by Boris Akunin
“How right you are!” the visitor exclaimed. “I am exceedingly glad that I came to you. You see, that is why I wish to establish a brigade of Oprichniks in Zavolzhsk, before it happens spontaneously. I would like, so to speak, to be there at the beginning and direct things tactfully.”
“That’s right, that’s right. I direct things tactfully too. And there are things you could learn from our fine young fellows.” Gvozdikov paused solemnly, as befits a respectable man who is weighing all the pros and cons before making an important decision. “Very well, Mr. Berg-Dichevsky. As one nobleman to another. I will put you in touch with the people you want to see and also explain your purpose in coming here. I won’t be able to attend the meeting myself—for which I humbly beg your pardon.”
Matvei Bentsionovich raised an open palm: I understand, I understand.
“And I would advise you not to advertise your own title. And one other thing …” Gvozdikov paused delicately. “I shall introduce you to the captain as Mr. Dichevsky, without the ‘Berg.’ I beg your pardon, but, you know, our Russian lads are none too fond of Germans either.”
“Oh, come now, what kind of German am I?” Berdichevsky exclaimed sincerely.
The fatherland in danger
MATVEI BENTSIONOVICH PREPARED thoroughly for his dangerous undertaking, although he felt ill at ease and even mocked himself ironically, muttering: “See what a fine pantomime warrior you are. Little boys’ game, that’s what all this is, little boys’ games …”
The first thing he did was to buy a Lefaucheux revolver in a gun shop. A six-shooter, with a folding trigger, for thirty-nine rubles. The salesman commented on the folding trigger: “A rational feature, especially if you’re going to carry the gun in your pocket. It won’t catch on anything and go off by accident.” Included in the same price, as a present from the firm, Berdichevsky also received a little single-shot waistcoat-pocket pistol that fitted within the palm of his hand. “An invaluable little item if you’re attacked by a robber at night,” the salesman explained. “This tiny tot has incredible firepower for its caliber.”
The “tiny tot” had an ordinary trigger, not a folding one, and that made the public prosecutor nervous. He imagined the pistol, with its barrel pointing downward, suddenly going off—bang! That little bullet of incredible firepower would rip through his chest and his side.
He put the little toy in his trouser pocket. No, that was not good either.
Eventually he got an idea: he tugged up his trouser leg and stuck the little gun in his sock. The hard metal was a little uncomfortable against his ankle, but that was all right, he could put up with it.
THE NOTE THAT Gvozdikov had sent to the hotel was both brief and odd: “At midnight on the embankment under the lamp.”
He had to assume it was the small Kamenka River that was meant, since Zhitomir’s main waterway, the Teterev, had rocky cliffs along its banks and therefore no embankment as such. And even the Kamenka was not exactly clad in granite—Berdichevsky failed to discover any parapets there, or any of the other usual signs of an embankment. But the mysterious phrase “under the lamp” was easily explained: there was only one lamp burning on the riverbank—the others were all dark, and seemed to have no glass in them.
The public prosecutor let his cabby go and stood in the narrow circle of light. He raised his collar—there was a damp draft from the river. He started to wait.
All around it was pitch-dark; he could not make out anything at all. Naturally, Matvei Bentsionovich immediately began imagining that someone was watching him out of the darkness. At first the thought made him squirm, and then he told himself: “Well, of course they’re watching. And it’s a very good thing that they are.”
The state counselor quickly overcame his nervousness. He whispered a single word to himself under his breath—“Pelagia”—and immediately his fear was replaced by excitement: the victim was instantly transformed into the hunter.
He began looking around impatiently and even stamped his foot angrily. Where on earth have you got to, devil take you?
The darkness seemed to have been waiting for this magical sign. It stirred and rustled, and a dark silhouette that seemed gigantic to Berdichevsky drifted into the weak kerosene illumination. The figure raised its hand and beckoned.
His nerve failing him once again, the state counselor was just about to take a step toward this stranger when the figure turned its back on him and set off, every now and then looking around and making mysterious invocatory gestures.
The tramping footsteps of Berdichevsky’s guide echoed hollowly over the cobblestones of the street. The giant’s gait was erect, his back unbending. The Commandant’s statue, Matvei Bentsionovich thought with a start as he struggled to keep up.
From the embankment they turned onto a narrow little street with no paved surface—nothing but earth, still wet after a recent shower of rain. On one side there was a blank fence and on the other a stone wall, with either warehouses or workshops behind it. There was no lighting at all. Berdichevsky stumbled over a pothole and swore—for some reason, in a whisper.
The wall led to gates with a lamp burning above them. The public prosecutor read the signboard: Savchuk’s Intestine Cleaning Plant.
He read it and shuddered. Signs were all very well, but this was sheer mockery, not to say bad taste, on the part of Providence—the point being that the state counselor was, after all, in a state of serious funk, and various rather unpleasant processes were already developing in his insides.
Berdichevsky did not follow the Commandant’s statue in through the narrow wicket gate, but instead asked in a trembling voice: “What is this place? Why are we here?”
He was not really hoping for an answer, but the giant (the great hulk of a man really was almost seven feet tall) turned back and replied in a voice that was surprisingly delicate and polite: “This, sir, is an establishment where they clean intestines.”
“In what sense?”
“The ordinary sense, sir. For the manufacture of salami.”
“Ah,” said Matvei Bentsionovich, slightly reassured. “But why do we need to go in there?”
The Commandant giggled, which finally made it perfectly clear that it was not any kind of menacing intent that had made him remain silent, but the shyness of a provincial faced with a visitor from distant parts. “You can see for yourself what the town’s like, sir: more Yids than Russians. That makes this the perfect place to meet. Salami’s made with pork. So not a single one of the workers is Jewish—nothing but Russians and Ukrainians, sir.” The secret meeting of the Oprichniks of Christ militia was taking place in the plant’s office premises—a rather grubby room that was quite large, but with a low ceiling, from which several kerosene lamps had been hung.
Two rows of chairs faced a table covered with the Russian tricolor. On the walls, icons alternated with portraits of heroes of the fatherland: Alexander Nevsky, Dmitry Donskoi, Suvorov, Skobelev. The places of honor in this gallery were occupied by images of Ivan the Terrible and His Majesty the Emperor.
The chairman was a middle-aged man wearing a jacket and a string tie, with long hair cut in the Russian pudding-basin style. Standing in front of the table was a skinny individual in a Russian-style shirt—evidently the speaker. There was an audience of about ten. Everybody turned to look at the men who had just come in, but in his agitation Berdichevsky failed to get a good look at the faces. Most of those present seemed to have beards, and their hair was also cut in the Russian manner.
“Ah, here is our dear guest,” said the chairman. “Welcome, welcome. I am the captain.”
The Oprichniks got to their feet and someone said in a deep bass voice: “Good health to you, Your Excellency.”
Matvei Bentsionovich was so nervous that he almost corrected the man and told him that he was no Excellency, but he stopped himself just in time. He nodded briskly, military style, and a lock of angel-colored hair slid down over his forehead.
The captain—that appeared to be the
title used for the position of leader of the Oprichniks—got up from behind his table and came toward the public prosecutor. And once again Berdichevsky almost committed a faux pas—he reached out to shake hands. It turned out, however, that what he ought to have done was not extend his hand, but throw out his arms in a wide embrace. That was what the chairman did: with the words “Glory to Rus!” he pressed the guest against his chest and kissed him three times on the lips.
The others also wished to greet the important man, and so he was obliged to kiss every one of them—eleven in all—and every time, the sacramental phrase glorifying the fatherland was pronounced.
The smells that Mr. Berg-Dichevsky breathed in as he was kissed did not vary greatly: cheap tobacco, raw onions, the fumes of spiritus vini processed by the stomach. Only the very last of the kissers, the very same Virgil who had conducted Matvei Bentsionovich to the gathering, had a fragrant aroma of eau de cologne and mustache wax. And he didn’t kiss with a loud smacking noise like the others, but extended his lips delicately. A hairdresser, the public prosecutor realized, examining the curled locks at the man’s temples and the beard combed into two halves.
“Please come this way,” said the captain, inviting his guest to the place of honor.
Everyone fixed their gaze on “His Excellency,” evidently anticipating a speech or a greeting, for which the state counselor was quite unprepared. However, he found a way out—he asked them to continue, for he had come “not to speak, but to listen; not to teach, but to learn.” They liked that. They applauded the modest “general,” shouted “Grand!” and the interrupted talk was continued.
The speaker, whom Berdichevsky christened “the Sexton” for his manner of speaking and slightly bleating intonation, was informing the members of the militia about the results of an investigation he had conducted into the Jews’ dominant position in the press of the province.
The picture that was drawn was a monstrous one. The Sexton could not even mention the Zhitomir News without trembling in indignation: nothing but Perelmuters and Kaganoviches, making insolent mockery of everything that was dear to the Russian heart. However, even in the Volynsk Provincial Gazette everything was by no means well. With the editor’s connivance, they often printed articles written by Yids who hid behind Russian names. A list of these wolves in sheep’s clothing was given: Ivan Svetlov was really Itzhak Sarkin, Alexander Ivanov was really Moishe Levenson, Afanasii Beryozkin was really Laiba Rabinovich, and so on and so forth. But the speaker kept his most sensational revelation for last. It turned out that the Sanhedrin’s tentacles even extended into the Volynsk Diocesan Gazette: the wife of the archpriest Kapustin had been born Fishman, in a family of baptized Jews.
A murmur of indignation swept around the room. Matvei Bentsionovich also shook his head regretfully.
The captain leaned over and whispered to him, “We are gathering material for a loyal subjects’ note to the sovereign. You should see the figures on financial capital public education. Enough to set your skin creeping.” The public prosecutor frowned severely: Terrible, terrible.
The speaker concluded and took his seat. Everybody gazed expectantly at the visitor once again, making it quite clear that he could not avoid speaking.
He recalled the wise saying that seemed apposite: When you don’t know what to say, speak the truth.
“What can I say?” asked Matvei Bentsionovich, rising to his feet. “I am shocked and dismayed.”
The response to that was a general sigh.
“Of course, things are bad in our province, but not to the same extent. This is terrible, gentlemen. Verily, wailing and gnashing of teeth. However, my dear friends, let me tell you this. Investigations and notes to the sovereign are all well and good, but they are not enough. I must confess, this is not what I was expecting from the Oprichniks of Zhitomir. I had been told that you were men of action, that you are not in the habit of sitting about doing nothing. The very sight of the present condition of Rus is enough to make your heart bleed,” exclaimed Berdichevsky, gradually warming to his theme. “We are surrounded on all sides by mere talkers, heroes in words alone! Gentlemen and patriots, this way we shall simply let them take our fatherland! We shall talk it away! But in the meantime the Yid is wasting no time in idle talk—he has everything calculated for years ahead!”
As they listened to the orator’s words of bitter experience, the seated men exchanged glances and squeaked their chairs. Finally the captain could stand it no more. After waiting for the short pause that Berdichevsky required in order to refill his lungs with air, the leader of the Oprichniks cried:
“We are not idle talkers or scribblers! Yes, we still have hopes of getting through to our thick-eared authorities by legal means, but let me assure you, we do not limit ourselves to mere notes.” It was clear that the chairman could barely hold back, he was so eager to exonerate himself. “I tell you what, sir, please come into my office and we can talk face to face. And in the meantime, brothers, please help yourself to what God has provided.”
It was only now that Matvei Bentsionovich noticed the table in the corner of the room, set with a samovar, loaves of bread, and an impressive array of salamis—no doubt the produce of the intestine-cleaning plant.
The members of the militia moved across in lively fashion to help themselves, but the public prosecutor was invited into the “office”—a cramped little cubbyhole, divided from the larger room by a glass door.
Missing!
NOW AT LAST there was a handshake. It should be said that once he was parted from his fine young fellows, the captain’s behavior changed somewhat, as if he wished to show that he and his guest belonged to the same circle.
“Savchuk,” he said, introducing himself. “I own the plant. Mr. Dichevsky, I noticed the way you were looking at my janissaries. They are a little rough, of course, and their intellectual prowess is far from brilliant.”
Matvei Bentsionovich was flustered—he thought that he had concealed his feelings remarkably well—and gestured in protest.
“It’s all right,” the factory owner assured him. “I quite understand. However, I do ask you to bear in mind that they are not ideologues, but sergeants, in charge of platoons. To use the biblical phrase—“men of force.” I jokingly refer to them as my apostles—there are exactly twelve of them. There should be another one here, but he has been delayed for some reason. My sergeants may not be too nimble-witted, but if there is action to be taken, they won’t bungle it. Please don’t get the wrong idea, we have members of the intelligentsia too. Lawyers, doctors, teachers—they suffer most of all from the Yiddish onslaught. If you wish, I will introduce you to them later, in more appropriate surroundings. Men like Ilya Stepanovich Glazkov, the deputy mayor of the town—a brilliant mind, a true thinker …”
“You know,” Berdichevsky interrupted, “there are already plenty of thinkers about. What we are short of is men of action. To act fearlessly with no concern for legal considerations. That is what it would be good to learn. And not just swinging a crowbar and smashing the Yids’ shops—that’s very simple business. Tell me, do you have any people with experience of real work—in the police or security forces? But no longer in service, so that they are not bound by the letter of the law?”
“How do you mean?” Savchuk asked with a puzzled frown.
Matvei Bentsionovich took the bull by the horns. “I decided to come to see you in Zhitomir after a heart-to-heart talk with a certain highly interesting man who recently spent some time in Zavolzhsk. Former gendarmes staff captain Bronislav Veniaminovich Ratsevich.”
And he paused, waiting with a sinking heart to see what the response would be.
The response was not long in coming: the captain’s face contorted in an expression of disgust. “Ratsevich? And what lies did he tell you, that Yid-lover?”
“W-why do you call him a Yid-lover?” the public prosecutor asked, amazed. “I understood it was quite the opposite … the Jews, that is the Yids, ruined his life … they des
troyed his career and clapped him in debtor’s prison!”
“They clapped him in, and then they dragged him out again,” Savchuk hissed.
“So—it was—the Jews who bought him out?” the state counselor stammered in confusion. His heart had now sunk as low as possible.
“And who else? They say the slimy little Pole had debts of fifteen thousand. Who else but the Yids could have found that kind of money? It was a thank-you to him from the Sanhedrinites, and we know what for. Two years ago in the Lipovetsk District our knights executed a sheriff, a well-known Yid-lover. The gendarmes investigation was led by Ratsevich. He sniffed everything out, dug everything up, and sent two Russian men off to hard labor. For this abomination he even received a formal letter of gratitude from the Goel-Israel. They’re the ones who let that Judas out of the debtor’s prison—you’re free now, off you go, destroy the Orthodox people. It was their Goel-Israel, it couldn’t have been anyone else.”
“Goel-Israel?”
“Yes, we have an ulcer by that name, pure Yiddish pus. Rabbi Shefarevich’s hatzer. A hatzer, pardon me for the expression, is like a bishop’s conventuary, only for Yids. They have a synagogue in there, and a yeshiva, the Yiddish seminary. Shefarevich is a member of the secret Sanhedrin, we know that for certain. He raises his wolf cubs in hatred for Christ and everything Russian. He doesn’t let anyone near his little devils. What he’s particularly afraid of is Russian women turning young Yids away from the Jewish faith. That’s the way it is with them—anyone who gets involved with a goy woman is lost to Jewry, he has stained his name forever.” The captain spat. “Stained their names, have they? There was a case here only recently. They found a peasant girl in the river. We carried out our own investigation. Discovered that the slut had been going with a little Yid from Shefarevich’s hatzer. The Yids found out about it. The rabbi summoned him and started telling him: Get rid of the goy girl. But this little Yid was a stubborn one, he wouldn’t have it. I love her, he said, and that’s all there is to it. So they sent him off to Lithuania, and almost the very next day the girl was found in the Teterev. A clear case of murder. And it’s clear enough who killed her, too. But our Yid-lovers were afraid of creating a ruckus. She drowned herself, they said, out of unhappy love. Then we decided to implement our own justice, but we were too late—Shefarevich had cleared off to Palestine with his brood. That’s the sort of thing that goes on around here!”