by Child 44
Leo sat down. Kuzmin remained standing by the window. He preferred to pose questions while looking outside. This was because he believed, and often reminded Leo, that outward displays of emotion should be treated with extreme skepticism unless the person was unaware that he or she was being observed. He’d become adept at appearing to gaze out at the view while actually watching people in the reflection. The usefulness of this trick was significantly reduced by the fact that almost everyone, including Leo, was aware they were being watched. And anyway very few people lowered their guard inside the Lubyanka.
—Congratulations Leo. I knew you’d get him. The experience was a valuable lesson for you.
Leo nodded.
—Are you ill?
Leo paused. Evidently he looked worse than he imagined:
—It’s nothing. A cold, perhaps, but it will pass.
—My guess is that you’re annoyed with me for having taken you off the Brodsky case and made you deal with Fyodor Andreev. Am I correct? You think Fyodor was an irrelevance and I should’ve left you to continue the operation against Brodsky?
He was smiling, something amused him. Leo concentrated, sensing danger:
—No, Major, I’m not annoyed. I should’ve arrested Brodsky immediately. It was my fault.
—Yes, but you did not arrest him immediately. So, in those circumstances, was I wrong to take you off the case of the spy and make you speak to a grieving father? That is my question.
—I had only thought about my own failure to arrest Brodsky immediately.
—That’s evasive of you. My point is simply this: Fyodor’s family wasn’t a trivial issue. It was a corruption within the very MGB itself. One of your men had become twisted by grief and unwittingly made himself and his family enemies of the State. While I’m pleased you caught Brodsky, I considered your work with Fyodor the more important.
—I understand.
—Then we come to the matter of Vasili Nikitin.
It was inevitable that his actions would be reported. Vasili wouldn’t hesitate to try and use them against him. Leo couldn’t presume on Kuzmin’s support or guess which aspect of the incident concerned him the most.
—You pointed a gun at him? And then you hit him? He says you were out of control. He says you were taking narcotics. They’ve made you irrational. He’s pushing for your suspension. He’s upset, you understand.
Leo understood perfectly: the executions were not the issue here.
—I was ranking officer and I gave an order. Vasili disobeyed. How can I maintain the line of command, how can any of us maintain command, if orders are ignored? The system collapses. Perhaps it’s my military background. In military operations disobedience and insubordination are punishable by death.
Kuzmin nodded. Leo had chosen his defense wisely—the principles of military decorum:
—You’re right of course. Vasili is hotheaded. He admits as much. He disobeyed an order. This is true. But he was enraged by the family’s collaboration. I’m not condoning what he did, you understand? We have a system in place for such violations. They should’ve been brought here. And Vasili has been appropriately reprimanded. As for the drugs—
—I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. And they are supplied to me by the doctors here.
—They don’t concern me in the least. I told you to do whatever it takes, which I suppose extends to taking whatever it takes. But I wish to give you a word of warning. Hitting a fellow officer gets you noticed. People will quickly forget that your reasons were sound. As soon as Vasili lowered his gun that should’ve been the end of it. If you wished to punish him further you should have reported his insubordination to me. You took justice into your own hands. That is not acceptable. That is never acceptable.
—I apologize.
Kuzmin moved away from the window. Standing by Leo’s side, he put a hand on his shoulder:
—Enough of all that. Consider the matter closed. I have a different challenge for you: Brodsky’s interrogation. I want you to handle it personally. You may call on whoever you like to assist you—a specialist interrogator—but I want you to be present when he cracks. It’s important that you see this man for who he really is, particularly since you were duped by his apparent innocence.
It was an unusual request. Kuzmin noted Leo’s surprise:
—It will be good for you. We should measure a man by what they’re prepared to do themselves. Not by what they’re prepared to have others do for them. Do you have any objection?
—None.
Leo stood up, straightening his jacket:
—I’ll begin immediately.
—One last thing: I want you and Vasili to work together on this.
THERE WERE THREE TYPES OF CELLS. There were the holding cells: square rooms, a floor covered with straw, with enough space for three adult men to lie side by side. There were always five men in any one cell, packed so tightly that one man couldn’t scratch himself without the others also moving, a human jigsaw puzzle of limbs. Since there was no latrine, space also had to be made for the bucket which the men were obliged to use in each other’s company. Once it was brimming, prisoners were made to carry it to the nearest drain and told that if they spilled even the smallest drop they would be shot. Leo had listened to the guards discussing the prisoners’ comical expressions of concentration as they stared at the quivering level of feces and urine, a level which decided whether they lived or died. Barbarity, certainly, but barbarity for a reason, barbarity for the greater good:
Greater Good the Greater Good
It was necessary to repeat it, to carve it onto every thought, so that it ran like ticker tape across the bottom of your mind.
After the holding cells, there were punishment cells of various designs. Some were ankle deep in freezing water, the walls covered in mold and slime. A five-day stretch was sufficient to ensure the body never recovered, sickness permanently stitched into a prisoner’s lungs. There were narrow closets, like wooden coffins, where bedbugs had been left to multiply and in which a prisoner would remain, naked, feasted upon, until ready to sign a confession. There were cork-lined rooms where prisoners were heated, cooked by the building’s ventilation system, until blood seeped out of their pores. There were rooms with hooks and chains and electric wires. There were all kinds of punishments for all kinds of people. The imagination was the only barrier and not much of one at that. All these horrors seemed small when placed beside the size and magnitude of the greater good.
Greater Good the Greater Good the Greater Good
The justification of such methods was simple and persuasive and needed constant repeating: these people were enemies. Had Leo not seen equally extreme measures during war? Yes, and worse. Had that war not won them freedom? Was this not the same, a war against a different kind of enemy, an enemy within but an enemy all the same? Was it necessary? Yes, it was. The survival of their political system justified anything. The promise of a golden age where none of this brutality would exist, where everything would be in plenty and poverty would be a memory, justified anything. These methods were not desirable, they were not to be celebrated, and the officers who took pleasure from their work were incomprehensible. Yet Leo was no fool. Within this polished and practiced sequence of self-justification there was a small amount of denial, denial which sat dormant in the pit of his stomach like an undigested seed pod.
Finally, the last type of cells were the interrogation cells. Leo had arrived at one such where they were holding the traitor: a plate steel door with a viewing hole. He knocked, wondering what he would find inside. The door was unlocked by a boy barely seventeen years old. The cell itself was small and rectangular with stark concrete walls and stark concrete floors but so brightly lit that Leo squinted as he entered. Five powerful bulbs hung from the ceiling. Against the back wall, incongruous in the bleak setting, was a sofa. Anatoly Brodsky was sitting on it: his wrists and ankles tied with rope. The young officer proudly explained:
—He keeps shutting his ey
es, keeps trying to sleep. But me, I keep hitting him. He hasn’t had a moment’s rest I promise you. That sofa’s the best part. All he wants to do is sit back and doze off. It’s comfortable, really soft. I’ve sat on it. But I won’t let him sleep. It’s like putting food just out of reach of a starving man.
Leo nodded and could see the young officer was a little disappointed not to receive more gushing praise of his dedication. The officer took up position in the corner of the room, armed with his black wooden baton. Rigid, earnest, with red cheeks, he looked like a toy soldier.
Brodsky sat on the edge of the sofa, hunched forward, his eyes half closed. There were no other chairs and Leo sat on the sofa beside him. It was a preposterous arrangement. The sofa was indeed very soft and Leo sank back, appreciating the peculiar torture of this room. But he didn’t have time to waste, he had to work quickly. Vasili would be here any minute and Leo hoped that Anatoly could be persuaded to cooperate before he arrived.
Anatoly looked up, his eyes widening a fraction. It took him a moment before his sleep-deprived brain recognized the man seated beside him. This was the man who’d caught him. This was the man who’d saved his life. Drowsy, his words slurred, he said as though he’d been drugged:
—The children? Mikhail’s daughters? Where are they now?
—They’ve been placed in an orphanage. They’re safe.
An orphanage—was that meant as a joke, was that part of this punishment? No, this man wouldn’t make a joke. He was a believer.
—Have you ever been to an orphanage?
—No.
—The girls would’ve had a better chance of surviving if you’d left them on their own.
—The State is looking after them now.
To Leo’s surprise the prisoner reached up and, with his wrists still bound, felt his brow. The junior officer sprang forward, raising the wooden baton, ready to crack a blow across the prisoner’s knees. Leo waved him away and the officer reluctantly stepped back.
—You have a fever. You should be at home. You men have a home? Where you sleep and eat and do all the things normal men do?
Leo wondered at this man. He was still a doctor, even now. He was still irreverent, even now. He was brave, rude and Leo couldn’t help but like him.
Leo pulled back, wiping his clammy forehead with the sleeve of his jacket:
—You can save yourself unnecessary suffering by talking to me. There’s not a person we’ve questioned who didn’t wish they’d admitted everything straightaway. What will you gain by silence?
—I will gain nothing.
—Then will you tell me the truth?
—Yes.
—Who are you working for?
—Anna Vladislavovna. Her cat is going blind. Dora Andreyeva. Her dog refuses to eat. Arkadi Maslow. His dog has broken its front leg. Matthias Rakosi. He has a collection of rare birds.
—If you’re innocent why did you run?
—I ran because you were following me. There was no other reason.
—That doesn’t make sense.
—I agree but it’s true all the same. Once you’re followed you’re always arrested. Once you’re arrested you’re always guilty. No innocent people are ever brought here.
—Which officials from the American embassy are you working with and what information have you been passing them?
At last Anatoly understood. Several weeks ago a junior clerk working for the American embassy had brought his dog in for examination. The dog was suffering from an infected cut. It needed a course of antibiotics, but since the antibiotics were unavailable he’d cleaned the animal carefully, sterilized the injury, and kept it in under observation. Not long after that he’d spotted a man loitering outside his home. He hadn’t slept that night, unable to figure out what he’d done wrong. The next morning he’d been followed into work and followed home again. This continued for three days. After the fourth sleepless night he’d decided to run. Now, finally, here were the details of his crime. He’d treated a foreigner’s dog.
—I have no doubt that I will eventually say whatever it is you want me to say but right now I will say this: I—Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky—am a vet. Soon your records will say that I was a spy. You will have my signature and my confession. You will force me to give you names. There will be more arrests, more signatures, and more confessions. But whatever I eventually tell you will be a lie because I am a vet.
—You’re not the first guilty man to claim that he’s innocent.
—Do you really believe I’m a spy?
—From this conversation alone I have enough to convict you for subversion. You’ve already made it quite clear that you hate this country.
—I don’t hate this country. You hate this country. You hate the people of this country. Why else would you arrest so many of them?
Leo grew impatient.
—Are you aware of what will happen to you if you don’t talk to me?
—Even children are aware of what goes on in here.
—But you still refuse to confess?
—I will not make this easy for you. If you want me to say I’m a spy you will have to torture me.
—I’d hoped this could be avoided.
—You think you can remain honorable down here? Go get your knives. Get your tool kit. When your hands are covered in my blood then let’s hear you sound reasonable.
—All I need is a list of names.
—There’s nothing more stubborn than a fact. That is why you hate them so much. They offend you. That is why I can upset you simply by saying that I—Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky—am a vet. My innocence offends you because you wish me to be guilty. You wish me to be guilty because you’ve arrested me.
There was a knock on the door. Vasili had arrived. Leo stood up, muttering:
—You should have taken my offer.
—Perhaps one day you’ll understand why I could not.
The young officer unlocked the door. Vasili entered. He was wearing a sterilized dressing at the point where he’d been hit, which Leo suspected was of no practical value, intended only to trigger conversation and enable him to describe the incident to as many people as possible. Vasili was accompanied by a middle-aged man with thinning hair and dressed in a crumpled suit. Seeing Leo and Anatoly together, Vasili seemed concerned:
—Has he confessed?
—No.
Evidently relieved, Vasili signaled for the junior officer to get the prisoner to his feet while the middle-aged man in the brown suit stepped forward, smiling, offering Leo his hand:
—Doctor Roman Hvostov. I’m a psychiatrist.
—Leo Demidov.
—Pleased to meet you.
They shook hands. Hvostov gestured at the prisoner:
—Don’t worry about him.
Hvostov led them to his surgery, the door to which he unlocked, gesturing for them to come in, as though they were children and this was his playroom. The surgery was small and clean. There was a red leather chair bolted to the white-tiled floor. By using a series of levers the chair could be lowered to a bed and then raised upright again. On the walls there were glass cabinets filled with bottles and powders and pills, labeled with neat white stickers and careful, tidy black handwriting. Hanging beneath the cabinet was an array of steel surgical instruments. There was a smell of disinfectant. Brodsky didn’t struggle as he was strapped to the chair. His wrists, ankles, and neck were fastened with black leather straps. Leo tied his feet while Vasili tied his arms. Once they were finished he was unable to move any part of his body. Leo stepped back. Hvostov scrubbed his hands at the sink:
—For a time I worked in a Gulag, near the city of Molotov. The hospital was full of people pretending to be mentally sick. They would do anything to get out of work. They would run around like animals, screaming obscenities, tearing their clothes off, masturbating in full view, defecating on the floor, anything and everything to convince me they were deranged. You could trust none of it. My job was to identify who was lying and who w
as genuine. There were numerous academic tests but prisoners quickly caught on and this information was shared about and soon everyone knew how to behave in order to cheat the system. For example, a prisoner who thought he was Hitler or a horse or something equally and obviously outlandish was almost certainly pretending to be insane. And so prisoners stopped pretending to be Hitler and became much more subtle and sophisticated in their deceptions. In the end there was only one way of getting to the truth.
He filled a syringe with thick yellow oil, then he positioned it on a steel tray and carefully cut away part of the prisoner’s shirt, tying a rubber tourniquet around the top of his arm in order to expose a wide blue vein which popped up. Hvostov addressed the prisoner:
—I hear you have some medical knowledge. I’m about to inject camphor oil into your bloodstream. Do you understand what that will do to you?
—My medical experience is limited to helping people.
—This can help people too. It can help the deluded. It will induce a seizure. While you are in this seizure you will be unable to lie. In fact you will not have the ability to do very much at all. If you are able to speak you will only be able to speak the truth.
—Then go ahead. Inject your oil. Hear what I have to say.
Hvostov addressed Leo:
—We’ll use a rubber gag. This is to stop him biting off his tongue during the most intense part of the seizure. However, once he calms down we can safely remove the gag and you may ask your questions.
Vasili picked up a scalpel and began using the tip to clean his fingernails, wiping the line of dirt on the side of his coat. Once he was done he put the scalpel down and reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette. The doctor shook his head:
—Not in here, please.
Vasili put the cigarette away. The doctor inspected the syringe—there was a yellow dewdrop of oil at the needle’s tip. Satisfied, he sunk the needle into Brodsky’s vein:
—We need to do this slowly. Too quick and he’ll suffer an embolism.
