The Singing Forest

by Judith McCormack

  After a while, her aunt came out, a coat over her dressing gown. She crawled into the cave beside her, and sat there for a minute.

  What are you doing? she said finally.

  I’m hiding, said the girl shyly.

  An honourable tradition, said her aunt.

  ···

  Glass. Were we to dwell on the many curious relations that glass bears to scientific principles, either as a consequence of them or as an aid towards their development, it would take us far beyond our limits.

  Eight

  The Pope! How many divisions has he got?

  Josef Stalin

  November. A year now at the glassworks, months of feeding the furnaces, of sweeping broken cullet, the hissing and clanking of wet blocks and pontils. As he walks home, the wind comes barrelling down the street like a fist, whirling up dead leaves, pushing people off stride, their eyes stinging. The street lamps cast a yellowish glow against the evening sky, the smell of tar and diesel lingering from the day, and he pulls his jacket up against the wind.

  A commotion down the street. He cranes his neck. A thin man in a black suit is running, dodging in and out of crowds, doubling around a tram. After him, stouter, panting, a man in a uniform — militsiya, local police — shouting as he runs.

  Stop him. Stop him.

  The thin man is closer now, and Drozd leaps into the street, grabs him. The man twists in his grasp with surprising strength, but he holds on.

  The man turns towards him, his glasses broken. The tailor — the soup, the jacket. The man begins to say something, but the officer draws up, gasping for breath.

  Vermin, he says between gasps, his hands on his knees. A traitor. Hold on to him.

  In a minute, he has caught his breath, and he leads them down the street, Drozd still gripping the tailor with both hands. The tailor has taken off his broken glasses, and he stares at the young man, his black-brown eyes willing him to turn, to loosen his grasp.

  My daughter, the tailor says quietly.

  The young man looks away from him, feeling a faint prick of something old, something unidentifiable.

  Soup mit nisht, we call it.

  This man, he has done something wrong? he says to the officer.

  A Bundist, a Jew, he says. An enemy of the revolution. Isn’t that enough? And when I tried to arrest him at his place, he ran.

  He notices the prisoner staring at the young man.

  You know him? he says. Maybe we should put you in a cell, too. Maybe you’re a counter-revolutionary. Or a Bundist too.

  No, no, says the young man hastily, kicking the prisoner’s legs.

  At the militsiya headquarters, the prisoner is taken away, his face set into a mix of fear and stoicism.

  I’m looking for work, says the young man.

  We don’t hire the likes of you, says the officer abruptly.

  I’m strong and fast, he says. I can drive. I can help you with the prisoners. Or anything else. I can wash the floors. I don’t need much money.

  Go away, says the man, who is bored by this already.

  I can read and write.

  You? You can read and write? says the man sarcastically. Read that, then.

  He points to a sign on the wall.

  All officers must report to the serzhant at the beginning of the shift.

  ···

  What’s this? says the captain — a pitted face — looking at the young man contemptuously. A thief?

  He says he can read and write, he read the sign on the wall.

  The captain studies him.

  How old are you?

  Eighteen, says the young man, as boldly as he can.

  The captain raises his eyebrows.

  ···

  When he tells the glassworks director, the man seems relieved. No one else says a word to him, not goodbye, not farewell, not godspeed. Nothing, nothing at all.

  ···

  The bookstore, an old, woody smell. He gapes at the rows of shelves stuffed with books, more than he had ever imagined. Some of the shelves are bowed under their weight, and the books spill over, stacked on tables, piled on the floor. He is hoping to find something to expand the number of words he knows, to learn as much as he can in a hurry. All around him, people are peering at the shelves, fingering the volumes, almost stroking the pages. But they are better dressed than he is; he feels clumsy, an intruder in this place, his hands and feet suddenly too large again. He grabs something — anything — off the top of a pile, pays for it, and flees.

  That evening, he opens it up, begins studying it carefully, the black print marching across the page like distant people across a snowy field. To his disgust, it turns out to be a school book about geology, filled with incomprehensible ideas, words he will never use — mantle, crust, continental drift. But if he concentrates on the smaller words, the shorter sentences, it is useful enough.

  And if his halting reading now is based on rock formations and psalms, he is still more literate than some of the militsiya officers in his squad. Even though he is only a clerk, an errand boy, someone who does what he is asked, any task that needs doing. He delivers messages and papers, keeps lists of prisoners, brings the officers hot tea and cigarettes, cleans their boots, banging off the dried mud. A surprising number of them crave sweets — curd buns, sugared cranberries, biscuits — and he scours the stores for these, bringing back what he can find.

  All the while, he studies them surreptitiously, deciphering their ranks, names, the procedures they follow. He will not make the same mistake he made at the glassworks, he will make himself one of them. He will form alliances, he will use these links between people — how they talk to each other, how they think about each other — for himself.

  He helps them fill out their reports — a waste of time, they say — although he can see that some of them have difficulty with the words. They are not embarrassed by this; if anything, some of them see reading and writing as a little suspect, unmanly, too close to the despised elite. The real work of a policeman: arrests, convictions for the steady flow of thefts, assaults, armed robberies, now and then a murder. Sometimes they are pressed into service for the arrest of a traitor, or a kulak, but these are usually the province of the NKVD.

  Several of them are lazy — he spots this early on. Plodders, some of them, too, although this is all much of the work requires. And closer up, he sees that a few of them are less than well turned out — a frayed collar here, a missing button, a stain on a tunic. But together, they know almost everything that goes on in the city, they have their own internal maps — the gambling, the brothels, the warehouses, the municipal officials taking bribes.

  Sometimes they even have their fingers in these things, but they are all immersed in the city, an extension of it. A living part of its noisy streets, they are on a first name basis with these neighbourhoods — their eyes hard with knowing, their ears filled with the murmur of a thousand conversations.

  They tolerate him — he is useful, he is no threat — they talk in front of him as if he was not there. They gripe about the food shortages, about the latest housing directives, the queues. They have no particular hostility towards the men they arrest; often they know them, especially the petty offenders, the swindlers, the ones with contraband, the small-time thieves. Nuisances, they consider them, reserving their strength for more serious crimes.

  The captain is foul-mouthed but gregarious, a man who spends his time fostering his links with the people who matter, who have influence — this committee member, that regional administrator, the chair of the district council. Playing whist with the head of prosecutions, drinking with a group of local judges. A master of subtle favours and bargains, he has developed a network of people — and things — as intricate as a local economy.

  Better for us, the men say to each other, taking comfort in the idea that he might be able to protect them
from political swings and shifts, from the fitful whims of bureaucrats. And it means he has no time to be a hard taskmaster with them, to punish every rule infraction.

  Drozd listens to it all, soaking up every piece of information, hoarding it as if it were money. He makes little headway on his plans to get to know them, though, to build alliances — they see him as of no consequence, worth nothing, and his overtures are too awkward, too patently insincere.

  Then, a few months later, it all changes.

  ···

  The man — arrogant-looking — is sprawled in the chair in the captain’s office, nonchalant, his legs extended in his black boots. A khaki coat, dark breeches, his peaked hat with the NKVD insignia on the desk. Through the half window in the office door, they can see the captain looking strained, shifting uneasily in his chair. Now his voice is raised, his hands apart in a gesture of irritation, exasperation.

  Always trying to take our men, to recruit people, says one of the officers.

  But he says it with a thin skin of resentment, in a way that suggests he would like to be recruited himself.

  They never have enough officers, says another. But we are short here as well.

  The voices in the office continue on, lower now. One of the officers moves a little closer, almost involuntarily, the temptation to try to hear something overwhelming. But now the captain is opening a bottle of vodka, pouring it into glasses. The two men raise their glasses in a toast, and drink them back.

  Then the captain is at the office door, crooking his finger at Drozd. The officers look at him with astonishment. The clerk? The errand boy? This is who they want?

  In the captain’s office, he tries to stand up straighter as the NKVD man studies him.

  You sure he reads and writes? he says dubiously.

  Wordlessly, the captain puts a directive in front of him, and he begins to read out loud.

  Fine, says the man after a second.

  Turn around, he says to the young man, making a twirling gesture with his hand.

  He turns once, twice.

  He will do.

  The captain is scowling, though. This bargain — a clerk instead of an officer — is his idea, but he is still reluctant to lose him.

  He makes himself useful.

  You want to serve the revolution? says the NKVD officer.

  ···

  Tonight the stars are black, silent, their light trapped behind murky clouds. But darkness is better for men who are sleeping. Although he is only half-asleep, struggling with his blanket, which has become tangled and twisted around his legs. He is dreaming that he is climbing out of the river, scrabbling at the riverbank, but the reeds in the water have wrapped around him, pulling him down, the mud sucking at his feet. He wakes with a jolt, and remembers. The NKVD. The NKVD. Not an officer, only a clerk, but still — the NKVD. Perhaps it will pay better, he will find another room, another step up, away from the stale smell of other men, the stink of their unwashed clothes.

  Elsewhere in the city, under the darkened stars, in another house: a young woman in a pink and black camisole, exhausted. The last client gone for the evening, a rough man, but he pays well. She is mumbling in her sleep, fragments, dreaming of clothes, the dacha, the children she will have. Under the bedclothes she throws out her arm, turns over on her side. And they will all live.

  Even without the clouds, the light from the stars would not have reached the tailor, down in a cell at the militsiya station. Lying on the foul-smelling floor, his body aching. He is dreaming of a daughter too, dreaming of the village where he grew up — a poor place, a place of hard earth and bare faith. And a swing — two ropes and a piece of fence board — under a hornbeam tree, the trunk splaying into root nodes. The ground beneath it scrubby, nearby a patch of campion, the buds on the silvery-grey stalks almost open. He and the little girl stand there, looking at the swing, until she puts her small hand in his and then, unable to contain herself, gives a silent wriggle. He picks her up and sets her on the swing, shows her how to hold on, wrapping her little fists around the ropes. He gives her a push, and the swing begins moving.

  At first she is hesitant, uncertain. Then the motion begins to take hold of her, and then to enchant her, up and down, back and forth. A shy smile comes across her face. Higher, she says, and he pushes harder, up and down, back and forth. Higher, she says.

  Hold on, he says. Hold on tight.

  He gives her another push.

  Her silky hair is flying out behind her, her small legs kicking the air, moving in and out of the shafts of sun. The tree branch is bent, the leaves brushing against the ropes as the swing rises, the sunlight filtering through them. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He sees the blur of her dress as a small laugh bubbles from her, he smells the rotting acorns below, the powdery odour of the years drifting around her. This inquisitive child, this child with darting hands, this child so full of stories — the delicate lines of her face alone enough to break his heart.

  ···

  These officers could not be more different from the militsiya. Russian to the bone, to the marrow of the bone, convinced of their superiority, contemptuous of this city, this country. A dead-eyed captain, morose, stained teeth, distant from the men.

  The NKVD headquarters for Minsk voblast. The men think of themselves as ruthless, although even he can see that some of them are not. But these are also the ones who are rowdy, who crack jokes, who mock the prisoners, who invent crude nicknames for them. A good enough bargain, the others seem to think. And they are all convinced that they are the select, the finest — the eagles of the revolution. A low-pitched swagger hangs in the air.

  Peasants, says the chauffeur bitterly. They think Belarusians are peasants.

  He is cleaning the vans, they require constant sluicing out, wiping down. More often than not, vomit, blood, mud, urine. This is the garage where they take their breaks — the local recruits, chauffeurs, couriers, guards, the lower end of this machinery.

  Some of them are better than others, says Drozd.

  Who?

  Sidorenko.

  Sidorenko is a young officer, greasy-haired, beefy. Sometimes he imparts bits of information to Drozd through an almost closed mouth, although only when no one is nearby. If the other officers are close, he is contemptuous, dismissive.

  Who do they think they are? says the chauffeur, wiping the door of the van.

  An army, says one of the guards, his German shepherd curled at his feet. They think they are an army. Some of them were in the military before.

  An army? says the chauffeur. Better than that, they think they are little gods.

  He wrings out his cloth into a bucket, wipes his hands, and then lights a cigarette.

  Bellyachers, thinks Drozd. Gripers. He wonders whether he should be talking with these men, then remembers his resolve to make allies.

  They think they are so strong, so hard, says the guard.

  But they are strong, says Drozd. They are hard.

  Not all of them, says the chauffeur. Look at Nikonov. Or Plisetsky. Spineless. And what makes a man hard? A uniform? You would look hard with a gun, too.

  He rubs his forehead with the back of his large thumb, cigarette between his fingers.

  Drozd looks around apprehensively.

  They never come down here, says the chauffeur. Never.

  ···

  More paperwork, more errands. He fills out forms, files documents, tags evidence, brings the officers whatever they want. With each edict, each directive, he becomes more fluent in the language of this twisted system. Kulak. Saboteur. Class enemy. Follow the true path. Stay alert. Trust no one. The words are seductive, their belligerence, their echoes of betrayal. Trust no one. But even the daily memos are codes for a better life. Monthly rotas. Care of uniforms. Winter hours.

  He watches the officers closely again — if anyth
ing, more closely. He sees who mutters to someone under his breath, who snickers at someone’s jokes, who nods or makes knowing gestures of derision, of malice. He fixes these tiny moments, this information in his mind, saving them for the day when they might be useful or necessary. The more he does for them, the more he attempts to earn their respect, though, the more disdainful they become.

  These things take time, he says to himself. They do not know me yet. They will see. A little more time, and they will see how valuable I am, that I am made of the same cloth as they are.

  If they think they are little gods, though, they are little gods that drink. He has seen his father swig samahon endlessly, but even so, he is impressed by their capacity. Drinking is forbidden during the day, although the hour of vodka creeps backwards from time to time. And almost every night, they are out, drinking until their tongues thicken, their eyes become slits, their hands clumsy — knocking over glasses, dropping bottles.

  A different form, a different manner of drunkenness for each one. Sidorenko becomes gradually tight, edging into it slowly, more and more loutish. The serzhant shows no signs of being affected at all until, suddenly, he is unutterably exhausted, he falls asleep where he sits. Another officer becomes first acidic, then silent; Plisetsky becomes clammily sentimental.

  We are the defence of millions.

  Who can blame them? says the captain dourly, arguing with someone on the telephone. They need something. What they have to do to get these traitors to confess.

  What they have to do. Impossible to avoid hearing the sounds from the interrogation rooms — the screaming, the crying, the pleading. Even a strange smell, as if fear and pain had their own scent, mixed with the acrid smell of floor cleaner.