Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  Efim and Temerity stood near the kitchen, at the end of the corridor to the door, Temerity in Kostya’s pyjamas and clutching Turgenev to her chest, Efim fully dressed and carrying a small suitcase.

  Efim whispered. —Are they gone?

  Kostya’s laugh, quick and rough, sounded more like the yelp of a dog. —Not yet.

  Down the hall, Elena screeched her protest, her loyalty to the Party. —I can prove it, comrade! These shoes!

  Temerity dropped the book; Kostya and Efim flinched but kept quiet.

  Matvei ran back up the stairs. —Do you need help?

  Dobrynin sounded amused. —Shoes, Grandmother?

  — The witch who lost these shoes cringes here. I saw her.

  — Senile old sow.

  Matvei disagreed. —With respect, Comrade Sergeant, take a look at these shoes, this lettering inside them. I think that’s English.

  Kostya stared at Temerity. He couldn’t speak. Efim saw this and shut his eyes.

  Dobrynin’s voice approached the door. —Nikto knows languages. I’ll get him.

  Cigarette gone to ash, Kostya waved Temerity and Efim away, pointing to the bedrooms. They kept still.

  Matvei almost shouted. —No! No, please don’t disturb him again.

  — You timid little rabbit. What, are you in love with him? Don’t want to upset his beauty sleep?

  — No, wait—

  Elena’s voice rang out. —Iosif Vissarionovich!

  Temerity stepped close enough to Kostya to whisper. —She calls on Stalin?

  Kostya nodded.

  — Iosif Vissarionovich, help me! Help me! I am loyal to you! Iosif Vissarionovich, hear my prayer! Iosif—

  A heavy thud.

  Dobrynin laughed. —Pistol-whipping old ladies, Katelnikov? Nobody’s rabbit now. Get her in the car.

  Men grunted; feet dragged. After some noisy difficulty on the stairs, Kostya guessing that they allowed the unconscious woman to roll, Dobrynin returned to the fifth floor to collect Yaroslav.

  The NKVD car departed.

  Efim felt much of the tension leave his body. Yet even this relief corroded him, scarring his thoughts and feelings as much as shrapnel had scarred his patient’s shoulder.

  Not me, not me, not me.

  Kostya ground out his cigarette in the ashtray with great care, then raised his right fist and struck a wall in the kitchen. —Fucking idiots!

  Efim and Temerity flinched.

  Kostya rustled in the cupboards. Glass rattled and clinked.

  Efim winced at the racket, and his voice sounded higher than normal. —We don’t keep the vodka there.

  A pot clattered. —Good thing I’m not a drunkard, then. Where’s the powdered milk? I’m sure I saw some.

  — Second shelf in the cupboard left of the sink.

  — How precise you are, Efim Antonovich, and how correct. Nadia, come here, so I can tell you a secret. Go into my closet and look to the left-hand side. On a hanger near the wall, you’ll find an old woolen coat, dark blue. In the inner chest pocket is a packet of sugar. It’s granulated and already torn open, so the sugar might run free. Be very careful, and cup the packet in your hands, yes? And next to the sugar, there’s a string of beads. Bring me those, too.

  Asking herself if she was truly awake, Temerity fetched the sugar and the beads. She gave them to Kostya, then sat at the little fold-down table with Efim.

  — Thank you. Now both of you, please, relax. I know it’s hard, but tonight you’re safe. I promise.

  Temerity and Efim looked at each other, then at the table.

  Kostya placed the sugar and beads next to the stove. —I wish we had honey and cinnamon.

  Wishing, too, that he could rid his mind of the noise of agitated dogs at the poligon, Kostya drew water from the samovar into a small pot and added powdered milk. He broke the lumps with precision and care, then placed the pot on the stove.

  Then Efim laughed, shrill at first. —Look at us. Our night clothes. Ragbags, all of us.

  Temerity chortled, worked to control it. Kostya’s mouth twitched. Then all three of them laughed, hard. Thinking of clothes, Kostya almost told them how people might be arrested naked, during a sex act if necessary, and how he’d done so. He stopped, just as his first word got lost beneath the noise. One must coddle laughter, he thought. Best keep that story to myself.

  Almost breathless now, Efim shook his head. —Hot milk, Konstantin?

  — My grandfather would make hot milk for me when I had a nightmare.

  Temerity pointed to the pot. —Don’t let it boil.

  — It’s in no danger of boiling, Nadia.

  Temerity nodded. Kostya had hesitated before saying Nadia; perhaps he’d wanted to say something else.

  Kostya stirred the milk, then poured in sugar; white particles glistened as they fell. —This may interest you, Efim. He was a doctor. A good one, too. Semyon Mikhailovich Berendei. People came to the house all hours, and he treated them. He never turned anyone away, even when he knew damned well he wouldn’t get paid. He charged on a scale. My grandparents raised me; I never knew my parents. My grandmother died when I was nine, and then my grandfather disappeared when I was twelve.

  Temerity and Efim said nothing.

  Kostya poured sweetened hot milk into three tea glasses. Temerity carried two of them to the table, gave one to Efim. Kostya followed her with his own glass and the beads. He set them down and tugged at his gymnastyorka.

  Temerity sipped the hot milk. —Thank you.

  — I wish I could give you something else. Nadia, may I sit near you? I’m cold.

  Finding this formal courtesy odd for a man addressing his live-in mistress, Efim retrieved a light blanket from his drawer in the stenka and placed it over Kostya’s shoulders. Then Kostya snuggled into Temerity, and she put her arm around him.

  They drank the hot milk.

  Rubbing beads between his fingers, Kostya sighed. —Cinnamon. It needs cinnamon. And real milk would be nice, too. I can’t make it like he did.

  — It’s fine.

  — It’s terrible. You’re a sweet liar, Nadia, but powdered milk is terrible.

  Temerity kissed Kostya on the cheek; Efim stood up and returned to his bedroom.

  Kostya smelled Temerity’s perfume again and ran his fingers through her hair. Then he took his hand away. —Did you fall asleep in the armchair?

  — Yes.

  — I want you to lie down in the bed now. I’ll go back to the floor.

  She sighed. —Come to the bed with me.

  — What?

  — Just to lie down.

  — You trust me?

  She studied him for a long moment, standing there in his undershorts and a uniform piece, beads dangling from one hand. —It’s almost three in the morning, Kostya. Try to rest.

  [ ]

  DOGS’ HEADS AND BROOMSTICKS 2

  Thursday 10 June

  Evgenia shook her head. —You look terrible.

  Kostya rubbed at his gritty eyes. —Didn’t sleep well. Make my tea strong, yes? Please?

  — And extra sugar. Here are your dossiers for review.

  — Comrade Ismailovna, I need your help.

  At the samovar now, she glanced over her shoulder, eyes wide. —My help?

  — Yes. Why not?

  She gave him the tea, its scent so pungent that it tickled his nose. —Ask away.

  — Some of the confessions. They’re nigh-on incoherent, and I know not every single prisoner is illiterate. Nor is every officer stupid.

  Evgenia snorted and smirked, then made an effort to look serious.

  — And the pattern of guilt: it plays out the same way, again and again. What if I wrote up three or four different styles of confession, and then you type them up…

  Careful not to nudge a perilously high pile of paperwork, Evgenia dropped two pieces of sugar from the tongs into Kostya’s hand. —And if we don’t use them as straight templates, at least they could be guidelines. It might speed thing
s up.

  — Ismailovna, you read my mind.

  — No. But I am under the same pressure you are. More more more, now now now.

  As Kostya thanked her, a smell reached him, iron, copper, and spice: old blood.

  A large shadow blotched Evgenia’s desk. —The famous Nikto?

  Kostya turned around.

  A broad and fleshy man, built like Arkady, squinted at him. —I thought I recognized you by the stories of the scars. How did you get those?

  Kostya forced himself to keep still and look into the man’s eyes, to ignore the fat fingers reaching for him. —An accident.

  The broad man stroked Kostya’s neck, fondled his ear, tapped his insignia. —You got off easy. And promoted to senior lieutenant. Well done.

  Kostya glanced at the man’s fingernails. Blood in the cuticles?

  Evgenia’s voice betrayed warmth. —We’re very proud of him in this department, Comrade Commandant Blokhin.

  He gestured to Kostya’s dossiers. —Buried in paperwork?

  — Yes, Comrade Commandant, aren’t we all?

  — Paperwork slows me down. You’ll notice my hands are empty.

  And with that, he walked towards Boris Kuznets’s office.

  Evgenia took in a sharp breath. —Do you know who that is?

  Kostya nodded. Vasily Mikhailovich Blokhin, Lubyanka’s chief executioner and a man who loved his wet work. Blokhin, who would likely shoot Yagoda.

  Evgenia stamped a form. —Nice of him to single you out.

  — Yes. I need the smaller meeting room for half an hour this morning.

  — This morning? I’m afraid you need to book that in advance, and then have the department head sign his approval.

  Kostya slurped his tea. —Well, I just got this memo this morning, typed by no less than you, yes? I’m to enjoy a respite from arrest duties myself and instead take command of eighteen men, most of them new recruits. Where else can I put eighteen men if not in that smaller meeting room?

  — There’s not enough room for them to sit.

  — They can stand. I promise you, Captain Kuznets would approve.

  Evgenia dug beneath a stack of paper for a notebook, then flipped some pages. —The room is free, comrade. You’re lucky.

  Pretty and lucky, Misha had called him when they were cadets. Lucky, Yury had snarled, schastlivyy, schastlivyy, schastlivyy.

  — Good morning, comrades. I am Senior Lieutenant Nikto.

  No one raised an eyebrow at the surname, and all replied at once. —Good morning, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.

  — Let’s make this quick, comrades, as we’re all a bit busy this week.

  Grim chuckles.

  — I shall divide you into six squads of three, and…wait, who’s not here?

  A soft knock on the door. Seventeen men cleared their throats, sucked their teeth, clicked their tongues. Waited.

  Kostya, too, waited, almost too long to keep his dignity. Then he recalled it was his task and privilege, as the commanding officer in the room, to order someone to open the door. He decided to do it himself.

  — Katelnikov. Forgive me, comrade. I thought I scheduled this meeting for ten o’clock. You prefer it for five past, yes?

  Red-faced, Matvei stared at the toes of Kostya’s boots. —I am sorry, Comrade Senior Lieutenant. I only just got the memo. I had night duty, and I got delayed in the cells.

  — Go stand with the others. I don’t want to waste any more time. So, as I said, squads of three focused on a better plan. Yes, Comrade Sergeant Kamenev?

  Gleb lowered his hand and cleared his throat. —I don’t know about you, Senior Lieutenant, but I’ve got a timetable to meet.

  Surprised at Gleb’s interruption and surly tone, close to insubordination, Kostya inclined his head to the older man and decided to speak with deference and respect. —Do you refer, Gleb Denisovich, to the timetables Comrade Captain Kuznets handed out?

  — Yes.

  — And do you not think I attended that same meeting, Gleb Denisovich? That same meeting where Comrade Captain Kuznets gave me two timetables?

  Some appreciative laughter. Gleb inclined his own head to Kostya, also in respect, and some apology. Matvei looked up from the floor.

  Kostya ignored Matvei’s gaze. —So we’ve established that everyone is busy, yes, with quotas to fill? Good. Now, sometimes when we’re on a raid, it’s inevitable we’re going to wake someone up.

  Matvei turned pale.

  Kostya felt a prickle in his belly, almost like electricity. Easy, so easy, to hold Matvei Katelnikov up as an example, let his fellows laugh at him, let shame flog him to better results.

  No.

  — We’re not here to frighten innocent citizens. So I want to see a redoubled effort on getting the correct flat number. Check our propiska lists against the Directory for All Moscow.

  Silence.

  A blond officer shifted his weight from foot to foot, pointing to a side table. —Ah, yes, well, with respect, Comrade Senior Lieutenant Nikto, I mean, which directory, 1936 or 1937? My last commanding officer kept complaining how the ’36 directory is out of date.

  Gleb stopped chewing on his moustache. —Has anyone even seen a ’37 version?

  Kostya noticed copies of the ’36 directory on a side table. He knew what Gleb meant: the rumours about why no 1937 Moscow telephone directory had appeared, that too many people had disappeared. The ’36 directory now functioned less as a guide to the living and more as a list of the disappeared and the dead. He let out a long breath, aware as he finished of perhaps sending the wrong signal. A competent commanding officer would not show exasperation or fear over something as trivial as a telephone directory. —Comrades, Moscow is growing rapidly. The publishers of the directory simply can’t keep up. This is why we must also check the propiska permits. Now, comrades, check my list to find your new team—

  Five bangs on the door: many of the men flinched.

  Scowling, Kostya reached for the doorknob; he ended up catching it as the door swung open. —Comrade Captain Kuznets, good mor­ning. Come in.

  — Good morning, Comrade Senior Lieutenant Nikto. I have a treat for you men today, a distinguished visitor.

  Vasily Blokhin entered the room. He held up his hands, palms out, as though blessing the faithful. —At ease, comrades, at ease. I just want a moment of your time. Comrade Captain Kuznets is new to this department, yet already he brags about you.

  — A moment, Vasily Mikhailovich. I should introduce you. We’ve got so many new men. Comrades, this is the head of Kommandatura, Comrade Commandant Blokhin.

  Kostya and the others saluted.

  Boris clapped Vasily on the shoulder. —And I promise you, comrades, he does not enjoy his nickname.

  Vasily frowned, then shook Boris off. —Nickname?

  A muscle twitched in Boris’s cheek. —Leather Man.

  Vasily’s laugh sounded dull, rehearsed. —Apron and gauntlets, right. Comrades, I must protect my uniform. Unless one of you has found a laundry service that can reliably shift blood?

  More laughter, brittle and loud.

  Boris’s face relaxed, and Kostya could not tell which emotion induced his own nausea: fear, anger, or guilt.

  Vasily gestured to the men, then to Kostya. —You’re in good hands here with Comrade Senior Lieutenant Nikto. Don’t disappoint him, or, well…

  He extended his index and middle fingers and cocked his thumb to mime pointing a gun at Kostya’s face.

  Kostya stared back at him.

  Vasily kept his hand steady; his eyes seemed to retreat further behind the heavy lids.

  Boris released a word from his lips, as though kissing someone, so quiet: —Bang.

  Vasily lowered his hand. —I’ve got another appointment.

  — This way, Comrade Commandant.

  They left, and Kostya closed the door behind them, taking a deep breath. An exercise, just an exercise. For me, and the men.

  When he turned to the others, eighteen sets of wid
e eyes dropped their gaze to the floor. Embarrassed for their commanding officer, or frightened for themselves? Kostya could not tell.

  Angry now, he pinned a list to the wall. He wanted to nail it there. The pin, bent, fell to the floor. Matvei found him another pin, handed it over.

  — Thank you, Katelnikov. I’ve put you all in new teams, shaken it up. Maybe we can get different results this way, and even if we don’t, at least when senior command asks us if we tried new teams, we can say why yes, of course, comrade.

  Low laughter.

  — Any questions?

  Feet tramped on the floors outside and above, and water squealed in the pipes.

  — We reconvene in seventy-two hours. Let’s see some real progress on those tables, yes? Dismissed.

  Relishing the solitude, Kostya leaned back in his desk chair. His officemates remained on schedules opposite his, and he rarely saw them. Even so, today he’d closed his office door to mute the racket of other people so he might concentrate. His right hand ached, distracting him from the fiery pain in his left shoulder. He’d written three different fake confessions to three different crimes, wrecking, espionage, and the all-purpose anti-Soviet activities, each confession just over five pages long, with blanks left for the names of anyone else the prisoner might denounce. The anti-Soviet activities confession had come out too balanced, too poetic, with compound-complex sentences no prisoner would utter after a beating. Kostya rebuked himself. It’s a tool, not a work of art. This is not story time.

  Scowling, he locked the templates in a desk drawer and took out his cigarettes. A timid knock sounded on his closed office door, one-two, one-two, like that of the tsar’s servants in Lieutenant Kizhe.

  Kostya shook his match dead. —Come in.

  The caller turned the knob, met resistance.

  Kostya hurried to open the door. —I am sorry, comrade. This door is tricky. Katelnikov. What can I do for you?

  Matvei’s eyes widened. The courteous, even collegial, tone in the senior lieutenant’s voice after the fuck-up with the flats left Matvei feeling much more at ease. He passed Kostya a note. —Comrade Major Balakirev needs your assistance in the cells.

  Drawing on his cigarette, reading the cell number, Kostya raised his eyebrows. —Balakirev? Must be languages.