Don't Trust, Don't Fear, Don't Beg: The Extraordinary Story of the Arctic 30

by Ben Stewart

  ‘Okay, bring him in.’

  It’s huge, this office. Popov is sitting at a big desk behind a computer screen and keyboard. At the back of the room are two soft chairs facing each other below an enormous portrait of Putin. Popov starts speaking, and straight off his manner is oddly breezy. He uses the informal ‘ty’ when he’s addressing Dima, like they’re old friends.

  ‘You can take a seat,’ he says, and when Dima is seated he extends an arm and shakes Dima’s hand with vigour.

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘I do now.’

  ‘You started in prison?’

  ‘Yeah. But I’m trying to quit.’

  ‘Would you like a cigarette?’

  ‘I’m in the kartser, I’m not allowed to smoke.’

  Popov snorts. ‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’ He holds out a packet of cigarettes, Dima takes one, so does Popov. The governor lights it and breathes in deeply then two dark grey tusks appear as he exhales through his nostrils. He holds out the lighter for Dima then pops it back into his pocket, saying, ‘Tell me, have you ever read Goethe’s Faust?’

  ‘I have.’

  Popov takes a drag. ‘So you know this whole thing about good and evil then?’

  ‘Good and evil?’

  ‘In Faust.’

  ‘We all have good within us.’

  ‘That’s right Dimitri, yes. We’re all fundamentally good.’

  ‘And only errors of judgement make good people do bad things, but even bad people—’

  Popov interrupts, saying, ‘If a person keeps striving, Dimitri, even bad people, if they keep striving then their mistakes will bring them closer to righteousness.’

  ‘So says Faust.’

  ‘If they strive, Dimitri. If they strive to be good.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve read it.’

  ‘And you must strive. All of you. What you did, it was a mistake, you know that. But you can be good people again, I know you can. And you, Dimitri’ – he uses the familiar ‘ty’ again – ‘you are somebody who can strive, who must strive. It’s in your blood, you’re a Litvinov, and by recognising your errors of judgement you can become good again. Don’t you think?’

  Dima leans back and draws on his cigarette. ‘It rather depends on whether you think holding a peaceful protest at an Arctic oil platform is an error of judgement. Some people, and I believe there are many millions of them, might say that us being kept here, in this prison, is a more fundamental error of judgement, and is one that says much more about the nature of good and evil than our climate change campaign.’

  Popov berths his cigarette in the ashtray and holds his palms together, as if in reflective prayer. Then he taps his chin with the tips of his fingers, contemplating Dima’s assertion, before leaning back in his chair. ‘What do you understand by the concept of nationhood?’

  ‘Russian nationhood?’

  ‘Nationhood. Russian, American, whatever.’

  ‘It’s bullshit. I’m an internationalist.’

  ‘Well I’m a nationalist, Dimitri. I’m not afraid of those words. Nooooo, I’m not afraid of saying I’m a nationalist, not at all. Not in the least bit. I’m a nationalist, and what you did, what you are doing, is a threat to my nation.’ He lifts his shoulders, as if what he’s saying is the most obvious thing in the world. ‘It’s really that simple. And I think that you’re going to be feeling the wrath of this nation.’ He’s nodding slowly now. ‘Because the nation is …’ He holds his hands out in front of him, like he’s squeezing two invisible oranges, and his face creases as he searches for the words. ‘… the nation is … is the embodiment of the people. And the state is the embodiment of the nation. So you see, the state, me, him’ – his eyes turn to the giant portrait of Putin – ‘are actually no more than the people. It is not me who has put you here, Dimitri. Don’t you see that? It’s not me, it’s not the President. It’s the people. The people have put you here.’

  ‘The people?’

  ‘Why yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, if the people are so wise, why not ask them what they think? You could ask them all on the same day, and you could let them tell you secretly so they can’t be intimidated, and you could let the media say what it wants in the weeks before this day. You could do all of that, and you could call it, I don’t know, a fair election. Why not let them say what they will without censorship, so their wisdom can be appreciated by all of us?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Popov stares over Dima’s head into the middle distance. His eyes glaze, like he’s suddenly absent from the conversation, then he blinks and almost to himself he mutters, ‘History has been so unfair to the Gestapo.’

  Dima’s mouth drops open. ‘The Gestapo?’

  ‘Me, I respect your great-grandfather. He was close to Stalin, he knew the benefits of stability. Russia is a vast country, Dimitri. Our borders are hard to defend, our people are diverse, our languages many. Only through the primacy of the nation, embodied by the state, can we retain our place in the global order. But the state must be strong. Yes, the Gestapo …’ he smiles wistfully. ‘We’ve learnt so much from them.’ He makes a fist of his hand, raps his knuckles on the table and leans forward. ‘Those guys knew how to run a prison. They stand as the master practitioners of penitentiary science and related systems. They’re the ones who developed it all. All of it! Masters. Really, we owe everything to the Gestapo.’ He sniffs. ‘You look sceptical, Dimitri.’

  Dima’s not sceptical. He’s furious. This guy’s a clown, but he’s also a thug. The Gestapo? The governor is everything that’s wrong with Putin’s Russia.

  ‘Actually, I’m offended.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I hoped today’s Russia wouldn’t owe a debt to … to the fascists.’

  ‘Fascists? What the hell kind of word is that? What do you mean, fascists?’

  ‘Fascists. The Gestapo. They were fascists.’

  ‘Ah, but Dimitri, what you don’t understand is …’ And here Popov launches into a wider soliloquy on the nature of nationalism while Dima stares at his face, fuming at the man, watching the little moustache dancing on the upper lip, occasional flashes of gold from the capped tooth as the mouth spits out this cod philosophy. And all the time Dima’s thinking, what does this man actually want from me? Why is he doing this? He’s not asking me questions, he’s just pouring all this out and I’m just sitting here cast in the role of student to Popov’s master philosopher.

  Eventually the governor runs out of steam. He tried to rationalise the contradiction between his admiration of the Gestapo and the immense pride he takes in the Soviet defeat of Nazism, but after several minutes he found himself in a verbal cul-de-sac before restating his argument with less conviction, and now Popov appears to have given up. The room is quiet but for the sound of a clock ticking. The fist in Dima’s stomach is clenched tight and hard.

  Popov breaks the silence.

  ‘So, they’re going to lock you up for seven years.’

  Dima blows out his cheeks. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I hope not.’

  ‘Of course. Nobody wants to be stuck in prison for seven years. What are you going to do? What are you thinking? Because of course you’re in charge of this situation, it’s up to you. You want to be locked up for a long time? Is that what you want? What do you want, Dimitri?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been waiting six weeks for you to give me a phone call.’

  ‘A phone call?’

  ‘A telephone call.’

  ‘Who do you want to call?’

  ‘Who am I gonna … I just want my call.’

  ‘To speak to who?’

  ‘I’m going to call my wife, of course. I’m gonna tell her not to wait for me.’

  ‘What do you mean, not wait?’

  ‘If it’s seven years I don’t want her to wait. I mean, seven years, it’s too long. She should move on, find someone else.’

  At this point Popov’s nostrils flare, he grips the edge of the table and splutters, ‘What? You can’t do tha
t!’

  ‘Well, I can’t have a woman wait for me for seven years.’

  ‘No, no, no! The family, Dimitri. The family is the most important thing we have. No, you can’t do that. Come on, they’re going to be letting you out in two weeks’ time, what are you talking about?’ His eyes dart around the room until they fall onto one of the guards. He waves furiously, motioning for the man to step forward. ‘You, yes you, make sure Dimitri sees the psychologist. He’s becoming delusional, these things he’s saying are extraordinary. He’s not feeling well, he’s … he’s not himself.’ He turns back to Dima. ‘It’s okay, you’ll see the psychologist. He’ll help you. Dear oh dear, telling your wife to go with another man. I’m afraid you’re losing your mind, my friend.’

  ‘I’m not. Really.’

  Popov stubs out his cigarette and lights another. He examines Dima’s face for a moment then leans forward and with great reverence he says, ‘Tell me, have you ever read The Red-haired Horse?’

  ‘The Red-haired—’

  ‘Oh dear, Dimitri. My dear Dimitri, you have to read The Red-haired Horse.’

  ‘Okay. It’s a book?’

  ‘About the Cossacks. True nationalists. Aaaah the Cossacks. I’m actually a Cossack myself.’ He points at the guard. ‘You. Do we have The Red-haired Horse in the library here? We do? Aaaah, very good. Okay, well make sure Dimitri has it in his cell tomorrow.’ He turns back to Dima. ‘You’ve got to read it. It’s a great book.’

  ‘Okay, yeah, sure.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Okay then.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It really is a great book.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  Popov nods then takes a deep breath. ‘Well, Dimitri, we can’t chat like this all day. Back to the punishment cell for you.’

  ‘Yup.’

  Popov sucks on his cigarette and shrugs. The guard taps Dima on the shoulder, he gets to his feet and is led out of the office and back down the corridor towards the kartser. The knot in his stomach is tight, his heart is beating fast. This prison is run by a psychopath, he thinks, and I’m not sure if he loves me or hates me.

  He’s pushed into the punishment cell, the door closes, and he stands in the silence for a few minutes, confused, scared, alone. Then a key turns and the door opens.

  ‘Come on, you’re going back to the boss.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s not finished with you yet.’

  Barely a quarter of an hour after leaving, Dima is sat back in the same chair, across the table from Popov.

  ‘Cigarette?’

  Dima nods. They spark up, drag deeply, exhale over each other’s shoulder. Popov taps his cigarette over the ashtray and says, ‘You know the FSB?’

  ‘Yeah … I mean, of course I do.’

  ‘Tricky guys.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Oh man, those guys are tricky. You really should listen to them, though, do what they ask. That’s the thing about co-operating with the investigators, it makes your life so much easier.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Don’t mess with them, Dimitri. For your own good, don’t be a hero. I know one of your guys is trying to be a hero, trying to take the blame for the attack on the platform. But really, what the fuck is he doing that for? I mean, everybody’s already giving evidence anyway, he should just relax. Yes, everyone’s singing now, telling the FSB who did what. No point in keeping schtum, eh? Everybody’s singing anyway.’

  ‘I’m not sure they are.’

  ‘Oh they are. Yes yes, they are my friend.’ He cocks his head to one side and sighs. ‘But I can end this for you. You do know that?’

  Dima scratches his cheek.

  ‘Do you want me to end this for you, Dimitri?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can amnesty you from the kartser right now.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So let’s do it,’ says Popov breezily. He opens a desk drawer and takes out a piece of paper and a pen. ‘You write here that you’re really sorry you broke the rules. You say it was your lawyer who forced you to do it, and we can all move on.’

  ‘I can’t write that.’

  ‘Well okay, just write that you’re really sorry, you’ll never do it again and we’ll date it so it looks like you wrote it yesterday.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  Dima thinks about it for a moment. He wonders if this is a trick, but by now he just wants to get away from this guy, so he scribbles down a few words – ‘I’m sorry I broke the rules about letters’ – and signs it, then spins the sheet of paper around and pushes it back to Popov. The governor claps his hands together and declares, ‘Okay, that’s it. Take him back to his regular cell.’

  Dima twists his head and looks over his shoulder at the guard, like, is this guy for real? But the guard gives nothing away, instead he lays a hand on Dima’s shoulder and a moment later he’s being marched back down the corridor. His pink bag is handed to him, he swings it over his shoulder and he’s taken back to his cell. Vitaly jumps up and throws his arms around him, but Dima breaks away. His heart is racing; the knot is like a rock in his stomach now.

  ‘What happened? Dima, what happened to you?’

  Dima hunches over a mug in the corner of the room, stuffs a fistful of tea into it, fills it with water and drops the immersion heater in. He lights a cigarette then turns to face his cellmate.

  ‘Vitaly, you’ve heard of the Gestapo, right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And you know they were the bad guys?’

  ‘Sure I do. Everyone knows the Gestapo were the bad guys.’

  ‘Okay, good.’

  And the next day a book is pushed through the feeding hatch in the cell door and drops onto the floor with a slap.

  The Red-haired Horse.

  Dima forces himself to read it that night. He’s curious to know more about a work of such renown. It’s set in the Soviet-era revolutionary period. Cossack traditions. Poorly written. The biggest piece of trash he’s ever read.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Pete Willcox’s diary

  30th October

  I guess I had better start a diary, to try and remember all this shit. Had another useless exercise period. Again it was drizzling and the exercise cell was half undercover, and the half that was still frozen was in the drizzle. So I stood in the corner and did the French Chairs. Better than nothing. At 1330 they said my lawyer was here so I went down to see Alexander. They had been waiting to see me since 10am. That really really sucks and it’s just ball-breaking. I wonder if they are mad at Alexander for something? Anyway, no major changes, Alex confirmed they are trying to split us apart. That’s not good. Alex also thinks they may cook up another charge for me. But he thinks even if they do, they will let me go with the other non-activists. I think he is bullshitting me and I should prepare for the worst. But realistically it is unlikely they will keep anyone in to Sochi. I heard Monday at the investigators that there is already talk of protests at the Olympics if we are still held. Not boycott, but protests. I do not think Putin is going to want that. Around 1630 they came to get Sasha [his cellmate]. I do not think it was because of me and I think it was because he did too much screaming. But the cell feels lonelier than usual tonight.

  To understand Pete Willcox, you have to go back to his grandparents.84

  In 1952 Henry Willcox chaired the US delegation to a peace conference in China. One of the speakers was the communist premier Mao Tse-tung. When they returned to America, Henry and his wife had their passports confiscated85 at New York harbour. He sued the United States government, eventually securing a five-to-four Supreme Court decision on the ‘right of freedom to travel’. But the case cost him his building company. He was voted out by the employees he’d given shares to.

  The Korean War was raging, the Cold War was at its height, Senator Joe McCarthy was warning of ‘reds under the bed’ and the House Un-Ame
rican Activities Committee (HUAC) was holding hearings that resulted in the famous ‘Hollywood blacklist’. Three hundred writers and performers were boycotted by the movie studios based on their alleged communist sympathies. Even Charlie Chaplin.

  On 6 March 1953, the day after Joseph Stalin died, Pete was born. His birth mother gave him up for adoption, but Henry’s son Roger Willcox and his daughter-in-law Elsie gave the boy a safe, loving home. Two years later Elsie was herself summoned to appear before the HUAC to account for her suspected involvement with an anti-war group. Elsie was in the process of adopting another boy, Mike, but the papers weren’t yet finalised. Fearing the summons could put the adoption in jeopardy, she took Pete and Mike and went underground for three months, hiding in a New England farmhouse. When the papers were eventually finalised, she surfaced and was issued with a subpoena to testify.86

  Elsie was pulled before the Committee. One of the congressmen said she’d betrayed her country. Elsie invoked her right to silence. Pete Willcox grew up believing that if you hadn’t been subpoenaed by the House Un-American Activities Committee then you hadn’t done much with your life.87

  He was five years old when he went on his first protest, against a new coal-burning power plant in Norwalk Harbor. Two years after that he was protesting outside Woolworth’s in solidarity with the young African-Americans staging sit-ins at racially segregated stores in the Deep South.

  In 1965 Pete witnessed the culmination of the famous march from Selma to Montgomery. Selma was the county seat of Dallas County, Alabama. In the early 1960s the population was 57 per cent African-American, but only 1 per cent were registered to vote88 (for whites, voter registration sometimes surpassed 100 per cent89). A campaign began to turn that around, but it was met with organised violent resistance by sections of the white minority, and by the mid-sixties Selma had become a focus for the national civil rights movement.