Eight

The Pope! How many divisions has he got?

Josef Stalin

November. A year now at the glassworks, months of feeding the furnaces, of sweeping broken cullet, the hissing and clanking of wet blocks and pontils. As he walks home, the wind comes barrelling down the street like a fist, whirling up dead leaves, pushing people off stride, their eyes stinging. The street lamps cast a yellowish glow against the evening sky, the smell of tar and diesel lingering from the day, and he pulls his jacket up against the wind.

A commotion down the street. He cranes his neck. A thin man in a black suit is running, dodging in and out of crowds, doubling around a tram. After him, stouter, panting, a man in a uniform — militsiya, local police — shouting as he runs.

Stop him. Stop him.

The thin man is closer now, and Drozd leaps into the street, grabs him. The man twists in his grasp with surprising strength, but he holds on.

The man turns towards him, his glasses broken. The tailor — the soup, the jacket. The man begins to say something, but the officer draws up, gasping for breath.

Vermin, he says between gasps, his hands on his knees. A traitor. Hold on to him.

In a minute, he has caught his breath, and he leads them down the street, Drozd still gripping the tailor with both hands. The tailor has taken off his broken glasses, and he stares at the young man, his black-brown eyes willing him to turn, to loosen his grasp.

My daughter, the tailor says quietly.

The young man looks away from him, feeling a faint prick of something old, something unidentifiable.

Soup mit nisht, we call it.

This man, he has done something wrong? he says to the officer.

A Bundist, a Jew, he says. An enemy of the revolution. Isn’t that enough? And when I tried to arrest him at his place, he ran.

He notices the prisoner staring at the young man.

You know him? he says. Maybe we should put you in a cell, too. Maybe you’re a counter-revolutionary. Or a Bundist too.

No, no, says the young man hastily, kicking the prisoner’s legs.

At the militsiya headquarters, the prisoner is taken away, his face set into a mix of fear and stoicism.

I’m looking for work, says the young man.

We don’t hire the likes of you, says the officer abruptly.

I’m strong and fast, he says. I can drive. I can help you with the prisoners. Or anything else. I can wash the floors. I don’t need much money.

Go away, says the man, who is bored by this already.

I can read and write.

You? You can read and write? says the man sarcastically. Read that, then.

He points to a sign on the wall.

All officers must report to the serzhant at the beginning of the shift.

···

What’s this? says the captain — a pitted face — looking at the young man contemptuously. A thief?

He says he can read and write, he read the sign on the wall.

The captain studies him.

How old are you?

Eighteen, says the young man, as boldly as he can.

The captain raises his eyebrows.

···

When he tells the glassworks director, the man seems relieved. No one else says a word to him, not goodbye, not farewell, not godspeed. Nothing, nothing at all.

···

The bookstore, an old, woody smell. He gapes at the rows of shelves stuffed with books, more than he had ever imagined. Some of the shelves are bowed under their weight, and the books spill over, stacked on tables, piled on the floor. He is hoping to find something to expand the number of words he knows, to learn as much as he can in a hurry. All around him, people are peering at the shelves, fingering the volumes, almost stroking the pages. But they are better dressed than he is; he feels clumsy, an intruder in this place, his hands and feet suddenly too large again. He grabs something — anything — off the top of a pile, pays for it, and flees.

That evening, he opens it up, begins studying it carefully, the black print marching across the page like distant people across a snowy field. To his disgust, it turns out to be a school book about geology, filled with incomprehensible ideas, words he will never use — mantle, crust, continental drift. But if he concentrates on the smaller words, the shorter sentences, it is useful enough.

And if his halting reading now is based on rock formations and psalms, he is still more literate than some of the militsiya officers in his squad. Even though he is only a clerk, an errand boy, someone who does what he is asked, any task that needs doing. He delivers messages and papers, keeps lists of prisoners, brings the officers hot tea and cigarettes, cleans their boots, banging off the dried mud. A surprising number of them crave sweets — curd buns, sugared cranberries, biscuits — and he scours the stores for these, bringing back what he can find.

All the while, he studies them surreptitiously, deciphering their ranks, names, the procedures they follow. He will not make the same mistake he made at the glassworks, he will make himself one of them. He will form alliances, he will use these links between people — how they talk to each other, how they think about each other — for himself.

He helps them fill out their reports — a waste of time, they say — although he can see that some of them have difficulty with the words. They are not embarrassed by this; if anything, some of them see reading and writing as a little suspect, unmanly, too close to the despised elite. The real work of a policeman: arrests, convictions for the steady flow of thefts, assaults, armed robberies, now and then a murder. Sometimes they are pressed into service for the arrest of a traitor, or a kulak, but these are usually the province of the NKVD.

Several of them are lazy — he spots this early on. Plodders, some of them, too, although this is all much of the work requires. And closer up, he sees that a few of them are less than well turned out — a frayed collar here, a missing button, a stain on a tunic. But together, they know almost everything that goes on in the city, they have their own internal maps — the gambling, the brothels, the warehouses, the municipal officials taking bribes.

Sometimes they even have their fingers in these things, but they are all immersed in the city, an extension of it. A living part of its noisy streets, they are on a first name basis with these neighbourhoods — their eyes hard with knowing, their ears filled with the murmur of a thousand conversations.

They tolerate him — he is useful, he is no threat — they talk in front of him as if he was not there. They gripe about the food shortages, about the latest housing directives, the queues. They have no particular hostility towards the men they arrest; often they know them, especially the petty offenders, the swindlers, the ones with contraband, the small-time thieves. Nuisances, they consider them, reserving their strength for more serious crimes.

The captain is foul-mouthed but gregarious, a man who spends his time fostering his links with the people who matter, who have influence — this committee member, that regional administrator, the chair of the district council. Playing whist with the head of prosecutions, drinking with a group of local judges. A master of subtle favours and bargains, he has developed a network of people — and things — as intricate as a local economy.

Better for us, the men say to each other, taking comfort in the idea that he might be able to protect them from political swings and shifts, from the fitful whims of bureaucrats. And it means he has no time to be a hard taskmaster with them, to punish every rule infraction.

Drozd listens to it all, soaking up every piece of information, hoarding it as if it were money. He makes little headway on his plans to get to know them, though, to build alliances — they see him as of no consequence, worth nothing, and his overtures are too awkward, too patently insincere.

Then, a few months later, it all changes.

···

The man — arrogant-looking — is sprawled in the chair in the captain’s office, nonchalant, his legs extended in his black boots. A khaki coat, dark breeches, his peaked hat with the NKVD insignia on the desk. Through the half window in the office door, they can see the captain looking strained, shifting uneasily in his chair. Now his voice is raised, his hands apart in a gesture of irritation, exasperation.

Always trying to take our men, to recruit people, says one of the officers.

But he says it with a thin skin of resentment, in a way that suggests he would like to be recruited himself.

They never have enough officers, says another. But we are short here as well.

The voices in the office continue on, lower now. One of the officers moves a little closer, almost involuntarily, the temptation to try to hear something overwhelming. But now the captain is opening a bottle of vodka, pouring it into glasses. The two men raise their glasses in a toast, and drink them back.

Then the captain is at the office door, crooking his finger at Drozd. The officers look at him with astonishment. The clerk? The errand boy? This is who they want?

In the captain’s office, he tries to stand up straighter as the NKVD man studies him.

You sure he reads and writes? he says dubiously.

Wordlessly, the captain puts a directive in front of him, and he begins to read out loud.

Fine, says the man after a second.

Turn around, he says to the young man, making a twirling gesture with his hand.

He turns once, twice.

He will do.

The captain is scowling, though. This bargain — a clerk instead of an officer — is his idea, but he is still reluctant to lose him.

He makes himself useful.

You want to serve the revolution? says the NKVD officer.

···

Tonight the stars are black, silent, their light trapped behind murky clouds. But darkness is better for men who are sleeping. Although he is only half-asleep, struggling with his blanket, which has become tangled and twisted around his legs. He is dreaming that he is climbing out of the river, scrabbling at the riverbank, but the reeds in the water have wrapped around him, pulling him down, the mud sucking at his feet. He wakes with a jolt, and remembers. The NKVD. The NKVD. Not an officer, only a clerk, but still — the NKVD. Perhaps it will pay better, he will find another room, another step up, away from the stale smell of other men, the stink of their unwashed clothes.

Elsewhere in the city, under the darkened stars, in another house: a young woman in a pink and black camisole, exhausted. The last client gone for the evening, a rough man, but he pays well. She is mumbling in her sleep, fragments, dreaming of clothes, the dacha, the children she will have. Under the bedclothes she throws out her arm, turns over on her side. And they will all live.

Even without the clouds, the light from the stars would not have reached the tailor, down in a cell at the militsiya station. Lying on the foul-smelling floor, his body aching. He is dreaming of a daughter too, dreaming of the village where he grew up — a poor place, a place of hard earth and bare faith. And a swing — two ropes and a piece of fence board — under a hornbeam tree, the trunk splaying into root nodes. The ground beneath it scrubby, nearby a patch of campion, the buds on the silvery-grey stalks almost open. He and the little girl stand there, looking at the swing, until she puts her small hand in his and then, unable to contain herself, gives a silent wriggle. He picks her up and sets her on the swing, shows her how to hold on, wrapping her little fists around the ropes. He gives her a push, and the swing begins moving.

At first she is hesitant, uncertain. Then the motion begins to take hold of her, and then to enchant her, up and down, back and forth. A shy smile comes across her face. Higher, she says, and he pushes harder, up and down, back and forth. Higher, she says.

Hold on, he says. Hold on tight.

He gives her another push.

Her silky hair is flying out behind her, her small legs kicking the air, moving in and out of the shafts of sun. The tree branch is bent, the leaves brushing against the ropes as the swing rises, the sunlight filtering through them. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He sees the blur of her dress as a small laugh bubbles from her, he smells the rotting acorns below, the powdery odour of the years drifting around her. This inquisitive child, this child with darting hands, this child so full of stories — the delicate lines of her face alone enough to break his heart.

···

These officers could not be more different from the militsiya. Russian to the bone, to the marrow of the bone, convinced of their superiority, contemptuous of this city, this country. A dead-eyed captain, morose, stained teeth, distant from the men.

The NKVD headquarters for Minsk voblast. The men think of themselves as ruthless, although even he can see that some of them are not. But these are also the ones who are rowdy, who crack jokes, who mock the prisoners, who invent crude nicknames for them. A good enough bargain, the others seem to think. And they are all convinced that they are the select, the finest — the eagles of the revolution. A low-pitched swagger hangs in the air.

Peasants, says the chauffeur bitterly. They think Belarusians are peasants.

He is cleaning the vans, they require constant sluicing out, wiping down. More often than not, vomit, blood, mud, urine. This is the garage where they take their breaks — the local recruits, chauffeurs, couriers, guards, the lower end of this machinery.

Some of them are better than others, says Drozd.

Who?

Sidorenko.

Sidorenko is a young officer, greasy-haired, beefy. Sometimes he imparts bits of information to Drozd through an almost closed mouth, although only when no one is nearby. If the other officers are close, he is contemptuous, dismissive.

Who do they think they are? says the chauffeur, wiping the door of the van.

An army, says one of the guards, his German shepherd curled at his feet. They think they are an army. Some of them were in the military before.

An army? says the chauffeur. Better than that, they think they are little gods.

He wrings out his cloth into a bucket, wipes his hands, and then lights a cigarette.

Bellyachers, thinks Drozd. Gripers. He wonders whether he should be talking with these men, then remembers his resolve to make allies.

They think they are so strong, so hard, says the guard.

But they are strong, says Drozd. They are hard.

Not all of them, says the chauffeur. Look at Nikonov. Or Plisetsky. Spineless. And what makes a man hard? A uniform? You would look hard with a gun, too.

He rubs his forehead with the back of his large thumb, cigarette between his fingers.

Drozd looks around apprehensively.

They never come down here, says the chauffeur. Never.

···

More paperwork, more errands. He fills out forms, files documents, tags evidence, brings the officers whatever they want. With each edict, each directive, he becomes more fluent in the language of this twisted system. Kulak. Saboteur. Class enemy. Follow the true path. Stay alert. Trust no one. The words are seductive, their belligerence, their echoes of betrayal. Trust no one. But even the daily memos are codes for a better life. Monthly rotas. Care of uniforms. Winter hours.

He watches the officers closely again — if anything, more closely. He sees who mutters to someone under his breath, who snickers at someone’s jokes, who nods or makes knowing gestures of derision, of malice. He fixes these tiny moments, this information in his mind, saving them for the day when they might be useful or necessary. The more he does for them, the more he attempts to earn their respect, though, the more disdainful they become.

These things take time, he says to himself. They do not know me yet. They will see. A little more time, and they will see how valuable I am, that I am made of the same cloth as they are.

If they think they are little gods, though, they are little gods that drink. He has seen his father swig samahon endlessly, but even so, he is impressed by their capacity. Drinking is forbidden during the day, although the hour of vodka creeps backwards from time to time. And almost every night, they are out, drinking until their tongues thicken, their eyes become slits, their hands clumsy — knocking over glasses, dropping bottles.

A different form, a different manner of drunkenness for each one. Sidorenko becomes gradually tight, edging into it slowly, more and more loutish. The serzhant shows no signs of being affected at all until, suddenly, he is unutterably exhausted, he falls asleep where he sits. Another officer becomes first acidic, then silent; Plisetsky becomes clammily sentimental.

We are the defence of millions.

Who can blame them? says the captain dourly, arguing with someone on the telephone. They need something. What they have to do to get these traitors to confess.

What they have to do. Impossible to avoid hearing the sounds from the interrogation rooms — the screaming, the crying, the pleading. Even a strange smell, as if fear and pain had their own scent, mixed with the acrid smell of floor cleaner.

Physical measures of persuasion are very effective, says the directive.

You will get used to it, says Sidorenko in a low voice. Sometimes it takes a while, but you will get used to it. None of them are innocent. None of them. If they are arrested, they are guilty. Otherwise, it would be a disaster — the officer made a mistake, a mistake he cannot afford to make.

He mimes a quick slashing motion across the front of his neck, so fast it is almost unnoticeable.

And the shame, the weakness of not getting a confession, he adds.

Confessions. Everything revolves around them, the core of the work. They are powerful, adaptable — they work backwards to justify the arrests, the interrogations, they work forwards to justify the sentences. Usually there is no other evidence against the prisoners, unless it is the confession of a previous suspect naming them. But this lack of other evidence does not suggest innocence.

Not at all, says Sidorenko. This is proof of the cunning of these traitors, these saboteurs. How well they cover their tracks.

The young man is impressed with this airtight way of thinking, the simplicity of it — every angle connected. It makes sense to him, a clean, hard sense. He is less convinced by the idea that this is part of something loftier — the fight against the turncoats, the spies, the treasonists, to protect the revolution. This is not how he thinks, the idea of lending himself to something like this, but he adopts it as part of the currency of the place. And the idea that if there is a fight, it must be ferocious, absolute — that the rot must be cut out — this, this is persuasive.

Drozd, says the captain, a few months later. He is standing by a cabinet in his office. At ease, he says. New duties for you.

His tone implies this is an honour, an elevation of some kind, although there is no more money, no other title. And his eyes are as dead-cold as ever.

A shortage of officers.

Now he will be working more with the prisoners, writing down their confessions, their denunciations of friends and families. He will be going in and out of the interrogation rooms now, something new. He will assist the officers, taking down statements, reading them back before they sign. The men are more literate here than the militsiya, but his help will speed things up.

This is how I am trusted, he thinks.

One step closer to being an officer. His withered sense of pride inflates.

···

The man is naked, propped up on a chair, his body blotched with bruises, one arm twisted at an awkward angle. His face is swollen, an eye almost closed.

Another one ready to confess, says Sidorenko. He is tired, sweaty, rubbing his shoulder, running his hand through his greasy hair.

Take this down, put it in the usual language. He says he engaged in anti-Soviet agitation, sabotage, and terrorist activities. He says Dzmitry Kuzmich was also involved, that he did these things as well.

Drozd writes it down laboriously on the pad he has been given, couching it in the formal terms of other confessions.

Sign it, says Sidorenko, propping the man up further, putting the pen in the man’s hand and curling his fingers around it. The man, barely conscious, scrawls something.

Take him back to the cells, and then clean up in here. The night cleaners can wash the floor, but wipe the rest of it down, straighten it up.

The blood on the truncheon. Half-mugs of cold tea. Lengths of rope.

Take the coat and the boots, bring them upstairs, but leave him the shirt, the pants.

He goes out, still rubbing his shoulder.

Get up, says Drozd to the prisoner.

The man makes an attempt to do it, and then collapses back in the chair.

Get up, he says more loudly.

The man is clearly feigning weakness. The clerk feels a surge of anger — he is being hindered in his new duties.

The man makes a small gesture with his unbroken arm, a gesture of helplessness, hopelessness. He makes another effort, but falls off the chair, barely able to put out a hand to catch his fall. Then he lies motionless on the floor of the cell, half on his side, half on his back, his eyes closed.

Get up, Drozd yells.

He erupts in rage, grabs the truncheon, and bangs it against the wall.

The man begins to shiver uncontrollably, and then stops.

Drozd half pulls the man up, looping his arm around his neck. The slack body hangs against his own as he drags him towards the cells. The touch of the man’s naked arm against his neck, his sour breath, the smell of urine, is repulsive.

The man tries to say something, almost inaudible.

What? says Drozd. Perhaps he has more to confess.

The man whispers again.

What? says Drozd more loudly.

The man makes a small hissing sound. Drozd puts his ear closer to the man’s mouth.

Lies.

···

Take the coat, the boots.

Plisetsky has disappeared. Overnight, he is gone, his chair empty, his desk bare, no other traces of him. As if he had never existed, never sat there, rolling peppermints around in his mouth, complaining about the prisoners. A blank space, a hole in the air.

The captain, his coarse face more impassive than usual.

A coat has been found, he says meaningfully. A coat with a name in it, one of the prisoners. The family saw it for sale in the market.

The officers look uneasy.

The person responsible has been punished, he says deliberately.

He gives nothing away, although he manages to convey knowledge and denial in the same breath.

I have received orders, he says pointedly. I have been ordered to ensure this does not happen again. No coats, no boots, no jackets, no clothing. No selling of possessions. It undermines our reputation, the honour of the force.

Silence.

Is this understood?

···

Piles of clothes, linen shirts, shoes, leather belts, wool jerseys, gloves. Wallets, rings, eyeglasses, watches, most of them turned into rubles. What are they to do with them, after all? Give them to the families of traitors, enemies of the people? What have they done to earn these things?

We deserve it, they say to each other. This is hard work, hard on the body, hard on the mind. Dirty work, we are fighting a war, we are on the front lines. Not like some fat-gutted bureaucrat, setting the price of wheat. We are the NKVD, the highest and first sons of the revolution. Away from our homes, eating rotten food, sleeping in cramped quarters. What we have to do. We need the money, for drink, for whores, for comfort. We deserve it.

At least we can still use their rubles — if not their wallets, at least the contents of their wallets.

Money has no name on it.

···

One evening, Drozd finds Plisetsky’s badge, slipped behind a drawer in his desk. He pockets it quickly. Wherever the man is, he has no need of this.

···

What happened to the tailor? says Leah.

What tailor? says Drozd.

The one who gave you the soup.

Him? He was slime. Less than slime.

He was another human being. He was kind to you.

Human beings are worth nothing, a Jew even less. Pigs. And why does it matter to you so much? Who are you to judge me?

···

The doctrine of rescue. The owner and captain of a boat invited a number of friends on a cruise. One fell overboard into the freezing water, another jumped in to rescue him. Both died, but the owner was held not to be responsible. There is no general duty to rescue in common law, says Justice Jessop. One can smoke a cigarette on the beach while a neighbour drowns, and without a word of warning watch a child or blind person walk into certain danger.