His new rank also brings respect. As an NKVD man, Vlad wears his uniform in the street, attracting brief glances from his fellow citizens – deferential looks from babusjkas, admiration from small boys. He stands for law and order, a symbol of security in a world full of enemies.
But there is a great deal of work. Night work. With Captain Rugajev, Comrades Trushkin and Popov, and all the rest.
The interrogation of the prisoners often takes place in shifts, down in the cellar, with posters on the walls displaying slogans such as ‘TOWARDS THE FUTURE WITH COMMUNISM!’ and ‘CARRY OUT YOUR TASK WITH SOVIET HONOUR!’
Vlad and the other interrogators grow tired, and tiredness makes them violent, but at least they are allowed to rest sometimes. The prisoners are never allowed to rest. A prisoner who must be broken is placed on a hard chair in bright light and is bombarded with questions, often day and night, non-stop:
‘Why are you spying for Japan?’
‘Why didn’t you raise your glass in a toast to the Party?’
‘Why did you laugh at that particular joke?’
The questions are endless.
So is the stream of prisoners. Higher powers in Moscow have established that there are thousands of enemies of the state, perhaps millions. Every NKVD commissariat has been issued with a quota of people who are to be deported and executed, which means that people must be arrested.
The black vans go out every night, picking up more and more enemies of the state and delivering them to the prison. Sometimes they are dressed in expensive furs, sometimes in flimsy pyjamas. Sometimes they have small children in their arms, or following behind them in tears.
Late at night, Aron occasionally hears knocking in the darkness of the cellar, a protracted, quiet tapping. It unsettles him, but every time he approaches the rhythmic sounds they stop.
‘It’s a kind of language,’ Trushkin explains.
‘A language?’
‘The prisoners are talking to one another from cell to cell, tapping out a code on the wall.’
‘Oh?’
‘We try to stop them,’ Trushkin says, ‘but they just carry on knocking.’
Aron relaxes slightly. It is people who are knocking.
The prisoners are processed as if they are on a conveyor belt; everything is organized to be as quick and easy as possible.
All prisoners are examined, stripped naked, their bodily orifices are searched, then they are immediately taken down to the cellar, shaking and terrified. Vlad stands there in his uniform, his black boots firmly planted on the cement floor, and Aron hears him ask the same questions over and over again:
‘Why have you been slandering the Party?’
‘Why did you sabotage the machinery?’
‘What are the names of the agents you recruited?’
When Vlad’s voice begins to grow hoarse, one of his colleagues takes over.
Comrade Trushkin never tires as an interrogator, no matter how long his shift, and Vlad regards him as a role model. Trushkin hurls himself at every prisoner, spitting out question after question:
‘Why did you join the Trotskyites?’
‘Why do you want to leave your homeland?’
‘Why didn’t you think about your children?’
Sometimes, other prisoners are brought in, those who are already broken, to help persuade intractable saboteurs to admit to the crimes of which they are accused.
Sometimes, prisoners who suffer from claustrophobia are locked up in particularly confined spaces, where the walls and ceiling seem to close in around them. Shivering prisoners are put in ice-cold cells; those with a fever are sluiced down with cold water. Torture is an approved interrogation method, and a dubinka, a rubber baton, is used on their backs and the soles of their feet.
There are many methods, but the goal is always the same: to obtain a written confession, the scribbled signature at the bottom of the notes taken during the interrogation, scrawled in ink which is often mixed with drops of blood.
The confession provides proof that the interrogation has gone well. Proof that the enemy is guilty.
Vlad writes down all the names they gabble. Names, titles, crimes.
Then the notes are read and signed by the criminal.
And after that: Vysshaia mera. The ultimate punishment under the law.
The bullet.
The death chamber in the cellar is also used as a barbershop. When the prisoners are led in, they never know what is coming, because the prison authorities have decided that the executioners and the barbers should wear the same uniform.
The door has extra soundproofing and is firmly closed. A gramophone in one corner plays energetic marching music at full volume. The back wall is white and looks harmless, but in fact it is a sheet of plasterboard with timber and a thick layer of sand behind it to catch the bullets.
The prisoners’ fate becomes apparent only when they are forced to stand in a white square on the cement floor, facing the wall, but by then it is too late. Four or five seconds of stillness as the music plays, then the executioner steps forward and fires.
And the gramophone keeps on playing.
Captain Rugajev often selects Vlad to serve in the death chamber, and Aron knows why: his aim is perfect. Many of the guards are less than adept with a pistol and have to use two bullets, sometimes even three. But Vlad takes careful aim.
If it is not possible to shoot a prisoner – perhaps because the body will have to be shown to some foreign diplomat afterwards – then a chloroform mask is placed over the face, and a doctor administers a fatal injection so that the death looks like the result of a sudden heart attack.
After a long shift, the floor must always be washed. Some of the cleaners cannot be trusted, so occasionally a prisoner is given the job, but often the guards have to do it themselves.
One evening, Trushkin and Vlad are working together in the cellar, with a stiff brush and a hosepipe.
‘Do you know what we are, Comrade?’ Trushkin asks as he sluices down the walls. ‘It’s just come to me.’
‘No,’ Vlad says. ‘What are we?’
‘We are like a small part of a combine harvester,’ Trushkin says. ‘Do you know what that is?’
Vlad shakes his head.
‘It’s a fantastic machine. They’ve started appearing on the kolkhozy instead of sickles and scythes. I saw one trundling along outside Moscow last year.’
‘What does it do?’
‘Everything! It’s a single machine that does everything in the fields – the work that one or two hundred farmers would have done. And, of course, it never gets tired!’
Aron pictures a human monster striding across a field, so he asks, ‘What’s it made of?’
‘Iron bars, metal drums and rotating cogs and wheels.’
‘And a scythe?’
‘Knives,’ Trushkin explains. ‘Long rows of knives, so the crop is cut down and fed into the thresher, where the grain is separated from the chaff. Then all you have to do is start baking bread … And when I saw it rolling along, I thought that our organization is like a combine harvester, driven by Comrade Stalin.’ He rinses away the last traces of blood from the corner of the cellar. ‘You and I are the knives.’
Aron brushes the water away. A combine harvester? But it is not enough to thresh the grain, it must also be crushed in order to obtain flour.
Trushkin never tires of the threshing process in the cellar, but after a long, hard summer, at the end of July 1938 he is sent away on a well-earned holiday by the Black Sea. Vlad continues the nightshifts without him.
‘What state are you spying for?’ he asks.
‘What is your codename?’
‘Who recruited you?’
There seems to be no end to the interrogations, or the paperwork.
Aron’s only consolation is that the struggle cannot continue for ever. Peace must surely come soon, and the croft on the island across the Baltic Sea will still be there, waiting for him. The croft and the shore, his
sister and his mother. He will go home, when the last enemy is gone.
But they keep on coming. On the night of 4 August 1938, a prisoner is brought down to the cellar with a bag over his head and a coat draped around his shoulders. The bag is nothing new as far as Vlad is concerned; it happens often in the summer when the nights are light and the transportation of enemies has to be carried out more openly.
Otherwise, this prisoner looks like all the rest. He is wearing stained underclothes beneath the coat and his legs are covered in cuts and bruises.
‘Number 3498,’ the clerk says, inserting a new sheet of paper in his typewriter.
Vlad is ready. Three buckets of ice-cold water are standing by the wall and the dubinka is lying on the table. He quickly pulls the bag off the prisoner’s head – and stands there holding it in his hand.
It is Trushkin.
Comrade Trushkin, Aron’s friend, is sitting on the chair in front of him.
Trushkin doesn’t say a word; his lips are cracked, but he looks at Vlad. He is staring straight into Aron.
Aron turns to his colleague. ‘I don’t understand,’ he says.
‘What don’t you understand?’
Aron looks back at Trushkin. ‘I don’t understand why he has been brought here. Why we have to …’
The clerk picks up a document and reads, ‘Prisoner 3498 has been in contact with the relatives of enemies of the people. He has sent letters to them.’
Aron clears his throat, looks into the prisoner’s bloodshot eyes. Comrade Trushkin knows where he is: at the start of the hard road leading to a full confession. He knows that the chair on which he is sitting will get wet, that the floor beneath him will soon be covered in stains.
‘Anything else?’ Vlad asks over his shoulder.
‘Indeed. He was planning a coup from within the organization when they picked him up down in Sochi. He was the spider at the centre of a web of foreign spies … I’m sure we will get plenty of new names tonight.’
Aron nods stiffly. His colleague adds, ‘You two know one another, don’t you?’
‘What?’ Aron says.
‘You and Trushkin. You used to go drinking together in your free time, didn’t you? You’re friends, aren’t you?’
Vlad shakes his head. ‘That is incorrect.’
The room falls silent. He is expecting Trushkin to say something, to open his mouth and protest, but it doesn’t happen. Trushkin merely stares blankly at him.
‘That is incorrect,’ Vlad says again. ‘We are not friends.’
Aron wonders if anyone has the cellar under surveillance. An ear pressed to the door? An eye peeping in through a gap? One of his commanding officers could walk in at any moment, wondering what they’re doing, why nothing is happening – so he walks resolutely up to the prisoner, removes his coat and pulls up his vest. Trushkin’s back is still milky white, free of cuts and bruises.
‘Let us begin,’ Vlad says.
He suppresses Aron’s whining objections. They both know that Trushkin was wrong: they are not parts of a combine harvester down here in the cellar. They are parts of a windmill. They work at the millstones, and Stalin is the master miller. But the mill is driven by the wind, and right now the wind is blowing so hard across the new country that no one can stop it. Not even Stalin.
The quota of enemies must be met, new names are needed, and Vlad can see that Trushkin understands this. They must both do their duty now.
Trushkin is looking down at the cement floor. Only his back is visible.
Aron crawls away, but Vlad steps forward.
He picks up the dubinka and begins the interrogation.
Jonas
Uncle Kent’s wooden decking looked brand new, in Jonas’s opinion. He was very pleased with himself. It was time to move on to Aunt Veronica’s decking; the only thing left to sort out between him and Kent was his wages.
The money.
He had put it off as long as possible, and now it was late evening. Eventually, he went over to the house. There was a faint light showing in the windows of the living room, so he slid open the glass door.
It was hot and stuffy inside; the fans were turned off. Jonas could see bills and sports gear all over the floor and the bag of golf clubs had fallen over just by the door. He listened but couldn’t hear a thing. He was reaching out to switch on the main light when a voice said, ‘Don’t put the light on.’
Jonas stopped and peered into the room. The TV wasn’t on, but someone was sitting in the armchair in front of it.
The cairn ghost, he thought. The cairn ghost has come into the house.
‘Evening, JK – how’s it going?’
Jonas recognized Kent’s voice and took a couple of steps across the stone floor.
‘Fine …’ he said. ‘I’m due to be paid today. For the decking.’
Kent nodded slowly. ‘Absolutely. Come over here.’
Jonas slowly moved closer and saw Uncle Kent get up, swaying slightly. There was an empty bottle on the table.
Kent smiled and took out his wallet. ‘There you go, JK.’
Jonas went over and took the money. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Kent said, patting his forehead. His fingers were ice-cold. ‘Are you happy here, JK?’
Jonas nodded.
‘Good,’ Kent said. ‘That’s good. I like people to be happy at Villa Kloss.’ He looked around. ‘I’ve always been happy here. We used to have some wild parties back in the day, me and Niklas and our friends … We used to bring girls down from Stockholm and crack open the bubbly. I had a water bed in those days, as big as the swimming pool. We’d party around the clock sometimes. Have a little nap in the sun in the morning, then start all over again down on the shore at lunchtime.’
He looked at Jonas and wrapped his hand around the back of the boy’s neck. ‘But there is one thing I can tell you, JK, and it’s important. Are you listening?’
Jonas felt as if his whole body had gone rigid, but he managed another nod.
‘One thing I’ve learned,’ Kent said, ‘is that there’s always clearing up to do after a party. The longer you party, the more clearing up you have to do. Can you remember that?’
Jonas held his breath, then said, ‘OK.’
‘Well done, JK.’ Kent removed his hand. ‘I realize you might have been wondering about what happened near Marnäs the other night … me, too. But I only wanted to talk to Mayer, ask him what he was up to. Last season, he stole money from us so, obviously, we had no choice but to sack him. And then this year he boarded our ship in the Ölandic dock, locked the crew in the hold and cast off. So I wanted to speak to him, but he ran away from me, straight through the forest and out on to the road. And then a car came along and …’
Kent looked out at the alarm system in the garden and sighed. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. Things have been a bit messy over the past few weeks, what with all the problems we’ve had in the complex, but it’s all right now … He’s not going to get to us. We’ll retaliate.’
Jonas didn’t say anything. He was thinking about the gun Kent had taken. He edged slowly backwards, away from the hand.
Uncle Kent turned away and sat down again. Jonas kept moving towards the door, past the bills and the golf clubs.
Kent looked around. ‘Where are you going, JK?’
‘Just outside.’
‘Don’t leave the garden,’ Kent said. ‘We have to stay here now; the alarm system will protect us. It’s safest here, inside Villa Kloss.’
Jonas slid open the glass door and quickly stepped out on to the decking, almost bumping into Aunt Veronica, who was on her way into the house.
‘Hi, Jonas – still up and about?’
He smiled at her.
‘You’re starting work over at my place tomorrow, aren’t you? That’s great – I need lots of help!’
Jonas nodded. He was looking forward to it, too.
Veronica glanced into the room, spotted Kent and lowered her voice. ‘How’s he d
oing?’
‘OK … I think,’ Jonas said.
‘He’s had a lot to deal with.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll just pop in and see him … Sleep well, Jonas.’
She went inside and closed the glass door.
Jonas walked across the decking, past the small, faint lights. He looked back through the big window into Kent’s living room. Veronica had gone over to the armchair and was shaking Kent, saying something Jonas couldn’t hear.
Kent muttered a response, but Veronica kept on talking, a serious expression on her face.
Slowly, Kent sat up. He listened to his sister and nodded, without saying anything else.
Jonas stopped spying on them and went back to his own chalet. He was exhausted.
Lisa
It was Thursday night in the May Lai Bar, the midnight hour, and Lady Summertime had only an hour of her shift left. Thank goodness. The purple wig was making her head more and more itchy.
This was Summertime’s penultimate gig at the club, and it hadn’t gone well. The place wasn’t even half full and the atmosphere was non-existent. The dance floor was deserted and, on top of all that, Lisa felt as if she were being watched up in her booth.
Which she was, of course. The security guards were around all the time, and she suspected that Kent Kloss had told them to keep an eye on her.
Lisa bent over the mixer desk; she was making sure Summertime behaved herself. There would be no more little excursions on to the dance floor, and she was keeping her fingers to herself. Staying on the right side of the law was the sensible thing to do, but the excitement had gone.
Half an hour after midnight, Kent Kloss himself arrived, which was unusual, and sat down at the bar. He ordered something from the bartender, slapped a few regular customers on the back and chatted with a couple of the guards who came over to him. Lisa noticed that he was drinking only mineral water; he carried on chatting and laughing, but he didn’t even glance over at the DJ booth. Not once.
Lisa started to feel nervous. Lady Summertime was fumbling with the controls, and the transitions between tracks were anything but smooth.
The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) Page 31
