by James L. May
The documents looked official. They were printed orders, signed, initialed, and stamped in two different colors, with Petrovich’s name and mine filling the blanks.
There were three. One was simply a pass for Nikolski Gate, authorizing both of us to enter or exit. The next, the most elaborate, identified Petrovich as conducting an investigation on behalf of the Information and Investigation Section. There was no form for that, so the Chekist had written a set of instructions onto a standard work-assignment order, stamping it four times to verify its authenticity.
What held my attention was the order transferring me from Company Thirteen to Company Ten. It was what I had been hoping for from my acquaintance with Antonov, if delivered in an unexpected way. The Chekist had written “TEMPORARY” at the top in capital letters, true, but I didn’t think I would be transferred to Ten, even temporarily, without being allowed to eat there as well.
That changed things. Any doubts I’d had about reassignment sank away into my stomach with a gurgle.
We were going back the way we’d come, towards Nikolski. Without the Chekist to keep up with, Petrovich set a slower pace. “Maybe I can be helpful,” I said. “I’ve read quite a lot of detektivy.”
The old man snorted. “That will make you less of a help, not more. You mean you spent your pennies on them as a boy? Or you still choose to read trash?”
“They aren’t all so stupid.”
“No? All right, then, expert. Since you have read so many reliable accounts of criminal cases, tell me: what should our first step here be?”
I thought about it. My fictional detectives were invariably keen on examining the scene of the crime. Sherlock Holmes, indeed, was a scientist of forensics; he’d written a monograph on footprints and could often wrap up his cases after applying his mind to a stretch of apparently featureless ground. In one of the stories about his visits to Russia, he identified an Indian hunting baboon as the culprit on the basis of the tracks it left in a second-story room after climbing in its window.
“If they found him in the bay,” I said, “he must have been killed nearby. Maybe we could look for signs of a body being dragged along the bank, or thrown into the water.”
“Ah, you’re an expert tracker?”
“No.”
“Of course not. Me neither. Do you think it’s going to do us any good to go around staring at the ground for footprints? Between the wind and the snow and everyone in this camp dragging something somewhere, what’s going to be left? How would we ever know if we found something?”
He had a point. “All right. What do we do instead, then?”
“No, I want to see what you’ve learned from these stories. You tell me.”
The only other answer I could think up seemed feeble, but I’d prove myself altogether spiritless if I said nothing. “I suppose we question the victim’s acquaintances or associates. We’ll see if that turns up anything suspicious or strange.”
The old man shrugged. “That’s not terrible. Of course, you’re an acquaintance and associate of his yourself.”
His glance had, again, that combination of bleariness and intensity. I supposed it meant I was being given the opportunity to start showing I was not a block of wood like Razdolski. “Yes, of course. Let me see, what do I know about him? He was from Yaroslavl. I believe he’d grown up there and did most of his work there. He told me once about the bombardment during the civil war—what was destroyed, how much work there was repairing what was left. Of the art in the churches, I mean.”
“Yaroslavl. White city, wasn’t it?”
“I believe so,” I said. During the war I’d been eleven years old. I knew only that Red victories filled the streets with celebrating workers, while at home my parents grieved in secret over the defeats of any army that claimed to represent the Constituent Assembly.
“The two of you talk politics much?”
“No. I have no idea of his—his loyalties during the war. I don’t suppose he approved of the Bolsheviks’ attitude towards the Church. But he never seemed very worldly. He talked about Christ more than politics.”
Petrovich grunted recognition. “That’s true. I told him once he should have been a priest, but he said his calling was different. Gave you the feeling he expected God to pop his head in the window at any minute. Unsettling. Doesn’t mean he had no ideas about the world of men, though.”
“No. But he never told them to me.” There was a pause while I cast about for more to say. Called on to produce an intelligent or helpful idea about what circumstances of Antonov’s life might have led to his death, I felt my mind empty itself. “You were his cellmate.”
“For a year and a half, or close to it. I’ve been here two years. Antonov moved in after the Azerbaijani I bunked with at first died. I suppose I knew him well enough.”
That didn’t help me much, and no more was forthcoming. Now the old man seemed lost in thought. The round holes his cane made in the snow measured our progress. “He never told me what he was charged with to be sent here,” I volunteered after a dozen holes. “That would be helpful to know, wouldn’t it?”
Petrovich stopped to clear his throat, a rattle of phlegm that turned into a cough. When it was over he said: “That I do know already. It was when they arrested the bishop in Yaroslavl. Antonov wrote the OGPU a letter, saying no ruler who committed outrages against the princes of the Church could hope to rule Russia legitimately. With the predictable result: they came for him right after the bishop.” He rubbed his chest. “He had the strength of his convictions, anyway.”
“It’s hard to picture him being involved in violence,” I said, lamely again. “Or—or doing something that made someone violent. It hardly seems real.”
“We always say, you never know a man well enough until he’s dead. Usually not even then.”
I mulled that over. “You seem experienced with this kind of thing.”
“Ha! You could say that. Thirty years as an investigator with the Odessa police department is one kind of experience.”
“I suppose that’s what makes you skeptical about detektivy.”
Petrovich laughed again. “Because I know what solving a crime is really like. In those things they always find just the right clue at just the right time, so that no one ever has to do any real work and the detectives are free to apply their fists to whomever the crowd wants to see punched. Then people like you think my job is all footprints and brawling. I can tell you, when you search for footprints, nine times out of ten you only end up with a crick in your neck. Either there’s nothing, or so many pairs of feet have walked through the site of the murder that it comes to the same thing. I can count on two fingers the number of murders I’ve solved by knowing the killer’s shoe size.”
“What is your first step, then?”
“Need to see what he was doing outside the kremlin. Always a good start to retrace your victim’s movements, figure out what sort of business he was into. There’s always something.”
We’d passed most of the water. Out on the quay, Razdolski was still standing where we’d left him. We stopped for a moment to look. I’d thought we might be able to make out Antonov’s body, but at this distance you couldn’t see it.
“I asked our friend back there to leave the corpse somewhere foxes won’t get at it,” said Petrovich. “No point burying it yet. We might need it another time. It’s cold enough—he’ll keep in a shed.”
As we continued around the wall, another road split off from ours, heading north. It passed through vegetable fields and outbuildings, then a stretch of logged stubble before it disappeared behind a hill of uncut evergreens. To the east the Holy Lake was frozen over, the mouths of its canals white.
“Now, here at SLON we are surrounded by desperate types, any one of whom could be a murderer,” Petrovich was saying. “What you might call an embarrassment of suspects. But carrying out your invest
igation in a prison has it benefits as well. If Antonov left under his own power, they should have a record of it at the gate. Could bring us closer to the time of death. Maybe it will say who wrote him a pass.”
From the outside, Nikolski Gate looked tiny, out of all proportion with the massive tower hunched over it—a hole gnawed through the kremlin wall by mice. Built out from the wall to its left was a small lean-to, the guards’ shelter. The shack stood open where it faced the path, its roof bowed under a burden of snow.
A short queue of prisoners waited to pass through on our side. Petrovich insisted that we cut to the front. “Never get anywhere being shy,” he said. “These papers mean we’re important men.” I’d expected grumbling as we passed, but there was none. Most of the men in the line seemed to be trying not to look at us.
The passage through the wall was dark, but with the doors thrown open at this hour, I could look through and see the walls of whitewashed buildings inside. On duty were the same pair of guards who’d waved me through with the Chekist earlier. The one with the goiter sat behind a table with a clock on it, his rifle close to hand.
Goiter’s eyes bulged in his head, sizing us up. “End of the line’s back there,” he said.
“Not for us,” said Petrovich. “We have business with your records before we pass through.”
It was breathtaking, frankly, the old man’s audacity in talking this way. Prison life has so many lessons for the zek that it is hard to tell which is the first, but to avoid provoking the guards is certainly a very early one. I felt my heart beat faster, but all the other man said was,“Need to see your papers.”
Petrovich gestured impatiently for me to hand him the documents from the Chekist. When I did, he showed both the gate pass and the investigation order. “We’re interested in someone who left the kremlin last night. Probably by himself.”
“Still have to check it all,” said Goiter. He read slowly, beckoning his partner over before he had finished his examination.
“It’s from Infosec,” said the second guard dully. The two men exchanged a look.
“Yes,” said Petrovich. “‘Cooperate with any of the bearers’ inquiries.’ I believe it also says something about an investigation of serious importance.”
“You two aren’t regular agents,” said Goiter. His eyes bulged at my hat.
Petrovich’s eyes narrowed. I hoped he wouldn’t say anything rash. “We wouldn’t need the authorization if we were, would we?”
“Wait a minute,” said Goiter.
The guards withdrew into the shack, taking our documents with them. They stood by a rusted stove, backs to us. I could hear them murmuring but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
“Is there a problem?” called Petrovich.
The two men came back. The second one stood behind with his arms crossed as Goiter put the authorization on the table.
“The pass is fine,” said Goiter, handing it back. “You can go through. But the logs, they’re limited access. All you have here is a work order. I can’t show them to you with just this.”
“You read the order, didn’t you?” said Petrovich. “You saw the signature?”
“I saw.”
“So?”
“I told you. Limited access.”
“Do you think that will matter to our friend who signed this order? You think he’ll appreciate having to come here to explain how things stand?”
Goiter pressed his lips together for a moment, then turned and went back into the shack. Returning, he slapped a new-looking ledger in front of us on the table. “You can look at it here.”
The log proved to be a converted account book with “Unaccompanied Individuals” written on the spine. While we examined it, Goiter resumed processing the entrants at the other end of the table. His partner, however, hurried off through Nikolski—in response, I thought, to some signal exchanged between the two.
“Let’s see,” said Petrovich. “When I returned to the cell from work last night, he was already gone. That was 5:30, and gate curfew’s 6:00, so perhaps before then …”
At the top of each left-hand page, the words “Payments Received” had been crossed out and replaced with “Entrance,” while on the right-hand pages, “Expenses” had been replaced by “Exit.” Each entry spread across both pages; anyone who went out was expected to come in again, and vice versa. The columns reserved for rubles and kopeks were used for hours and minutes: times of entrance on the left, times of exit on the right.
Antonov’s entry, when we located it, had him leaving the kremlin at 5:18. There was no record of reentry. Every row had a place for the prisoner’s name, the reason he’d left or entered, and the authority under which he’d done it. Antonov had either not been asked or refused to explain his reasons for passing through the gate. But the name that had issued his pass was familiar.
“Vinogradov,” I said. “The museum director. That’s Antonov’s boss.”
“Good,” said Petrovich. “We’d have been visiting the museum today in any case.”
I glanced at Goiter, who seemed to be watching us out of the corner of his eye. “Shall we go, then?”
Petrovich shook his head. “No, as long as we’re here, I want to see what else is suspicious in this book. Who knows? Some of these names around his may be important. Any others without an explanation for leaving?”
We searched for another minute, me looking over the old man’s shoulder, but we were soon interrupted by the return of the other guard. He trailed behind a third man, who also wore the guards’ long gray coat and high boots. In place of a rifle, this one had a pistol on his belt and carried a baton.
The man strode up to the table and tapped the ledger, the tip of his baton beneath our noses. “Put this back where it belongs, Vlacic,” he said to Goiter.
“We’re not quite finished,” said Petrovich.
He’d gripped the book, but Goiter—Vlacic—snatched it out of his hands. When I objected—“Hey!”—the baton tapped me on the shoulder, hard.
“So,” said the new man, “you two are the ones who I’m told are prying into our business here. You don’t look much like Infosec.”
“I don’t give a damn about your business,” said Petrovich. “We are investigating a matter, yes. For Infosec. It doesn’t concern you and you have no authority to interfere.”
“Doesn’t concern me, eh?” He looked at me. “And what about you? Do you give a damn about reporting our business to Infosec? About stirring up trouble for me and my men? Making us look bad?”
Again the baton hit my shoulder—harder this time, a numbing shock to joint and clavicle. I stepped back, putting my hand to the spot. The blow would bruise. It raised reverberations where the Chekist had hit me earlier in the morning. “Yes, I mean—no. I—”
“Tolya is my assistant,” said Petrovich. “Hit him again, someone will hear about it.”
The old man sounded steely, but the men in the queue had all edged away from the table. Vlacic and his partner had both picked up their guns. For a long moment, the guards’ boss stared into my face as though into a gutter whose clogging filth he might need to unblock with his stick.
“All right,” he said at last. “You’ve seen the log. Now go through the gate. Your papers are good. We only need to know your names. That, and where you bunk.”
“I didn’t see a place for that information in your log,” said Petrovich.
The other man smirked. “Special circumstances.”
It was a threat. He was asking where to send his men in case our investigation took a direction he didn’t like. But there didn’t seem to be any way to avoid answering. Petrovich’s cell was on the fourth floor of the Company Ten dormitories. For my part, I was relieved to be able to say that I normally stayed in the cathedral with Company Thirteen, but had just been transferred. I didn’t know yet where I would be assigned a bunk.
The commander seemed to accept that; his attention by now had turned to Petrovich anyway. He gave his men the signal to let us go.
Halfway through the tunnel under the walls, I couldn’t keep myself from glancing back at the lean-to. The commander had turned away and was talking to the other guard. Goitered Vlacic, however, had opened up the day’s ledger, and his pen was poised, but it wasn’t moving. The bulging eyes watched us coldly.
4
Passing from the courtyard into the museum jarred me, the way it always did. The bitter wallscape of the kremlin, its soot and sawdust and filth, above all its uniformity: all of that followed you up the dark staircase, then gave way abruptly to detail and color when you opened the door. Enameled tiles shone from the lintels, gold adorned the walls. Christ stared down from the corners with His saints and angels. The chapel’s iconostasis and altars were gone, but none of its decoration had been stripped. Nothing had been painted over.
In the space the walls enclosed, where a congregation would normally have stood, three large casement windows illuminated two short banks of desks. Conveyed from some zone of bureaucracy and file keeping, the desks looked shabby and out of place in the elaborate surroundings. Men sat at them quietly, working. The effect was uncomfortably intimate, like fingers on the back of your neck.
The museum. Nineteen seventeen had taught us to reimagine what our institutions could be in Russia. Was there anything inconsistent about maintaining a collection of the monks’ relics and miscellanea—officially, the Solovetsky Anti-Religious Exhibit—in the middle of a prison camp? Not in the Northern Camps of Special Signficance’s world of randomness and disorder. At SLON, certain inmates starved or were worked to death; others wrote monographs and restored paintings with tiny brushes. Why not? We questioned everything. Could the work of culture be done with forced labor? There was only one way to find out.