The Monastery, page 73
“I’m not walking on plush… not on velvet…” Artiom sang, pushing the boat into the water.
Marie, sitting in the boat, looked at him with a frightened expression, as though Artiom might not have time to jump in and would stay on the island.
Artiom sang the second phrase already in the boat and hugged her rakishly. She didn’t complain.
Galia looked at them and chuckled. He thought it was without any rancor.
The wind was fair.
In an hour, it started to get darker and the light of the lighthouse became clear.
Galia was the first to see the light and called Artiom, who sat facing her: look.
The lighthouse looked as though someone was holding a burning branch right in front of their faces.
Artiom stared at it for some time, then turned around — his eyes started to hurt.
No, they couldn’t go back to prison. They had to go to Kemi. They had to run away.
It was frightening to go on in the darkness, so Galia lit the lantern again.
Artiom put it on the nose of the boat. The black water seemed very deep in the light of the lantern.
“All the time you forget that death is all around,” Artiom thought coldly. “Without the light it’s awful, and with it, it’s terrifying.”
The lantern blinked. The lighthouse blinked.
Marie often touched her husband’s head — that was irritating too.
It seemed that Artiom fell asleep a few times. He acknowledged that he dropped into sleep only because of the shards of icy nonsense that was going on inside his head.
… They met the barge with Red Army soldiers unexpectedly; evidently, they had noticed the light of the lantern and were waiting to find out what sort of travelers these were.
… The travelers noticed the barge when they were about thirty meters from it.
“Turn the motor off,” they both yelled in several voices.
Galia listened and turned off the roar of the motor.
By inertia, their boat flew right up to the barge. The soldiers caught the boat with a boat-hook. Galia struck it with her fist, but didn’t try to throw it off.
“Should we shoot them all?” thought Artiom feverishly, looking first at Galia, then the barge; the revolver was still in his pocket, while a rifle with extra rounds lay on the bottom of the boat. Artiom, as Galia had told him, had taken it away from the foreigners. If only he had time to get it…
Galia, it seems, was thinking about the same thing, holding her hand over her holster.
But three soldiers at once aimed their rifles at them from the barge.
They lit a lantern as well.
“Well, who’s this then?” asked the Chekist with the lantern, looking at Artiom. “Take your hand out of your pocket.”
Marie at first was happy to see the barge, but now, seeing people with guns, she was scared. Artiom felt that she was shaking. Though it’s possible she had been shaking for a few hours. You could hear her teeth chattering.
“What’s the matter? Have you gone completely blind?” Galia barked, getting up, either making her voice rougher on purpose or having truly gone hoarse because of the wind.
“Oh, it’s the commissar from IID,” someone said.
The Chekist raised the lantern higher.
“Commander! Report on the reason for this night raid!” Galia growled.
For some time, there was silence. Only the creaking of the barge and the night wind.
“You’re not my commanding officer,” said the Chekist with the lantern. “I don’t report to you. Who are you looking for out here in your own boat?”
“Special order of the head of the camp!” Galia continued barking like a hoarse bird. “We’ve detained and are bringing into the camp two spies. Move the barge immediately! And put down the rifles finally!”
“Show me the special order!” said the Chekist.
Artiom finally recognized him: Gorshkov. Only fear had prevented him from recognizing that awful voice sooner.
“Put down the rifles, I said!” Galia exclaimed.
… These insane screams, like in an extended dream, in the light of two lanterns, the metallic water all around…
Artiom shook.
… There was still much noise, they forced them to open up the rags and see Tom — what if they had a machine gun hidden there…? They decided that the barge would pull the motor boat to shore.
They floated in a torpor.
Marie stared at the barge, simultaneously holding her hand on her husband’s head, as though telling him — wait, wait a little longer.
Galia sat, her chapped lips pursed.
“That’s it,” said Artiom to himself. “They shoot you for trying to escape…”
“… Except, why don’t the soldiers know that we tried to flee?”
Not for the first time, he wasn’t surprised that though he wasn’t able to think much during normal days, he was capable of thinking through everything that happened during the moments when, other than terror, there was nothing else to experience.
“Galia,” Artiom decided. “Let Galia get us out of this. It’s easier for her… I’ll say that I was following her orders.”
It’s as though she heard his thoughts and firmly said, “Act as though nothing’s wrong. As soon as we get there, go to your sleeping quarters. Don’t speak to anyone about anything. I think they don’t know anything. They didn’t even take away our weapons.” She suddenly raised her voice, “Hey! You on the barge! You’re barely moving! Let us go, we’ll go the rest of the way on the motor!
In answer, they were quiet for a long time.
“We’ll get you there,” said Gorshkov finally.
It seemed he was suspicious about something.
Galia pulled on the motor’s cord in frustration. It still didn’t start.
That was probably supposed to calm them down — the motor died when they were already on their way to land, not in the middle of the sea.
But it didn’t calm him down in the least.
It was already morning, and Artiom alone, without a guard, walking with difficulty on his numb legs, descended to the land of the monastery, following Galia. He had given her the revolver while he was still in the boat.
“In three hours, I’ll expect you in the IID,” said Galia to Gorshkov, who had quickly jumped off the barge. “Let’s sort this out.”
The rest of the soldiers and a few Chekist coats with seal fur for some reason weren’t in any hurry to come down to shore.
The guards at the shore also didn’t really understand what was going on.
“… How’s that for nerves,” thought Artiom, looking at Galia. “Maybe we’ll really get out of it?”
Gorshkov, during that time, was looking at Artiom. He couldn’t recognize him in his new clothes.
“Why is this jackal with you?” he remembered finally. “And who gave him that coat? Or did you raise him to the level of Chekist?”
“I’m expecting you at ten,” Galia interrupted him. “We’ll see who’s going to be reporting to whom. Get ready to explain your business. We’ll find out exactly what you were looking for fifteen versts from here.”
“We’ll see who’s going to do the explaining,” Gorshkov hissed.
Galia presented herself to the commander, by uniform, of the shore guard.
“Here are my commanding papers. Here’s my document authorizing a special mission. During our mission, we detained two spies,” she said distinctly, pointing at Marie, who was still sitting in the boat. “We must immediately get them to IID for interrogation. The second is sick, unconscious — he must first go into the infirmary. Quickly.”
Artiom stomped in place.
“Why are you standing there?” Galia turned to him. “Immediately report back to your brigade.”
“They won’t let me in,” Artiom wanted to say, but Galina had already walked forward, her hand waving as she stepped.
The walls of Solovki stood like black bread in dirty, sweet pollen.
At the gates Galia, handing in her documents, nodded at Artiom: “He’s with me.”
In the yard, she turned towards the IID at once, without saying goodbye. Artiom made his way towards the twelfth working brigade of the camp of Solovki.
Evidently, the work assignments were just finishing, and the first groups were moving towards their jobs through the autumn drizzle.
A brigade of ten people walked towards him. Two of the workers at the back were in heavy overcoats on top of underpants, another was in felt boots without galoshes, a third in shoes — he raised his feet high to avoid all the puddles. All were wearing caps.
In general, there were not many people in the yard, as had now become usual. Those who appeared looked nervous.
Along the courtyard, a few infirmary attendants carried the sick, but for some reason not into the infirmary, but from it.
“Those are bodies,” Artiom explained to himself.
The attendants were in masks. They had never before worn masks like that.
It was unclear why Artiom thought that they would just let him in to sleep. He was simply dead, and it seemed enough of a reason. It also seemed like everything that was going on had already happened, and in the sleeping quarters he would find Vasilii Petrovich or Afanasiev, or maybe even Krapin. That meant that everything was in its proper place and would take care of itself, as it did more than once.
In the wooden lean-to, he did indeed see two Chechen orderlies sitting at their post.
“Ai,” one of them recognized Artiom. “You were out to sea? You haven’t been around in a while. Did you kill a whale?”
Artiom wanted to smile, but couldn’t, so he just nodded and tried to pass.
“Hey,” said the Chechen without any nastiness, but firmly. “Wait. You’re in our brigade?”
Artiom nodded and looked at the clock, as though it would confirm the truth of his words.
He suddenly remembered that this was the younger Khasaev — the brother of the one who was in Sekirka with him. The brothers had always had a touching relationship — the elder took care of the younger, as though he were a child.
“No, I have to call the commander,” said the younger Khasaev, a little sadly. “Listen, I don’t care, but I haven’t seen you… in a very long time. Do you have a transfer back to this brigade? They told me that now you’re only working with the commanders, why do you want to come here? You’re not drunk? Are you frozen? Here, warm up at the stove.”
Khasaev left, Artiom quickly drank three mugs of water from the vat and, getting immediately drunk, he sat on the floor, leaning, with his back against the stove.
He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The Chechen returned with some commander.
They kicked Artiom, not very hard, like a yard dog that was in the way.
He got up — he felt that his back had stuck to his shirt, his shirt to his Chekist’s coat, and the coat itself was as hot as an iron.
Through his sticky dream-state, he looked into the commander’s face… no, he didn’t remember that face.
“Where’s Curly?” asked Artiom.
The younger Khasaev barely noticeably chuckled.
“Re-PORT!” the commander ordered with rising fury.
“Artiom Goriainov.” For the first time in his life, he got confused with his own last name, as though he were naming a foreign country. “I was on a special mission, now returned to my brigade by order of the IID.”
“Where are your papers?”
“They are in IID.”
For some reason, Artiom felt that he was riding a sled down a hill; he really wanted to close his eyes and fall asleep again.
“How am I supposed to know who you are?” The commander yelled in Artiom’s face. “Take him to IID for the papers,” he commanded the orderlies.
Khasaev grabbed Artiom rather rudely — but as soon as the screaming commander left, he loosened his hold.
“What? You don’t know what’s going on?” he asked on the road, leaning towards Artiom’s ear. “You left a long time ago, probably? For three days now there’s been an inspection. They’ve arrested them all — Curly, Chekists from the IID, commanders of the distant stations. Serious business… You should be less conspicuous. But you stick out like a sore thumb. In that coat especially.”
The Chechen smelled strongly of onion and agitation. It was a good smell.
“Go, figure it all out, then come back to the brigade. I’ll wait for you, brother,” he said, very sincerely. “They said that you worked with Eichmanis, yes? Then they said you hit a Chekist in the yard, yeah? Then you beat up the gangsters? You’re a strong lad; come back for sure to the brigade. What sort of mission was it, tell me in short?”
Various inmates walked around the yard, going to their work. Almost everyone’s footwear was useless, only the orderly Khasaev, who walked next to him wore excellent boots. They looked Cossack. Artiom couldn’t lift his head any higher.
They walked into IID, the duty officer showed up in a minute, also upset about something, but Artiom managed to sleep for a full minute while standing.
He felt that he was standing in the middle of the ocean, underwater, but dry.
The duty officer floated to him like a fish with an elongated face — he was all flattened, that duty officer, as though he grew not downward, as was proper, but kept on growing in the region of the back of his head, and kept getting longer and longer. If you looked the duty officer in the mouth — you’d find a tunnel there. In this mouth, you could fit your entire arm up to your elbow and find the swallowed bait.
Artiom was starting to get feverish.
He kept repeating to himself several times, “It’s just lack of sleep,” to explain his state to himself. But it was impossible to delve into the meaning of that word — in a frightening way, it was connected with a mug of tea into which they had poured some lumps of sugar, and the sugar was connected with snow, which fell, not with an icy dust, but in heavy pieces, as though they had dragged it to the very edge of the sky, like the edge of an ice floe, then threw it down into the water, which as before wasn’t sweet at all.
Artiom didn’t remember the beginning of the conversation with the duty officer, though he did take part in that conversation.
Even though he came back to himself long enough to finish the conversation — it was already late and the Chechen had gone without saying goodbye, but at least there were two soldiers leading Artiom through the yard. The word “solitary” was attached to his leg and struck the pavestones of the yard with each step.
“Why don’t you give me your coat; they’re going to execute you anyway,” said the soldier while walking along. “I’ll give you some tobacco. Look, you’ve already burned it in the back. They’ll add some holes to it as well. Is that a good idea?”
Artiom moaned his disagreement.
The soldier grabbed him by the neck and pushed him against the wall. Artiom managed to spit at him; the saliva remained on his lip, but it did scare the soldier. Somehow, he then turned around and pushed the momentarily confused soldier in the chest.
The second one cooled down his buddy: enough, leave him alone, do you even know who he is? Maybe it’s not worth undressing him.
“They’re still going to put him under the store, don’t you see?” The soldier snarled, but stepped back.
But as a parting shot, he said to Artiom, “I’ll be the one to shoot you. It’s too bad you didn’t give me the coat. It would have been the nice thing to do. But you wanted it yourself. I’ll shoot you just to make a point.”
Artiom wiped the spit off his face.
While he was walking, he momentarily forgot where they were taking him.
There was a metal clanging — the lock opened.
Screech — the door opened.
Bang — the door closed behind his back.
Another clanging — once again the lock.
The entire bunch of keys, as they locked the door, rang in Artiom’s brain.
A room and another room. In the room there were several people. Their faces were familiar.
He didn’t remember a single name, but he knew them, and he knew them well.
There were three levels of bunks.
One bunk on the lowest level was empty, Artiom hurried there.
They called to him: stop, not yours! But he didn’t listen.
He couldn’t have figured anything better himself — he slept.
He slept in a place where no water would get him.
He was barely asleep when they, swearing, pulled him by his feet, but he kicked them off, got up on one elbow, forgot all words and growled — and for some reason this didn’t surprise anyone. If they had thrown him to the ground, he wouldn’t have woken up. They didn’t.
He didn’t know how long he slept, and no one ever told him.
When Artiom woke up, they had just brought in a bucket of hot water.
He didn’t have a mug, and he was the last to drink what was left, picking up the whole bucket.
He drank it all and suddenly realized that his fever was gone.
Soon they took the empty bucket, though they did push in a confused, red-faced — his buttons all the way to the stomach were either unbuttoned or torn off — Gorshkov.
Artiom rubbed his eyes for a long time, not understanding anything.
Gorshkov sat on a bench exactly opposite Artiom, at first not recognizing him in the half-dark.
“Did you receive your report?” Artiom asked.
He had slept so well that a good mood descended on him.
Or maybe he just finally went mad.
“What?” said Gorshkov, peering ahead.
One more inmate looked intently at Artiom — that was Tkachuk, which was also unexpected.
“Shut your mouth, jackal,” Gorshkov said.
“Woof, woof,” Artiom answered, smiling and walked to the latrine.
Though he didn’t understand anything yet, he had many guessses.
The prison guard stood at the entrance, confused by their papers and not understanding who they were supposed to take out of there.
“Oh, there it is… what the hell is that last name? Goria… Goria?”
