Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (9 page)

“
Which one?
”
Ektov couldn
’
t help but ask.

Libin had a ready and precise answer:
“
The Fourteenth Arkhangel Regiment from the Fifth Tokay Brigade.
”

Ektov knew them well. But believing Libin—that was another
matter ...

Libin even brought in some Tambov newspapers to back up his statement. Judging by them, the Bolsheviks really had been victorious.

But then, how could it have ended otherwise? Even when he joined the rebellion he realized how hopeless it was.

Then there was Order No. 130: the families of the rebels are to be arrested (and Libin emphasized the word
families
when he read it aloud), their property confiscated, and they are to be moved to concentration camps and then exiled to some distant region.

Then Order No. 171, also on punishing families.

There was no surprise here; Ektov knew it would happen.

Libin assured him that these orders were having a huge effect.
So as not to fall victim to these measures, peasants were coming in and revealing who was in hiding and where.

This might well be so. The Bolsheviks were applying a huge lever by taking families hostage.

Who could hold out against this? Who does not love his children more than his own self?

“
And now,
”
Libin assured him,
“
there
’
s a
great purge
beginning in the villages. We
’
re picking people up one by one, and no one can hide from us.
”

More than a few peasants knew Pavel Vasilych Ektov from peacetime and might betray him.

Ektov, however, was in his third month of prison and was still concocting stories and telling lies. But now—had they seen through them?

Meanwhile, Libin carried on with his happy smile, even seeming well disposed toward this hopeless democrat and populist—though he had seated him under a much more powerful light. His moist, rapacious mouth formed a smile:
“
So, Pavel Vasylich, we didn
’
t finish our conversation last time ...
”

And then everything came crashing down.

It was all over.

He was already slipping down the steep slope, clinging to a few shreds of hope with his fingernails: Surely this didn
’
t mean they had his family as well? Polina and his little girl might have taken precautions, found a different place to live, moved away somewhere . . . ?

But Libin, his black eyes gleaming with the enjoyment of watching his distraught prisoner making pointless denials, now tightened the noose around his neck:
“
Polina Mikhailovna doesn
’
t approve of your stubbornness. Now that she knows the facts, she
’
s amazed that you still haven
’
t broken ranks with the bandits.
”

Ektov sat on the stool for a few minutes, utterly stunned. His thoughts danced away in every direction, then slowed their whirl and became frozen.

Libin continued to look at him. But he was silent and did not urge him on.

That
was something Polina would never have thought and never have said.

But could she have reached the end of her rope?

Yet, this might also be his chance: Let me meet with her! Let me talk to her myself!

Libin gave a hesitant
“
No
”
:
“
You have to earn a meeting, first of all by your repentance.
”

Two or three days passed in this way, Ektov insisting on a meeting, Libin insisting first on complete repentance.

But Ektov could not trample into the mud all the things he had seen with his own eyes and absolutely knew to be true. And he was incapable of pretending.

Libin, however, was also unwilling to give an inch. (And his stubbornness proved that what he had said about Polina was untrue! That was not
her
at all!)

Then Libin abruptly ended the duel, and in a way that took Ektov
’
s
breath
away: To hell with you, don
’
t repent! To hell with you, you can keep your brainless populism! But if you don
’
t cooperate with us, I
’
ll hand over your Polina to the Hungarians in the
special forces
and make you watch. And we
’
ll put your little brat in an orphanage. And after you
’
ve seen the show, you
’
ll get a bullet in the back of the neck.
That
’
s less than you deserve, and we should have done it sooner.

Icy fingers seemed to grip his chest. These people certainly were capable of doing all that Libin had said. Such things had happened more than once. Their power rested on such things, in fact.

Polina . . . !

They gave Ektov a day and then another day
to think.

And how could one
think
inside this torture chamber where you
’
re surrounded by threats and have no way out? His thoughts simply passed through his head, disconnected, as if he were only half awake.

How could he do it—sacrifice his wife and Marinka and simply step over them? Was there anyone else on earth, anything else on earth, to which he felt more responsible? Everything that made his life meaningful lay in these two people.

And was he to be the one to give them up? What kind of person could do such a thing . . . ? And afterwards they would shoot Polina. And they wouldn
’
t spare Marinka either. He knew
these people.

What if he could save some peasants by doing that? But the rebels had already lost, that was clear. They
’
ve lost in any case.

As for his
cooperation,
what did that mean these days? How could it tip the scales of an uprising that has already been put down? The only question was the sacrifice of his family. Nothing else could be changed.

How he hated that swarthy face of Libin with its insolent, triumphant expression and those eyes with their predatory gleam! Giving up would bring a kind of relief. It was probably the same feeling a woman has when she ceases to struggle. All right, you
’
re stronger than I am. I
’
ll throw myself on your mercy. It
’
s a way to make dying a little easier.

What use could he now be to the Reds, though?

He gave in. But there was a condition: he wanted a meeting with Polina.

Libin confidently accepted his surrender. As for the meeting with his wife, that will only happen when you carry out our assignment. Then, of course—we
’
ll simply let you go back to your family.

What else could he do?

You would have to have an incredibly stony heart to trample in the mud all that was dearest to you.
And now, for what cause?

Oboyansky
’
s melodious incantations also left their trace on him. He was right, they were a powerful generation!
The new Huns, but armed with a socialist ideology.
A strange mixture . . .

And perhaps it was also true that we, the old school intelligentsia, had failed to understand something. The paths to the future don
’
t easily reveal themselves to the human eye.

~ * ~

Ektov
’
s assignment was this: He was to be a guide for the cavalry brigade of the famous Grigory Kotovsky, the Civil War hero. (The brigade had just moved through the rebellious
Pakhotny
Ugol
and slaughtered 500 rebels.) Ektov was not to invent any new identity for
himself,
he was to go as the famous Ego from Antonov
’
s staff. (Antonov
’
s forces had been utterly routed and his army had ceased to exist. He had fled and was still in hiding. But Antonov was not their concern.)

And what was his job to be?

That would be explained on the way.

(Still, somehow, he might be able to wriggle out of it.)

It was a short trip from Tambov to
Kobylinka
, a place that bordered on one of the areas the partisans favored.

They went on horseback. (And the Chekists, in civilian clothes, rode beside him, never leaving him for a minute. They had half a squadron of Red Army troops with them.)

Once again he was in the open air, under the open sky. It was early June, and the lindens were in blossom. Just fill your lungs with that air!

So many of our poets and writers had told us the same thing: How beautiful the world is, and how people debase and poison it with their endless antagonisms.
Will this strife never end? Will people ever be able to create a life freed from such afflictions, a splendid, sensible life of abundance? That was the dream of generations.

A few
versts
before
Kobylinka
, they met Kotovsky himself. He was a huge, powerful man with a shaven head and the savage face of a convict. Kotovsky
’
s squadron was in peasant garb, not Red Army uniforms, though they all wore riding boots and sheepskin hats or astrakhans. A few of them had the red Cossack stripe on their trousers. Were they supposed to be Cossacks?

Indeed, they were. They had been told to call each other
“
neighbor,
”
in Cossack fashion, and not
“
comrade.
”

The senior Chekist accompanying Ektov now explained his task: This night they were to meet with the representative of a band of some 500 rebels. Ego was to confirm that
we
were Cossacks from the Kuban and
Don insurgent army and had broken through Voronezh Province to link up with Antonov.

As night fell, Ego was given an unloaded
Nagan
pistol to strap on his hip and a puny nag to ride. (The four Chekists in civilian clothes stuck close to him, playing the role of the new staff he had collected after the defeat of Antonov
’
s forces. Their
Nagans
were fully loaded, and it was clear they would shoot him at his first wrong move.)

Kotovsky and his squadron had arranged the meeting in a forester
’
s cabin on the edge of a clearing. Misha Matyukhin, brother of Ivan Matyukhin, the commander of a rebel detachment that was still active, was coming from the other direction with a few dozen horsemen. (Several brothers would often join the Tambov rebels. Aleksandr Antonov
’
s younger brother
Mitka
, a village poet, always went into battle by his side. The two of them had also escaped together.)

The riders stopped at the clearing. The main negotiators entered the forester
’
s hut, where two candles burned on the table. Their faces could just be made out.

Misha Matyukhin had never seen Ego
’
s face, but his brother Ivan had.
“
He
’
ll vouch for me,
”
said Ektov, who could barely recognize his own voice and believe that he was serving such brazen falsehood to the peasants. But once he had taken his first steps across this shaky little bridge, there was no stopping. Looking at Kotovsky, he said:
“
Here
’
s the head of their detachment, Lieutenant Colonel
Frolov
.
”
(So as not to overdo it, Kotovsky had not donned a Cossack colonel
’
s insignia, though he could easily have done so.)