by Oleg Pavlov
‘I have forgiven you, now you forgive me … ’ repeated Khabarov. But Skripitsyn was not listening to him, carried away by his new goal. ‘So just wait for spring, you just wait, and you’ll have everything!’
When he found out that Skripitsyn had driven off, the captain got up and gradually began to try and walk. Somehow he made it out onto the square, still weak, but with a haversack over his shoulders, and the men began to gather of their own accord around him, hoping to understand what was going on. ‘I’m heading off, lads … Farewell … ’ breathed Khabarov. ‘You’ll have another commander, that’s all right. All I want to do is die with my conscience clear. I’ll wander around and look for a place where I won’t bring misfortune down on people.’ With these words he set out on his way, but he had barely left the settlement when they grew sorry to let him go and so ran after him, complaining when they caught up that it was difficult to eat the rotten stuff from the regiment along with the stuff that had gone off, and they also started asking for advice as to how they should do their duties and what they might live on. The captain dragged his feet, sighed, and turned back for the company, so as to take a proper leave of the place and its people, which he had begun to regret not doing. During that day he talked himself into staying on for another day, so that his health grew stronger, which meant that he was lumbered with still more to do. And so he decided to stay and see the winter out in Karabas, and come the spring he would set out with a clear conscience to find a place on the earth where he could die if he wanted to. So it was that his service arranged itself into the quietest possible routine. Although Khabarov had shouldered his earlier burdens and not his light haversack, the men in the settlement paid him no heed, and he too kept away from people, and maybe even hid. When they came to him seeking orders, Khabarov was certain of nothing, scared of making mistakes, so they went away again: they could decide for themselves without hesitation and more quickly. And they said of him, ‘Look what a good commander the captain has turned out to be, so soft you could spread him on bread.’
‘This is why he’s kind: he’s quietened down, what with the hard time he’s had.’
9
A Feat in Winter
Khabarov loved a quiet, frozen winter: things were fine, then, both outside and within your soul. In such a winter, the huts on the Russian flatlands are wreathed in stove smoke, just like incense. The villages on those huge expanses stand covered in hoarfrost and immersed in the tall silence of the heavens. Even the dogs scattered about the yards do not bark, and a Christian peace slumbers in the thick snow. If nothing else, place a candle before this picture, far more wondrous than any holy image … Our ill-starred captain remembered this quiet, frozen winter from his childhood; perhaps he hadn’t ever seen anything else that was good.
The winters in Karabas could be mean. They brought blizzards, and although one of those days from the captain’s childhood would occasionally happen, bringing that ruddy tinge to the cheeks, the blizzards would always sweep in again, the cold would grow ferocious and the short days would be obscured by a blueish haze. But recently, in the last couple of years, the winters had been all messed up. Rumour had it that nature had slipped out of joint on a global scale, so there was nothing for it now but to await disaster. Sometimes snow would fall or rain would suddenly sheet down in December, so that the earth was encased in dirty blocks of ice. In short, the disorder stretched as far as the very heavens.
In the new year, winter did not start until February; it had overslept. And, quick to enact reprisals, it buried Karabas in deep snow, freezing everything, even the coal stored in the bunkers. They had to hew it out with crowbars. It melted, but it didn’t burn. Even the lightbulbs in the rooms were covered in frost, and quietly popped. The camp was saved by its searchlights, while they burned paraffin lamps in the barracks and the guardhouse.
The servicemen worked even harder to make it through this miserable time, even if it seemed that the next day no one would be able to rouse them from their hard beds, onto which they dropped in their sheepskin coats, their felt boots and fur caps with the ear-flaps on. They were huddled together side by side, as if growing closer as the very end drew near. The men came to their senses in torment when the sentry on duty yelled reveille, tearing them from oblivion. The same man would try and light the stove, but his frigid hands would not respond, and the barracks was plunged into a miserable commotion, just like a prison. The men would fall once more back into oblivion, but the sentry would yell again, although he knew perfectly well that no one would move until the stove got going. Then every inhabitant would cluster around the grate as it blazed with heat. Receiving orders from no one, they would stare dully into the fire, endlessly shovelling coal into the gaping maw of the stove. They were still clad in the same coats and boots in which they had tumbled down to sleep, and they continued to doze, although by now they had huddled up by the stove. Their boots steamed and pillars of vapour rose up from their sheepskins, so you would have thought life itself was dissolving. When the coal scuttle, which had been positioned so as to entice people close to the fire, was empty, the order went out to fetch the rations. And off the men went, pulling themselves away from the extinguished stove, heading off for a mess tin of hot swill. Once they had gulped that down, they wouldn’t stand up again. They would chew on the everlasting crusts of rye bread, waiting for someone to dollop out more swill, a bit hotter this time. Meanwhile, overnight, the barrack square would have been covered in snow. They would have just dug it out and, here you go, dig it out again. Give it another day, and more snow would fall down from the roofs. Waiting pointlessly in the cookhouse, managing in that time to get both freezing cold and starving hungry, these lads with their hearty appetites would dig out spades and toil with them in the cold and dark. Work, do your duty, and then you’ll get your grub. Survive, see out this day, and then another one will dawn.
The captain had been baked from the same mortal dough as all the other men. He was a living person, all of whose power resided in the state of his health and the strength of his arms. This man had hoped his arms would always be so strong and his health so good that he’d be ashamed to worry over it, then he’d gone and overstrained himself, resulting in a hernia, as though a second stomach, a hefty little sack, had come bulging out from the first. He had also hoped that he would be able to set up a fair system, so that people might live more happily and with fuller stomachs than had so far been the case. If the captain himself could have been in charge of bread for everyone and grief for everyone, then he could have cheered and filled them up, by divvying up his own ration and opening his soul to other people’s upsets. But Khabarov was not that unusual man among men after all, because as he made his way through life he, too, did not get enough to eat and grew mournful, gradually becoming just as half-starved and just as miserable as the others.
At that time there was just one thing on their minds: payday, which was coming ever nearer. The whole month’s salary was due: seven roubles each. Since the sentry company did not have its own army shop, they converted their pay into goods from the camp stall. From that stall, they breathed in the head-spinning smoke of a fantasy: that they would turn up and get tobacco, butter, jam, canned meat and chocolates! A sack of money was usually flung off the train as it passed through Stepnoi without stopping, and they hardly had a chance to grab the receipt, which came with the company’s couriers, in exchange. The paymaster, like the battalion HQ, was located in Ugolpunkt, where the company waited for the cherished summons to meet the train. In winter, though, the train only travelled this line every three days, and then only if there wasn’t much snow. There was no other way to get to the distant company, apart from maybe a helicopter. But the rails tended to get blocked, and it might take a week to clear the snowdrifts. The narrow-gauge engine would not run at all, and for this reason the shift would be extended, so that their twenty-four-hour stints turned into weeks, or they would send a team of tractors – a home-made train – to fetch raw materials for t
he camp factory.
All of this was well known to the men in Sixth Company, but as no one wanted to believe their pay might be delayed, they could not bring themselves to do it. They were bitter, as if their superiors had deliberately piled snow onto the tracks in order not to pay them. Their superiors, though, were not refusing to pay, and so were not to blame, which the soldiers in Karabas did not want to understand. Payday was postponed in all the camp companies buried out in the steppe, although it may have been that the wages were handed over in Ugolpunkt itself for the fourth and fifth companies, who were closer to the battalion than the steppe settlements. For the soldiers, however, this itself justified the conclusion that they had been cheated and overlooked, and for demanding their pay regardless of snowdrifts; that is, for demanding equal treatment when, for reasons known to all, this was not to be had.
Every day in Karabas was spent trying to keep warm round the stove and to get hold of a portion of food that had just a little bit more to it, but they refused to tolerate such a life if it wasn’t going to include any wages.
Agitation began among those ailing soldiers who were suffering for lack of a hospital. There were around a dozen of them: chilled, frostbitten and emaciated. An order had recently gone round the regiment that anyone who fell ill should be treated on the spot, not sent to hospital. The order had gone out because the very existence of hospital beds significantly weakened discipline. The soldiers deliberately harmed themselves, especially in winter, when it was easy to throw water over yourself and catch a chill. On the spot, though, there was now neither treatment to be had nor medicine. The ill either pulled through or fell down dead. When the poorly individuals found out about the money being delayed at the battalion, they set about whingeing quietly, ‘We’ll all die here … They’ve stolen our money … They’ll give us one month’s pay instead of two … ’ No one had the strength to withstand their whining. They lay on their cots, wrapped in whatever came to hand, great mounds that looked like hills. The healthy men, too, grew sour in the darkness, surrounded by bare frosty walls. Looking at these walls was equivalent to banging your head against them. And into this void was born a furious, fearless battle cry: ‘Brothers, here’s what we demand: give us our pay! We’re being robbed!’
While this angry brew was coming to the boil, the captain, already driven to despair, was on his way to ask the camp for cash loans for his soldiers, with his promise as bond. Apart from his promise, he had nothing else to offer.
The captain was thinking he would seek forgiveness from Sinebriukhov, who might take pity on them, but he found out that, some months ago now, the previous camp commandant had been found guilty of misappropriation on a quite spectacular scale. The new commandant, a burly fellow exuding health next to whom the captain looked like a zek, did not refuse straight away. He let the captain amuse him, listening to his request with pleasure, as though assessing whether or not to believe in the captain’s promise. But Khabarov’s requests became increasingly bitter and complaining, and the big man used his strong frame to push away this captain who was trying to put the screws on him. ‘This is not some kind of privately run gangster outfit; it’s a state undertaking, you moron. I have accountability. The cashier from the regional administration keeps coming to take the proceeds and everything’s got to be done according to the law, even if you have to make up the difference with your gold teeth.’ Maybe the new boss was hinting at something, but Khabarov did not pick up on it. When it became clear to the fellow that there was no profit to be extracted from the company captain, not even his hide, he spewed obscenities at him and almost threw a few punches in for good measure, bundling him aggressively out of the stores.
The same desolation reigned in the zone as everywhere else, but banging could be heard: the workshops were still going at this hour. The sentry towers rose up like ladders into the hazy sky. The captain could make out that they were empty, standing there unmanned, as though taken by storm. At the gatehouse Khabarov ran into some warders, who were hurriedly battening down all the entrances and exits. They turned to him to ask, ‘Here, what’s going on? The camp has never been left unguarded before. Go and let your lads know, quickly, tell them, so that we catch the zeks unawares. What are you stood there saying nothing for? Get yourself out of here, or they’ll burn you up with the rest.’ But the captain didn’t hear them. Exchanging glances, the warders stepped away from him, crunching the snow under their feet and saying, ‘He’s done for, that bloke … ’
‘Aw, good riddance, the bastard. He’s not been right for ages, that one; he’s hung on, trying to take us all to the grave with him.’ The guards had run off. Only a guard dog was flinging itself about and howling, abandoned on the parade square. She joyously latched on to the captain, standing close to him, and quietly tagged along behind, when he returned to the company empty-handed. But then, once he’d examined the gates, from which a dusting of snow had fallen, as though they had been breathing frost, he could no longer see the dog either beside him or anywhere about the barrack square. She’d been drilled ever since she was a puppy, yet she too had gone back on her oath; she’d gone out of her mind.
Inside the barracks it was the hottest it had ever been that winter: by now they were no longer trying to make the coal last. The coal was melting and the stove belching greedily, shooting out sparks. The fire was crackling and roaring – it sounded as though the barracks was leaking, while above it torrential rain poured down, drumming on the roof. Exactly like when it buckets down with rain, it seemed that the square, the very ground itself, was on fire, and everything was either melting or roasting. Khabarov stood alone in the crimson glow of the stove, burnt by its light to the colour of earthenware. It was as if he wasn’t there, although he had come in ages ago. On that day, time stood still, although it’s true it was closer to evening, which had set in early as it does in winter, almost in the middle of the day. The entire company had gathered in the barracks. The bunks had been shifted closer to the blazing stove, but there was not enough room on them so people were stretched flat on the floor. The ones who had climbed down from the watchtowers were asleep, huddled up to their machine guns, keeping warm. It was peaceful and quiet, like in a hospital. In this hush, three soldiers were awake, sitting on a bench that was just about rammed into the stove; perhaps they had already managed to snatch some sleep. One of them glanced at the captain and shifted up; another just as unseeingly held out a cup of hot liquid to him, and the captain had to take it.
Set back down on the stove, the kettle began to crackle from the great heat: there was no more water in it. One of them hissed to another, ‘Are you blind or something? Go bring some more snow, or it will burn.’
‘I can see … ’ the other replied, but he did not move. Then one of these mates stood up, seemingly an extra one, forgotten about. He grabbed the kettle angrily and vanished into the darkness.
‘Lads, what are you up to? You have to do your duty, after all, or else it will all fall apart … ’ said the captain, timidly. One of the more bad-tempered soldiers voiced his opinion: ‘You can’t do anything to us. Best help us, or we’ll kick you out, as well. You know, we used to be daft but we’ve got cleverer. When we demand what’s ours, we’ll get it.’ At this, from the shadows, from that dark pile into which the rows of bodies had amassed, there came a shout. ‘So what are you waiting for, Khabarov? Do you want to stay alive, you son of a bitch? Well get the hell out of here, then, while you still can!’
The captain went back to his office; there was no other place for him. He sat at the icy desk, to which everything, right down to the paraffin lamp, had frozen solid. He lit the lamp, which sputtered and flickered. The captain looked at it, not knowing how much paraffin it had left. He was just waiting for the lamp to go out, thinking about it sluggishly, procrastinating, but the wick continued burning …
In the morning Khabarov was woken by the freezing darkness, and went to shovel snow in the square; everyone in the barracks could hear his shovelling. Once he’
d dealt with that, he started chipping out coal in the shed for the coming day, and they all heard the bangs of the crowbar ringing out. They knew, they heard, but they did not come outside. They chewed on dry, mouldy noodles, there being nobody to cook them.
The captain, white with snow, appeared bearing a scuttle full of coal. The stove had long since cooled to a deathly quiet. Khabarov got a little flame going and tenderly added coal. It started cooing, and caught light. When the warmth had set in, he stood by the blazing stove, which was thawing out the space around it, creating a widening circle of damp. He said to the men now warming themselves in the barracks, ‘For the last time, believe my promise. I will go and fetch the wages. They will entrust me with the money, don’t doubt that; as long as the company carries out its duty and does not mutiny. Give me two days, we’ll get it sorted, and then it will be springtime. Come the spring, we’ll have everything!’ That day, they did not shovel the snow from the square, because the captain had done it. The day was more like dusk, and what’s more, a blizzard set in, whirling and shaggy and twirling in solitude on the twilit steppe.