Child Thief (33 page)

Kostya joined his brother, mumbling the words. There was no hearty bellowing of the song, just a jumbled pride and defiance, no one daring to sing too loudly.

‘Still upon us, brave brother, fate shall smile.'

I had heard it sung during the war and even afterwards, more recently, around the oak that stood in the
centre of Vyriv. The oak that had seen too few good summers and too many bad winters.

‘Our enemies will vanish like dew in the sun.'

The oak which had borne the awful fruit of Dimitri's mob.

‘We too shall rule in our country.'

Their singing was quiet – barely more than a whisper – but outside the
garmoshka
had stopped.

‘Soul and body we will lay down for our freedom.'

Then a loud banging on the door. ‘Do the counter-revolutionaries want to stand naked in the snow?' It was the slurred voice of Sergei Artemevich Lermentov.

The singing stopped and there was silence.

‘That's what I thought,' Lermentov said to the dead wood. ‘That's exactly what I thought.'

‘I don't know what he wants me to tell him,' I said to Kostya.

‘What does it matter what you tell him? He isn't investigating anything; he's humiliating you, making you something less than human. The OGPU, their job is not to discover crimes but to arrest people.'

‘The one with the beard,' I said. ‘He's not OGPU. He's more like a farmer. Is he from your village?'

‘Anatoly Ivanovich,' Kostya said, and it occurred to me that it was Kostya who spoke more than the others. It was he who had given me the water. Either he was a planted informant or he had earned these men's respect in some other way.

‘You know him?' I asked.

‘Of course. We all know each other – those of us that are left here, anyway. Anatoly is a lazy man. He didn't have any land of his own, he just worked for those who did. They paid him money when they had it, or sometimes in food.'

‘And now he sits at the table with the OGPU.'

‘Yes.'

‘But he doesn't like it,' I said. ‘I can see the shame in his eyes.'

‘He protects himself,' Evgeni said.

‘He says the right things,' Kostya added. ‘He uses the language
they like. He talks of “workers” and “proletariat” and “kulaks”. He denounces those who ever employed him and sees them arrested for being wealthy farmers.'

‘And you?' I asked. ‘You never employed him?'

Kostya laughed. ‘We never had enough land to need him. And the others, they had almost nothing either. A pig maybe, a few acres of land, and now they're on their way to labour camps or lying in a trench in the forest. Who knows.'

‘The trench would be better,' said Yuri. He was sitting close to me but hadn't spoken for some time and I'd almost forgotten he was even there. There was something about him I didn't like, something to do with the way he had questioned me about my past.

‘Better?' I asked. ‘It's better to be dead?'

‘Of course. Taken away in cattle trucks like animals, fed only salted fish and given nothing to drink, then dropped in some godless place where the cold is deeper and hungrier than it is here. Siberia maybe, the White Sea. There are places where people are made to work so hard and for so long that they cut off their own hands and feet just to get some rest.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘Lermentov.'

‘Why are they doing this to us?' Evgeni asked. ‘Why must they beat us and humiliate us?'

‘For a confession,' said Yuri.

‘All they have to do is arrest us and send us away and be done with it. Why waste time with confessions?'

‘Maybe it makes this man Lermentov feel better,' I said.

‘Feel better?'

‘He's just doing his job. If he gets a confession, it probably makes it more legal for him. More
right
. Like he's punishing a criminal instead of a man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

‘It makes no difference,' Evgeni said. ‘Enough beating and we'll tell them anything. Admit to anything. Denounce our own
neighbours. And all we do is sit here and let them treat us like this.'

‘What else can we do?' said Kostya.

‘We can tell them to fuck themselves,' Dimitri shouted. ‘What have we done? I tried to help a little girl.
A little girl
. And now I'm what? A counter-revolutionary? An enemy of the state?'

‘Shouting does no good,' Kostya said

‘At least it means they know what we think.'

‘They already know what we think,' I said. ‘And that man out there – Lermentov – he's probably just as afraid as we are. You think he's exempt? They can put him on a train to Siberia just like they can put us on one. He does what he has to.'

‘You want us to feel sorry for him, Luka?'

‘No. I'm just telling you how it is.'

‘So we do nothing?' Yuri asked. ‘We just wait to be deported?'

‘Put a gun in my hand and I'll shoot him, but other than that …' I let the words trail away and thought back to the moment on the road when the soldiers had approached me. I wished now that I had tried to do something – shot them from their horses and dragged their bodies away from the track. ‘I have to get out of here,' I said. ‘I can't believe it's come to this. I shouldn't be here. It's not where I'm supposed to be.'

‘Where
are
you supposed to be?' asked Yuri. ‘Out there with your sons?'

‘Yes. There must be a way to get out.'

‘There's nothing,' Kostya said. ‘No escape.'

I shook my head in the darkness and thought about my sons out there in the cold, wondering if they had followed my tracks to the village. There was a small part of me that hoped they would bring their rifles and shoot every one of the soldiers in this village; that they would hand me a pistol so I could put it against the head of this man Lermentov and spill his brains all over the snow and the dirt. But my sons were not soldiers, and I prayed they had turned around when they realised my fate. I prayed they had returned home to Natalia and Lara. I even allowed myself a vague smile as I imagined them arguing about what they were going to
do. I pictured them outside the village, hidden among the trees, watching, discussing.

Viktor would want to fight while Petro would pull him back, try to make him see sense.

I closed my eyes and wished I could remember my last words to them. I tried to see their faces.

Still the music played outside in the church. Lermentov's repertoire was a mixture of old folk songs and songs of the revolution and labour and the motherland, but it wasn't long before he was playing the same tunes again. Every now and then there was a lull in the music and I could hear the murmur of voices talking, sometimes loud laughter, and I guessed the policeman had drunk most or all of the
horilka
I had taken from the cabin where the child thief lay dead. At least I had
that
satisfaction. The child thief would take no more children.

It was warm and close in the room and I felt sleep beginning to take me. I didn't know how long I slept for, perhaps until night, perhaps not, it was impossible to tell, but I was roused by the sound of the door being unlocked.

The dim light crept in, and I braced myself for the hands that would drag me from this cell. I waited for the soldiers to grab me and pull me to my feet, but they came past me and went to Kostya.

They stooped to grip his thin shoulders, and when they lifted him, I saw how light my new friend was. The soldiers pulled him up with little effort and took him from the room, slamming the door closed behind them.

‘God help my brother,' Evgeni said, the only words any of us spoke for some time.

Through the solid door I heard the muffled voices as they interrogated Kostya. I couldn't make out any of the words, so it was still possible that he'd been put inside the cell to trick me, but any doubt was dismissed by the sound of Kostya's beating.

When the interrogation was over and the church finally became quiet, I let out my breath as if I'd been holding it for the
duration and waited for Kostya to be returned to us. But the door didn't open again.

‘He was a good man,' Evgeni said into the silence. ‘My brother was a good man.'

And when Lermentov began playing the
garmoshka
again, we knew Kostya would not be coming back.

25

When Kostya was taken, he took with him the hope of the other incarcerated men. Before, they had hardly spoken, but now they said nothing at all.

I tried to move about, find a comfortable position. If I stayed as I was for too long, pains developed. I tried sitting with my legs crossed, stretched out, with my back against the wall, or leaning forward. I tried standing, but my bare feet hurt, and I tried lying, but the floor was too hard. There was no comfort to be found in that room, and I understood it had been well chosen as a prison.

After some time Dimitri Markovich offered his lap as a pillow, and I realised that in their silence the men had been following an order of lying on each other, taking turns, looking for the briefest moment of sleep. So I accepted, and I put my head on Dimitri, snatching the slightest respite before he tapped me on the head and told me it was his turn.

But Dimitri was denied his sleep because once again the door opened and the soldiers came in. This time they had come for me.

They dragged me to the table and pushed me down into the chair. The crucifix was still there, but my satchel and the parcel of flesh were gone. Instead, there was a
garmoshka
and the bottle of
horilka
, now almost empty.

Sergei Artemevich Lermentov sat opposite, his eyes red and tired.

‘Where's Dariya?' I asked.

Lermentov didn't reply.

‘Where is she? And where's Kostya? How long have I been here?'

‘I ask the questions.' His words were lazy and much of his officious manner had relaxed.

‘Of course, comrade.'

Lermentov looked over my shoulder and watched the guards standing behind me. ‘You're not my comrade. You're my prisoner. An enemy of the state. You have no comrades. You have no
right
to call anyone comrade.'

‘I'm not an enemy of the state.'

‘Conspirator, counter-revolutionary, criminal – what does it matter? You belong to the state now. You're white coal. That's what the guards will call you.'

‘And Dariya? My daughter?'

‘She's got work in her,' he said, looking away with a regretful expression. ‘Not much, I don't think, but some. She'll be sent to work.'

‘I thought you people call it re-education.'

‘No one talks about that any more.' Lermentov continued to stare at nothing, as if his mind was elsewhere. ‘Now it's just labour.'

I bit my lip, trying to compose myself. ‘Please,' I said. ‘You have to believe I didn't harm her.'

‘Who knows what to believe?' Lermentov said quietly so that only I could hear it. He had seen my face when he showed me what had happened to Dariya. He had seen the shock in my eyes, and I hoped it was a look that was plaguing him. He'd been sure that I was responsible for what had happened to Dariya but now, perhaps, there was doubt.

‘If you have to send me away, then do it, but keep her here. Someone must be able to look after her.'

‘Nothing I can do for her.' Lermentov sniffed hard and shook his head. ‘She can work so that's what she has to do.' He reached out for the bottle and pulled it towards him. ‘There's enough for everybody.' His words were slurred, his eyes distant. ‘We're all
workers now, and there are quotas to fill. “We need more workers,” they say, and in the north they dig and they cut and they build.' He took a long drink from the bottle and banged it down on the table. ‘And when they say they need more workers, we send them more workers. This great country will be even greater because we have so many workers. Endless workers.'

‘But not children.' I watched the inebriated policeman, seeing something other than hard coldness in him.

‘Everyone,' Lermentov said. ‘We're lucky to have so many people who will give their hands and feet to the glory of the revolution.' He leaned back. ‘And even children must work.' He took another drink and slouched in his chair, waving a hand as if nothing mattered.

‘But Dariya is so young.'

Lermentov looked up again and saw the guards watching him. Everyone was always watching each other. He sat upright, as if remembering what he was here for, the role he had to play. There was no crime other than against the state. The fate of one small girl meant nothing in the great scheme of things. ‘Have you remembered what happened to my prisoners yet?'

‘Please,' I said again. ‘She's just a girl.'

He faltered, looking at the guards once more before speaking. ‘Where are my prisoners?'

‘She's only eight years old.'

He hardened his gaze, remembering his purpose and position. ‘
Where are my prisoners
?'

I sighed and shook my head and spoke as an automaton. ‘I saw tracks in the forest. I didn't follow them. I was following my daughter. She came here and—'

‘Enough.' Lermentov waved a hand.

I didn't know what this man wanted from me. Even
Lermentov
didn't know what he wanted from me. I was there simply because I'd been in the wrong place and because I owned a weapon. And Lermentov was there because he'd been sent. Neither of us wanted to be there. We were just two men who had lost control of their own circumstances, their own lives. Men who had been
sucked into a great machine which pushed and pulled them in random directions that meant nothing to either of them.

‘Let me go,' I said. ‘Let me take my daughter and go.'

‘I couldn't do that even if I wanted to,' he said. ‘It's too late for that. Too late for all of us.' Lermentov had probably never released a prisoner. He would never have been able to show any weakness or disobedience; never given anyone a reason to report him as a conspirator or an enemy of the state. ‘Anyway, you're lying – trying to fool me into letting you take her away. She's not your daughter, is she? I mean, what kind of man would cut his own child into pieces?'