Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  On the ground. Temerity thought of the giant fowls’ feet of Baba Yaga’s cottage tramping up dust.

  Neville jabbed his finger at Moscow. —Redemption, Miss West. You’ve got the language.

  — Will I have any contacts?

  — Ah, well, it seems we’ve run into some difficulty there.

  — What?

  — People disappear in Russia.

  Temerity took a deep breath. —Passive listening, observe and report?

  Neville pursed his lips, licked them, clicked his tongue. —A little deeper. Short romance abroad, that sort of thing. An NKVD man would be ideal.

  She gave a start. —Freeman.

  — You’re not going to tell me you’re worried about your virtue? I am well aware you’ve obtained precautions. After all, you didn’t want the pitter-patter of little Brownbury-Rees feet.

  The doctor’s disdain as he’d fitted Temerity for a cervical cap, his cynical comments on the loose wedding band she wore and on his own burden of conflicted conscience: Department-issued ring? It keeps me awake at night, you know, granting contraception in the name of king and country to unmarried women who then defile themselves.

  Cheeks burning, Temerity forced herself to look Neville in the eye. —You think some battered old Chekist will risk a bullet to the head for thirty seconds between my legs?

  — Men have risked far more for such a pleasure.

  She stared at her glass.

  Then she nodded.

  Neville clapped his hands together. —Excellent. Steamer to Leningrad, rail to Moscow. Write nothing down, not even in cipher, because you’d not want to be found with ciphered notes in Russia, now, would you? Our cryptanalysis shows regular interference with the post, so letters, even to the embassy, are out, except as a very last resort. You’ll have two passports but only one set of matching travel papers. They’ll be in the name of Margaret Bush. Oh, I did have fun inventing her. Margaret Bush is not on speaking terms with her family except for her dear Auntie Agatha. So write to auntie once you’ve arrived to let her know you’re settled in, and, if things do seem to be going a bit wrong, get word to the embassy about coming down with flu.

  — Flu? But you just said—

  — Oh, don’t goggle at me like that. Get in, charm some poor bastard until he tells everything he knows, get out. We’ll have your return tickets booked. By the time you come back, any concerns here about you leaving your post in Spain will have blown over. Yes, yes, I know, you did your best. Just keep your Margaret Bush travel papers and passport separate from your Temerity West passport. If worse comes to worst, you might need your real self. The Bolshies don’t know one end of a British passport from the other, but our own embassy wallahs might spot the fake, and if you need their help, then you’ll need that real passport. Of course, it won’t come to that. I don’t mind saying, I jolly well wish I could go, too, if only to snap a few photos of St. Basil’s in Red Square. Do you know how Ivan the Terrible kept the architect’s secrets? He ordered the man’s tongue hacked out and his hands cut off.

  Temerity knew that to be apocryphal nonsense. She also knew that Neville had mispronounced Ivan. Too weary to argue, she faked interest by nodding.

  Neville smiled, pleased to get such a reaction. —Chin up. You’ll be fine. Just mind your own hands and tongue. That’s a joke, Miss West. Perhaps you’ll appreciate it when you’re feeling better.

  [ ]

  DOG’S HEADS AND BROOMSTICKS 1

  Moscow

  Tuesday 25 May

  Grey and green, grey and green, grey and green: the colours of the room looked like phlegm coughed up during flu. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, even the bench where he slouched stripped interest and desire from Kostya’s mind and seemed to press, press, press. This tedium only sharpened the pain in his shoulder. Several hours now with no food, no water, no cigarettes, no toilet, no one to speak with, nothing to read: just him and this locked room at Moscow-Leningradsky Station. It didn’t look like an office. Or a broom closet. Or a tiny canteen for workers to eat meals. It looked like an interrogation room, and waiting here, for the first time the prisoner and not the secret police officer, fake identification confiscated, all certainties upended, reminded Kostya of how he felt the day he nearly drowned as young child. He’d not understood that he was drowning. Bubbles surrounded him, wobbling in their ascent to the surface, and as he followed their path, he saw tree branches and sky. When he reached for a bubble and missed, his fingertips now ten, twenty, thirty centimetres from the surface, he recognized first the reversal of expectations and then his peril. I can’t touch the air, he thought, and I can’t feel the bottom. Is this dangerous? Then, as he panicked, a fury of bubbles flew past his face and broke the surface, and his grandfather reached into the water and hauled him out.

  For what seemed like the hundredth time, Kostya pushed his long hair out of his face and combed through his beard with the fingers of his right hand. His left arm, out of the sling but still weak, lay close to his side. His body and clothes still smelled of delousing gas, and his skin felt itchy and bitten.

  Time slugged past.

  Despite his fears, he dozed.

  The scrape of a key in the lock woke him up.

  An NKVD captain entered, his tailored uniform obscuring his growing paunch, his body language speaking of old discipline and graceful strength. His close-cropped hair, blond with some grey, looked as coarse as beard stubble; his hazel eyes, surrounded by squint lines, seemed gentle. He carried nothing in his hands.

  Kostya stood up and saluted.

  Boris removed his cap and placed it on the table. —At ease, Konstantin Arkadievich. Sit down.

  Startled by his first name and patronymic instead of surname, this captain a stranger, after all, Kostya obeyed.

  — I’m Boris Aleksandrovich Kuznets, and I’m sorry. I meant to be here hours ago.

  — Am I under arrest?

  — Whatever for?

  — Comrade Captain, I—

  — We’re alone. You may call me Boris Aleksandrovich.

  Kostya had never invited a prisoner to call him by name and patronymic. —Ah, thank you, Boris Aleksandrovich.

  Boris studied him. —Are you ill?

  — I’m fine, just concerned.

  — Why?

  — My recall from Spain.

  Boris shook his head. —Your gift with languages was recognized and put to use. Later, it was felt you’d served long enough and deserved to come home. It’s been ten months. You did want to come home?

  — Of course.

  — Very good, but keep it all quiet, for now. Consider your little evacuation a rehearsal.

  Kostya blinked several times. —With respect, we got children free of a war zone. How is that theatre?

  — Now we know Spanish children, or at least the boys, will survive the journey this far north. Some of our scientists thought a Spaniard with his southern blood might freeze to death on the way. There are still concerns about the winter, but now that we know they’re hardy enough to travel we can save many more of them and show the Western powers how to treat refugees. I don’t understand why you’re upset. It got you home.

  Kostya felt himself bare of old expectations. NKVD agents did not form emotional connections. If they did, they could not best perform their duties. Admitting why he felt upset meant admitting a weakness. He said it anyway. —I didn’t say goodbye.

  Boris leaned forward, eyes concerned. —Goodbye?

  — I sailed with those boys for two weeks. I got to know them. I told them stories, I taught them to say Russian phrases, and I started them on the alphabet. And I told them that no one, no one, has the right to call them bezprizorniki, because a human being is not now, not ever, a stray dog. When we got to Leningrad, NKVD officers separated us. I got searched, and the boys got marched away.

  — Anyone who returns get searched, Konstantin Arkadievich.

  — It wasn’t the search. I just…

  — You’re tired. Do y
ou need a moment? Tell me about the injury to your arm.

  — Shoulder. Almost a month ago. Gerrikaitz.

  Boris held out his hands, asking for more.

  — The twenty-sixth of April. The Luftwaffe bombed Gerrikaitz in the morning, then Gernika in the afternoon. It’s in my preliminary report. I know it’s brief, but it’s hard to write at sea.

  — That’s fine. And Minenkov?

  Kostya traced his fingertip around a whorl in the table. Misha.

  — Konstantin Arkadievich, I know what you wrote, but I need to hear you say it. Where did you last see Mikhail Petrovich Minenkov?

  — Gerrikaitz. The morning of the bombing.

  — And after the bombing?

  Kostya shook his head.

  Taking a deep breath, Boris shifted his weight on the bench. —I need you to come into Lubyanka tomorrow, for a more formal debriefing with myself and another captain. Paperwork. As for me, I’m quite satisfied. Your father’s waiting outside.

  — Who, Balakirev? With respect, Boris Aleksandrovich, Arkady Dmitrievich Balakirev is not my father.

  For just a moment, Boris looked alarmed. —The way he speaks of you, I assumed he was.

  — Many people do. He’s looked after me since I was twelve. I was a bezprizornik, after all.

  — But you told the boys—

  — Not now, not ever, a stray dog. Yes, I told them that. Just like Arkady Dmitrievich told me.

  Boris placed his cap back on his head, and Kostya admired the shade of blue, familiar, yet alien. He owned two such caps. Like the rest of his uniform pieces, they waited in a closet at Arkady’s house. Sitting here, detained for interrogation, however gentle, he felt that he’d never worn such a cap. He had, of course, almost every day for thirteen years now, yet that past self felt as distant as the sky, as the surface of the water on the day he’d nearly drowned.

  Boris looked stern. —A word of advice, Konstantin Arkadievich. You’ve endured hardship in the name of duty, but this is no excuse for allowing emotions to flood the mind. I can tell from your manner of speech you’ve been abroad. You sound loose, and—

  — I—

  — And you interrupt. Don’t.

  After a moment, Kostya nodded.

  Boris reached into the pouch on his portupeya, took out a red leather wallet, and slid it across the table. —Now, let me be the first to welcome you home.

  Kostya picked it up, opened it: his true identification, not the Tikhon fakes. —Thank you.

  Boris tapped on the door to signal to the guard outside to open it, and as they emerged into a larger office, Kostya caught sight of a big man in an NKVD uniform with major’s insignia hunched over in a chair. Thighs almost filling his galife pants, belly harassing the confines of his gymnastyorka and portupeya, Arkady held his cap in his wide hands. His fleshy neck claimed his jawline, and oval spectacles magnified his brown eyes. He’d gone bald on top. The remaining hair, trimmed short on the back of his head and over his ears, showed scattered white hairs in the dark grey. So did his heavy moustache. His eyebrows remained black.

  — Arkady Dmitrievich?

  Arkady looked up, and Kostya almost cried out. Kostya called Arkady old man in his thoughts, had done so since they’d met. Today, Arkady looked the part: sorrowful, worried, worn.

  Arkady pulled on his cap and strode to Kostya, arms wide. —Welcome home, Little Tatar, welcome home.

  Speech fled as the floor crashed into Kostya’s knees.

  Arkady called to Boris. —Kuznets!

  Already hurrying to his next appointment, Boris did not look back. —Tell him ten o’clock tomorrow morning, my office.

  Kostya noticed a buckle-worn spot on Arkady’s portupeya and recalled how amber worry beads once hung there. Then he noticed nothing at all.

  [ ]

  BEDSIDE MANNER

  Friday 28 May

  Arkady Dmitrievich Balakirev loathed doctors. His friend Vadym Minenkov once stated as a scientific fact — after too much vodka — that Arkady felt this way not only as part of the class struggle but as a personal penance. Arkady’s father had been a doctor who then married a wealthy woman, and they’d raised their one child in some luxury. Vadym had further mused on patronymics and how one would hope to love or at least respect one’s father, for one could never be free of his name. Arkady then told Vadym he was full of shit. In truth, Arkady feared doctors, not for their own sake — what, those pathetic intellectuals, those arrogant parasites? — but as signals of mortality and so often helpless.

  Arkady shifted his weight in the wooden chair and looked down at Kostya, dosed with morphine and bromides and receiving fluids by an IV. Tucked away in this private room, Kostya had slept and slept, almost three days now. Rest, every doctor consulted had said, he needs rest. Dr. Scherba, standing on the other side of Kostya’s bed, had not uttered anything so facile, so obvious. Not yet, at least.

  Dr. Efim Scherba, a short man with bright blue eyes, nearly bald with tight greying curls round his ears and the back of his head, studied an X-ray film and did his best to ignore Arkady. This Major Balakirev, his case officer while seconded to Moscow for medical research, reminded Efim of a wild boar: cunning, self-interested, dangerous. The X-ray film, an image of Kostya’s left shoulder and upper arm, showed many tiny pieces of shrapnel, some of it embedded in bone. Efim could guess the patient also suffered from muscle and nerve injury. Sighing, he looked up from the film.

  Arkady raised his heavy eyebrows. —Well?

  Pretending not to hear Arkady, Efim held the X-ray at a different angle and considered his arrival in Moscow a few hours before. He still felt dizzy with the speed of it all. He’d expected to travel to Moscow later in August, with his wife, Olga. Instead, Leningrad NKVD had knocked on his door, told him the new job started immediately, to pack his bag and please hurry. Olga had also grabbed clothes from a closet, only to flinch when an NKVD officer placed a hand on her shoulder: Not you, only the Comrade Doctor. In those last moments of privacy, the NKVD officers kind enough to wait in the hall, Efim and Olga whispered about obedience and risk. It’s morning, Olga pointed out, adding socks to Efim’s pile of undershorts, not night, so it’s not an arrest, and if the university in Moscow needs you now, then you must go. Efim tore shirts from hangers, asking Then why no letter or telegram? Why NKVD at the door? Is it the abortions? Olga tried to fix Efim’s collar, reminding him thousands of doctors had performed abortions when the procedure was legal, so why would NKVD object to that? Neither of them mentioned the several disappeared colleagues and friends. Then Olga insisted she’d be fine, as safe as anyone else in Leningrad. Efim hardly found that comforting. It’s Moscow, not Kolyma, Olga had said as the officers, sounding less polite now, warned Efim they had only a few minutes to catch the train. Olga’s last whisper: Spare me a martyrdom. Just be a good doctor.

  When Efim’s train pulled into Moscow, NKVD officers gathered on the platform. Holster flaps open, they made no attempt at subtlety. One of them, a heavy man in his fifties perhaps, or hard-worn forties, some old Chekist with a thick moustache, and in command — Major Balakirev — spoke with a train guard, and the train guard pointed to Efim’s carriage. As the officers boarded, Arkady scanned the crowd. He spotted his prey, pointed at Efim, then made a chopping gesture with his other hand. The other officers shouted for the passengers to leave, which they did, shoving one another aside in their hurry. Once rid of the passengers, Arkady ordered the other officers to leave and stand guard outside at the carriage doors.

  Arkady then settled himself in the seat next to Efim and asked to see his papers. Before Efim could produce them, Arkady waved his hand and explained that asking for Efim’s papers was just a little joke. I know who you are, Dr. Scherba. Welcome to Moscow. Now let’s get you settled in at Laboratory of Special Purpose Number Two. No, no, it’s not part of the university. Neck cold with sweat, Efim objected, pointed out the mistake. Arkady dug out a wad of folded papers from the pouch on the belt of his portupeya, pressed it flat w
ith his hand, and pointed at a signature. Efim’s signature. Well, a competent forgery signalling his acceptance of the position of senior medical officer at the Laboratory of Special Purpose Number Two. Number Two? Efim asked. Yes, Number Two, Arkady said, plenty of special purpose in Moscow. We need to stop by the hospital first. You’ll find life moves faster here than in Leningrad.

  Now, a few hours later, standing in a room of a Moscow hospital where he had no privileges, his suitcase near the door, Efim stared at an X-ray film and prepared to offer advice.

  Scraping the chair on the floor, Arkady heaved his bulk and stood up. —You’ve had long enough. Tell me what you think.

  — The patient has sustained shrapnel injuries, and he’s exhausted. He can be treated here first, then moved to a rest home.

  Arkady took the X-ray film. —A rest home?

  Efim almost asked for the film back, to confirm the patient’s name, which he must have misread. Nikto? —Proper convalescence, recovery in fresh air and sunshine, plenty of kumis to drink, and no physical strain until he is ready to resume work.

  — He’s ready now.

  — He’s unconscious. And he’s got fourteen pieces of shrapnel in him.

  — Splinters.

  — If nothing else, the strain on his nervous system—

  — His nerves are fine.

  — If you’re so certain, Comrade Major, then why do you ask my opinion?

  Arkady strode to the hand-washing sink and turned on a faucet. Then he took out a lighter, ignited a flame, and held it to the X-ray film. —He needs to work. It’s as simple as…shit!

  The nitrate film burned and melted faster than Arkady expected. He manoeuvred the remnants beneath the water stream. Smoke rose.

  Efim decided not to warn the major that his actions could well clog the drain. Instead, he tried to fan smoke away from the patient. —What do you want from me, Comrade Major?