The Zone (17 page)

In the mess hall, they gave me tea and rolls. They had run out of hot cereal. To make up for it, they gave me a piece of lard and an onion for the road, and an instructor I knew shook out ten cigarettes for me.

I sat in the checkpoint cabin till the convoy brigades moved out. The orderly was relieved close to eight. It was quiet in the penal isolator. The zek was slumbering after a sleepless night. Finally I heard, “Prisoner Gurin, with belongings!”

The bolts clicked in the transit corridor. A security officer entered the cabin with my ward.

“Sign out,” he said. “You have a weapon?”

I unbuckled my holster.

The zek was in handcuffs.

We walked out onto the porch. The winter sun blinded me. The dawn had come up quickly. As always.

On the gently sloping hill before us, cabins stood out black. The smoke above their roofs rose straight up.

I said to Gurin, “Well, let’s go.”

He was a man of medium height, well built. His hat was likely covering a bald spot. His soiled quilted jacket was shiny in the sun.

I decided not to wait for a ride with a log-carrier but to walk to the railroad crossing right away. If a truck or tractor going our way happened to come along, fine. If not, we could make it on foot in three hours.

I didn’t know that the road had been closed off near Koyna. Later I learnt that two zeks had stolen a grapple trailer the night before. By daylight, military police had set up roadblocks at every crossing. So Gurin and I had to travel all the way back to the zone on foot. We only stopped once, to eat. I gave Gurin some bread and the lard – no great sacrifice, since the lard had frozen and the bread was in crumbs.

Silent till then, the zek kept repeating, “What a fiesta – choice calories! Chief, let’s party it up!”

The handcuffs hampered him. He asked, “If you could lose my cuffs – or are you afraid I’ll give you the slip?”

All right, I thought. In daylight it’s not dangerous. Where’s he going to run to in the snow?

I took off the handcuffs, fastened them to my belt. Gurin immediately asked permission to go relieve himself. I said, “Go do it there.”

Then he crouched behind some bushes, and I trained my rifle on the black Vorkuta hat.

About ten minutes went by. My hand got tired. Suddenly, behind my back, a foot crunched in the snow. At that moment, a hoarse voice called out, “Let’s go, Chief.”

I jumped up. Before me stood Gurin, smiling. Evidently he had hung his hat on the bush. “Don’t shoot, fellow countryman.”

It would have been silly to bawl him out.

Gurin had acted straight with me. He had shown me that he didn’t want to run away, or maybe he wanted to but didn’t choose to.

We took the forest path and reached the zone without incident. On the way there, I asked, “So what kind of production will this be?”

The zek didn’t understand. I explained, “In the orders it says you’re the one who will play the role of Lenin.”

Gurin burst out laughing. “It’s an old story, Chief. Even before the war, I had the nickname ‘Actor’. In the sense of a man who was clever, who could, as they say, move his ears. So they wrote on my record: ‘actor’. I remember I was tied up in the Criminal Investigation Section, and the investigator wrote it down just as a joke. In the ‘profession before arrest’ column. As if I had a profession! From the cradle, I’m an inveterate thief. I never worked a day in my life. But the way they wrote it down, that’s how it stuck – ‘actor’. From one paper to another. All the political instructors sign me up for amateur productions: ‘After all, you’re an actor, an artist…’ Ech, if I could only meet one of those political
instructors at a kolkhoz market, I’d show him what kind of artist I am.”

I asked, “So what are you going to do? You’re supposed to play Lenin himself.”

“What, read a piece of paper? Simple. I’ll polish my bald spot with wax, and it’s in the bag. I remember we hit a bank once in Kiev, and I got dressed up as a cop – and my own people didn’t recognize me. If it has to be Lenin, then let it be Lenin. As they say, a day off work is a month of life.”

We walked up to the checkpoint. I turned Gurin over to the sergeant major. The zek waved his hand. “Be seeing you, Chief.
Merci
for the fiesta.”

He said the last words softly, so the sergeant wouldn’t hear.

Since I’d been taken off work duty, I loafed for the next twenty-four hours. I drank wine with the weapon repairmen, lost four roubles to them at cards, wrote a letter to my parents and brother, even planned to see a young lady I knew in the settlement. But just then an orderly came looking for me and told me to report to Political Instructor Khuriyev.

I made my way to the Lenin Room. Khuriyev was sitting under an enormous map of the Ust-Vym camp. The escape points were marked with little flags.

“Have a seat,” said the PI. “We have something important to discuss. The October holidays are approaching. We are beginning rehearsal of a one-act play called
Kremlin Stars
. The author” – here Khuriyev glanced at some papers lying in front of him – “is Chichelnitsky, Yakov Chichelnitsky. The play is ideologically mature, recommended by the cultural section of the Department of Internal Affairs. The events take place at the beginning of the twenties. There are four characters: Lenin, Dzerzhinsky, a Chekist named Timofei and his fiancée, Polina. The young Chekist Timofei is yielding to the bourgeois manner of thinking. Polina, a merchant’s daughter, is dragging him down into the maelstrom of the petite bourgeoisie. Dzerzhinsky engages in educational work with them. He himself is incurably ill. Lenin insistently urges him to take care of his health. ‘Iron Felix’ refuses, which makes a
strong impression on Timofei. In the end, Timofei throws off the bonds of revisionism. The merchant’s daughter, Polina, shyly follows after him. In the closing scene, Lenin addresses the public.” Here Khuriyev again rustled his papers. “‘Who is this? Whose are these happy, young faces? Whose are these cheerful, sparkling eyes? Can this really be the youth of the Seventies? I envy you, messengers of the future! It was for you that we lit the first lights of the new-builds! For your sake that we rooted out the dark forces of the bourgeoisie! So then let your way be lighted, children of the future, by our Kremlin stars.’ And so on. And then afterwards, everyone will sing the ‘Internationale’. On a single impulse, as the expression goes. What do you say to all this?”

“Nothing,” I said. “What can I say? A serious play.”

“You’re a cultured person, educated. We decided to draw you into this undertaking.”

“I have nothing to do with the theatre.”

“Do you think I do? But a Communist should always demonstrate his social commitment.”

“I’m not a Party member.”

“All the more reason to take part. Your indifference goes too far. You put yourself outside the collective. Political awareness is not for you, social activity is not for you. Don’t think you’re so much cleverer than everyone else.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Good. You will help with this cultural initiative. I’m managing, casting is done and I’ve already given out scripts, but without an assistant it’s hard. Our actors – well, you know yourself… Lenin is being played by a thief from the Ropcha transit camp. A lifelong pickpocket, with high standing under their Code. It’s the opinion of some here that he’s actively planning to escape.”

I kept quiet. How could I tell the PI what had happened in the forest?

Khuriyev continued, “In the role of Dzerzhinsky – Tsurikov, nicknamed ‘Stilts’, from the Fourth Brigade, in for perverting minors, term – six years. There is evidence he smokes dope. In
the role of Timofei – Gesha, a nitwit from the sanitation brigade, a passive homo. In the role of Polina – Tomka Lebedyeva from the Division of Economic Administration, an incredible bitch, worse than the female zeks. In a word, this bunch leaves a lot to be desired. The use of narcotics is a probability, also illicit contacts with Lebedyeva. All that skirt wants is to flap around the zeks. Do you understand me?”

“What is there to understand? Our people.”

“Well then, put your hand to it. There is a rehearsal today at six. You will be assistant director. Your duties in the logging sector are temporarily suspended. I will notify Captain Tokar.”

“No protest here,” I said.

“Be there at ten minutes to six.”

I wandered around the barracks till six. A few times, officers wanted to send me off somewhere to take part in security operations. I told them that I had been placed at the disposal of Senior Lieutenant Khuriyev, and they left me in peace.

Close to six, I sat waiting in the Lenin Room. A moment later, Khuriyev appeared with a briefcase.

“And where are our personnel?”

“They’ll come,” I said. “Most likely they were delayed in the mess hall.”

Just then, Gesha and Tsurikov walked in. Tsurikov I knew from work in the unmarked sector. He was a sullen, emaciated zek with a revolting habit – he scratched himself. Gesha worked as an orderly in the sanitation brigade cleaning barracks, looking after the sick. He stole pills, vitamins and any medications with alcoholic content for the bosses. He walked with a barely noticeable dance step, submitting to some inaudible rhythm. It was said that zek chieftains in the zone would not let him near the campfire.

“Six on the dot,” Tsurikov said, and without bending down scratched his knee.

Gesha was rolling a smoke.

Gurin appeared, wearing only a worn undershirt. “Hot in here,” he said. “Pure Tashkent! But in general, this isn’t
a zone, it’s a Palace of Culture. Soldiers address you in the polite form. And the food is choice. Do people really try to escape?”

“They run,” Khuriyev replied.

“To get in or get out?”

“To get out,” the PI answered without smiling.

“And I thought they’d run into the cooler from the outside. Or right from the capitalist jungles.”

“You made your joke, now that’s enough,” Khuriyev said.

Just then, Lebedyeva appeared in a cloud of cheap cosmetics, her hair in a six-month perm. She was a civilian, but she behaved like the inmates and spoke their slang. Generally, administration office workers started resembling the zeks after a month. Even contracted engineers fell into using camp argot. Not to speak of the soldiers.

“Let’s get down to it,” the PI said.

The actors took creased sheets of paper out of their pockets.

“Your roles must be learnt by Wednesday.” Then Khuriyev raised his hand. “I will now present the basic idea. The central line of the play is the struggle between feeling and duty. Comrade Dzerzhinsky, scorning illness, gives himself totally to the Revolution. Comrade Lenin insistently recommends that he take leave. Dzerzhinsky categorically refuses. Parallel to this, the storyline of Timofei develops. Animal lust for Polina temporarily blocks him from world revolution. Polina is a typical representative of the petit-bourgeois mind—”

“The black-marketeer type?” Lebedyeva asked loudly.

“Don’t interrupt. Her ideal is petit-bourgeois well-being. Timofei experiences a conflict between feeling and duty. The personal example of Dzerzhinsky has a strong moral effect on the youth. As a result, his sense of duty triumphs… I hope everything is clear? Let’s begin. So then, we see Dzerzhinsky at work. Tsurikov, sit there, stage left… Enter Vladimir Ilych. In his hand he holds a suitcase. We haven’t got the suitcase yet, we’ll use an accordion case for now. Take it… So then, enter Lenin. Begin!”

Gurin grinned and said with spirit, “How are you, Felix Edmundovich!” (He said this, swallowing his Rs like Lenin, “How ag you?”)

Tsurikov scratched his neck and answered gloomily, “Hello.”

“More respect,” Khuriyev said.

“Hello,” Tsurikov said a little louder.

“Do you know, Felix Edmundovich, what I have here in my hand?”

“A suitcase, Vladimir Ilych.”

“And just what it’s for – can you guess?”

“As you were!” the PI shouted. “It says here, ‘Lenin, with a tinge of irony.’ Where’s the tinge of irony? I don’t see it.”

“It’s coming,” Gurin assured him. He stretched out the arm with the case and winked insolently at Dzerzhinsky.

“Excellent,” Khuriyev said. “Continue. ‘And just what it’s for – can you guess?’”

“And just what it’s for – can you guess?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Tsurikov said.

“Not so churlish,” the PI said, breaking in again. “Milder. Before you is Lenin himself. The leader of the world proletariat.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Tsurikov said, as sullenly as before.

“That’s better. Continue.”

Gurin winked again with even more familiarity. “The suitcase is for you, Felix Edmundovich. So that you, dear fellow, can go off and take a rest at once.”

Without special effort, Tsurikov scratched his shoulder blade. “I can’t, Vladimir Ilych – there is counter-revolution all around us. Mensheviks, Social Revolutionaries,* bourgeois spouts—”

“Scouts,” Khuriyev said. “Go on.”

“Your health, Felix Edmundovich, belongs to the Revolution. The comrades and I have discussed it and decided: you must take a rest. I say this to you as a member of the ruling body.”

Suddenly we heard a female yowl. Lebedyeva was sobbing, her head against the tablecloth.

“What’s the matter?” the PI asked nervously.

“I’m sorry for Felix,” Tamara explained. “He’s skinny as a tapeworm.”

“Dystrophics happen to be hardier,” Gesha said with hostility.

“Break,” Khuriyev announced. Then he turned to me. “Well, what do you think? I would say they’ve grasped the main thing.”

“Och,” Lebedyeva exclaimed, “it’s so close to life! Like in a fairy tale.”

Tsurikov was giving his belly a good scratch. While he did this, his eyes clouded over.

Gesha was studying the escape map. This was considered suspicious, even though the map was displayed openly.