“Not at all, 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 not happy with you. You are not working well.

“I'm doing my best, Herr Captain.

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

- That's right, Herr Captain

- I do not see. How many Russians did you identify as communists and commanders in the last batch of Russians? Ten? Something too little

“You yourself were a witness, Herr Captain.

- In fact of the matter. Neither I nor anyone else will believe you that out of five hundred prisoners, only ten are communists and commanders. No one! I forgive you this time, but keep it in mind in the future. If we all work the same way as you, then in a hundred years we will not cleanse Europe of the red contagion. Clear?

“That's right, Herr Captain.

- And for today's list, get a separate reward.

- Glad to try, Herr Captain.

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

Three SS men stomped along the alley: the head of the crematorium, Senior Feldwebel Gelbig, and his two assistants, the chief executioner Burke and the gorilla giant Willie. About the latter, Gauvin was told that he once, as a professional boxer, led a gang of repeat offenders. Gelbig walked heavily, legs wide apart, and carried a small box, pressing it to his stomach. Major Gauvin's eyes flickered with greed. Gowen, damn it, knew about the contents of the box. There are jewels. Those that the prisoners concealed during the searches. But you can't hide anything from the Aryan. After the incineration of the corpses, the ashes are sieved. A profitable lesson with Gelbig! It is clear from his rounded face that it was not in vain that he exchanged the honorary position of the head of the armory for the far from honorable job of head of the crematorium and the warehouse of the dead ...

The door leading to the commandant's office finally swung open with a loud noise. Frau Elsa appeared. Her fiery yellow hair flashed in the sun. The men stood up as if on command. Gust, ahead of the others, hastened to meet Frau. She held out her hand to the lieutenant, open to the elbow. On the 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 bowed gallantly, kissed the outstretched hand and wanted to say something. Apparently a new compliment. But the glance of Buchenwald's mistress slid over the faces of those present and settled on Major Gauvin.

- Doctor! You, as always, are light in sight ...

The major, a forty-year-old bachelor who knew a lot about women, was bleeding from his face. Frau Elsa approached him. He saw the thighs caught in a short piece of fine English wool. With every step Frau Elsa took, they swayed like an Egyptian dancer. The major felt their elasticity almost physically. Without stopping, he slid up, embraced the narrow wasp waist, high breasts.

- You, as always, are light in sight, - continued Frau Elsa, - I have to thank you, dear doctor. The last batch is an extraordinary success!

Dr. Gauvin's nostrils flinched. Leaning forward, he listened, answered and - looked, looked into the eyes of women who magnetized, attracted, promised.

Frau Elsa withdrew, leaving behind a subtle scent of Parisian perfume. There was silence in the waiting room.

Major Gauvin sank back into his chair and, assuming a stony expression on his face, mentally returned to his conversation with the commandant's wife. He, remembering every word, every phrase she uttered, pondered them, comprehended, 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 herself, herself, prepared sketches of new models. Perfectly! For such a woman, you can, damn it, 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. We must not yawn. Tomorrow he will order to organize an extraordinary medical examination of the prisoners. In love, as in a hunt, it is important to seize the moment!

Sunday, which the criminals were looking forward to, turned out to be extremely warm and sunny. By 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 front rows around the impromptu ring, the Greens sat right on the ground. They felt they were the masters of the situation. Today, in front of thousands of prisoners, so to speak publicly, they will show what the highest, Aryan, race is. Strength is strength. And the nation possessing this superpower is called to rule the world. And the one who does not bend before her will be broken.

And thousands of Soviet prisoners of war and prisoners of other nationalities came here to see the unknown Russian daredevil, who decided to go out to duel with criminals, to duel with his own death.

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

The first to enter the ring was Georges, whose appearance the greens greeted 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 ring to his corner. He did not sit down on the stool, which was helpfully substituted 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, slim, young. Obedient muscles roll under the delicate, satin-white skin. Each of them is fraught with a supply of explosive energy. Looking at his sleek, trained figure, thousands of prisoners were once again convinced that Georges and others like him did not lose by choosing Buchenwald instead of the Eastern Front.

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

He came to Buchenwald almost voluntarily, not wanting to go to the front. However, no one could reproach him for cowardice, for Georges was not afraid of death. The reasons for desertion were deeper. The athlete, paradoxically, was not afraid of death, but of injury, injury. And not without reason. What was in store for a one-armed boxer or a legless runner after the war? Georges thought all night and by morning decided that he would be able to keep his hands and health behind the barbed wire. Having come to this conclusion, Georges, in his words, "broke wood." 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, they "sewed" him, as he said, "politics" and sent him to life in prison in Buchenwald. But, despite such a harsh sentence, Georges cherished the hope of amnesty after Hitler's victory in the war.

Georges appeared in the ring in 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 wore white leather boxers on his feet. In this outfit, he performed at many famous matches.

Andrey entered the ring, thinking sadly. Three years ago, before the war, he passionately dreamed of getting into the national boxing team. Soviet Union and compete in international competitions. It seems his dream has come true. But is it about this international match he dreamed?

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

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 the mighty chest. Under the thin, tanned skin, there were slanting stripes of muscles - dry, dense and so relief that you could at least study human anatomy from them. His thinness and exhaustion seemed to make Andrey shorter and weaker. One of the greens shouted:

Georges, hit it carefully, or the skeleton will fall apart!

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

Andrey looked at his opponent, at his massive hands, carefully bandaged elastic bandage and gasped: "Oh, garden head, I was in the hospital, but forgot to ask for bandages ... How now?"

From the back rows Kostya Saprykin persistently squeezed into the ring.

They made noise at him, pounded, but he stubbornly climbed.

Skip, skip ...

As soon as Georges entered the ring, Saprykin noticed bandages on his hands. And he did not get them for his ward. Kostya immediately ran to the hospital.

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

Tell the Russian boxer!

The bandages floated overhead. Soon they were handed over to Andre's second, Harry Mittildorp. He quickly began to bandage his comrade's hands. Burzenko nodded his head gratefully.

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

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

Is the boxer ready?

The boxer is ready, - answered the second.

Round one! - Charles announced solemnly and immediately there was a blow of the "gong", which served as a piece of iron hanging on one of the stakes. The timekeeper sat next to him with hourglass taken from the SS outpatient clinic.

Georges, taking his head into his shoulders, rushed forward like a battering ram. There were lights in his little eyes. He longed for a fight, he wanted to repay this Russian as soon as possible, who dared to go out with him to a duel. Georges promised to show his friends “a real class of boxing”.

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, unleashed a whole series of attacks on Andrey. These were not the indiscriminate attacks of a novice, not the attack of an athlete who lost his composure. No, Georges set in motion a complex cascade of well-thought-out combinations, worked out by many years of training, each of which included a series of five or six different punches. Gloves like black lightning flashed in the air.

Georges threw into battle, as the athletes say, his main forces. While advancing swiftly, he took into account that the enemy knew tactics and had a high technical training, but poorly prepared for the match - the hungry diet has done its job! This is what the wolf was counting on professional boxing... This was his main stake. Georges strove to demoralize his opponent with a violent onslaught, to break his will, to force him to retreat indiscriminately. Then, without letting him come to his senses, chase, drive into the corner of the ring and several strong blows suppress any attempt to resist.

Andrey understood all this. The onslaught of Georges was overwhelming, his hands worked like the levers of a machine gun. Andrei barely had time to defend himself, substituting gloves, shoulders, forearms under the heavy blows. He defended himself with great skill and watched Georges closely. By the barely noticeable movements of his shoulders, the turn of the body, the rearrangement of his legs, Andrei guessed the moment next hit and instantly took measures to defend, he "dived" under the beating hand, skillfully squatted, so that the opponent's glove passed over the very top of the head, barely touching the hair, deviated to the sides, forced Georges to miss, or instantly transferred the weight of the body to right leg, as if making a deviation back, and the enemy's fist, aiming at the chin, beat the air.

Andrey expected that the attacks were about to end, the enemy would fizzle out. Minutes passed, the whirlwind of blows did not subside, but, it seems, grew. Individual blows sometimes began to break through the defense. Taking punches on yourself, pretending they were insensitive, in order to deceive the enemy, was risky. Once upon a time Andrei used this far from brilliant, but effective technique more than once. But then everything turned out differently, and Burzenko was different. Now is not up to the effect. Responding to a flurry of blows with rare direct blows with his left, only one left, Andrei tried to slip out of the battlefield. Further stay at the strike distance became dangerous.

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

The Russian is cowardly! - screamed green.

Finish him!

Hit the goner!

But retreat in a fight in the ring is not an escape, but a tactical technique, a maneuver. The Russian did not step back, but to the side. He moved away so that behind him were not ropes, but most of the ring, free space, a wide field of action and maneuvers. And Andrey skillfully maneuvered, eluded, forcing Georges to miss often.

The audience was poorly versed in the intricacies of the art of boxing. They saw that Georges was advancing, Georges was 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. The bandits exuberantly expressed their joy, cheering their boxer with shouts.

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

And only a few prisoners who understood a lot about boxing sat spellbound. In front of them in this primitive ring unfolded one of the most beautiful fights that they had ever seen, even at the largest international meetings. The two fighters, different in appearance, temperament and character, were from different boxing schools. Temperamental and persistent in achieving the intended goal, Georges was a typical representative of the Western professional sports... His strategy was based on a well-developed battle plan, which was based on strictly selected tactical elements, which consisted of a number of well-developed and automated series of strikes. Hands trained over the years worked like the levers of a machine. The brain did not play the role of a leader, but rather a controller, who made sure that all parts of the machine worked harmoniously, clearly, rhythmically and rigorously to fulfill the adopted plan. No deviations, no changes. And, it seemed, woe to the one who falls under these levers of a living machine!

Andrey represented the Soviet sports school... In contrast to Georges, he was deeply convinced that success in the ring, as well as victory in a chess match, comes to those athletes who, in the course of a battle, in the course of constantly changing situations, will be able to unravel the opponent's plan and oppose them with their own plan, more effective. Andrey believed that boxing is an art, an art of fighting. And, like any art, he does not tolerate any template, no imitations, much less pre-prepared schemes.

Keeping as cool as possible in battle, Andrei already by the middle of the first round knew all the tactics of the enemy and his technique of building serial strikes. They, alternating with each other, were continuously repeated. In a stormy cascade of strikes, Andrei saw what he had read in boxing textbooks, in the books of memoirs of ring veterans, he saw what the coaches had repeatedly told about: Georges acted in a stereotyped manner. Having started the combination, he always tried to carry it to the end, regardless of whether the blows reach the target or not.

This was what Burzenko took advantage of. He quickly adapted to the manner of Georges, guessed the beginning of the next series of blows and instantly found the most advantageous defensive counter-action. Thus, retreating, taking steps now to the right, then to the left, he warned and neutralized almost all of Georges' blows. And at the same time, defending himself, he managed to strike blows himself. They were rare but accurate.

The sound of the gong separated the fighters. Georges, smiling at the audience, walked into 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 the seconds, who began to hurriedly brush his face with a towel, run a damp sponge over his chest that was shiny with sweat. He seemed to demonstrate his high level of fitness, endurance.

He is drawing, - Kostya Saprykin nodded angrily towards Georges.

No, this is not a show, - corrected Levshenkov, - but a mental attack, it gets on the nerves. "Look, what I am, no fatigue takes me!"

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

Keep Georges at a distance, - whispered Harry, - exhaust ...

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

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

The blow of the gong raises Andrei. Georges hurries forward with big steps. The first round did not satisfy him. Although outwardly, it seems that the plan is being carried out: he is driving this Russian around the ring, he is constantly advancing. But it comes without feeling like the master of the situation. He attacks, but not as he would like, hits, but almost all the blows go to waste. The enemy escapes all the time. What the hell does that mean?

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

Andrei beat him against, beat him in the head with his left hand, from the bottom up. And then, as if in pursuit of his left hand, he threw his right fist forward.

Georges's face turned red. His eyes were bloodshot. He stopped for a moment, as if in perplexity, and again rushed forward.

Bravo! - screamed green.

Andrei, turning pale, stepped towards Georges. They grabbed in the center of the ring, converged on middle distance showering each other with a barrage of blows. Georges beat him more often. It seemed that he had turned into a man of three hands: his blows rained down from all sides.

But Andrei did not back down. I didn’t leave. He was fighting! And that was enough for the politicians to finally express their feelings.

Beat the greens!

And everyone understood: the decisive moment had come. Andrey has changed. He is all collected, stingy in movements and, at the same time, acts quickly, accurately and calmly. He is will. He is one clenched fist. And, despite the blows, which more and more often broke through the defense, Andrei stubbornly increased the pace of the battle. The pace increased with every second. So two oncoming waves collide and, without retreating, foaming, boiling and pushing each other up.

Spectators express their feelings noisily. Both the political and the greens worry, shout, argue. There is a continuous hum over the clearing. Twice the judge in the ring shouted "break" ("step back") and wagged his finger at Georges. He, violating the rules of the competition, beat Andrei with an open glove, elbow, pushed, tried to strike even with his foot.

Punish him! - the political ones demand.

Judge down! - 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 ran cowardly for the entire first round, does not retreat, but goes to meet him heavy blows? And why the hell don't Georges' fists hit, don't hit the target? After all, the chin of the Russian is almost near ...

The machine gun, trained for years, could not think, analyze the course of the battle. Especially in a battle with an extremely high rate. Georges became angry. And the Russian "goner", as Georges contemptuously called him, felt like a fish in water. He found himself now to the right and then to the left of Georges and was still in the center of the ring. He did not retreat. I did not concede. And he invariably fought at a medium distance, at a distance that seemed to be beneficial to Georges and not to him, Andrei. What's going on? Which of them is attacking? Who is defending? Who the hell is fighting?

Georges was confused for a moment. And he tried to get out of the battlefield in order to look around, to understand the situation. But he did not 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 fighting. Andrei, straining all his will, collecting all his energy and calmness, waited patiently in a whirlwind of attacks, waited for this moment. He waited for Georges to forget about caution, forget about protection for a tenth of a second. And this moment has come!

No sooner had Georges made a short step back, as a blow to the body caught up with him. Georges instinctively put his hands down - he was used to Andrei hitting with paired strikes. But this time the hit to the body was a "feint" - a deception. As soon as Georges's hand slipped down, at the same second Andrei's right glove drew a short semicircle of a side blow to the chin. Andrei put into this blow all his strength and hatred of the enemy.

The blow was so fast that the audience could not see it. And for them it was completely unexpected and incomprehensible that Georges, with an absurd wave of 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 hands down. Then, when Charles, waving his hand widely, counted out nine seconds and shouted "out", the audience exploded. The Greens jumped up from their seats. How? Champion of Germany, let former champion, but still the Aryan, German, national pride of Buchenwald, lost to some Russian "goner" ?!

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

They hugged Andrey, kissed him, 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 the novel by G. Sviridov "The Ring Behind Barbed Wire" was the sports and combat fate of the champion of Uzbekistan in boxing Andrey Borzenko... He was an artilleryman. He was taken prisoner seriously wounded. He ran three times - he was caught. In Buchenwald Borzenko became a member underground organization, participated in the preparation of the uprising in the death camp. And when the camp was liberated, he again went to the front. 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 of the all-union category.

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

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

Tunisian Flyweight Professional Boxer weight category... He is the WBA World Champion.

Born in the Jewish quarter 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 Champion. From the 30s he lived in Paris. On September 21, 1943, he was captured by the Nazis and, as a foreign citizen of Jewish origin, was transported first to the Drancy transfer camp, from there to Auschwitz. Killed on January 21, 1945 in the Gleiwitz concentration camp. In 2013, the film "Cruel Ring" about the fate of a Jewish boxer was released on the world screens.

Tense seconds pass, and hairs glowed in the lamp. There was a quiet, characteristic noise from a working radio. Seems to work!

The friends glanced at each other happily. Alexei hastily puts on his headphones. Noise is heard. Some crackles are heard. Alexey turns the tuning knob. Now he will hear Moscow! But the noise doesn't stop. Lysenko strains the ear, but the receiver does not catch anything other than noise. Friends understood everything from Alexei's scowling face.

- Give me, - Zheleznyak nervously puts headphones to his ear. Turns the tuning knob. He listens for a long time, but nothing similar to human speech is heard from the air to the music. Vyacheslav, sighing, holds out the headphones to Leonid. - On…

Drapkin waved his hand.

- Do not…

There was a gloomy silence. Only the receiver squeaked treacherously. The prisoners looked at the device for a long time, and everyone thought hard. Yes, the receiver, despite all their efforts, did not come to life, did not "speak". This means that there is an inaccuracy in the assembly. Something was put wrong, wrong. But what is the mistake? Where is she? None of them could answer this painful question ...

Fatigue, accumulated over five sleepless nights, fell on my shoulders at once.

Hiding the receiver, the friends silently went to their barrack. The way back, for the first time in five nights, seemed endless to them.

In the washroom, before going to his bunks, Lysenko said:

- Still, it works. You just need to find a radio operator. Present.

Chapter two

SS Major Dr. Adolph Gauvin smoothed his light brown hair with a small hand, pulled up his jacket, and stepped into the waiting room of the Buchenwald concentration camp commandant. The lower ranks jumped up together and stretched out. The major answered the greetings with a casual nod and walked over to the adjutant's desk. The adjutant, who had long since grown up from lieutenant age, but still wore the Untersturmführer's epaulettes, 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, full of health senior lieutenant of the SS.

The major haughtily walked through the wide reception room, hung up his cap, sat down in an armchair by the open window, took out a gold cigarette case and lit a cigarette.

The adjutant was saying something to Gust and looked askance at the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. The major saw that the Untersturmführer was busy not so much with a conversation as with his hair. Bungeller prided himself on having some resemblance to Hitler and was constantly concerned about his appearance. I dyed my mustache twice a week. He styled his hair shiny from brilliantine every minute. But the hard forelock did not lie on the forehead, like the Fuhrer's, but protruded as a visor.

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

The doctor made himself comfortable in the chair. Well, let's wait. A year ago, when work at the Hygienic Institute, of which he, Major Gauvin, was only getting better, when threatening telegrams came from Berlin one after another, demanding the speedy expansion of the production of anti-typhoid serum, a call to the commandant did not bode well.

Then the adjutant Hans Bungeller greeted the doctor with a kind smile and out of turn let him see the colonel. And now ... Success always arouses envy, Govin thought, and even more so if this success is promoted by a woman, and even such as Frau Elsa. The colonel's wife treated him favorably, everyone knew that about Govin, he was not indifferent to her. And not only him. In the entire SS division "Death's Head", which carried the guards of the concentration camp, there was no German who, upon meeting with the mistress of Buchenwald, would not lose his composure. And this capricious ruler of men's hearts all the time invented something and commanded. At the whim of Frau Elsa, thousands of prisoners in a few months built an arena for her. Soon she got bored of prancing on a stallion dressed as an Amazon. A new hobby has appeared. Elsa decided to become a trendsetter. She saw a tattoo on the prisoners, and it occurred to her to make unique gloves and a handbag. Such that no one in the whole world! Of tattooed human skin. Major Gauvin, without shuddering, undertook to fulfill the wild fantasy of the erratic mistress of Buchenwald. Under his direction, Dr. Wagner produced the first handbag and gloves. And what? I liked the novelty! The wives of some important officials wished to have exactly the same. Orders for handbags, gloves, lampshades, book covers even began to come from Berlin. I had to open a secret workshop in the pathological department. Frau Elsa's patronage elevated and strengthened the position of the major. He became free and almost independent in front of Buchenwald's commandant, SS Colonel Karl Koch, who had a direct telephone connection with the office of Reichskommissar Himmler himself. The name of Koch thrilled the whole 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 felt the tight muscles of the triangular back, the trained biceps of the senior lieutenant, his muscular neck, on which his blond head proudly held. Gust listened absent-mindedly to the adjutant and idly tapped a flexible transparent glass on the lacquered boot. And with every move right hand a black diamond sparkled on her little finger. Gauvin knew the value of jewelry. Boy! Robbed and brags. Puppy!

Gauvin glanced at his watch - he had been waiting for an appointment for fifteen minutes. Who has been sitting with the colonel for so long? Is it the chief of the Gestapo, Le Clayre? If he is, then the devil take it for another hour.

The doctor began to look out the window. Lagerführer SS Captain Max Schubert strolls along the sunny side of the road paved with white stone. He unbuttoned his uniform and took off his cap. The bald head glitters in the sun like a billiard ball. Nearby, his head slightly bent, walks a tall red-haired SS lieutenant Walpner. He juts out his chest, which gleams a brand new First Class Iron Cross.

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

Schubert stopped and beckoned someone. Gauvin saw an old man in striped clothes of a political prisoner, obsequiously bent over before the campführer. It was Kushnir-Kushnarev. The doctor hated this hired provocateur with a flabby face and dull eyes of a drug addict. Gauvin knew that Kushnir-Kushnarev was a tsarist general and held the post of assistant minister in the Kerensky government. Thrown out by the October Revolution, he fled to Germany, where he squandered the remnants of his fortune, went down, served as a doorman in a famous brothel, was bought by British intelligence and captured by the Gestapo. In Buchenwald, he led a miserable life before the war with Soviet Russia. When Soviet prisoners of war began to enter the concentration camp, the former general became a translator, and then, showing diligence, "got a promotion" - he became a provocateur.

Kushnir-Kushnarev handed Schubert a piece of paper. Govin, 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 one for you penalty team... Hopefully it won't last more than a week.

The lieutenant hid the paper.

- Yavol! Will be done!

Schubert turned to the agent.

“Not at all, 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 not happy with you. You are not working well.

“I'm doing my best, Herr Captain.

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

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 "The Ring of the Barbed Wire", "Daring Raid", "Jackson Stays in Russia", "Victory Is Not Easy", "In the Summer of the Forty-First", "Standing to the Last", "Diamond Hunters", "Time of Retribution" , "Sentenced 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 world languages, 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 multivolume collected works entirely devoted to military-sports topics. It can also be represented 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 brotherhood” went down in the history of Russian sports as the “golden decade”. It was then that our masters of leather gloves won invariably first places in world and European rings, including in Olympic Games, pushing aside eminent Americans, for a long time becoming trendsetters in the ring.

(Continued in the next issue)
In the pictures: Georgy SVIRIDOV presents the novel "Ring Behind Barbed Wire" to Marshal of the Soviet Union Konev. 1967 Georgy SVIRIDOV and Kostya Ju. 2004 G. SVIRIDOV, T. STEVENSON. 2003 r.