The Monastery, page 78
The dream that descended on Artiom was the sweetest.
That morning, another wonderful thing happened. No one woke them up at six.
As he was getting ready to wake up, untangling himself from his dream as from hot, sunny snares, Artiom explained to himself — the man is coming back inside me — I haven’t quite become a beast. That’s probably because we saved those foreigners, didn’t let them die. A good deed preserved my soul and now my soul is in flower, and grasshoppers are tickling it.
The rat with her ratlings also took part, in some way, in his dream — it turned out that Artiom and Galia had also saved the rat and brought it back in their boat. That, naturally meant that Tom and Marie in that moment were under his bunk eating gruel — which wasn’t quite true; though that would be their business, their business… The important thing was that everyone was warm — Artiom, the rat, Tom and his wife, or girlfriend, or bride…
He barely woke up right before lunch, having become even younger, as though there had never been any camp behind him, as though almost everyone that he knew hadn’t died here.
They brought an amazing lunch — milled porridge with butter. The porridge smelled insistently of something meaty.
Artiom finally felt how hungry he had gotten during these past days. It’s not even worth mentioning Moisei Solomonovich — he was almost dancing. The smell of the porridge inspired him extraordinarily.
He put himself two heaping plates — the guards had no problem with that. He and Moisei Solomonovich winked at each other, and no sooner had the door closed than he, holding those two plates in his hand, exclaimed, opening his already bulging eyes, “Artiom! Artiom! The commission’s left! They’ve established order and left! Comrade Nogtev will once again take his place as head of the camp! Let’s hope that they’ll send us back to work soon! Do you have any technical or economical talents? I would take you in? What do you think?”
There was no point in hiding it — Artiom was also overjoyed. Premonitions are one thing, but news from the guard is something else. A guard is far more trustworthy than any angel.
“God exists, and we’ll eat; God exists, and we’ll eat,” Artiom repeated quickly, mixing his porridge.
Suddenly he saw meat on the bottom of his plate — a huge, thick piece, not some tinned beef here, but — devil take it! — veal, probably! Or maybe even pork!
What a day!
Artiom slung the meat into his spoon and wanted to boast about it to Moisei Solomonovich: look here, have your fill! There is a God, there is! What do you think of His gift for long-suffering and torture?
Not able to wait for it, he attacked the piece of meat with his teeth. He immediately realized that it was a piece of rat dropping that had fallen from above.
He opened his mouth — everything fell out of there in a wet mess.
He licked his own hand for a long time after that.
He said nothing to Moisei Solomonovich — why ruin his lunch?
By that time, something indescribable flowered in his chest — as if he was about to throw up any moment. His chest seized as though in a fit — Artiom opened his mouth — damn it, let it be on the floor, I won’t make it to the latrine in time, who cares… then he realized that he was weeping.
He wept and wept, and his head spun and shook, and his temples were breaking apart from the inside.
Moisei Solomonovich jumped up at first, then somehow realized that it would be better not to approach, so he sat down.
Artiom was woozy and felt vertigo. With all his strength, he grabbed the bunks. His chest was ripping apart and aching, his heart was pumping painful blood.
The fit ended in five or seven minutes.
Artiom, still shaking from the intensity of it, caressed himself on the face — calm down, calm down, calm down.
When he dropped his weak hands onto his knees, he immediately realized, by looking at his own palms, that there was not a single tear on them.
Ten minutes later, as he spit lightly on the floor, he whispered, “Well, that’s OK, Lord. That’s OK. I’m not mad at you. And don’t be mad at me. I appreciated your joke. I hope you appreciate mine.”
Artiom no longer paid attention to the rumbling of the locks — the fright had passed, and the rest would come, leaving only shit on his teeth.
They took Moisei Solomonovich along with his things, letting him know at once that he was to be returned to his work group.
They embraced in parting.
“Think of it, think of it!” Moisei Solomonovich kept repeating. “I’ll find you some work when you come up with something you’re good at.”
The room was completely empty.
“Am I supposed to think about something important, my last thought?” Artiom asked himself.
Only now, in loneliness, did he realize how horrible it smelled here. They hadn’t taken out the latrine today — from yesterday — it stank. They had finished shooting all the people and burying them in the icy ground; let their shit rot here, so to speak, in the warmth.
“Maybe that was the most important thought?” Artiom reflected.
Total exhaustion was just around the corner, for all his strength.
They finished interrogating Artiom and Galia together.
None of their story was being seriously accepted as possible.
The interrogation continued for more than an hour, and it turned out that the two Chekists — more than likely Galia knew them pretty well — didn’t know what to do with them. On the one hand, it was some kind of idiotic, confused story, but on the other hand, she was the former girlfriend of Eichmanis himself — everyone knew about that.
It’s possible that in their own time, these Chekists had watched Galia’s walk with pleasure, and now look how it all turned out!
They asked Artiom little — what were you incarcerated for, how did you end up in Sekirka, what do you remember from your schoolboy days about geography and the natural sciences, do you have any technical know-how? But in general he had the feeling that in their understanding Galia had taken him with her like you might take a dog — and what can you ask a dog?
Everything happened in the same office of the IID where Artiom had been interrogated the last time. On the windowsill, the full ashtray still stood. It’s doubtful that it had been standing there from the time the commission left, but Artiom liked to think, for some reason, that no one here dared throw out the ashes left over from the Muscovite guests — what if they came back?
Galia looked irritated, old, flabby — a dilapidated, middle-aged woman. But she acted with some dignity. The commission had left, so who would kill her now? Who would touch her? Nothing would happen to her — that’s how she acted.
Artiom looked at her rarely and thought that it was impossible that he could ever have been with her — that was some kind of dream, some kind of delusion… and even if he had been mad, then even so, she was no wife or sister to him, but… a passer-by.
Galia didn’t look at Artiom at all. And she was right — why should she look at him?
“… Yes, I heard you, I get it,” the young Chekist grimaced, looking first at Galia, then at his fellow interrogator, but never at Artiom. “Just explain one thing to me. Why did you go with an inmate who really doesn’t know much, as far as we can tell, about flora or fauna…?”
“He worked on Fox Island. He worked with Eichmanis. I have reasons to trust him. I couldn’t just take anyone,” Galia repeated, looking into the small window where it uncomfortably snowed in the dim pre-winter sun.
It seemed that what most irritated her was that they spoke to her using the informal “you”.
On the table of the one asking the questions, Galia’s papers were laid out — a map that she had used, with notes that she had made in her own hand and the notebooks taken from the foreigners.
“It’s hard to avoid the suspicion that you wanted to flee…” said the Chekist after a pause, raising his eyes from the map.
He wanted more than anything for Galia to resolve these doubts for him.
“You’re all so useless,” said Galia quietly. “We found spies for you. We detained them, brought them into the camp. If we were fleeing, why would we bring them here? We would have continued on our merry way! Call Eichmanis already, will you? He’ll tell you all about me.”
Ignoring the proposition to call Eichmanis, the Chekist rocked on his chair and said, “We still need to determine whether they’re even spies.”
“So go and determine,” answered Galina, grimacing as though she had a headache. “And stop wasting my time on these… conversations. The commission already interrogated me. Do you have any reason to think their work was unsatisfactory? Or perhaps that they were too humane?”
The Chekists looked at each other. One of them sneered. The other grimaced.
In the next room, a noise erupted — someone, probably the secretary, got up from his place, the chair rumbled, and the objects on his table sang in concert.
The head of the camp, Nogtev, walked in. His glance was heavy, and it looked like someone had poured sand into his eyes — they were dull and vague.
He didn’t even see Artiom.
“What is this creature going on about?” asked Nogtev, not speaking to anyone in particular. He came up to the table, picked up some paper, and threw it back down again.
Two people answered at the same time — Galia herself and one of the Chekists.
“She’s sticking to her story — they were making maps, she’s still referring to Eichmanis,” the Chekist said quickly, getting up from his place.
“I’m a fighter in the Red Army,” Galia said slowly.
Nogtev’s jaw twitched.
“Three years for the bitch,” he said, not looking at Galia and already on the way out; then he remembered something, and, stopping in the doorway, even a little more cheerful, added, “Burtsev’s papers include a report from one of the leopards that she was messing about with an inmate… right on the roof! Maybe it was with you?” and he moved his eyes, full of dull sand, at Artiom.
Turned out he had seen him after all.
“No,” said Artiom, feeling that a huge monastic wall was falling on him, and there was no way out. He had never heard himself utter anything with such a voice — it was the voice of a man who had the right only to speak one word, but that word wouldn’t change anything.
“Like anyone here cares,” laughed Nogtev, showing unexpectedly white and very strong teeth. “You’re still going to die, jackal.”
“What sort of nightmare is going on here? I’m going to write to Fiodor. What’s going on?” said Galia, getting up.
Every phrase uttered by her was strained and fell flat.
“She’s only talking about herself…” Artiom understood. No one was talking about him anymore.
Though they still hadn’t condemned him to death. They had said nothing about him yet.
“Three years for ‘willful AWOL’.” Repeated Nogtev, not looking at Galia. “Let her be glad that we aren’t finding out about her prostitutes, or we might find something and…” He left.
The door slammed against its frame and squeaked, staying half open.
The secretary slowly went — for some reason everyone listened to those steps — and firmly shut the door. Probably that was his constant work responsibility.
Galia, without strength, lowered herself onto the chair and sat, biting her lip. She couldn’t believe it.
The young Chekists looked at each other again. What their glance meant, Artiom couldn’t guess.
“You’ll all be punished for this, you understand?” Galia said, barely audibly, as though in that moment, her voice had disappeared.
“The administrative board of the camp has the legal right to convict, Galina. You know that,” said the Chekist, not looking her in the eye. While she was almost an equal, he used the informal “you”, now he switched to the formal address. The quick transfer of the former employee of the camp into the number of prisoners seemingly had raised her in his estimation… or rather, it made her more distant.
“Nogtev gave an illegal order. The commission will return and he will have nothing again, and they’ll bury you on Sekirka,” said Galia, drawing in air. By the time she said “Sekirka”, her voice returned and almost rang out.
The Chekist who was standing and who hadn’t spoken yet, looked at Galina with a long look and answered impartially and heavily: “No need to scare anyone here. Or you’ll be the first to get to Sekirka.”
Galia suddenly looked at Artiom: helpless, like a woman, open. It was so unexpected. “Can it be true?” that’s what her glance said.
“What about him?” asked the seated Chekist, nodding at Artiom.
Artiom felt his blood rush to his head — just as stupidly and furiously as the snow in the window, only it was hot, hot.
The second Chekist, waiting very briefly, decided: “He said three years for her. So we’ll add three years for him too.”
He pulled on his cigar contentedly. Their ashes were on the windowsill.
Everything in Artiom’s face became small — small eyes that never looked straight, thin lips that never hurried to smile. His gestures became impersonal, erased. A not very sick, not very well person.
He adopted the strange habit of never showing his naked body — neck, chest, hands — his hands were always in his pocket, but if he was working, they were in old mittens.
He also never showed his teeth.
The words he uttered were rare, ragged, as though they were merely the wrappers of his words — weighing nothing, impossible to grasp. If the wind blew, the words would disappear.
It was better without words, completely.
His every movement was quick, but invisible, having no direct reference to any object or action. He looked like he was eating, but then he wasn’t really, and he never really sat where he was sitting either. He looked like he was darning something, but then there wasn’t a needle and thread in his hands, and he himself disappeared as though someone had pulled him by a string and then loosened them.
No gesticulations.
Always a little unshaven, but not enough to call it a beard. Always a little unwashed, but not enough to attract attention with his smell — no smell at all.
He was always ready to steal, and would sometimes even give some food to others. But when he saw food, he showed it absolutely no preference.
If a prostitute offered him to join her line, he might agree, but in any other moment, he felt nothing about women and didn’t even watch the women’s brigade walk by.
He no longer divided people into good and bad. People were divided into “dangerous” and “the rest”. Towards both he felt no emotions. People are people — he had no more questions to ask them.
He could smile at the commanders, but he could also push any one of them into a hole in the ice and wait until he drowned.
He never counted the remaining days of his incarceration; he was filled with the days of his previous life. But he couldn’t remember that life any more.
Memory is like a cold. Your head hurts from it and your eyes tear up.
His life was chopped in half by a shovel, like a worm — what he left behind lives on its own. His childhood doesn’t ask to be returned.
He knew nothing about the world beyond the boulders of Solovki, and if he dreamed of freedom, it was like the autumn, icy sea — that freedom had no boundaries and no pity. It was naked and empty.
“Both in prison and in freedom the skies are the same,” said Vladychka John, but Artiom, if he even thought about it, would have found his words unnecessary and pointless.
Vladychka John wasn’t around anymore either, because nothing exists unless it’s in front of your eyes.
Father Zinovii had been there a short while back.
Artiom had seen in passing how he had said to Nogtev, “It wasn’t enough for you to betray him; you wanted to kill Christ a second time. After all, the soldier who pierced His side is a saint! And the Red Army, if you look closely, also wants to be holy.”
Nogtev answered, “You don’t say!”
Zinovii was mocking; Nogtev was mocking.
Only Nogtev’s mocking was more dependable, because they soon sent Zinovii back to Sekirka.
There were always many people who wanted something — they’re all attracted by something, like children.
The inmates drew on themselves — crosses, skulls, cupolas, nasty notes about the Chekists. What can be stupider than that useless activity — to draw on oneself? You can sew a metal can to your leg, and walk like that — why not if you can draw on your own back?
The inmates sought protection, entertainment, friendship, conversation, amusement, warmth. From this entire list, all they really needed was warmth. You have to answer, even for favors.
His brigade, for now, was the fourteenth — the untouchables. Here they put all the people who were inclined to run. They couldn’t leave the monastery walls.
Everything in its own time.
The best place was in the shade; the best work was at night. At night, the dangerous people were tired, the guards were stupider and saw less. At night, it was easy to get mixed up with other people, to not even distinguish yourself from other people.
It was also easier to not think or remember at night.
Krapin sent his things from Fox Island, including his mother’s pillow. He felt something human towards that pillow that poked his heart, so he soon traded it for something else.
Those who just arrived in the camp read the newspapers as though it was news from the other world, not this physical world, but news still came from there.
In his brigade, nearly no one knew him by name. They heard his last name during the inspections; that was enough.
Artiom acted as though he had no name. He was a citizen of Solovki.
On the last boat of autumn, the last group of inmates arrived.
There were many green, young, toothy, stupidly smiling, stupidly scared people. They were afraid, and, overcoming their fear, they asked those who they thought might answer them.
One of them came up to Artiom in the yard, at the shop, for some reason distinguished him among the rest, or maybe he asked everyone he met and hoarded the answers.
