Striking the Balance (66 page)

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Bagnall asked one of the men.

Hearing an undoubtedly British voice, the fellow answered without hesitation: “Why, the water, of course.”

Bagnall scratched his head.

One of the cooks ladled soup into David Nussboym’s bowl. He sank the ladle all the way down to the bottom of the big iron pot. It came out full of cabbage leaves and bits of fish. The ration loaf he handed Nussboym was full weight or even a trifle over. It was still black bread, coarse and hard to chew, but it was warm from the oven and smelled good. His tea was made from local roots and leaves and berries, but the glass the cook gave him had plenty of sugar, so it was palatable enough.

And he had plenty of room in which to eat. Clerks and interpreters and other politicals got fed ahead of the common run of
zek
. Nussboym recalled with distaste the mob scenes in which he’d had to defend with his elbows the space in which he was sitting, and recalled a couple of times when he’d been elbowed off a bench and onto the planks of the floor.

He dug in. With every mouthful of soup, well-being flowed through him. It was almost as if he could feel himself being nourished. He sipped at his tea, savoring every morsel of dissolved sugar that flowed over his tongue. When your belly was full, life looked good—for a while.

“Nu,
David Aronovich, how do you like talking with the Lizards?” asked Moisei Apfelbaum, Colonel Skriabin’s chief clerk. He spoke in Yiddish to Nussboym but used his name and patronymic anyhow, which would have been an affectation anywhere in the USSR but seemed particularly absurd in the
gulag,
where patronymics fell by the wayside even in Russian.

Nevertheless, Nussboym imitated his style: “Compared to freedom, Moisei Solomonovich, it is not so much. Compared to chopping logs in the woods—” He did not go on. He did not have to go on.

Apfelbaum nodded. He was a skinny little middle-aged fellow, with eyes that looked enormous behind steel-rimmed spectacles. “Freedom you do not need to worry about, not here. The
gulag
has worse things than logging, believe me. A man could be unlucky enough to dig a canal. One can be unlucky, as I say, or one can be clever. Good to be clever, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so,” Nussboym answered. The clerks and cooks and trusties who made the
gulag
function—for the whole system would have fallen apart in days if not hours had the NKVD had to do all the work—were better company in many ways than the
zeks
of the labor gang to which he’d formerly been attached. Even if a lot of them were dedicated Communists
(plus royaliste que le roi
ran through his mind, for they upheld the principles of Marx and Engels and Lenin after other men espousing those same principles had sent them here), they were for the most part educated men, men with whom he had far more in common than the common criminals who were the dominant force in his work gang.

He did easier work now. He got more food for it. He should have been—well, not happy; you’d have to be
meshuggeh
to be happy here—as contented as he could be in the context of the
gulag.
He’d always been a man who believed in getting along with authority, whatever authority happened to be: the Polish government, the Nazis, the Lizards, now the NKVD.

But when the
zeks
with whom he’d formerly worked were shambling out to the forest for another day of toil, the looks they gave him chilled his blood.
Mene, mene, tekel upharsin
floated up from his days at the
cheder—thou art weighed in the balance, and art found wanting.
He felt guilty for having it easier than his former comrades, although he knew intellectually that interpreting for the Lizards made a far greater contribution to the war effort than knocking down yet another pine or birch.

“You are not a Communist,” Apfelbaum said, studying him through those greatly magnified eyes. Nussboym shook his head, admitting it. The clerk said, “Yet you remain an idealist.”

“Maybe I do,” Nussboym said. He wanted to add,
What business is it of yours?
He kept his mouth shut, though; he was not such a fool as to insult a man who had such easy, intimate access to the camp commandant. The calluses on his hands were starting to soften, but he knew how easily he could once more grow accustomed to the feel of axehandle and saw grip.

“This will not necessarily work to your advantage,” Apfelbaum said.

Nussboym shrugged. “If everything worked to my advantage, would I be here?”

Apfelbaum paused to sip at his glass of ersatz tea, then smiled. His smile was charming, so much so that Nussboym distrusted it at sight. The clerk said, “Again, I remind you that there are worse things than what you have now. You have not even been required to denounce any of the men of your old gang, have you?”

“No, thank God,” Nussboym said. He hurriedly added, “Not that I ever heard any of them say anything that deserved denunciation.” After that, he devoted himself to his bowl of soup. To his relief, Apfelbaum did not press him further.

But he was not altogether surprised when, two days later, Colonel Skriabin summoned him to his office and said, “Nussboym, we have heard a rumor that concerns us. I wonder if you can tell me whether there is any truth to it.”

“If it concerns the Lizards, Comrade Colonel, I will do everything in my power,” Nussboym said, hoping to deflect the evil moment.

He had no luck. Perhaps he had not really expected to have any Luck. Skriabin said, “Unfortunately, it does not. It is reported to us that the prisoner Ivan Fyodorov has on more than one occasion uttered anti-Soviet and seditious sentiments since coming to this camp. You knew this man Fyodorov, I believe?” He waited for Nussboym to nod before going on, “Can there be any truth to this rumor?”

Nussboym tried to make a joke of it “Comrade Colonel, can you name me even one
zek
who has
not
said something anti-Soviet at one time or another?”

“That is not the issue,” Skriabin said. “The issue is discipline and examples. Now, I repeat myself: have you ever heard the prisoner Fyodorov utter anti-Soviet and seditious sentiments? Answer yes or no.” He spoke in Polish and kept his tone light and seemingly friendly, but he was as inexorable as a rabbi forcing a
yeshiva-bucher
through the explication of a difficult portion of the Talmud.

“I don’t really remember,” Nussboym said. When
no
was a lie and
yes
was trouble, what were you supposed to do?
Temporize
was all that came to mind.

“But you said everyone said such things,” Skriabin reminded him. “You must know whether the man Fyodorov was a part of everyone or an exception.”

Damn you, Moisei Solomonovich,
Nussboym thought. Aloud, he said, “Maybe he was, but maybe he wasn’t, too. As I told you, I have trouble remembering who said what when.”

“I have never noticed this trouble when you speak of the Lizards,” Colonel Skriabin said. “You are always most accurate and precise.” He thrust a typewritten sheet of paper across the desk to Nussboym. “Here. Just sign this, and all will be as it should.”

Nussboym stared at the sheet in dismay. He could make out some spoken Russian, because many of the words were close to their Polish equivalents. Staring at characters from a different alphabet was something else again. “What does it say?” he asked suspiciously.

“That on a couple of occasions you did hear the prisoner Ivan Fyodorov utter anti-Soviet sentiments, nothing more.” Skriabin held out a pen to him. He took it but did not sign on the line helpfully provided. Colonel Skriabin looked sorrowful. “And I had such hope for you, David Aronovich.” His voice tolled out Nussboym’s name and patronymic like a mourning bell.

With a couple of quick jerks that had almost nothing to do with his brain, Nussboym signed the denunciation and shoved it back at Skriabin. He realized he should have shouted at Skriabin the second the NKVD man tried to get him to betray Fyodorov. But if you’d always believed in getting along with authority, you didn’t think of such things till that first fateful second had passed, and then it was too late. Skriabin took the paper and locked it in his desk.

Nussboym got another full bowl of soup at supper that night. He ate every drop of it, and every drop tasted like ashes in his mouth.

XVII

Atvar wished he had acquired the habit of tasting ginger. He needed something, anything, to fortify himself before going in to resume dickering with a chamber full of argumentative Big Uglies. Turning both eye turrets toward Kirel, he said, “If we are to have peace with the Tosevites, it appears we shall have to make the most of the concessions upon which they originally insisted.”

“Truth,” Kirel said in a melancholy voice. “They are certainly the most indefatigable argufiers the Race has ever encountered.”

“That they are.” Atvar twisted his body in distaste. “Even the ones with whom we need not conduct actual negotiations—the British and the Nipponese—go on with their unending quibbles, while two Chinese factions both insist they deserve to be here, though neither seems willing to admit the other does. Madness!”

“What of the Deutsche, Exalted Fleetlord?” Kirel asked. “Of all the Tosevite empires and not-empires, theirs seems to be presenting the Race with the greatest number of difficulties.”

“I admire your gift for understatement,” Atvar said acidly. “The envoy from Deutschland seems dim even for a Tosevite. The not-emperor he serves is, by all appearances, as addled as an unfertilized egg left half a year in the sun—or do you know a better way to interpret his alternating threats and cajolery?” Without waiting for an answer, the fleetlord went on, “And yet, of all these Tosevite empires and not-empires, the Deutsche may well be the most technologically advanced. Can you unravel this paradox for me?”

“Tosev 3 is a world full of paradoxes,” Kirel replied. “Among so many, one more loses its capacity to surprise.”

“This is also a truth.” Atvar let out a weary, hissing sigh. “One or another of them is liable to prove a calamity, I fear. I admit I do not know which one, though, and very much wish I did.”

Pshing spoke up: “Exalted Fleetlord, the time appointed for continuation of these discussions with the Tosevites is now upon us.”

“Thank you, Adjutant,” Atvar said, though he felt anything but grateful. “They are a punctual species, that much I will say for them. Even after so long in the Empire, the Hallessi would show up late for their own cremations if they could.” His mouth dropped open in wry amusement. “Now that I think on it, so would I. If I could.”

Regretfully, Atvar turned his eye turrets away from the males of his own kind and, with his interpreter, entered the chamber where the Tosevite representatives awaited him. They rose from their seats as he entered, a token of respect. “Tell them to sit down so we can get on with it,” Atvar said to the interpreter. “Tell them politely, but tell them.” The translator; a male named Uotat, turned his words into English.

The Tosevites returned to their chairs again, in their usual pattern. Marshall, the American male, and Eden, his British counterpart, always sat close together, though Eden was not really a formal participant in these talks. Then came Molotov, from the SSSR, and von Ribbentrop, of Deutschland. Like Eden, Togo of Nippon was more an observer than a negotiator.

“We begin,” Atvar said. The Tosevite males leaned forward, away from the rigidly upright position they preferred most of the time and toward one more like that the Race used. This was, Atvar had learned, a sign of interest and attention. He went on, “In most cases, we have agreed in principle to withdraw from the territory controlled at the time of our arrival on Tosev 3 by the U.S.A., the SSSR, and Deutschland. We have done this in spite of claims we have received from several groups of Big Uglies offering the view that the SSSR and Deutschland did not rightfully possess some of these territories. Your not-empires are the ones strong enough to treat with us; this gives your claims priority.”

Von Ribbentrop sat straight again and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the material of the outer cloth covering of his torso. “He is smug,” Uotat said to Atvar, using an eye turret to point to the Deutsch envoy.

“He is a fool,” Atvar replied, “but you need not tell him that; if you are a fool, you derive no profit from hearing as much. I now resume with the matter at hand . . .  Because we are gracious, we also agree to withdraw our males from the northern territory that seems to be not quite a part of either the U.S.A. or Britain.”

The toponym escaped him; Marshall and Eden supplied it together. “Canada.”

“Canada, yes,” Atvar said. The simple truth was that most of the place was too cold to be worth much to the Race under any circumstances. Marshall also seemed to think it was for all practical purposes part of the U.S.A., though it had a separate sovereignty. Atvar did not fully understand that, but it was to him a matter of small import.

“Now to the issue on which these talks paused in our last session,” Atvar said: “the issue of Poland.”

“Poland in its entirety must be ours!” von Ribbentrop said loudly. “No other solution is possible or acceptable. So the
Führer
has declared.” (Uotat added, “This is the title of the Deutsch not-emperor.” “I know,” Atvar answered.) “I have no room whatever for discussion on this matter.”

Molotov spoke. He was the only Tosevite envoy who did not use English. His interpreter translated for Uotat: “This view is unacceptable to the workers and farmers of the SSSR, who have an immediate claim on the eastern half of this region, one which I personally brokered with the Deutsch foreign minister, and also a historic claim to the entire country.”

Atvar turned his eye turrets away from both contentious Big Uglies. Neither of them would budge on the issue. Atvar tried a new tack: “Perhaps we could let the Poles and the Jews of Poland form new not-empires of their own, between those of your not-emperors.”

Molotov did not reply. Von Ribbentrop, unfortunately, did: “As I have said, the
Führer
finds this intolerable. The answer is no.”

The fleetlord wanted to let loose with a long, hissing sigh, but refrained. The Big Uglies were undoubtedly studying his behavior as closely as he and his staff of researchers and psychologists were examining theirs. He tried a different course: “Perhaps, then, it is appropriate for the Race to remain sovereign over this place called Poland.” In saying that, he realized he was meeting the ambitions of the Tosevite Moishe Russie. It wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but he saw now that Russie did indeed understand his fellow Big Uglies.

“This may in principle be acceptable to the Soviet Union, depending on the precise boundaries of said occupation,” Molotov said. In a low voice, Uotat added his own comment to that: “The Tosevites of the SSSR find the Deutsche no more pleasant neighbors than we do.”

“Truth,” Atvar said, amused but unwilling to show it to the Big Uglies.

Von Ribbentrop turned his head and looked at Molotov for several seconds before giving his attention back to Atvar. If that wasn’t anger the Deutsch representative was displaying, all the Race’s studies of Tosevite gestural language were worthless. But von Ribbentrop spoke without undue passion: “I am sorry to have to keep repeating myself, but this is not acceptable to Deutschland or to the
Führer.
Poland had been under and should return in its entirety to Deutsch sovereignty.”

“That is not acceptable to the Soviet Union,” Molotov said.

“The Soviet Union had control over not a particle of Polish soil at the time when—the situation changed,” von Ribbentrop retorted. He turned back to Atvar. “Poland must be returned to Deutschland. The
Führer
has made it absolutely clear he will accept nothing less, and warns of the severest consequences if his just demands are not met.”

“Does he threaten the Race?” Atvar asked. The Deutsch envoy did not reply. Atvar went on, “You Deutsche should remember that you hold the smallest amount of territory of any party to these talks. It is conceivable that we could destroy you without wrecking the planet Tosev 3 to the point where it would be unsuitable for the colonization fleet when it arrives. Your intransigence here is liable to tempt us to make the experiment.”

That was partly bluff. The Race did not have the nuclear weapons available to turn all Deutsch-controlled territory to radioactive slag, however delightful the prospect was. The Big Uglies, however, did not know what resources the Race had and what it did not.

Atvar hoped, then, his threat would strike home. Marshall and Togo bent over the papers in front of them and both began to write furiously. The fleetlord thought that might represent agitation. Eden and Molotov sat unmoving. Atvar was used to that from Molotov. This was his first prolonged dealing with Eden, who struck him as competent but who was also in a weak bargaining position.

Von Ribbentrop said, “Then the war may resume, Fleetlord. When the
Führer
states his determination in regard to any issue, you may take it as certain that he means what he says. Am I to inform him that you flatly reject his reasonable requirement? If I do so, I warn you that I cannot answer for what will happen next.”

His short, blunt-tipped tongue came out and moistened the everted mucus membranes that ringed his small mouth. That was, the Race’s researchers insisted, a sign of nervousness among the Big Uglies. But why was von Ribbentrop nervous? Because he was running a bluff himself, at the orders of his not-emperor? Or because he feared the Deutsch leader really would resume the war if his insistence on having Poland was rejected?

Atvar picked his words with more care than he would have imagined possible when speaking to a Tosevite: “Tell this male that his demand for all of Poland is refused. Tell him further that, as far as the Race is concerned, the cease-fire between our forces and those of the Deutsche may continue while we address other issues. And tell him that. If the Deutsche are the first to break the cease-fire, the Race will retaliate forcefully. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Fleetlord, I understand,” von Ribbentrop replied through Uotat. “As I have said, the
Führer
is not in the habit of making threats he does not mean. I shall convey your response to him. Then we shall all await his reply.” The Big Ugly licked those soft, pink lips again. “I am sorry to say it, but I do not think we will be waiting long.”

Major Mon handed Nieh Ho-T’ing a cup filled with gently steaming tea. “Thank you,” Nieh said, inclining his head. The Japanese was, by his standards, acting courteously. Nieh still thought of him as an imperialist eastern devil, but one could be polite about such things.

Mori returned the half bow. “I am unworthy of your praise,” he answered in his rough Chinese. The Japanese hid their arrogance behind a façade of false humility. Nieh preferred dealing with the little scaly devils. They made no bones about what they were.

“Have you decided which course would be most expedient for you to take?” Nieh asked. Looking around the Japanese camp, he thought that should be obvious. The eastern devils were ragged and hungry and starting to run low on the munitions that were their only means of coercing supplies from the local peasants. The arrival of the little scaly devils had cut them off from the logistics train that ran back to Japan. They were better disciplined than a band of bandits, but not much stronger.

But after their major nodded, he did not give the reply Nieh had hoped to hear: “I must tell you we cannot join what you call the popular front. The little devils do not formally stop their war against us, but they also do not fight us now. If we attack them here, who can say what that will provoke them to elsewhere in the world?”

“You join with them, in effect, against the progressive forces of the Chinese people.”

Major Mori laughed at him. He stared. He had thought of many possible reactions from the Japanese, but had not expected that one. Mori said, “You have made an alliance with the Kuomintang, I see. That must be what transforms them from reactionary counterrevolutionary running dogs into progressives. A nice magic trick, I must say.”

A mosquito buzzed down and bit Nieh on the back of one wrist. Smashing it gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. He hoped he was not turning red enough for the Japanese to notice. At last, he said, “Compared to the little scaly devils, the reactionaries of the Kuomintang are progressive. I admit it, though I do not love them. Compared to the little devils, even you Japanese imperialists are progressive. I admit that, too.”