct telephone connection with the office of Reich Commissioner Himmler himself. The name of Koch awed all of Thuringia, and he himself was in awe of his wife.

The major turned his gaze to Gust - and with the professional eye of a doctor he felt the tight muscles of the triangular back, the trained biceps of the senior lieutenant, his muscular neck, on which his blond head proudly rested. Gust listened absentmindedly to the adjutant and lazily tapped his flexible transparent riding crop on his patent leather boot. And with every move right hand A black diamond sparkled on his little finger. Gauvin knew the value of jewelry. Boy! Robbed and boasts. Puppy!

Gauvin looked at his watch - he had been waiting for an appointment for fifteen minutes. Who sits with the colonel for so long? Isn't Le Clyre the head of the Gestapo? If he is, then damn, you'll sit for another hour.

The doctor began to look out the window. Lagerführer SS Captain Max Schubert is walking along the sunny side of the road paved with white stone. He undid the buttons of his uniform and took off his cap. The bald spot sparkles in the sun like a billiard ball. Walking nearby, with his head slightly bent, is the tall, red-haired SS lieutenant Walpner. He sticks out his chest, on which a brand new first class iron cross gleams.

Gauvin chuckled. This cross is awarded to front-line soldiers for military services, and Walpner earned it in Buchenwald, fighting defenseless prisoners with a stick and fists.

Schubert stopped and beckoned to someone with his finger. Gauvin saw an old man in the striped clothes of a political prisoner, bending obsequiously before the Lagerführer. It was Kushnir-Kushnarev. The doctor could not stand this hired provocateur with a flabby face and the dull eyes of a drug addict. Gauvin knew that Kushnir-Kushnarev was a tsarist general and held the post of comrade minister in the Kerensky government. Thrown out by the October Revolution, he fled to Germany, where he squandered the rest of his fortune, fell into disrepair, and served as a doorman in a famous brothel. was bought by British intelligence and captured by the Gestapo. He led a miserable life in Buchenwald before the war with Soviet Russia. When Soviet prisoners of war began to arrive at the concentration camp, the former general became a translator, and then, showing zeal, became a provocateur.

Kushnir-Kushnarev handed Schubert some piece of paper. Gauvin, noticing this, listened to the conversation taking place outside the window.

“There are fifty-four of them here,” said Kushnir-Kushnarev. – There is material for everyone. Lagerführer scanned the list and handed it to Walpner.

- Here's another penalty command for you. I hope it doesn't last more than a week.

The lieutenant hid the paper.

- It will be done!

Schubert turned to the agent.

Despite his wide popularity, Georgy Ivanovich Sviridov still needs a special introduction. If only because it can be represented in different guises. First of all, as a classic of military adventure literature, the author of numerous military-patriotic and sports adventure novels. His famous novels “Ring Behind Barbed Wire”, “Daring Raid”, “Jackson Remains in Russia”, “Victory is Hard to Come”, “In the Summer of '41”, “Stand to the Last”, “Diamond Hunters”, “Time of Retribution” , “Condemned to Immortality”, “Discovery of the Century” and others have been in demand by readers for many years. The total circulation of Georgy Sviridov's books is about 5 million copies. His novels have been translated into dozens of languages ​​around the world, including English, German, French, Czech, Finnish, Arabic, Bulgarian, Mongolian, Vietnamese, as well as into the languages ​​of the peoples of the former Soviet Union. Georgy Sviridov really claims to be included in the Guinness Book of Records as the author of the first multi-volume collection of works entirely devoted to military and sports topics. It can be imagined as famous athlete, master of sports in boxing, coach and, by the way, the first president of the USSR Boxing Federation. The years when Sviridov headed the “boxing fraternity” went down in history domestic sports like the "golden decade". It was then that our leather glove masters invariably won first places in world and European rings, including Olympic Games, pushing aside famous Americans, becoming trendsetters in the ring for a long time.

(To be continued in the next issue)
In the photographs: Georgy SVIRIDOV presents Marshal of the Soviet Union Konev with the novel “The Ring Behind Barbed Wire.” 1967 Georgy SVIRIDOV and Kostya Ju. 2004 G. SVIRIDOV, T. STEVENSON. 2003

“No way, Herr Captain,” Kushnir-Kushnarev blinked his eyes in surprise.

“Then tell me, why did you come here?” Buchenwald is not a holiday home. We are unhappy with you. You're not doing a good job.

“I’m trying, Herr Captain.”

-Are you trying? Ha-ha-ha...” Schubert laughed. – Do you really think you’re trying?

- That's right, Herr Captain.

- I don’t see. How many communists and commanders did you identify in the last batch of Russians? Ten? Something is too little

“You yourself were a witness, Herr Captain.”

- That's the point. Neither I nor anyone else will believe you that out of five hundred prisoners, only ten were communists and commanders. Nobody! I forgive you this time, but keep this in mind in the future. If we all work the same way as you, then even in a hundred years we will not cleanse Europe of the red infection. It's clear?

- That's right, Herr Captain.

– And for today’s list you will receive a separate reward.

- Glad to try, Herr Captain.

The major looked at Schubert's bald head, his wide bottom and thin legs. Rag! An SS officer - the Fuhrer's personal security forces - captain of the "Totenkopf" division, a division into which tens of thousands of pure-blooded Aryans dream of joining, behaves worse than an ordinary policeman, descends to talking with dirty provocateurs, and even becomes liberal with them. Major Gauvin considered all traitors and defectors, as well as the Jews, to be open enemies of Greater Germany. He didn't trust them. He was firmly convinced that a person who once became cowardly and betrayed his homeland or nation for the sake of personal well-being can betray a second and third time. In such people, the bacilli of cowardice and betrayal live and multiply in their blood.

Three SS men tramped along the alley: the head of the crematorium, Senior Sergeant Major Gelbig, and his two assistants - the chief executioner Burke and the gorilla-like giant Willie. About the latter, Gauvin was told that he had once, as a professional boxer, led a gang of repeat offenders. Gelbig walked ponderously, spreading his legs wide, and carried a small box, pressing it to his stomach. A greedy light flashed in Major Gauvin's eyes. Gauvin, damn it, knew about the contents of the box. There are jewelry there. Those that the prisoners hid during searches. But you can’t hide anything from an Aryan. After burning the corpses, the ashes are sifted. A profitable business with Gelbig! It is clear from his rounded face that it was not in vain that he exchanged the honorable position of head of the armory for the far from honorable job of manager of the crematorium and warehouse of the dead...

The door leading to the commandant's office finally swung open with a noise. Frau Elsa appeared. Her fiery yellow hair flared in the rays of the sun. The men stood up as if on cue. Gust, ahead of the others, hurried to meet Frau. She extended her hand to the lieutenant, open to the elbow. On her wrist, a wide bracelet with diamonds and rubies sparkled and shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow. Thin pink fingers were studded with massive rings. Gust gallantly shuffled, kissed the outstretched hand and wanted to say something. Apparently this is a new compliment. But the gaze of the hostess of Buchenwald slid over the faces of those present and settled on Major Gauvin.

- Doctor! You, as always, are easy to talk about...

The major, a forty-year-old bachelor who knew a lot about women, had the blood drain from his face. Frau Elsa was approaching him. He saw the thighs held together by a short piece of fine English wool. With every step Frau Elsa took, they swayed, like an Egyptian dancer. The major almost physically felt their elasticity. Without looking up, he slid upward and embraced the narrow wasp waist, high chest.

“You, as always, are easy to talk about,” continued Frau Elsa, “I must thank you, dear doctor.” The latest batch is an extraordinary success!

Dr. Gauvin's nostrils quivered. Leaning forward, he listened, answered and looked, looked into the woman’s eyes, which magnetized, attracted, promised.

Frau Elsa left, leaving behind a subtle aroma of Parisian perfume. Silence reigned in the reception area.

Major Gauvin sank back into his chair and, assuming a stony expression on his face, mentally returned to the conversation with the commandant’s wife. He, remembering every word, every phrase she uttered, thought about them, comprehended them, trying to find out more than they really meant. The way to a woman's heart sometimes lies through her hobbies. He was convinced of this more than once. And Frau Elsa was carried away. Let it be handbags now. She even prepared sketches of new models herself. Wonderful! For a woman like that, you can fucking tinker! In this rotten camp, her mere presence makes the doctor a man again. By the way, Frau Elsa expressed a desire to personally select the material for future handbags and lampshades. You must not yawn. Tomorrow he will order the organization of an extraordinary medical examination of prisoners. In love, as in hunting, it is important to seize the moment!