The right shore, where the exiles have settled, spreads low and obligingly at the water’s edge then boils up into a sprawling knoll, where it grows into hulking hills, and bares its cliffs like fangs. Ignatov is standing on one of those cliffs now, gazing at the taiga below. The camp isn’t visible from here; it’s somewhere below, deep down in the folds of the hill.
Ignatov doesn’t want to see anybody, though. Up until now, he’s been oddly removed from himself, taking in the situation like an onlooker. Who is that standing, clothed, in water up to his waist, brushing away snowflakes stuck to his hair? Is that really him? Who’s giving orders (“Light a fire. Break branches for a shelter. Not one step away from the camp, you bastards!”) then going out into the taiga to hunt? Is that really him? Who’s trudging along animal trails, snapping fallen brush, and creeping up to the cliff along rocks overgrown with moss and dry grass? Is that really him?
Now he sits down on a boulder heated by the sun and squints. He feels the stone’s warmth through the chill of his still-damp clothing. The fragile stubble of lichen pricks his palm. A couple of mosquitoes hover by his ear but the wind blows them aside and their buzzing departs, dissolving far away. Freshness from the large body of water floats into his nostrils along with the tart smell of the taiga: spruces, pines, larches, and various fragrant grasses. And that’s how it is. He, Ivan Ignatov, is here, in Siberia. He drowned more than three hundred enemy souls in the Angara. He’s been left on a knoll as commandant of a handful of half-alive anti-Soviet elements. Without foodstuffs or personnel. With an order to survive and await the arrival of the next barge.
Let’s say he didn’t drown them but attempted to save them. “Attempted” is a word for weaklings, according to Bakiev. A communist doesn’t attempt, he does. But I couldn’t save them, couldn’t! I tried my best, there was nothing else I could do. I myself nearly drowned …
But you didn’t! And they all drowned, so now they’re feeding the fish on the bottom …
Would it really have been better if I’d drowned along with them? And who were they anyway? Kulaks, exploiters, enemies, a burden for the Soviet authorities. They’ll multiply again, like Kuznets says …
You want to assuage your guilt with someone else’s words? And whose words? Kuznets’s, that son of a bitch.
Negative thoughts drive into his brain like nails, splintering it. Ignatov takes off his peaked cap, gathers his hair in his hand and pulls, as if he wants to tear it from his skull. As you were, he orders himself. Busy your hands with work and your feet with walking. Exhaust, expend, and enervate the body, so as not to think. Or at least think about something else.
He looks at the blurry, blue-gray edge of the horizon. That’s where the next barge will come from. When? Soon, Kuznets promised. It took them three days to get here. Kuznets had gotten here faster in his launch, in a day. Let’s say he needs a day for the return trip, a day or two for bureaucratic delays at the office and loading a new barge, then three days to return to Ignatov. A week total.
He’ll have to hold out for a week.
And what if Kuznets is late? That son of a bitch won’t hurry. He might well not even come for a week and a half or two weeks. Toward the end of August, maybe. And snow already came down today. It’s not like summer here at all, just a ripe, cold autumn.
How far had they come from Krasnoyarsk? They’d floated two days along the Yenisei – that’s about three hundred kilometers, if not more – almost an entire day going upstream along the Angara – another hundred kilometers or so. So four hundred in all. Four hundred kilometers of water travel separate him from Kuznets. And a boundless sea of taiga. Every now and then, Ignatov spotted settlements sheltered along the Yenisei’s shores – he kept wondering if they were active or abandoned – but not one on the Angara. There are no people here.
He flicks angrily at a beetle that has crawled out on the blue-gray stone; it flies off into the abyss. Ignatov stands and straightens his uniform tunic, which is still damp at the hem. Why did you get in the water then, you fool? You drenched yourself for nothing. He should have thought it through earlier, on the boat. Grabbed that rapscallion Kuznets by the scruff, by the neck, by the hair and not let him go, not let him go for anything. Let them tie him – Ignatov – up, put him under guard, bring him to Krasnoyarsk with escorts, then reprimand him for overreaching his authority. Somehow that would be better than what he has here now.
“A week,” Ignatov says sternly to the abyss gaping under him, wagging his finger. “I’m waiting exactly a week, no more. So you’d better watch out!”
The abyss is silent.
The black grouse here are pudgy and stupid. Their big, round black eyes gawk at Ignatov under fat, red arched brows and they don’t fly away. He approaches to a distance of several paces and shoots them point-blank. Their soft little bodies explode in fountains of black feathers, their wings shudder belatedly, and their tufted little heads fall into the grass. And their kin are already gaping with curiosity from neighboring trees. What happened there, what? We want to see, too. And so do we. He’s nailed six of them, the number of shells in the cylinder. He binds their little throats together with a piece of string left in his pocket and it turns out to be two hefty bundles. He goes back to the shore.
He had painstakingly noted the route from the camp. You won’t get lost if you don’t go too deeply into the urman – the Angara’s right there, next to you, everywhere – but it’s possible to stray. He thus committed to memory all the markers, whispering to himself under his breath, as if he were unwinding string. Now he’s winding it back into a tight ball as he returns: from the cliff, go down along the rocky path between the boulders – some are pinkish, some are whitish-green from the soft, curly moss – to the clearing that’s bright, almost as if it’s balding; further through sparse pines, walking along huge, flat rocks with smatterings of grass, to a gently sloping descent; through reddish candle-like pines and black brushlike spruces, down, a long way down, to a small, round clearing where a once-huge birch, now burned by lightning, stands, with its legs awkwardly sprawling; from the birch, walk along a cold and burbling brook, descend further toward the Angara; cross the brook at the large boulder that looks like a sleeping bear and go deeper into the forest. He should soon see an opening between the trees – that’s the shore, where the handful of exiles has found shelter.
Ignatov makes his way through the taiga. He strides loudly, crunching. His feet are squelching in his boots because he couldn’t hold on when he was jumping across the brook, on the rocks, and had taken a spill into the water. A heavy bundle of dead birds dangles from each hand. It will be an outstanding dinner. Here you are, citizen enemies, chow down. You’ll feed yourself on grouse all week with me and eat your fill after the hungry road.
He doesn’t even notice when evening falls. A thick brown dusk suddenly settles on the taiga. It has grown sharply colder. Carefree daytime birds have gone silent, and now there are sorrowful, distant night voices calling. All the sounds – the murmur of leaves, the whisper of evergreen needles, the hum of branches in the wind – seem closer and more resonant. Even the crunch of dead wood underfoot has turned to a loud crackling.
Something large, soft, and light-colored scuds past his head with a lively hoot, fanning his face with its wings. Ignatov’s stomach shudders with an unpleasant chill and he holds his breath. An owl, he understands with belated relief; he quickens his pace. Some sort of chirring, high screeches, and urgent snuffling carry from a thicket. There’s a low, velvety roar somewhere far away.
So, where’s the site? It feels like it should appear any minute if he just peers between the trees. Spruce, spruce, spruce … And suddenly the crazy thought flashes that he’ll come out on the familiar shore but nobody will be there. Not one person; they’re dead, every one. What if all of them – green-eyed Zuleikha and the pathetic Leningraders and the bootlicking Gorelov – drowned there, in the middle of the Angara along with the barge? And only he, Ignatov, is left among the living?
And only he was abandoned here on the deserted shore?
He breaks into a run. There’s a deafening crack underfoot and then something gets into his eyes, hitting his cheeks. One foot lands in a hole, the other catches a dead branch. He nearly falls but stays on his feet. He runs faster. He thrusts his elbows forward to protect his face from branches. The grouse are suddenly getting heavy and large, as if they’ve been swelling along the way.
Finally there’s an orange flame flickering between the tree trunks. Ignatov bounds forward a couple of times and runs out to the clearing by the river. He’s panting and his heart is pounding, either from fear or from running so fast. And there they are, the people; they haven’t gone anywhere. Some are finishing building a shelter under the branches of a huge, sprawling spruce and others are swarming around the fire. He slows his pace and calms his labored breathing. Without hurrying, he approaches the women crouched by the fire and casually flings the grouse, which are still warm, at their feet.
As the women busy themselves with supper, Ignatov decides to finish up an unpleasant but necessary task. It concerns the shabby gray “Case” folder mottled at the top with muddy-purplish rectangular stamps and seals, which contains within its gaunt depths all the bitter history of their long journey. He needs to cross out all the departed.
He takes the folder and sits by the fire. He imagines flinging it into the flames and it flaring up instantly, flapping its pages as if it were alive, writhing, blackening, and shrinking, dissolving in the hot yellow tongues and disappearing in the black sky as light smoke. Leaving no smell, no trace at all.
He can’t. He’s the commandant here, so he has to keep order. Which means having a precise list on hand with the names of all the camp’s residents. Or is it more correct to call them prisoners? But what kind of prisoners are they if their only guard is a commandant in wet jodhpurs with a single revolver? He decides to stick with what he’s accustomed to. The exiles.
He uses a stick to remove a couple of burning embers from the fire. He waits for them to cool. Then he grasps the end of the longer, sturdier piece – it feels greasy to the touch. He takes a breath and decisively opens the folder. In Ignatov’s gray, tong-like fingers, covered with brownish spots and blotches, are four wrinkled sheets, yellowed by time. The paper is rough in places, where water and snow dropped on it, and the corners are tattered and torn. The fifth sheet, underneath, and in better condition, lists the Leningrad remainders. Some eight hundred names in total, scattered in slightly crooked columns that dance recklessly across the pages. Black pencil lines run just as cheerily, diagonally crossing out more than half the surnames. In the semidarkness by the fire, the sheets are reminiscent of a finely embroidered towel.
He begins with the easiest, the Leningraders. He crossed off a couple of the fifteen or so names long ago, while they were still on the road; the rest won’t need to be because they’re all here. Those “remainders” foisted on him at the beginning of the journey have turned out to be surprisingly hardy. You’d expect that with the social degenerates, Gorelov being the sort who can adapt anywhere, change his colors to any hue, switch sides to whomever he needs, latch on, gnaw through a couple of throats, and survive. But the intelligentsia! Polite to the point of leaving a bitter taste, sometimes cheeky when speaking, but also timid, listless, and submissive in their actions. Pathetic. And alive – unlike many peasants, who hadn’t withstood illness and hunger. So there are your “remainders.” Kuznets was taken in by their pale look, too, and selected them for his launch as the most emaciated, infirm, and incapable of escape. Basically, Leningrad was lucky.
Ignatov’s gaze runs through the surnames, checking them with the faces around him.
Ikonnikov, Ilya Petrovich. There he is, dragging a gnarled, nearly bare spruce branch. (Where’re you carrying that, you blockhead? A branch like that isn’t fit for a shelter. It won’t protect from the rain.) He’s obviously clueless, unaccustomed and unsuited to labor, weak of body, and spineless. Someone like this won’t go on the run or incite rebellion; he’s not dangerous. Gorelov reported that Ikonnikov is a famous artist, drew Lenin for posters. That’s something; he drew revolutionary posters but ended up here. There must be a reason why.
Sumlinsky, Konstantin Arnoldovich. A quiet little old man, good-natured. He’s fussing by one of the shelters, waving his arms around. He’s trying (nice job, Gramps) even though he’s a scholar, either a geographer or an agronomist. Of course there won’t be much use for him but his zeal pleases Ignatov for some reason; it warms his heart. This one’s not dangerous, either.
Brzhostovskaya-Sumlinskaya, Izabella Leopoldovna (her papa bestowed quite the surname and patronymic here!) is his wife. She’s sitting by the fire next to Ignatov, attempting to pluck a bird. Her slender fingers – dry, translucent skin stretched over bones – grasp helplessly at resilient grouse feathers that are apparently extremely stubborn. You’ll croak from hunger before you can deal with it, you old bag. This haughty personage has pretension in every gesture and her tongue is intemperate. Gorelov complained that she berates the authorities, but he can’t communicate the exact words because the criticism’s in French. Sneaky, clever. But this decrepit cobra has nothing beyond cleverness and a sharp tongue. So she’s not dangerous.
Gorelov, Vasily Kuzmich. He’s found himself a long stick and is swinging it as if it were a baton, simultaneously taking command of the building sites for all three shelters. He’s strolling from site to site, poking with his stick, shouting so loudly it makes the ears ring. The rascal appointed himself boss. Everything’s obvious about this one. A most repugnant and loathsome character, the sort Ignatov would have gladly crushed in his normal life. Here, though, he needs to associate with him. On the road, Ignatov constantly summoned the minders from the railroad cars to see him, questioning them about the mood, and Gorelov was the fiercest, most obsequious speaker of all. Whoever’s strongest is the master for this dog. He’ll lick your hand and wag his tail as long as you’re in power and have a revolver, but he’ll bite or even tear out your throat if you ease up for a minute. This one’s dangerous.
And so Ignatov gradually reaches the end of the Leningrad list. Several of them are either school teachers or university instructors, and there’s a print shop worker, a bank employee, a couple of factory engineers or mechanics, a housewife, and a couple of people lacking specific occupations (social parasites, ulcers on the body of society), and goodness knows how a milliner wormed her way into this society. Basically, odds and ends, moth-eaten old folks who’ve been stored away, history’s dust. Other than Gorelov, not one is dangerous.
Now comes the more complex task of sorting out the dekulakized. First find all those alive on the list and mark them, then cross out the rest.
The small Tatar woman, Zuleikha, is kneeling just a few steps from Ignatov, dressing the grouse he shot. He finds her name on the sheet and circles it with the charcoal. The line comes out bold and fat, densely black. Like her brows, he thinks. He scrutinized her face well then, in the water. No, he hadn’t just scrutinized it, he’d memorized it, learned it by rote. He’d kept peering: Is she alive? Breathing? Not too tired? He couldn’t allow her to die. Her life seemed to him to be the only forgiveness for the others, who were destroyed. When he saw her being lifted onto the launch and laid on the deck, he felt such sudden exhaustion he could have died, but only one thing was in his head: I saved her, I saved her, pulled her out, led her, dragged her the whole way. A mean thought flashes: Do you think that will be taken into account? I let three hundred go to the bottom and pulled one out. I’m quite the savior, there’s no denying it …
As you were, Ignatov commands himself, tiredly, already habitually. As you were and back to work.
And so. Avdei Bogar, one-armed. An invalid but works quickly, deftly laying branches on the shelter’s roof, telling the others what to do as he points his finger. Well, now there’s one who’s actually leading the construction! They obey him, nod. Obviously a sensible guy. His eyes are keen and
tenacious, and they’re constantly lowered around Ignatov, as if he fears Ignatov will see something in them and figure him out. This one might be dangerous. The others will listen to someone like this even though he only has one arm.
Lukka Chindykov, a red-bearded Chuvash, is pottering around near Bogar. Chindykov is unprepossessing; it’s as if all of him leans and lists to one side, plus he’s desperately ugly. He lost his whole family along the way and is scared to death, haggard, and confused. Even now he’s looking around wildly, as if he doesn’t understand where he is. A broken person, not dangerous.
Musa-hadji Yunusov’s white beard hovers close by. He is as thin and flat as a reed. At the beginning of the journey, there was a blindingly white turban glowing around his head, but then it disappeared somewhere, possibly used as rags. Ignatov smirks as he imagines Yunusov sawing spruce branches in his glowing turban. Yunusov’s face is always bright and detached – he’s thinking already about the eternal, not the earthly. That’s exactly why he’s a hadji. Also not dangerous.
Leila Gabriidze, a plump Georgian woman, short of breath …
As he peers into their faces, Ignatov recalls the names of everyone working in the camp. He finds them on the list, circles them with the charcoal, and counts again. There are twenty-nine people, including the Leningraders. Russians, Tatars, a couple of Chuvash, three Mordvins, a Mari woman, a Ukrainian man, a Georgian woman, and a German man whose mind is gone and has the fanciful and sonorous name Volf Karlovich Leibe. In short, an entire international organization. Ignatov crosses out the rest. As he draws the coal along shabby sheets that look greasy from wear, he tries not to look at the surnames. Toward the end, his fingers are black and almost velvety, leaving bold round marks on the paper.
As soon as the job’s finished, Ignatov jumps up from the log with a start and swiftly walks to the riverside. He wants to wash it off his hands as quickly as possible. He wants to breathe in the cold river air. He wants very much to smoke.
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