Wolf Hunt

by Ivailo Pretov

  I spent those days waiting for permission to visit the prison with Nusha’s former landlords. I had told her that I was going to the doctor for a day or two, and she gave me a letter so I wouldn’t have to wander around looking for a hotel. The elderly couple joyfully welcomed me, and after we chatted a bit, I realized how much they loved Nusha and her brother, who had also lived with them during his high school years. In the afternoon we went to the courthouse and asked to see the case, but here again our request was refused. Savov went to the chief justice of the court and to the prosecutor, but in vain – access to the archives was strictly forbidden. We could only get to them through an insider and that insider was the examining magistrate on the case. While Miho Barakov had denied in court that Pashov had betrayed him, the examining magistrate had declared that Pashov had told him the name of the person who had stolen his canvas cover. We had to find out whether the magistrate really had identified Pashov as a witness to the crime. Savov found out the name and address of the examining magistrate from his colleague who had defended the twelve young communists, but refused to go see him. They were not on good terms, and he was sure that Marchinkov, that was the magistrate’s name, would not let him anywhere near the archives and would not tell us anything of what interested us. Now all representatives of the justice system and especially examining magistrates on political cases were awaiting the impending events very uneasily for obvious reasons and didn’t want to give any explanations whatsoever about their work, especially where political trials were concerned. If someone nevertheless managed to get in touch with Magistrate Marchinkov, it should not be a lawyer who had defended communists in the past or individuals tried under the Law for the Defense of the Nation. For this reason Savov refused to deal with Marchinkov and it was up to me to take on this task.

  I went to his home three times and never managed to find him there. An old woman sent me to his office, from there they sent me back to his home. It was clear that he was hiding or had already skipped town, and that meant that very many and very serious transgressions weighed on his conscience. A hellish heat came pouring down on the city, the asphalt stuck to the soles of my shoes, I was about to drop from exhaustion, I was hungry, too. In the Sea Garden, I had already eaten the food I had brought from the village, and I didn’t dare ask Metko to borrow some money, nor could I eat lunch and dinner at Nusha’s landlords’. In the evening I came back late when they were already sleeping, and in the morning I went out early, turning down the breakfast they offered me. I had borrowed a bit of money from Anani, of that I only had two leva left, besides what I needed for the return trip, to buy bread and a kilo of tomatoes. And so it was until the evening of the third day. I was completely exhausted from the heat, plus I had a temperature, but rather than going back to my lodgings, I went to look for Marchinkov one more time. My persistence could not help but impress him, if he hadn’t yet skipped town or was hiding at his home. I was sure that he had been watching me from somewhere or listening in on my conversations with the old woman, whom I invariably and very politely asked to inform Mr. Marchinkov that I wanted to tell him something of great importance to himself. My appearance and behavior must have inspired a certain confidence, and he finally agreed to see me. He led me into a room with high and long unpainted walls, with creaking floorboards and drawn curtains. A lightbulb without a lamp shade hung from the ceiling, barely lighting up the middle of the room.

  The dingy ambience filled me with doubts whether I was finally talking to the person I had so persistently sought. I had imagined the home of a magistrate, a lawyer by education, if not swimming in luxury, at least clean and cozy. It crossed my mind that perhaps he was pretending to be poor by receiving me in such a room, but he himself resembled the room. I had interned at the court and had seen many magistrates and had formed a rather different idea about that class of people, to put it broadly – more physically imposing and more dignified. This man was around fifty, of average height and thin, almost skin and bones, with thinning, close-cropped hair, with a dry face and a sharply hooked nose such that his face looked as if made out of cartilage. But his ears were even more eye-catching, as they were disproportionately large for his head, and bent forward, dry and translucent like the wings of a bat. He knew that he had the biggest ears if not in the whole country, then in the whole city, he knew what a shocking impression they made on others, and for this reason he was sitting in front of me in half profile, as he likely sat in front of all his interlocutors. But his eyes were large as well, dark and warm, and they peered at me from beneath the shelter of his brow bone like two intelligent creatures. And his hands, which he was holding in front of himself in his lap, small, white, and covered with jutting veins, looked somehow smart, gentle, and cautious.

  “How can I be of assistance to you?” he asked once we were sitting across from each other under the weak light of the lamp.

  I introduced myself and told him all the most important things – my first name and surname, where I was born, my education – and in the end I added that we could be mutually helpful to each other if we spoke clearly and openly. Political events were developing so quickly that we needed to spare all unnecessary considerations and save every minute.

  “Yes, go on.” His eyes, those warm and intelligent creatures, were on guard under the shelter of his brow bone.

  I had been thinking for so long of what questions I would ask him and the tone I would take with him that now I didn’t know where to start. The thought that the impending conversation with this man could be life changing for Nusha’s father and for our happiness kept me in a state of constant, ever-growing anxiety and strained my nerves to the very limit. I was exhausted by the day’s heat, and hungry, too, on top of everything. That he had so long and so persistently refused to meet with me meant that a good outcome of our conversation depended largely on my questions and comportment. In my desire to have a frank conversation with him, however, I said that I was a communist and had connections to all the party leaders in the district. That, it seemed, sounded to him like a threat or at least a condition for the following conversation. His white hands, which were lying in his lap, twitched nervously, and it seemed to me that he was holding some object in his palms. With my appearance and with my feverish restlessness I probably looked like an impatient, vengeful fanatic come to settle the score with him, and now not only his eyes but he himself was on guard.

  “I’m interested in the case of the twelve young men from last year. You were the examining magistrate on the case, were you not?”

  “What more specifically are you interested in?”

  “Why you didn’t call the main witness Petar Pashov into court?”

  “Pashov?”

  “Do you remember the name? He was precisely the one from whom Miho Barakov stole the canvas, and that theft was the reason the criminal case was brought against him. Petar Pashov personally told you the name of the thief, who was arrested after the investigation established that Miho Barakov had stolen the canvas under the party’s orders.”

  Marchinkov fell silent and his gaze seemed to fall on an old cabinet behind me. It crossed my mind that someone could be hidden in that cabinet, who could come to his aid if necessary and act as a witness to our conversation. But that person, likely the magistrate’s official executioner, could rough me up as well, since I had so carelessly declared that I had connections to party leaders. They could torture me to find out their names and to liquidate them before the Soviet Army entered Bulgaria. I didn’t know a single party leader, of course, I had said it to give myself more gravitas and to imply that I was speaking in the name of people who tomorrow might show certain lenience toward him, should that be necessary. But did I really know what kind of person the magistrate was? Many people like him acted in various ways in the face of the impending events. As I found out later, some fell into complete despair, others fled abroad, yet others tried to cover their tracks by destroying documents, witnesses, and those whom they expected to seek reveng
e. Many such thoughts went through my head as he sat there silently. I was gripped by the fear that I of my own free will had stumbled into his trap, from which I would not escape unpunished, if only for the fact that I was trying to put him in the role of the one being investigated, and at a moment when time was still on his side, at that. The Soviet Army had reached our border, but it might not cross it today or tomorrow as we expected, it could delay crossing for a month for tactical reasons. Marchinkov and others like him had a certain chance to act as they saw fit.

  “Are you this…Pashov’s son, or some other relative?”

  “I told you who and what I am. Here is my ID card. I should have shown it to you in the very beginning.”

  “There’s no need. I did not lead the investigation on that case, sir.”

  “But at the court…”

  “Yes, at the court they told you I had led it. But only in the beginning. Due to certain considerations I had to turn the investigation over to another. I cannot tell you his name, you can find it out from the court.”

  “In that case, Mr. Marchinkov, I beg you to forgive me for disturbing you. What a shame that you did not lead the investigation. I have the feeling that you would have informed me fully on the questions that interest me. Now that I know you had no part in the case, I can tell you that I am not interceding for a communist, but for a nonparty, yet not guilty, person – Petar Pashov. He is a wealthy villager, he is not involved in politics, but he was slandered and his innocence must be proven at all costs.”

  “I understand,” Marchinkov said, and got up.

  I got up and saw that there was nothing in his delicate white hands, or he had managed to hide whatever it was in his pockets. He went ahead to open the door for me and it was then I felt my strength leave me and my knees give way. I fell backward and if I had not grabbed the chair, I would have fallen onto the floor.

  “Allow me to rest for a minute,” I said. “I feel unwell.”

  “You are sick, you are covered with sweat.”

  “I am sick and exhausted and hungry.”

  “Rest a bit!” Marchinkov said. “I’ll be back in a moment.” A few minutes later he came back with a small wooden tray upon which he had placed two rolls, a glass of yogurt, and a chunk of cheese. “Eat, get your strength up, don’t worry. And take off your suit coat, why are you wearing a coat in this heat? Are you ill with tuberculosis?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “My brother had it once…So, you say…that Petar Pashov was slandered. Before I handed the case of the twelve young men over to my colleague, there was some question of a Pashov, from Zhitnitsa, I believe.”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “His son had left for Switzerland, right? Do you know him?”

  “Yes, we’re friends.”

  “And because of that friendship you have come to try to save his father, despite the terrible condition you’re in?”

  “Not only because of friendship.”

  “You were the one who declared that we needed to speak openly.”

  “Of course. I’m in love with his sister.”

  “And does she return your feelings?”

  “Oh, yes! Her parents know of our relationship as well and will allow us to marry when I recover.”

  “I’m very happy for you, Mr. Kralev.”

  While we were talking, I was eating. I realized that it was indecent of me to take food from hands that were possibly stained with the blood of innocent people, but I couldn’t stand the hunger. In the meantime he had entered into his role as investigator and seemed to be taking advantage of my physical and spiritual weakness, and was calmly “wringing me dry.” I had no will to resist, nor did I exercise even the most ordinary caution. I asked myself why I was confessing such intimate things to him, yet I told him that I wanted to save my love and my happiness. Later, when I recalled that meeting, I bitterly felt that I had not shown the necessary pride, but on the other hand, whatever I may have told the investigator, I subconsciously gave him to understand that he was dealing with a person who could not and should not be taken lightly. He likely understood very well that he was dealing with a sick and agitated person who was in no condition to pretend, thus my weakness turned out to be useful. As far as he had heard from his colleague who had led the investigation, as well as from other clerks at the court, the name of Petar Pashov had not figured in the investigation, as he had not accused anyone of stealing the canvas. This story was made up, most likely by the main defendant Miho Barakov for some unknown reasons…

  “My dear young colleague, this seems unbelievable to you, does it not?” he said, when he saw my bewilderment and disbelief. “I would be willing to bet that you take it as a deception on the part of the enemy with the intent to sow unrest among your ranks. Fine, you should have warned Petar Pashov, your future father-in-law, that you were setting out to save his honor and his life. But you did not tell him of your intentions because you were afraid that he might truly be mixed up in this business and might take some measure to erase the proof of his treachery. Am I wrong in my assumption?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” I said. “But despite that I still want you to show me the case. Only then will I fully believe you.”

  “I have no reason to lie to you, Mr. Kralev. I am an expert and believe me if you will, but I have never toyed with the facts. You are a lawyer and you know the place and the significance of a criminal case. The sentence depends on my investigation – that is, the trial is prepared based on the investigation. Perhaps it is precisely because of this that you suspect that I could have altered the facts, whether due to bribes or to political convictions. I’ve never had need for bribes, I’m fairly well off in the material sense, and as far as my political convictions are concerned – I don’t belong to any party. I’m not a fascist nor a communist. Political ideas usurp one’s will and conscience and urge one toward transgressions. Yet I am not a sterile person, either. I, too, serve an idea, and it is the idea of discovering all the traces of a crime. In and of itself, this search is not only science, it is also an art to which I have dedicated myself ever since my youth. If one day you decide to dedicate yourself to investigative work, and as a calling at that, you will understand what I am saying. It is a passion, the creation of a novel far more interesting than those that are written. I have tried to stand between the extremes, to judge people’s actions as impartially as possible. The final result of a case, however, depends on the skill and conscience of the prosecutors, judges, and lawyers, who do not always deal conscientiously with the facts I give them. This is what happened in the case you are interested in. Initially the investigation was assigned to me. I was just getting a handle on the case when the chief prosecutor and a few people from the police began to put pressure on me. I announced that I would not allow anyone to meddle in my work. A few days later they reassigned the case to another colleague, who was young, ambitious, and above all, a fascist. He was instructed by the relevant institutions to construct the case such that the trial would strike several blows. Namely – to smash the communist youth league, to make Petar Pashov a sacrificial victim by opposing him and his son, whom the police suspected of being an important communist. He had gone to Switzerland to study, but the police didn’t know exactly why. And finally, they wanted to reestablish the government’s prestige.

  “The reversal on the Eastern Front made a strong impression on people’s political consciousness. Some were disillusioned by fascism, others oriented themselves toward Russia, while still others, communists and their sympathizers, turned to direct subversive action, partisan units grew in number and size. The government was looking for an opportunity to frighten its political opponents and that case presented itself. Or rather the government orchestrated the case so as to show that its positions were strong and unshakable despite the crisis on the Eastern Front and that it wouldn’t hesitate to sentence even trifling antigovernmental acts like giving a few leva in support of the communist movement. That was t
he reason for so much buzz around the case, and that’s why so many sentences were handed down.

  “From what I’ve said thus far you can probably guess why Miho Barakov spread the rumor that Petar Pashov was a traitor. From the information I managed to gather about his family, I understood that his father is an experienced political player and all-around daredevil. His son, the youngest one, actively “joined” the antifascist struggle after the disaster at Stalingrad. There is no way the wealthiest man in the village could not have realized, just as all the others like him did, that the tragedy at Stalingrad had decided the war in favor of the Russians, hence a bit of political insurance wouldn’t hurt. The Bolsheviks are coming here, but we’ve got a communist in the family, who was interrogated and thrown into prison by the fascist government. For some time now I’ve noticed that most people are looking for a way to make nice with the communists, by whatever means. Fear of the Bolsheviks is making people their followers and they are willing to take certain risks. But the Barakov case has a more distant and certain aim. The younger Pashov has been compromised by his father and even if, despite this, he is named to some important post, he’ll be forced to show a certain leniency toward others’ mistakes.

  “Besides that, their son was beaten while being interrogated after his arrest, in spite of which he took all the responsibility on himself. What fault of his is it if one of the kids couldn’t hold out under torture and gave away his comrades? As far as I understood from my colleague, who came to consult with me about some questions during the investigation, your hero Barakov left that list with the twelve names in his apartment in a place where it would easily be found by the authorities. The names were written out by some semiliterate servant woman of his landlords. Despite being a fascist (he fled the city the day before yesterday) and endlessly ambitious, my colleague was nevertheless seriously concerned by the machinations they forced him to introduce into the investigation and came to consult with me. I told him what I thought, but since he’d already joined the dance, he had to pay the fiddler, and as became clear later, he couldn’t stand up to the authorities’ pressure. He also told me that your hero had been made up during the investigation to look beaten and during the trials faked injuries from the beating he had supposedly taken.”