The Matiushin Case (19 page)

Matiushin suddenly realised that Arman was watching him, keeping his eyes on him. And Matiushin froze: so that was Arman's plan, he was roasting Matiushin like this, and he kept turning up the heat, directing it straight at him. Matiushin tried not to tremble so the men would see how staunchly he was holding out. He fancied that the soldiers would outlast Arman: they'd been standing for an hour already, but no one had flinched yet. Arman had miscalculated here. Overstepped the mark, not even bothered to hold a secret interrogation with each of them separately. Maybe in secret and out of sight they would have informed on each other. But he wanted them to inform in front of everyone, so that it would be a kind of group denunciation
–
he wanted to humiliate and debase the whole platoon. Or he was expecting that Matiushin himself wouldn't be able to stand it. What Arman wanted, clearly, was not an informer but a witness
–
that was what he had set his sights on; he wanted proof, not hints and whispers. Arman knew, just as everyone here knew everything about everyone else, but just let him try to prove it. And he wouldn't get a witness like that out of the soldiers, not even if he buried the entire platoon in the guardhouse for ever. No one would testify.

Then, with a solemn air, Arman went off into the guardhouse, leaving the soldiers quiet and shaken by what had just taken place in the little yard. Everybody waited desolately for the political officer to come back out to the ranks, but Arman didn't appear and the yard started buzzing drearily.

Pomogalov came on duty as the watch officer and relieved the political officer, but the men weren't relieved, the entire platoon was left there and given another twenty-four hours of guard duty as punishment. Hiding away in the little room, Matiushin drank
chifir
. He wasn't going anywhere; he'd had enough. He wasn't going to budge from the spot, not even if they dragged him. He'd stood his watch and, even if they drove the platoon out onto the towers, let those whose turn it was march out: he was on leave and he was going to drink
chifir
and get warm. Hearing them assembling men into a squad as another hellish twenty-four hours began, Matiushin swore painfully in his fury, but immediately his strength faded, leaving him weak, and his burnt-out soul stopped feeling anything at all, yet he understood with his
chifir
-numbed mind that things had turned out wrong, they'd turned out even worse, and there was no way they could have turned out better. Matiushin sipped
chifir
and everything around was quiet. Everyone had accepted that they were staying on duty. Some strode into the squad, some headed for the bunks to catch up on their sleep. And Matiushin suddenly thought that it was actually good to stay for a second turn, otherwise he would have had to get up, get in line and march, and he wouldn't have been able to finish his
chifir
. His eyes were gluing themselves shut and he dozed off with the mug in his hand. For what seemed a single, brief moment everything went dim in front of his eyes and a warm, sweet mist embraced him. But he opened his eyes and the mist dispersed. They shook him awake to go to the tower. His three hours had run out. Matiushin's feet carried him along the path of their own accord, as if he was moving through water. Not over the surface but just above the very bottom, he was pulled along by a slow, deep current. And everything was good. It was warm, calm and easy, but there wasn't any air, he was filled up to his throat with flabby water, like
lead.

Some great brute had squashed him up on the bunk … The pushy soldier was clearly one of those who had stood on the towers from the early twilight until midnight and got thoroughly chilled in the blustery steppe wind. They'd come back to the guardhouse at the latest change-over and were waiting for the commander to get the other squad up off the well-warmed bunks so that it would be their turn to thaw themselves out with someone else's warmth and grab an hour or two of sleep until they were roused again. But this one hadn't been able to wait, clearly he was completely shattered. In the darkness Matiushin couldn't make out his face. The soldier and he were lying with their sides against each other and the soldier was sound asleep, but Matiushin had been woken by the other man's dogged determination. He didn't have the willpower to fall asleep now, even though he was so sleepy … If he'd been told to lie down on stones, he would have lain down on stones, just as long as he knew that on those stones no one would wake him. Just a short sleep, really deep. Sometimes it happened that the commander woke them to go on duty and, in the bustle of the general preparations, someone would decide to snooze for a moment, lie back down on the bunk until the others were ready and fall so deeply asleep that he had to be dragged out of the dormitory by force and then doused with water.

After the previous night Matiushin was barely alive. And he needed to get some sleep, at least now between watches. But he just lay there on the bunk with his eyes open, struggling with all his might not to fall asleep just before reveille. Otherwise he'd flake out completely and get doused with water as well. They'd hoist him up off the bunk to go on duty and he'd have to live through three hours before he could lie back down again.

But the bastard who'd woken him was totally oblivious … He could have waited for his turn … They were lying with their sides against each other and, hearing how mightily the soldier's heart was pounding, Matiushin forced himself to think of his own heart, which he couldn't even hear beating.

When Pomogalov appeared in the sleeping area and started swearing in the darkness as he shook awake the squad that was catching up on its sleep, Matiushin realised quite distinctly that his turn had come to go out into the zone, but it took him a long time to gather the strength to tear himself off the bunk. They slept fully clothed. Matiushin pulled out his belt with the gun-clip pouch on it from under the mattress and put it on. Then he sat up on the bunk and caught his breath. He had to wind on his footcloths. But they were cold, damp with sweat. He wound them on any old how, then pulled over his terminally battered, concertinaed boots, heaved them onto his feet and was surprised at how heavy they felt, as if he'd buried his legs in the ground up to the knees.

Around him the soldiers were getting up, some in silence, some noisily, in a fury, half-blind in their drowsy state, grabbing footcloths and boots, sharing them out. Pomogalov spurred them
on.

‘Get out into the light, you can sort things out there!'

Matiushin was about to go, but he dawdled, suddenly remembering the soldier on the bunk he'd just left. The soldier had turned over onto his stomach, put his hands under his head, stretched out on the bunk and reached his arm across the place that Matiushin had left. The man's heart was beating regularly and his chest expanding more deeply, and that meant there was something in this life that Matiushin wouldn't get because of him. Only Matiushin didn't know what it was that he wouldn't get. And now the commander had come along and was driving Matiushin out on guard duty. But that bastard would stay there, and he'd catch up on his sleep better and faster
–
and Matiushin wanted to chase out the man who was sleeping. He'd missed his own turn to catch up and now he realised how strong his hatred was as he tried to make out the bitter enemy of his heart in the darkness. It looked like his enemy had caught up all right. And now Matiushin had to as
well.

Matiushin started shaking the sleeping
man.

‘What are you doing sleeping, get out on duty!'

‘But I … But they … ' The soldier tumbled over onto his side and started flailing about: a leg this way, an arm that way … He was trying to crawl
away.

‘Get up, the watch officer ordered me to get you
up.'

‘Fucker … Get off me, brother, I'm only just back from the tower … Go away, I'll kill you
…'

Matiushin reluctantly took his hands off the soldier, who immediately went limp, muttering something. The only thing Matiushin could make out was that he was angry. And he was tossing about again, trying to crawl away and hide. You got what you deserve, you bastard, Matiushin thought, I gave you a good shaking. And although all his weakened insides stubbornly resisted any haste, Matiushin was so agitated that he drove himself on. As if that was what he lived for
–
tearing himself off a bunk and clambering back onto
it.

To perk themselves up before going on duty in the zone, the soldiers drank
chifir
with the black bread left over from the evening before. Rebrov, who was lackeying in the guardhouse, prepared the
chifir
. He cut up the loaf too and sprinkled sugar on the slices. Eight men going off in the night squad, the same number as there were guard posts on the towers. Matiushin came late and was last to sit down at the table.

‘Give me some chow!' he demanded.

The men sipped on their
chifir
, looking cunningly from Matiushin to the lackey and back again. Rebrov stood there shamefaced and bewildered.

‘It's like this, Vasenka. The bread's all gone … I didn't spot that there wasn't enough.'

‘What, you bastard?' Matiushin yelled in a strangled voice, sensing that everyone around him was holding their breath and waiting.

‘There wasn't enough bread
…'

Matiushin couldn't understand: how could he have been left without bread? And then suddenly he snapped … It was that bastard's fault, the one who woke him up early. It was his fault Matiushin didn't get any bread. And everyone around him was chewing away and supping tea. Matiushin was the only one sitting there like a fool, like a poor relative. These ugly bastards didn't seem to have hurried at all, but they'd got a good measure of everything
–
they wouldn't be feeling hungry. He suddenly fancied that the business with the bed and the bread had all been set up
–
they were starting to grind him down on the sly. They'd set Rebrov on him, and that freak was only too happy to oblige
them.

‘Well, I'll be having a word with you … Give me some
chifir
!'

Rebrov came to life and started pouring hastily. He was in such a hurry that he poured Matiushin's
chifir
into a light-blue mug. Everyone went quiet when he held out the blue mug to Matiushin, and Matiushin squeezed back against the bench. But Rebrov didn't understand a thing, the fool; he smiled guiltily, eager to oblige and declared:

‘I brewed it up with boiling water! Really
hot!'

Someone suddenly let out a laugh.

‘It's Pomogalov. He's guzzling his tea and he doesn't want to drink out of the poofy blue one either!'

‘How's it come to this, no decent mugs in the guardhouse!'

‘Come on, suicide boy, take a sup
…'

‘I won't take what's not mine, I'll do without.'

The tower men grinned contentedly. Matiushin grinned too; it was easier for him to grin like that. They started sleepily trickling out into the guard room. Dojo and the sergeant-major were listening to the radio. The Chinese was sleepy and his head was nodding.

‘What do they say on the radio, what's the weather like?'

‘Hail and snow with lightning!' Pomogalov said with a weary grin and crowed with his voice breaking: ‘Right then, my sons, how about a bit more marching? Anyone still alive? You screw anything up in the zone, and I can't give you a pardon. The show's over.'

‘You what, you what?' Dybenko protested aggressively. ‘The slightest little thing, and you start threatening. You ought to feed us properly. Just look, there wasn't even enough bread, or tea
…'

‘I know what you're like, you guzzle it all and then complain.'

Dojo asked furtively:

‘Time for arm-up, comrade Commander?'

‘Go ahead, arm them … And mind you, sergeant … no funny business!'

One after another the tower men plodded off to take their guns. After finding his automatic in the stand, Matiushin dragged himself out into the little guardhouse
yard.

Stretched out in a line, they walked across the steppe to the camp circle. Matiushin strode out in front, so he wouldn't see anyone. They called and swore from the back, telling him not to push them so fast, but Matiushin didn't listen to
them.

After pulling well ahead of the squad, he got stuck at the path to the first metal gate, which he couldn't go through without everyone else
–
there was an alarm on the entrance and when it was opened a siren started howling. The Chinese caught up with him at the
path.

‘Eh-ha … That not good. You get ahead us
all.'

‘They're creeping along like women … Listen, give them a good angry shout, they're a total shambles!'

‘Sell quick, you must. No need sell yours, but mine needed at home. Money good. Much money needed at a home.'

‘You keep going on about it, but I say
–
enough, leave it for a while.'

Dojo smiled and nodded his head
once.

‘Then give money
–
and all right.'

‘I haven't got
any.'

‘E-e-e-eh … Not good. Sell
–
and will be money. Think, no money
–
you go to zone. Me report to commander, commander find
out.'

‘You Chinese bastard, you'll be shopping yourself, I won't keep my mouth shut!'

‘Me no sell, Matiusa, you sell. Eh, you alone, Matiusa.'

The Chinese pulled a flask out from under his tunic and thrust it at him. Matiushin was about to push it away, but he heard the tramping of feet and grabbed it despite himself, silently hanging the weight on his belt, to one side of his clip pouch.

The men who had fallen behind started appearing out of the darkness: the trainer with an Alsatian, the two men from Khabarovsk and Dybenko, who was cheerfully driving on the sleepy, dejected local soldiers, like animals clumped together into a little
herd.

‘Where were you going in such a rush, guys, tearing off ahead like that?'

‘Do we have to wait for you, lowlife?'

‘What a night, I just can't get enough of
it!'

‘Ah, shut it, will
you?'

‘What's up, scumbags? Don't you want to rejoice in life? Is your life so full of shit?'

Matiushin swore, but he swallowed the insult. Dybenko wasn't afraid of Matiushin's oaths, but he wasn't in the mood to poke fun or start a fight either. Neither of them noticed anyone around them, screening out the others with their bodies. When the Chinese opened the entrance, Matiushin strode through decisively, first onto the path, but Dybenko hustled a cigarette from the local soldiers and dropped behind, unhurriedly puffing out smoke.

The boiler house chimney towered up above the zone and into the night, the white smoke billowing and swirling out of its soundless trumpet mouth and melting away in the cold. From the searchlights attached to the chimney like little baby spiders, two white-hot beams of light thrust out and enveloped the path, so that the soldiers moved along in a blindingly bright mist. But on the other side of the camp wall there was breathless darkness, as blank as the two-metre-high wooden boards, and immediately above the fences the night began.

By the time they'd covered a good part of the path and come to the sequence of guard towers, the nerves of the men in the squad were jangling. They had all sobered up from their sleep, feeling the feather-lightness of their bodies, loaded down only by the weight of their automatics and the shuddering cold. One man fell back, one lengthened his stride, one held his pace in silent fury; the line of walking men levelled out and closed up, and the man whose turn it was to climb up the tower to his post was shoved forward to close in on it face to
face.

When they stopped at the first tower, started talking and livened up a bit, a soldier stuck his head out of the tower and roared deafeningly.

‘I've frozen solid waiting to be relieved! Did you dig in at the guardhouse, you scumbags?'

Another soldier was already clambering up into the tower and forcing himself to look back behind him, at the path, but no one called to him. The one who'd been yelling, a big strapping guy, came slithering down, flopped onto Dybenko's chest, half-stunned, and wheezed right into his mouth:

‘Vasyok, give us a smoke! I'm gasping, brothers, a drag at least!'

The trainer led the Alsatian on along the path. The fourth tower was at a spot like a dead-end, blank and dark, where the fences closed together at an angle, choking off the path like a vice. The trainer skulked along, signalling for them to stop with a wave of his hand. No one could make out what he was afraid of, but they all went quiet and completed the path in agonised suspense.

At the tower they got their breath back and relaxed when they realised what was going
on.

‘He's asleep,' the trainer reported in a whisper and fell silent, waiting for what would come
next.

The tower was shrouded in the bright haze of the guard-post lamps. They were sideways on, so that the soldier's black figure could be seen in the opening of the tower's square box. The soldier was sleeping on his feet, with his head lowered.