Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  — I can ask, but…

  Kostya put his cap back on his head, tugged it into place. —Show me the files.

  — Comrade Officer, please.

  — Look, I first met him in ’33, and he told me he’d arrived in ’31. You must have records going back at least that far.

  — Yes, of course, but—

  — Then let me see them!

  She paled.

  He cleared his throat, softened his voice. —Please, comrade.

  He followed her up the stairs to the room where in 1933 he’d once interfered with a French lesson. He’d noticed the teacher’s error on the blackboard in a sample sentence. Timur had noticed the same error. His back to the door and the presence of a visitor, Timur raised his hand, stood in all courtesy, and asked about it. The teacher abused Timur for his presumption and called him names, finishing with dirty Tatar bezprizornik. Sergeant Nikto, his boots tapping on the floors, those taps like cracks of ice in the sudden silence around him, strode to the blackboard, praised Timur’s knowledge and courtesy, erased the teacher’s sentence and rewrote it without the mistake. Then he left the room. After telling stories to the younger boys, Kostya sought Timur, only to discover that Timur also sought him. Outside in the cool air, shielded by the racket of the younger boys at play, Timur and Kostya smoked, Kostya supplying the cigarettes, and Timur told Kostya about his archive.

  The floor showed scars from bolts and screws; no student desks remained. A new portrait of Stalin hung above the blackboard; another portrait, identical, faced the first, hanging on the back wall above the door.

  The woman cleared her throat, and Kostya flinched. He’d forgotten her. Then she opened the left-hand drawer of the teacher’s desk and showed him the stack of ledgers within. —Our registers.

  He knelt and lifted out all the ledgers at once. —Thank you, comrade. I’ll come down when I am done.

  As she strode away, boys in the next room recited multiplication tables along with their teacher. —Three times one gives three. Three times two gives six.

  One page for each new boy, entered by year of arrival.

  Nineteen thirty-seven. Nineteen thirty-six.

  The pupils continued reciting. —Three times three gives nine. Three times four gives twelve.

  Nineteen thirty-five: a page torn out. One page equalled one boy.

  Kostya said it aloud. —Sloppy.

  Nineteen thirty-four.

  — Three times six…

  Nineteen thirty-three, two pages torn out. Two boys.

  Oh, come on.

  Nineteen thirty-two.

  — Three time seven gives twenty-one.

  Nineteen thirty-one, one page gone. He checked the other 1931 entries, found no page for Timur.

  They tore him out. They tore out every mention of him.

  And at least three more boys. Disappeared.

  Where? If they’d gone to the army, they’d not be torn out. If they’d died in the orphanage, there should be some record of that. Wait. Drug experiments? Kolyma? Shot?

  They’re just boys.

  Kostya placed his open left hand on the ledger, as if to push it away. He knew how torn pages could mean torn lives. He’d done it himself, if not with bullets then with complicities of paperwork. Until his travels to Spain, he’d not really considered the brutality of erasing names, of creating the unperson. In Madrid, staring at bomb rubble and scattered clothes and flesh, Kostya wanted to name the dead. People ran past him, infants and belongings clutched to their chests. Shifting rubble clinked and rattled; blood pooled. Still, Kostya stood there, ears filled with the snarl of engines as more planes approached. He tasked himself: if he could not name the dead, he must count the scraps of fabric. Then he discovered he’d forgotten how to count.

  The boys continued. —Three times ten gives thirty.

  Kostya backed away from the desk and collided with the blackboard. Stalin, Father to All the Soviet Children, gazed upon him.

  — Three times eleven gives thirty-three.

  Scowling, Kostya replaced the ledgers in the desk drawer. Then he spotted a small book. He remembered seeing it here before: Russian translations of selected sonnets by William Shakespeare, English on the left-hand page, Russian on the right.

  He looked up.

  Stalin held his stare.

  — Three times twelve gives thirty-six.

  And what, my orphans, gives you ’37?

  He stashed the book of sonnets in his pouch and almost ran from the room.

  Hands still clasped together before her waist, the woman waited for him by the front door.

  Kostya nodded to her. —Thank you, comrade. You’ve been most helpful.

  Jaw clenched, she nodded back.

  He knew she’d not sleep well, and he wished he could explain that he’d not be sending colleagues. Pointless. NKVD well might bang on that door tonight, whatever Senior Lieutenant Nikto did or did not say.

  A form darted from an upper window; someone else watched him in fear.

  Kostya sighed. I swear, I meant you no harm.

  [ ]

  FEME SOLE 3

  Sunday 25 July

  As Kostya eased the bedsheet away from her, Temerity looked as pale and drawn as she had the first morning in his bed. —Go to hell.

  Kostya blinked a few times, squinted. —What the barrelling fuck is the matter with you?

  She tugged the sheet back over herself. —Don’t touch me. I never said you could touch me.

  For weeks now, he’d stroked, caressed, kissed, cuddled, nibbled, and pinched as he desired, and she’d always melted into his arms. And now, one soft touch on her shoulder, and this screech? —Hey, I’ve not once forced myself on you. You spread your legs all on your own.

  — Must you be so crude?

  — Well, what would you like me to call it? Natural impulses? Sexual intercourse and all its biological imperatives?

  — Did you ask me, ask me even once, if I truly wanted to?

  — Wanted to, what?

  She made a noise of disgust and rolled over, her back to him.

  His lips brushed her ear. —I think with you hiding here all safe and sound in my flat, it’s the least—

  He didn’t finish his sentence; his impact with the floor interrupted him. Lying there on his back, he considered how this tiny woman had kicked him out of his own bed, when last night, delighted with the book of sonnets he’d brought, she’d wept and snuggled into his arms. Then she’d found the sonnet she’d recited at the clinic and read it to him again and again, helping him understand the tangly English.

  Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;

  What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?

  No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;

  All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.

  Then, if for my love thou my love receivest,

  I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;

  But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest

  By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

  I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,

  Although thou steal thee all my poverty;

  And yet love knows, it is a greater grief

  To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.

  Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,

  Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.

  That was last night. Right here, right now, she’d just refused his advance and booted him from his own bed.

  Rising from the floor, Kostya murmured first in English, then Russian. —By wilful taste of what thou thyself refusest? I admit, Nadia, sometimes you’ve got beauty in your language. Sometimes. But what does it mean?

  Temerity tugged the sheets to her chin. —Efim is just finishing in the shower. Go get your injection.

  — I don’t need it.

  She gave him an exasperated look. —The scars on your ear flush when you lie.

  [ ]

  SERVICE WEAPON
r />   Monday 26 July

  — Kostya.

  Vadym sounded not pleased but annoyed as he turned from dismissing the choir. His greeting seemed to fall at Kostya’s feet.

  Kostya addressed him as Vadym Pavlovich and waited for the choir members to file out of the room. Boris gave Kostya a look of knowing sympathy.

  Vadym closed the door. —Twice you’ve disappointed me, Kostya.

  — I’m sorry?

  — No, when you apologize to me, you make it statement, not a question. Back in June, you forgot to tell Arkady about the supper invitation.

  — Oh.

  — And last night you forgot to meet me at the concert.

  — Dima—

  — I told you last week, Tchaikovsky, the full 1812, box seats, even if we did have to share them with Kuznets and one of his mistresses. It took me weeks to get those tickets. And for the encore, a balalaika troupe performed Flight of the Bumblebee.

  — Sounds amazing.

  — A little busy on the balalaikas, maybe, but where the hell were you?

  Kostya peered at him. Vadym never raised his voice, not with him. With Misha, yes, a thousand times, but he always spoke to Kostya in a gentle manner, even when in rebuke.

  Vadym found that tone again. —I could swear something worries you. It’s got its teeth in your neck and shakes you about.

  Kostya found a most plausible lie, plausible because it formed part of the truth. —I’m worried about Arkady Dmitrievich. I’ve heard nothing.

  — He’s due back tomorrow.

  — What?

  — I got a telegram last night from some town I’d never heard of, likely not even on the map. I’d planned to show it to you at the concert.

  — He’s well?

  Vadym snorted. —Did he look well when he left?

  — But he is coming back.

  — Yes. I doubt he can talk about it. But you’d know about that.

  Misha’s name hung in the silence between them.

  — Dima, I’m due upstairs.

  Vadym turned his back to Kostya and gathered up sheet music. Kostya watched how Vadym inspected each piece of paper and then added it to his pile. Each time he added a sheet, he tapped the edge of the stack against his belly. Once he’d collected all the sheets, he tapped the papers straight on a table. —You said you had to go.

  Head bowed, Kostya returned to the corridor and, instead of climbing the stairs to his department, he descended. He would visit the garage, just to check if any new clerks worked in vehicle requisitions. A new clerk, unfamiliar with various officers and protocols, just might make it easier for Kostya, just might lend him the courage to sign out a car and then take an unauthorized trip to the British Embassy. Maybe.

  In the dappled sunlight of the corridor of Laboratory of Special Purpose Number Two, Efim read over the chart. —Good results. We’ve cut the time down from fifteen minutes to just under eight minutes. I am impressed, comrades.

  The younger doctors surrounding him, following him, murmured gratitude and deference.

  He dismissed them with his usual courtesy. —Please, carry on. I’ll join you later. I have some reports to finish.

  Inside his office, Efim shut the door and leaned his back against it. Eight minutes from injection to death. Memory harassed him: conditions in the hospitals in 1918 and ’19, no heating, no food. At Special Purpose Number Two, one enjoyed sunshine, a constant supply of tea in the monstrous samovar, free lunches at a nearby cafeteria. and clean lavatories. The prisoners, however, remained filthy and starved.

  Efim wanted to bathe his face in cold water.

  Or perhaps drown himself in it.

  A gentle knock. —Comrade Dr. Scherba?

  I’ve given dying patients that final dose of morphine. Is it not the same as what we do here? Morphine can be a poison, too.

  — Comrade Doctor?

  I’m just one man.

  I’m full of shit.

  — Comrade Dr. Scherba, please. May I speak with you?

  Forgetting how a visitor could discern rough shadows through the frosted glass window in the door, could see him leaning there, Efim hurried to his desk. —Comrade Dr. Novikova, come in.

  Anna Nikolaieva Novikova closed the door behind her and stood before Efim’s desk. He’d avoided her, speaking to her only when necessary. Young and slim, with strong features that surpassed mere prettiness, she elicited from Efim both desire and guilt.

  Scent wafted, Krasnaya Moskva, the same perfume that Olga wore.

  Efim wished he could shake the temptation out of his head, like water trapped behind an eardrum. Instead, he gestured to the chair before his desk. —Please, sit down.

  She cleared her throat. —Comrade, I consider it a privilege to be working here.

  Efim recalled her file, her excellent grades in medical school, and the psychological tests indicating fierce capacities for loyalty and hard work. —And we’re lucky to have you.

  — I wanted…well, I’m sure you’ve heard these stories a thousand times, the day the child decides to become a doctor.

  Efim nodded. —Your story?

  — Diphtheria. Myself and my younger brothers. The doctor held a lantern to my brothers’ mouths and told my mother he saw the plaques in the throat. I saw them, too. He noticed me up and about, and he showed me. Then he told my mother to pray, if it gave her comfort. I would likely recover, but the boys looked bad.

  — Blunt.

  — Kind, in its way. My mother loved him for it. She knew what swollen necks meant. And yes, my brothers died, and I lived, and the doctor came to the funeral and apologized for what he called the obscure workings of God. At no point did he patronize my mother or belittle her grief. He only wished he could have eased our pain.

  — And that’s when you decided to become a doctor?

  — No. I hated him. I blamed doctors for everything. Until I was about fifteen, when I saw another doctor attend a child who…

  She scowled, took a breath.

  — Who had suffered unfortunate malnutrition during a period of food difficulties. A common ailment. That doctor was brusque, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes. He delivered only bad news, over and over: the child will die; the child will die; the child will die.

  — Yes, no one wants to hear it.

  — No one wants to say it. He tried. Those children were too far gone. They couldn’t even swallow water.

  Efim glanced at the door, saw no shadow on the frosted glass. —The food difficulties must have been particularly acute there.

  Anna read the poster on the wall behind Efim: Only Those Who Work Deserve to Eat. She’d seen many copies. —Yes, particularly acute. An exceptional scene.

  Neither spoke for a moment.

  Then Anna lowered her voice. —My problem, Comrade Dr. Scherba, is that here, in this place, I can ease no pain. I can’t even acknowledge it. I do harm. So I must resign.

  Efim let out a long breath. —Anna Nikolaieva, please reconsider. If you resign, the act may be perceived as ingratitude on your part, and it will affect…your future career prospects.

  She passed him an unsealed envelope. —My letter.

  Efim stared at the envelope in his hands. He must pass it along to Yury Stepanov. Oh, dear God. Anna, no. No. He gave the envelope a little shake. —Take it back, and I’ll say nothing further on the matter.

  Anna stood up. —I take nothing back, for I cannot do this work. I will not.

  The low heels of her shoes clicked and tapped on the floor, fading out until swallowed by the creaks of the main doors and the sounds of the streets outside.

  Her letter said nothing of diphtheria.

  I, Dr. Anna Nikolaieva Novikova, resign from my position at Laboratory of Special Purpose Number Two.

  Efim tucked the letter back into the envelope. So brief. In his younger days, such a letter might need an entire page for deferential greeting alone. She had done what he could not: said no. Declined. Refused. Walked away.

  Her life
now?

  Efim dug for a handkerchief and dabbed sweat from his face.

  So brief.

  Evgenia glanced up as a white-haired officer from another department approached her desk. —Good morning, Comrade Major. My name is Ismailovna. How can I help you?

  He flipped open his red wallet. —Minenkov, Vadym Pavlovich.

  — Comrade Major Minenkov, welcome. Is Comrade Captain Kuznets expecting you?

  — No, I’m looking for Senior Lieutenant Nikto.

  — I’ve not seen him yet.

  — Oh. I thought—

  A wretched thud.

  A male voice: —I’ve told you a hundred times!

  Another thud.

  Vadym followed Evgenia’s wide-eyed line of sight: an older officer slamming a younger one against a wall. The older man, a sergeant in his late forties, looked tired and unwell, cheeks sunken, moustache limp, face ruddy from drink. The younger man, another sergeant, struggled beneath the hands pinning his shoulders. A third thud: the younger man’s head hit the wall. The older man grasped him by the jaw and crumpled up the flesh of his face.

  Boris Kuznets ran out of his office. Spotting the conflict, he strode up to the officers and clapped a hand on the older man’s shoulder. —Sergeant Kamenev!

  All the background racket of voices and movement ceased.

  Boris’s voice, though quieter, still carried. —Gleb Denisovich, what is this?

  Gleb’s words came frothed with spittle. —He harangues me. This young one. He would tell me how to do my job. Me, a Chekist who shared a dinner table with Felix Dzerzhinksy!

  Vadym remembered. Yes, they’d all shared a table one night. Kamenev. He taught Kostya and Misha when they were cadets.

  Boris clicked his tongue in sympathy with Gleb. —The younger officers sometimes show such disrespect for their elders. Deplorable.

  — I fill my quotas like anyone else, and this, this infant who has infested my office, who’d not know a hammer and sickle if I drove them up his arse, wants to show me new and better ways.

  — His face is gone dark red, comrade. Ease your hand a bit. No, don’t let him go. Just let him breathe. There we are.