Skeletons (3 page)

Pushing and jostling, we managed to make it to the revolving doors. But they would not move. There were people in them trying to make it to the outside, but the weight of those already on the street in front kept them from leaving the store.

"Go back, dammit! Don't you see who I have with me?" the driver yelled. With a fierceness I had not yet seen, using both shouts and gestures, he managed to empty the doors so that we could push through.

"You first," he said, occupying the door behind me and keeping constant pressure until we were through.

The crowd had, indeed, recognized me, and made a respectful path. The driver took my arm and brought me on, until one young woman stopped me and said, "What is going on? Do you know?"

I started to tell her about the skeletons, then said, merely, "No, I don't know."

There was fear in her eyes, but she said, "The army will handle it. They always do."

Those around her seemed to concur.

The driver rushed me through the store. What might otherwise have been a pleasant shopping trip was turned into a surrealistic, fast-motion tour—a blur of strangely out-of-place consumer goods tastefully arranged on polished tables, a waxed floor clacking under our feet. Salespersons stood nervously at their counters, suddenly without anything to do. Small groups of them talked in whispers. Outside, two mortars went off, and suddenly the whispers became louder.

"Closer, definitely closer," someone said.

Another, duller explosion.

"Ah, the army is driving them from the city!”

“Driving
who
?" one clerk said, grinning nervously.

"Whoever it is!" his friend answered.

We moved through the entire store, approached the next block. There was chaos outside these doors, too, but not as great. The general movement here was away from the sounds of gunfire, toward Red Square. We pushed our way through the doors and out into the crowd.

"Stay with me," the driver said. "I know all the back ways."

He did. It might have taken us hours to get to Red Square through the slow-moving throng, but after five minutes of working through the crowd, we had crossed the street and entered another building. This one was deserted. We passed a long bank of open elevators and reached a guard in a small booth. He was listening attentively to a radio, ear cocked, and ignored us.

"What do they say?" the bus driver said, stopping.

The guard continued to ignore us. He was old, perhaps a pensioner with connections, and there was a look of sullen, concentrated fright on his features.

"What—" the bus driver repeated, reaching out to the uniformed old man, but the guard abruptly turned the radio off.

"It's bullshit," he said. "All bullshit." He tried to look blissful, but the hard look of fear stayed in his eyes.

"What did the radio say!" the bus driver yelled, now taking the old man by his lapels.

"They say what they always say," the guard said. "Stay calm, go to your homes, the situation is under control. His face collapsed, the false look of bliss gone. "Oh God, the last time they said that, the Germans, the tanks, my
Vanya
taken away ..." He put his face down into his hands and began to weep.

"Come on," the bus driver said, pushing me on.

We passed out of the building onto the next block, which was nearly empty. "One more over," the driver said. Through another building, this time not a soul to be seen, but a vague rumbling sound intensified as we approached the far door.

"This will take us onto the square through the wall, past Lenin's tomb," the driver explained.

"Tell me your name," I said.

He looked around at me, startled.

"What is your name?" I repeated.

Suddenly he was bashful. Almost comically, he stopped and bowed. "I am Victor
Volokovsky
, at your service," he said.

"Thank you, Victor," I said.

If anything, his bashfulness intensified. "You're welcome." He stood with his hands in front of him. "It is a pleasure to serve you. You are a great man."

I smiled and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. "I doubt it," I said. "But I appreciate what you've done for me."

"It is what you've done—" he began, but a loud explosion nearby startled him from his gratitude and he took my arm and said, "We keep moving."

The low rumbling was the murmur of the huge crowd in Red Square. I caught a glimpse of it as we entered through the Kremlin wall, passing the huge mausoleum there that held the remains of Lenin. As we passed I told Victor to stop.

"Shouldn't there be some sort of guard there, in front of the tomb?"

His eyes widened. "Always. There is a contingent of color guards. They march constantly. And the door is always locked."

The door was not locked now, but stood wide open. As I approached it Victor held back.

"Perhaps we shouldn't," he said.

"Come with me."

Reluctantly, he joined me. We went in.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The tomb was empty. The long glass case holding Lenin's body was open, the heavy glass cover pushed aside. There was broken glass on the floor.

"Mother of God!" Victor said, backing out.

I followed him. Soon we had made our way out into the square.

The crowd from the morning was still there, but not by choice. They seemed trapped by the larger crowd outside seeking to enter the square. I saw little evidence of the army. A few hatless soldiers tried to push their way through, but were pinned in place.

The huge stage set up under the Kremlin balcony was empty. I was about fifty yards away, with little hope of reaching it. Studying the front of the stage, I found the figure of Jon Roberts by his headband. He was trying to keep order in front of him. He seemed to be struggling with a microphone that wouldn't work.

Part of the crowd had found its way toward us, pressing from behind, and we were slowly being pushed forward.

"I have to get to that stage," I said to Victor.

He looked pensive. Then his face brightened. "I have one more trick."

Shoving our way, he led me back to Lenin's tomb. We entered and went past the empty casket to the back wall. Victor stopped, began to talk to himself, closing his eyes.

"Where, where," he said.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

`There was a television special," he said. "A tour. They showed some of the secrets of the Kremlin. There is a set of tunnels underneath Red Square. One of the entrances is here, in the tomb. I remember it clearly. And I believe there is an exit somewhere near your stage—ah!"

He moved to the right, his hand falling on the handle of a barely visible door. He twisted the handle up and down, to no effect.

"I was stupid enough to think the door would be open," he said dolefully.

'Thank you for trying," I said. "I'll just have to fight my way through the crowd."

"I'll fight with you!" Victor said. He walked to the foot of Lenin's open casket, chose a large sliver of heavy glass, pulled off his jacket, and wrapped it around the lower part. "If I have to, even though you wouldn't approve, I'll cut my way through—Mother of God . . ."

His eyes went wide, staring into the casket. Gingerly, he reached down, pushed the satin lining aside, widening a hole.

"Quickly, help me!"

Between the two of us we soon lifted the bottom out of the casket, exposing a gaping hole. Cold air washed up and over us.

"It must lead to the tunnels!" Victor said. A hint of smile crossed his face. "Those sly communist bastards even left Lenin an out after he was dead!"

He climbed up over the rim of the casket, lowered himself gingerly down into the hole, feeling around.

"There's even a handrail," he said. Soon he had climbed down to the point where his head disappeared. "It's all right!" he called up. "Come down—there's even enough light to see by!"

I climbed down after him.

I found myself on a solid, dry floor. For a moment I saw nothing. Then my eyes adjusted, and I saw Victor in front of me, peering ahead. There was dim, shifting light ahead. As we approached it the muffled sounds of the huge crowd outside began to filter down to us.

"Must be a grate above," Victor said, and sure enough we soon stood below a grate set high above us. It was nearly covered by shifting forms and let only a little light in.

"It must be quite easy to see, without a crowd above," Victor said.

More dull, faraway booms sounded in the distance, and the crowd above reacted by shifting first one way, then the other.

Victor moved ahead, into the tunnel.

I followed.

We walked perhaps thirty yards before reaching another grate. This one, too, was covered with shifting forms. The mortar sounds from above were more regular now, though still distant.

"I imagine the army is making some sort of stand at the entrance to Moscow," Victor said. For a moment I remembered the maggot-like horde of skeleton figures we had seen streaming from the National Cemetery toward the city.

"This is not what I had in mind for today," I said.

"No, it's not, is it?"

We moved on.

The next grate had a ladder built into the wall leading to the surface. But it, too, was hopelessly jammed with bodies. I estimated we were getting close to the stage. The next, as I had secretly hoped, was under the stage itself—but had no ladder.

"Let me boost you up," Victor said, and he stood rigid, feet splayed, hands against the wall, as I climbed onto his back and then stood upon his shoulders.

"I can't reach it," I said, my straining fingers just failing to touch the bottom of the grate.

"Does it look like it can be pushed up?" Victor asked.

"I don't see anything holding it down."

"Good. Come down for a moment."

I lowered myself from Victor's shoulders and followed while he marched back to the last grate, the one with the ladder. The mortar firings were constant now, but still far away.

Victor climbed the ladder and began to poke up through the grate at the feet of those standing on it. "You there! You!" he shouted.

Someone above yelled, "They're down below! They're coming at us from below!"

There was shouting, and a general movement away from the grate. Victor tried to push the grate up, but more bodies were jostled into standing on it. Then, someone carrying a cane fell across it and he was unable to get it up.

"Help me! Help me!" someone cried above as Victor grabbed at a piece of clothing.

"Listen to me!" Victor shouted.

Above, a face turned to stare down at him. "Oh, God, please no!"

"I'm not going to hurt you!"

"Let me go!" the figure above pleaded. "They're stepping on me, kicking me—
owww
!"

"
Listen to me!
" Victor shouted, putting his face up to the grate. "You must help me—do you know who I have down here?"

"I don't want to know—stop it! Stop it!" the figure above turned away to shout at someone on top of him, waved up feebly with his cane.

"Look at who I have down here!" Victor shouted. The head turned back, the eyes looked down at me. 'This is Peter Sun," Victor said with authority. "He's the only man who can get us out of this mess. Do you understand?"

"My God! My God!" the figure above said. The eyes stared down at me. "It's true! Help him! We must help him—get off of me!"

The figure above struggled up, stood for a moment, then squatted down to look back at me.

"Mr. Sun, we'll help you!"

The figure stood back up, began to shout, "Get away from the grate! Mr. Sun is down there! Let him up—get away from the grate!"

The shouting was interrupted by the first nearby explosion. The man above was silent for a moment, then put his face back down to the grate.

"A bomb has fallen in the square! There are people hurt!"

"Please get me out of here," I said.

"Yes! Get away! Get away!" The cane was waved around, but there seemed to be just as many bodies on the grate as ever.

The man with the cane bent quickly down. "I'm sorry—I can't make them move—
ohhh
!"

Another blast sounded nearby.

"Give me your cane!" Victor shouted up at the man. "Another bomb, nearby! People are screaming!”

“Your cane—give it to me!"

"Oh, God help us!" the man said, trying to move away with the crowd. His cane momentarily slipped into the grate and Victor grabbed it.

"What are you doing!" the man above shouted. "Give it to me!" He tried to yank the cane up through the grate. "Give it to me!"

"I need it to get Mr. Sun out of here!" Victor shouted. "I can help Mr. Sun with it!"

"What? Oh, yes. Oh, God ..." the man said, suddenly letting go of his cane before being pushed away from the grate by the crush above.