Midnight in the Century (NYRB Classics) (23 page)

* * *

“Bring me the reports . . . What activity in the Left-Wing sector?”

The directive having descended one more echelon and one more storey in the building, the chief of the Secret Operations Service has summoned his first deputy, a man extremely well-informed about Trotskyism, about the group of the Platform of Fifteen (1926), about the Workers’ Opposition . . . What do the reports say? They come in from every direction, centralized, synthesized by men who know everything that happens inside the little circles drawn in green ink on the map. The chief and his deputy are smoking, preoccupied; they can practically read each others’ thoughts.

“The Verkhne-Uralsk Theses have reached a number of places. Traces of extracts from the
Bulletin
have been found in a letter from Perm, a letter from Chernoe, a book seized in Semipalatinsk . . . See, here, and here . . . In Semipalatinsk a split took place: seven against four, the minority in favour . . .” The point of the blue pencil indicates—at immense distances, on the outer reaches of the continent—the obscure villages touched by the contagion.

“Have you taken action?”

“No, I’m keeping things under observation.”

“Ah! That’s fine.”

Arrests should not be made too quickly. Keep watch, let the sickness spread a little. Repression, like war according to Clausewitz, is a form of politics. We are here to furnish the argument, the proof, at the useful time: proof that the disease exists, that it is being contained, conquered for the moment. Proof that we exist too.

“Well, act quickly.”

The first of these men is fat and has a voice like a breathless child. The two little red bars he wears on the collar of his tunic make him protective, for the time being. A few seconds’ pause enhances the importance of what he is about to say, sitting straight in his chair and in a confidential tone:

“In reality, you know, the directive comes from the Politburo. It seems he dictated it himself. Be diligent . . .”

* * *

Comrade Fedossenko had not had time thoroughly to study the import of the principal passages of the directive passed down from Regional Headquarters, when he received an express envelope, brought by a motorcyclist who had just crossed three hundred kilometres of green plains, containing a copy of imperative instructions transmitted to all department heads: in short, the order to act. Fedossenko stood up in front of his desk. A current of energy ran from the back of his neck down his spine and into all his muscles (so prompt were his reflexes as a good servant of the State). Erect, he dominated his situation better. His powerful chest took in a great breath of air. This was no time to blunder or to be lacking in zeal! The enormity of the risk made him afraid of misunderstanding. Of being sent back to work on the Great Canal or of being permanently demoted to some subordinate position, to executing others’ commands or to executing others, to the struggle against banditism in the forests! This fear fogged his vision. He went and bolted the door to prevent anyone from disturbing him or seeing him upset. Orders, directives, even more imperious than orders, must be read over three times, seven times, until you know them by heart, until the blinding light of duty shines within you. Then you march straight ahead, no doubts to undermine you, and the only risk is that of pushing obedience too far, acting too much, striking too hard, which is always less dangerous than not enough . . . As he was re-reading, faces appeared clearly before his eyes, faded, reappeared, and he broke off reading the better to see them: Ryzhik, Elkin, Varvara, who came from Verkhne-Uralsk (very important, that) involved with the young Georgian, Tabidze, Avelii. (They’ve been sleeping together for a little while—maybe we can get a hold on one through the other, but that’s doubtful;) Kostrov, a vacillator, two-faced, on friendly terms with a woman who is an informer. Fedossenko was satisfied with himself. His unfailing intuition having anticipated the directive, he already had a hold on all his people: 1) through unemployment; 2) Varvara through the case of the seven-pound loaf; 3) Kostrov through the affair of the twelve hundred notebooks, sabotage, counter-revolutionary intrigues, duplicity toward the Central Committee, since Kostrov had signed a declaration of repentance and allegiance. He had a copy of it, which he also reread. The reports of the informer, Maria Ismailova, the librarian who set down all her discussions with Kostrov in writing, mentioned a passage from the
Bulletin of the Opposition
published in Berlin once and the Theses of the Verkhne-Uralsk Left twice, notably concerning
State Capitalism.

Fedossenko spent two hours with the files spread open around him, unravelling the skein of the plot. The central piece of evidence was a sheet of school notebook paper covered with Rodion’s clumsy handwriting, about “L.T.’s praise of the workers’
juntas
in the Spanish revolution; L.T.’s letter of April 24, 1931 to the Politburo proposing a united front of Communists in the Spanish revolution, the failure of which might automatically cause the victory of an Italian-style fascism . . .” This paper was creased, soiled, marked with the imprint of half a boot-heel. The worker, Kurochkin, a poacher and wood-pilferer, had taken it one day, out of curiosity, from a book which Rodion hid under his pillow before going to sleep; and Kurochkin had hesitated, sensing he was heading toward a grave act. Kurochkin had split logs for a whole evening, heaviness weighing on his chest and head, to keep himself from thinking. Then Kurochkin had crumpled that paper with a violent hand and thrown it onto the rubbish heap. He knew, deep inside, that he would find it there again when he had entirely made up his mind to become a bastard. Otherwise, he would have put it back or handed it to Rodion, as he had been tempted to do, saying: “Rodionich, isn’t this a letter you lost?” All these words were on his lips; he kept them there for several days, thinking: “No, I’m not a bastard, Rodionich.” But on the fourth day, a calm decision overcame him. He went and got the stolen paper, smoothed it out with his own hands, wiped off the spatterings of dirty water and a muddy heel-mark, and went to the Security Department. For, like everyone else, he had a few little affairs hanging over him. The suspicion of a theft of fish-nets weighed against him: now he was coming in to do a favour, they would see that the government could count on Kurochkin. Yet the words “Spanish revolution” filled him with a muted joy. He wasn’t taken in, you can be sure! Nobody gives a damn about Spain, and Rodion no more than another, but they’re not so stupid as to write “Russia”. It was good to know that people were working for a new revolution in which all the grudges accumulated over the past ten years would be settled. Let it come soon, like a blizzard, and then the Kurochkins would show the stuff they’re made of! At that idea, his jaws clamped shut and he hooded his eyes, which were flashing with sparks. Full of a resentment which in no way affected his resolve, Kurochkin brought the paper stolen from Rodion to Security. A subaltern, who didn’t understand anything about it, filed it away. Fedossenko discovered it like a gold-prospector stumbling on a nugget.

“Elkin’s the one to arrest, or Ryzhik.”

Only nothing would be found at either of their houses except the usual newspaper clippings underlined in blue and red. Neither of them would say anything. Both would send long, insolent messages to the C.C., which he would be obliged to forward. Luckily, there are cowards! Without them, we would never get the better of the strong ones.

When Kostrov came in to fulfill the weekly formality of deportee registration, he was asked to report to the office of the Chief. “Come in,” said Fedossenko crisply. “Good Morning.” He went on writing. Kostrov stood perplexed in the middle of the carpet for a moment, hesitating to take a seat without being asked. Then he sat down in the corner of the sofa and even crossed his legs. You’re making a fuss, you want to impress me? We’ve seen plenty of others, my friend. Kostrov was feeling good that day, perhaps because of the weather, which was brisk, cool and mild: just right for his heart. Thin white clouds were fleeting through a clear sky. He discreetly opened a newspaper. “I have time, Comrade Chief . . .”

“How are you, Mikhail Ivanovich?”

His tone, this time, was cajoling. Something about that voice put Kostrov on his guard. Fedossenko’s half-smile, his over-attentive look, all that meant . . . meant . . .?

“Come closer, Kostrov. Sit down . . . Your health? Your job? And how’s your wife? No news for two weeks, you say? It’s incredible how badly the postal service operates. Our people ought to look into that.” (The Chief’s double chin hung down over his stiff tunic collar: it made a disgusting little roll of crimson flesh . . .) Kostrov, as he replied, felt too talkative, too friendly, a little bit vile. He would have bet that the three missing letters from his Ganna were there in a drawer, having been carefully studied, and that this whole interview—after the case of the twelve hundred notebooks, after taking away the comrades’ jobs, after cutting off the mail—was leading to some kind of trap. Roll out your big guns, eh policeman! Even with a noose hanging over his head, as in the offices of the Romanian
Siguranza
in 1921, he would have felt more at ease facing a mortal enemy to whom his demeanour said:
Yes, Lieutenant, we’re mortal enemies. I would shoot you with pleasure. Today I have to try to trick you. You know it as well as I do. You’re lying and I’m lying. You hang; I shoot—fair play!

But Fedossenko was saying:

“Mikhail Ivanovich, I have faith in you. Among us, opinions are divided concerning you. Some consider you to be a counterrevolutionary Trotskyist who is very clever at lying, one of those implacable enemies whom the proletarian dictatorship will sooner or later have to destroy for the victory of socialism. I know your statement to the Central Committee, and I believe it is sincere. That was the only reason why I suspended the investigation of that nasty case of counter-revolutionary propaganda and sabotage in the Public Education Department. You know what it could cost you: five years’ internment in a concentration camp. When the crime is blatant, I’m in favour of heavy sentences—for the psychological effect and the chance of rehabilitation. Don’t you agree?”

“Completely,” said Kostrov, choking.

“Besides, our concentration camps perform miracles of reeducation. What a wonderful phrase has been invented to express it: the recasting of man! Someday I’ll tell you about the results I myself obtained among the work-gangs of Onega, with Kulaks, ex-officers, bandits, engineers, priests, religious sectarians—in short, the most anti-social elements. And a relatively low rate of mortality: six to seven per cent. That’s why the Special Board has decided in principle to send only a very few people to the penitentiaries any more. They have become hotbeds of counter-revolution. Work camps! There’s the form of detention of the future. You, who teach, do you realize? . . .”

Kostrov nodded his approval, politely, with his most hypocritical half-smile. What are you getting at, cow-face,
gendarme
, Jesuit? Ah! How to explain the fact that the Revolution has engendered these creatures by the thousands, given them automatic pistols, insignia, pictures of Marx and the
Works
of Lenin bound in red, instilled in them this self-satisfaction, this monstrous jailors’ Phariseeism?

“You see, Kostrov, I’m talking to you as a comrade. Deep down we are two Party men. Your re-admission, I’m sure, is only a matter of time. You have the opportunity to be useful to me and to regain the confidence of the C.C. A very serious case is breaking here.”

(. . . don’t turn pale, or seem too interested, or try to appear too calm, or . . . Anyway, I’m in the soup now, thought Kostrov.)

“I entirely approve your not having broken off relations with the Trotskyists. Not that I share your illusions if you thought you could bring some of them back to the fold. There’s no hope, as far as the ones we have here are concerned. Subjectively, perhaps they are still revolutionaries. Objectively, they are hardened counter-counter-revolutionaries. But in keeping up contact with them, you must certainly have been thinking of serving the Party. I have concrete evidence that a Trotskyist cell has been organized among the deportees, that it has a very extensive ideological activity, that it is in communication with other circles, that it even receives directives from abroad . . . The C.C. attributes the highest importance to this case.”

“How is this possible? I . . .”

Fedossenko pretended not to have heard anything. He dismissed Kostrov’s gesture of denial with a nod. The roll of crimson flesh between his chin and his tunic-collar seemed to thicken.

“Well, Kostrov, you know them. Tell me which is the most dangerous in your opinion?”

“They don’t hide the fact that they are Oppositionists, Comrade Fedossenko, but as to dangerous, I don’t see . . .”

“On the contrary, you see very well, Mikhail Ivanovich. No sentimentality, if you please, no intellectual hair-splitting. Which?”

(. . . He wants me to say a name, for to name someone is to betray, even though it has no importance—no importance, since I’m not telling him anything new, and so it’s not betraying . . .)