— Tells me my methods are antiquated and not good enough. Me, a career Chekist! Everything I’ve given…Everything I am is Cheka.
— Comrade Katelnikov’s parents would be ashamed of his discourtesies.
Tears shone on Gleb’s face. —Saying he’ll report my paperwork for inspection and review.
The silence deepened as everyone considered the implications of this dire threat.
Matvei sounded hoarse. —I saw him lie about his quotas. I know he’s behind.
Gleb dropped his arms from Matvei’s body, took a few steps backward, and spat at his junior’s feet. Then he strode to their shared office and slammed the door.
Boris looked Matvei up and down. —Quite a stunt you just pulled. If, if you’ve got proof of something so terrible as that, you come see a superior. You report your concerns through proper channels. You never confront and humiliate another officer. Is that clear?
Water rushed through pipes.
— Clear, Comrade Captain Kuznets.
— Report to my office at once and wait for me there, so we may discuss your discipline. I—
Gunshot.
Heavy thud.
Matvei stared at the just-slammed office door, looked back at Boris, then ran to the office, shoving people aside. He could only get the door open a few centimetres; something barred the way. —Gleb Denisovich! Gleb Denisovich, no, no, no.
Evgenia murmured into her telephone receiver, asking the switchboard to send for an ambulance.
Blood and other matter seeped beneath the door and around Matvei’s feet.
Vadym wished someone could knock Matvei out, force his silence. He nodded to Evgenia, signalling he would come back at a better time; standing up, Evgenia nodded back. Boris took Matvei by the upper arm and guided him to a chair; they both tracked blood. Evgenia took some old rags from a filing cabinet and placed them at the office door, managing to dam the leak. The others retreated to their own offices.
Wishing Evgenia had been more shocked, wishing that of himself, Vadym made for the stairwell and descended. He took great care to watch where he placed his feet.
— Dima.
He looked up. Kostya loped toward him.
— Dima, are you all right? You look terrible.
— A man in your department just shot himself.
— Fuck, not again. Who?
After some difficulty, Vadym could speak. —Kamenev.
The shadows of the crisscrossed wire enclosing the staircase fell across Vadym’s face, making Kostya think of a map in Vadym’s office. A winter’s day in early 1936, Vadym had pointed on a map of Russia marked with lines of latitude and longitude, pointed to the far northeast: Kolyma. Misha and Kostya had feigned polite interest as Vadym spoke of the Ice Age discoveries there. Dwellings. Subterranean dwellings. Signs of civilization, even anthropomorphic art, so old, so very old, and yet so human. That night Kostya had dreamt of a thin black line on the map, this line enlarging to a long queue of people marching on a gunpoint pilgrimage. Then the line shrank back to a strand thin as a barb on a feather, only to shrink some more as the feather pricked out beneath a shirt cuff — the shirt cuff of the terrible man Kostya saw on his fevered 1918 journey to Moscow. Black feathers on his arms, black feathers on the back of his neck, he stood on the train platform, watching. Kostya had recognized him for what he was: a demon.
One could no longer see demons in 1937, Kostya told himself. Nor, unless poisoned with morphine, cocaine, alcohol, bloodlust, and fear, could one see angels. —Dima, what’s happening to us?
A door creaked below, and another senior lieutenant started up the stairs. Kostya and Vadym parted to leave him enough room to pass; he regarded them both with some suspicion.
Kostya said it loud enough for the other senior lieutenant to hear, so he might understand how the strange meeting and the silence on the stairs meant not treachery but dismay. —An ambulance on the way?
— Your Comrade Ismailovna has sent for one.
The footsteps faded as the man left the staircase for an upper corridor.
Vadym looked up at the wire caging. —Not that an ambulance will help.
— He might —
— Too much blood.
Then Vadym reached out for Kostya’s face. He cupped the younger man’s cheek and stroked his thumb beneath Kostya’s eye, as if to wipe away tears.
Kostya stared at him.
Vadym took his hand back. —I was in your department because I wished to apologize.
— You’ve nothing to apologize for, Dima. I was a thoughtless pig.
— I should let you get to work. Go on. You’ll be late.
Legs feeling heavy, Kostya ascended a few steps.
— Kostya?
He looked back over his bad shoulder, winced.
— Kostya, please. Did you see Misha in Spain? Yes, or no. One word. Just one word.
A door opened, and several other officers descended the stairs between Kostya and Vadym. More men began an ascent from the floor below.
Kostya turned his back to Vadym and joined the press of bodies climbing stairs to some other purpose.
Queasy, Efim strode through the huge department store. He needed fresh air, not the strange stillness of high ceilings, shiny tables, and random consumer goods. His walk had left him feeling vulnerable, exposed, as though many people watched him through many windows.
Yury Stepanov’s pursed little mouth, the lips wet: Merely an informal chat. I just need to understand, Comrade Doctor, so I can explain to my superiors, did you know Comrade Dr. Novikova planned to resign? Did she talk to you about it at all? Had she seemed unhappy? Was her work focused and efficient? I’ll need a detailed report on her workload and how she interacted with her colleagues.
Defeated before he might even consider defiance, Efim had nodded.
Women’s shoes filled his vision. Two shop clerks hurried to remove the shoes from one large crate, match them in sized pairs, and place them on a display table.
Nadezhda Ivanovna’s bare feet.
Efim picked up a shoe: low heel, leather upper, rubber sole. He took up another, held it to the light.
— A present for your wife?
Efim flinched, dropped the shoe.
Arkady bent to pick it up, with some difficulty, and when he rose, his uniform looked rumpled and creased. —I’m sorry I startled you.
— What brings you here, Comrade Major Balakirev?
— Chance. I’ve been out of town, and I just got back. Though I have been thinking of you.
Chance? —Comrade Major, I need to speak with you.
Arkady gestured to a bench in the wide corridor. —And I with you. Let’s sit down. Now first, tell me about Kostya.
Efim dredged up every scrap of professional dignity he could, but this Major Balakirev’s voice: impossible to defy. Resenting his quick surrender, Efim bit the inside of his cheek. —Well, I had hoped to tell you about some real improvement by now, but these last six weeks in particular have convinced me that his injuries will get no better. He’s still in pain. I expect he will have pain there for the rest of his life. He may experience progressive weakening of the arm as well.
— So you can’t heal him?
Efim felt suspended in a moment of recognition, the moment of tottering toward a fall, and his speech sounded rapid and pressed. —Perhaps we’ll see some progress in the next few months. Now, Olga.
— Who? Oh, your wife. What of her?
— I’ve heard nothing from her in weeks. I wish to go and see her. Please. I’ve waited for weeks. I cannot get permission to visit Leningrad without your signature.
— Is that all?
— Is that all? I had to leave her in the first place to come babysit your precious bastard orphan!
— You will lower your voice.
Efim did so. —And, as if this whole setup weren’t absurd enough, I am expected to believe his surname is Nikto.
Arkady laced his hands across the top of his belly, said nothing.<
br />
Efim stared at the display of women’s shoes, almost certain now he could pick out the right size.
Arkady shifted his weight. —You want leave to go to Leningrad and see your wife. It’s a reasonable request. I’ll see what I can do. Oh, before I go: that whore in the flat.
— Her name is Nadezhda Ivanovna Solovyova. There’s an accent I can’t place, very subtle. I thought it was Leningrad. She likes tea. And that is all I know about her.
Efim’s words had rattled out at such speed that he could not be sure he said them. Yet he knew he’d said them. Trading likely dangerous information for a chance to see Olga? It seemed a most reasonable barter.
Arkady nodded. —Thank you.
Then he walked away.
Considering nuances of betrayal, Efim stared at the Stakhanovite display of shoes, this absurd surplus, more more more, until his vision blurred, until all the shoes became one black blob, gelatinous and shiny, something that would ooze.
Stakhanov’s coal mixed with blood, perhaps.
Kostya hurried to Evgenia’s desk. —Comrade Ismailovna, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late.
As Evgenia shrugged on her jacket, her eyes once more signalled favour. For you, I have sugar. For you, I would wait.
He gave her a clutch of papers. —Here, more of the confession templates we discussed. I got behind on them. The upset earlier today…I can’t think straight. Perhaps some of the officers can make use of these.
Smiling, she glanced at his eyes. She liked to compare the hue of green to spruce in bright summer light. And those long lashes, on a man? What a waste. Yet so beautiful. —This could save me a lot of time with the paperwork. I’ll type up some copies tomorrow morning. Do you want me to hand them out, or shall I give them back to you?
— Type them up and run them by Comrade Captain Kuznets first.
She unlocked one of her filing cabinets, tucked the confessions in a dossier near the front, and locked the cabinet once more. —I’m taking supper today at the new cafe on the corner. Would you care to try it with me?
What? —Oh. I wish I could. I’m due back at my flat. I mean…my girlfriend expects…
— Oh. Yes, yes. I’m sorry, Comrade Senior Lieutenant, I meant nothing improper. You should take your girlfriend to the cafe. They do wonders with herring.
Herring. —Thank you, Comrade Ismailovna. I will remember that. See you tomorrow.
— Right. Don’t forget, we’ll have a crew here to do a Special Clean by nine.
Sidestepping the remains of the bloodstain, imagining the racket of buckets dragged over floors, Kostya returned to his own office.
Evgenia stood behind her desk, furious with herself for not guessing that Konstantin Nikto must have beautiful women queued round the block, beauty with which she could not compete.
Furious with him, too, for seeming so surprised when she asked him out.
The walls echoed with the hum of voices and footsteps from earlier in the day. She glanced at the office where Kamenev had…
Just bring an end to this day.
An officer’s boots in the hallway: the footfall still new to her, Evgenia looked up.
Boris Kuznets strode up to her desk.
Not again.
— Comrade Ismailovna, would you come to dinner with me?
The first time she’d declined, Boris had said nothing, and the following day two NKVD officers harassed her mother in her doctor’s waiting room. The second time she said no, Boris said, My grandfather spoke in proverbs. You remind me of one: fear has big eyes, and the following day, her cousin disappeared. If she refused a third time? She took a deep breath. —Why, thank you, Comrade Captain. Yes.
— Perhaps you’ll tell me the secret of your lovely skin?
Buttoning her jacket, she smiled at Boris, unaware of how defiant she looked to him, yet quite aware of how much Boris would enjoy crushing such defiance into shame.
[ ]
THE AIR RAID AND THE SNEEZE
Monday 26 July–Tuesday 27 July
— Just tell me.
— It doesn’t matter, Nadia.
— Kostya, the scars write a story on your skin.
— How poetic. It’s nothing.
— Will you just listen to me?
He finished his third glass of vodka. —What is it you wish to say?
— How did you get those scars, and how did you not bleed to death?
— Shrapnel in Gerrikaitz, and I’ve no idea.
— But it hurt.
— Of course it hurt.
— Like a gunshot?
— What?
— I said, like a gunshot?
Kostya could smell the lorry in Spain, the grease and oil, the dried sweat of both Misha and Cristobal. —Most of the gunshots I’ve seen are fatal. The head. Fucked in the mouth, why do you even ask me that?
— Kostya—
— Please! Shut up. Just shut up.
The bottle clinked against the glass. He poured another drink, knocked it back, and swallowed hard as the vodka shot back up his throat.
A few hours later, pain woke him. A hot bolt bore through his shoulder and pinned him to the bed. As Temerity slept beside him, her breathing regular and deep, the ceiling surrendered to the Spanish sky, and the low Junkers growled, the noise steady, mechanized, nothing like an animal’s. So many planes. He stood outside an abandoned barn and farmhouse in Gerrikaitz, squinting in the sunshine. Dust-dimmed light of interiors: he’d been working inside the barn for many hours, working hard. Struggling with duty. Ready to scream. Misha had already screamed. Their conflict, their ordeal, now interrupted by the growl of those planes, fell away.
Luftwaffe? What the barrelling fuck?
Even as Kostya asked himself that question, he saw the answer; dark shapes fell from the bellies of the planes.
The whistle, the squeal: Kostya ran not from the sight of bombs and planes but from the noise.
The abandoned farmhouse was boarded and locked. The barn held problems of its own. The nearest other buildings stood a good half mile away.
The ground shrugged, threw him off.
Mouth crammed with dirt, Kostya rose on his elbows and craned his neck. Wood and metal and earth fell on him, cut him, beat him down.
Coughing, spitting, weeping, he crawled out from beneath the rubble and discovered silence, yet the planes still fouled the sky. He screamed at them. He heard nothing.
Pressure in my ears.
In the bed next to him, Temerity’s breathing changed.
Deaf on his knees in Gerrikaitz, Kostya stared at the sky.
I acted like a panicked animal. I left someone behind. He said that to a nurse in Bilbao. She stroked his hand, saying, These are difficult times. Then, reminding him of the shrapnel and splinters embedded in the flesh of his left shoulder and ear, as if he could somehow forget that pain, the Bilbao nurse ordered him to swallow these few sulpha pills, and he laughed, laughed, laughed so hard that the nurse told him to lie down. When another patient asked what he found funny, and what he’d done to merit a scarce cot when so many in the clinic sat huddled on the floor, bloodied and miserable, he shouted about knowledge and destruction. After a moment he recognized that he shouted in Russian. Two men seized him by the arms, and the nurse injected him in the back of his left hand.
When he woke up, he felt the jostling progress of the wheeled cart beneath him. The man in front of the cart explained he must remove debris from this patient’s shoulder, and the man pushing the cart pointed out that the clinic lacked any general anaesthetic. The first man growled in his throat, in disgust more than aggression, then said He’s Russian, most likely NKVD, and that means he’s hunting and killing people. And we have to treat him. Mother of God. Get those rosary beads out of his hand. Where in hell’s name did he get rosary beads? Fill him up with as much bromide as you can without stopping his heart, and I’ll see what I can do.
Never any mistreatment. Nothing of the sort. They gave him back his cloth
es and papers, all intact, yet Kostya knew no one at the clinic would believe his stories. Mr. MacKenzie the Canadian volunteer for the International Brigade, Tikhon the Russian war correspondent, Ivan the Russian volunteer: no one would believe him at all.
Kostya himself no longer believed. Not in his fake identities, not in his own identity, not in his entire purpose in Spain. Torture and murder meant only torture and murder, not love of country, not duty. Yet how could he stop? How could he disobey clear and direct orders? By my own free will, he thought, gagging as someone helped him drink water bitter and salty with bromides, yet twice as much by compulsion.
Despite medical advice, he insisted on standing soon after the procedure, then walking, however much he shook in this overrun clinic in northern Spain, a clinic reeking of blood and then, as days passed and other patients’ wounds took infection, corruption.
Misha.
He caught the scent of Shalimar.
Temerity laid her hand on Kostya’s chest. —Breathe. Breathe. In, out. Nice and deep.
Sweat broke on his skin. —Those fucking planes!
The bed rocked as Temerity got up and tugged on some clothes. —Breathe, my love. I’ll get Efim. Just breathe.
My love? —Stay with me.
Temerity glanced over her shoulder at the man struggling to catch his breath, then darted to the hallway to knock on Efim’s door.
The knocks hauled Efim out of an anxious dream of seeking bandages. —What? What is it?
— Kostya’s shoulder.
Thoughts settling, Efim discovered Kostya on his back, pale and sweaty, scowl lines cutting deep into his face. —When we skipped your dose earlier this evening, I’d hoped you could do without it.
— The wounds are old. Why must they hurt so much?
Efim held the filled syringe to the light, tapped it. —One of my teachers in med school believed a chronic wound could become a prison for pain. If the wound can’t heal, then the pain runs in a cage, burrows in on itself. Not a useful metaphor, I admit. Then there’s the psychology of it. When we worry about pain, it can create a feedback loop, like that noise a microphone can make.
— How can I not worry about this pain? I can’t fucking think past it. It’s my own fault if it gets worse? That makes no sense!
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