Kamarovsky had charged “Bull-Neck” with handling the matter. No, you couldn’t say he’d actually charged him; a hint had sufficed. Bull-Neck looked upon it as a distinction and was glad to oblige. As usual, the prisoner would have an escort: one man in front of Rosa, and Bull-Neck behind her. He’d prepare himself soundlessly, and at the moment when the man in front disappeared behind a turning in the corridor, the execution would be carried out.
In other words, the condemned would neither hear the sound nor feel the entrance of the projectile. It was like sitting on a seesaw and then being catapulted up to where everything lost itself in white. Looking at it that way, he could say that Rosa knew what was happening to her but would not herself experience it. I’m the only one, Antip Iosipovich thought, who will comprehend Rosa’s death. He picked up his glasses and rose to his feet. At the age of only fifteen, Rosa Khleb had handed our General Secretary a bouquet of flowers; she had kissed him and been embraced by him. How many Soviet girls receive such an honor? He turned on the television set.
FORTY
Captain Nechayev had been instructed to detach teams from each company and deploy them to assist in earthmoving. There was a shortage of heavy equipment, and the men complained about the back-breaking labor. After the hard winter, maintenance work on the regional railway line could no longer be postponed. When Leonid inspected the tracks, it looked to him as though drunken giants had been at play with the railroad. Along a five-mile stretch, the formerly straight and level track embankment was warped into a line that undulated up and down like a wave; the steel rails, as thick as a man’s arm, had bent as though they were made of wax. Damage from freezing had been followed by the thawing of the ground, which then turned into mud. There was nothing here that could be repaired; everything had to be ripped out and built anew.
The first lieutenant in the corps of engineers told him, “We’ve used this method before in regions where the ground thaws ten feet deep in summer and the whole countryside is transformed into a morass.”
It was decided to move the line over several miles and with the help of mining machinery build a new embankment six feet high, using for ballast a mixture of rubble and crushed macadam. If you let the material subside for a year, the engineer said, it will form a layer practically as hard as concrete, and then new cross-ties can be laid on that. The dismantling of the ruined track and the construction of a provisional road had already been coordinated between the railroad administration and the army. The new track bed had to be completed in no more than three months, before winter brought everything to a standstill again.
“A year of track replacement traffic,” Leonid said. He feared a high cost in material as well as elevated administrative expenses. The engineer announced that he would place cranes on both sides of the worksite to assist in loading and unloading freight. The provisional road was to be built of wood, because a wooden road could be built more cheaply and also in the shortest time, and the used-up planks could ultimately provide fuel for winter heating. Leonid admired how confidently the engineers went about their job—making calculations in terms of tons and cubic feet and battalion-strength work crews—and how little they cared about obtaining proper authorization for what they did.
From earliest youth, Leonid had felt a romanticized interest in woodworking. He liked it when the screaming saw cut the first wedge out of a tree trunk and the tree shivered from root to crown. He’d been amazed to discover that the lumberjacks always knew what direction the tree would fall in, and he would look on in excitement as a toppling giant ripped through the undergrowth and crashed to the ground, where saws immediately sprang upon the fallen victim. The result of these memories from Leonid’s time as a Young Pioneer was that he’d made arrangements to participate in the construction of the wooden road himself. The people performing the work were carpenters and joiners; Leonid and his soldiers were there to assist them.
On that morning, the force at the worksite was visibly reduced. Leonid checked the list and saw that many soldiers had reported sick, and there was a general shortage of helping hands. When a carpenter operating a circular saw needed an assistant, Leonid took off his uniform jacket, set his cap aside, and pitched in. The machine was an elderly table saw, on which rough blocks were being cut at a 45-degree angle, a task that required a steady hand. The carpenter worked at a leisurely pace. After an hour, Leonid’s hair, shirt, and pants were sprinkled with chips. He felt free and happy, and from time to time he squinted into the sun, which shone in a cloudless sky. He lifted the next block onto the metal table; the carpenter held the wood in position and pushed it steadily onto the spinning blade. Suddenly, the block jerked to one side, Leonid reached for it, the carpenter screamed something—they both saw, too late, the branch hidden in the face wood. Leonid couldn’t get free in time and was literally sucked in by the saw blade; he watched his hand disappear into the machine. He felt an itching sensation that made him think it couldn’t be so bad, but then a gush of blood poured out. The carpenter pressed the emergency button, and the rotor came to a stop. Leonid staggered backward; when he looked at his hand, it seemed to be part of someone else’s body. He turned his head away and collapsed. The carpenter tore his shirt into strips and pressed them on the wound to stop the bleeding. Someone else informed the medical service.
When the doctor arrived, he determined that the injury should not be treated in the small military clinic and contacted the local hospital. The surgical department was told to prepare for an emergency case, and the morning shift got one of the three operating rooms ready. The worst thing for Leonid during the twelve-mile drive to the hospital was the howling of the siren. The military physician had given him a shot, and the infusion bag was swaying over the captain’s head. At brief intervals, the doctor measured his blood pressure, which was falling dangerously. “Hang on there, buddy,” the doctor said, chewing the ends of his mustache.
Leonid knew the door his stretcher was carried through; he’d often picked up Galina there. The corridor, the pastel green tiles—everything was familiar to him. The next time he raised his head, he was looking into Galina’s gray eyes. Behind her, the military doctor was leaving the operating room.
“It’s your thumb,” she said.
“Like before, remember?” Leonid saw her furrowing brow and explained that right before their first real date, Galina had performed a thumb amputation.
“Well, you’ve taken care of the amputation yourself.” She gave a sign to her assistant, who pulled off Leonid’s boots. “A clean slice,” Galina said. “Unfortunately, nobody thought to bring your thumb along.”
“It’s lying out there in the sun.” Inexplicably cheerful, he tried to sit up. “What are you doing with my foot?”
“I have to tell you, your chances are fifty-fifty.” Galina bent over him so that he couldn’t see what was happening at his other end.
“What chances?” Her blue, bonnetlike scrub cap made her face look slightly absurd.
“I did an operation like this once before.” She laid her hand on his forehead. “For the amputation, you’ll receive a local anesthetic. Later, for the operation, you’ll be out cold.”
“I thought I’d already done the amputation myself.” He would have loved to touch her neck, but he felt too weak.
“I’m going to take the second toe from your left foot.” She checked to see how far away her colleagues were. “And then I’ll give it back to you as a thumb.”
It took a while for what she’d said to get through to him. “Is that possible?”
“I’ve told you and told you, this is a particularly good hospital. When will you finally believe me?” She raised the surgical mask to her face. Immediately afterward, he felt an unpleasant sting that hurt worse than everything that had come before. Galina stuck him twice more, gave the needle to the nurse, and straightened up. “One minute, and then you won’t feel anything.” She came back to the head of the operating table. “We’re equipped for microsurgery.” She put a finge
r on his carotid artery. “The operating needles are so thin you can’t see them with the naked eye.”
He was enjoying her touch. “But … how will you do it, then?”
“I’ll operate under a microscope. First I’ll connect the bones with a steel pin, and then I’ll sew everything together: nerves, tendons, arteries, skin. The thinnest capillaries must remain open so that blood can flow through them. Precision work, my dear.”
He looked at her with astonished eyes.
“And the worst part of it is …” She turned around. The assisting nurse indicated that the local anesthetic had taken effect. “The worst part is that the operation can’t be interrupted. That means I won’t be able to go to the toilet for six to ten hours.” Her voice took on a tender tone. “What a girl won’t do for such a stupid captain.”
He wanted very much to kiss her, imagined how it would be, and watched as Galina stationed herself next to his foot and pulled the instrument table closer. “So,” she said. “We’ll talk again in a few hours.” She put on a pair of spectacles that resembled binoculars, nodded to her colleagues, and began.
As he laid his head back down, Leonid tried to pick up a signal from his left foot, but he could feel nothing. Then a peculiar thought filled his mind. He was probably the only person in the world whose lover—his life’s partner, his woman—was cutting the second toe off his left foot and then sewing it onto his right hand as a thumb. And for that reason, even though he wasn’t yet conscious of doing so, he decided, in the minutes before he was put to sleep, to stay where he was. He decided on Galina, on life in the coldest inhabited place on earth, and decided to sign, with or without a new thumb, the five-year clause for Yakutsk. He was relieved at having finally taken that step, even if only in his mind, and he concentrated on the soft, focused sounds coming from the surgeon at the foot end of his table.
FORTY-ONE
The officials of the Moscow City Soviet had sent their apologies, and only the Party secretary for Karacharovo had come to the ceremony. Complex two-one-five was finished; in the bright, sunny weather, the pale gray of the facade made a friendly, even elegant impression; on winter days, it would look different. Anna’s combine was lauded for having not only accomplished its own mission but also taken up the slack for other crews. The very next day, the families would show up with their household goods, and that evening, the first lights would appear in the windows. If there were still some splashes of the facade paint on the windowpanes, that was because the dismantling of the scaffolding had been scheduled before the arrival of the window washers. The condition of the front yards and inner courtyards, which were full of construction waste, had to do with the protest of the landscapers: They were there, they said, to plant trees and grass, not to get rid of crap left behind by others.
“New living space for eight thousand comrades,” cried the Party secretary. For the sake of projecting the proper image, the women were in their work togs, but on this day, none of them was going to come anywhere near a trowel. They were holding plastic cups; beer had been served, and sausage rounds lay ready on wooden platters. Anna was feeling melancholy; she would have liked to confide in her colleagues, to tell them that this morning had deeper significance for her than the dedication of two-one-five.
Her farewell to the combine had required only a formality, a five-line document, a stamp, a handshake from the official in charge—and with that, Anna was free of her employment. But her colleagues must not know about any of it; the reason for the change in Anna’s life had to remain a secret. She touched glasses with the secretary and her comrades, laughed about the unsatisfactory tap of the plastic cups, and accompanied the others to the second floor, where a tour of the model apartment was programmed to take place. Unimpressed, Anna trotted with the rest from room to room, mistrusting the superlatives the Party secretary strove to produce.
With the handing over of the keys to the first renter, the little celebration came to an end. As she had done for years, Anna got on the workers’ bus, kept quiet during the drive, and, when they reached Durova Street, said good-bye to her colleagues in the usual way. As the bus pulled off, she felt heavyhearted.
Everything had begun with Leonid’s call. The captain had telephoned at sunset; she didn’t know what time it was in Yakutia. He’d sounded warmhearted, resolute, and gentle. Tactfully and fondly, he’d informed her that after a brief hospital stay, he’d finally gotten around to doing the paperwork, and announced that he was going to remain in Siberia for another five years. Several responses lay on the tip of her tongue, but she made none of them and simply wished him well. They’d spoken softly and laughed about this and that; on the miracle of the thumb graft, Leonid had remained silent. At last, they’d come to speak of the factor that made their plans so fragile.
“What are you thinking about doing with Petya?” she’d asked.
“I wanted to hear your opinion first.”
“Do you want to see him?”
“Of course I do. But I thought—look, any objection you make is justified—you see, summer here is incredibly short. Basically, preparations for winter have already begun again.” Leonid was babbling a little because he didn’t have the heart to express his true desire.
“Do you want him to visit you?”
In the ensuing silence, she’d felt he was trying to keep his composure. “I’ll take care of everything. Everything,” he’d said. “We Siberian officers have special privileges.”
“You Siberian officers,” Anna had repeated sadly.
“Our service flights offer a lot of convenient transportation possibilities. Petyushka will be amazed!” They’d talked about the timing of the boy’s visit, and Anna had agreed to an early departure. After that, she’d let him in on her own plans.
He’d reacted with a question: “What about your job?”
“The combine can’t keep the position open for me. I’m just on the list.”
“What does that mean for our right of abode in Moscow?”
“Our right of abode?” For the first time, she’d realized that the categories “we” and “us” had changed their meaning. Shortly thereafter, they’d ended their conversation, alleging, mutually and unconvincingly, the high cost of long-distance telephoning.
Many things had to be made ready. Anna had stood in line for hours in various offices, because Petya needed his own passport. She also had to complete the real preparation, the mental one. Anna looked at her plan as a sort of experiment, which could be studied in depth and broken off at any time.
The great moment lay ahead of them. The six-year-old was going to be allowed to fly before his mother had ever seen the inside of an airplane. Petya was so excited that he’d thrown up at breakfast. He spent his days babbling practically nonstop and would not leave his grandfather in peace. The old man let his grandson feel his love in the form of patience. All the time, Viktor Ipalyevich was equally stirred up, but as long as Petya was home, he kept it to himself. In the morning, he dedicated himself to his work; later, he went for his walk, had a drink at the place on the corner, and met Petya at his school. After the boy had lunch, they would play chess. But it wasn’t the same as before; both of them felt that each game just meant that there was one fewer to go before the last one.
Anna hadn’t known that Sheremetyevo Airport contained a military section, where the army used a civilian runway. The aircraft Petya was supposed to fly in was an old Tupolev; a few days earlier, Petya and his grandfather had looked at some pictures of the plane.
Noon was approaching: time to leave. Viktor Ipalyevich heaved several sighs, unable to hide how stricken he was. Since the Nechayev family moved into his apartment, no day had passed when grandfather and grandson weren’t together. In spite of all his eager anticipation, Petya cried, embraced the old man, and wouldn’t break off until Viktor Ipalyevich finally placed the boy’s trembling hand in his mother’s, and Anna tugged Petya out of the apartment. The stairwell echoed with Petya’s cries of “Dyedushka!” Once on
the street, he calmed down, and Anna explained to him that they’d see each other again in the fall. Meanwhile, on the fourth floor, the poet was weeping snot and water.
To get to Sheremetyevo, they had to transfer twice, but at last the bus stopped in front of the departure terminal. After a bit of wandering around, Anna was informed that she should have gone in by another entrance. A calm telephone call was made and Petya’s name and passport number conveyed to the person on the other end of the line. Anna was beginning to fear that her son might miss his flight when a young female officer came up to her and introduced herself as Petya’s traveling companion. Her uniform looked smart, and she wore her cap at a jaunty angle.
“I’m afraid I can’t take you through the security gate,” she said, pointing to the restricted military area. “Would you like to tell Mama good-bye here, Petyushka?”
The little boy was too confused and excited to start crying again. Wide-eyed, he hugged his mother, barely listened to her exhortations, felt that she was squeezing him harder than usual, and turned around several times to look at her before disappearing down the corridor, hand in hand with his companion. Long after he was well and truly out of sight, Anna continued staring in his direction, and then she burst into tears. She hurried up to the visitors’ terrace and persuaded herself that she had picked out, among all the planes preparing for takeoff, the one that would carry her youngster to Siberia.
She’d arranged everything so that she would spend the next three days alone with her father. This was a mistake. Had the mutual suffering caused by the pain of parting been limited to one day, it would have been easier for both of the afflicted parties. As it was, they put on a show of grotesque normalcy and thus subjected their emotions to undue stress. During the course of those few days, Viktor Ipalyevich Tsazukhin came to the realization that he would probably spend the last quarter of his life alone. Suddenly, his one-and-a-half-room flat looked incredibly big. How could an unspectacular existence require so much space?
The Russian Affair Page 38