The others shrugged politely by way of reply. There followed a silence and it seemed like the elderly gentleman forgot he was in conversation. He looked out the window and confided in his reflection, ‘I tell you, it’s no fun getting old. No fun at all.’
After a brief exchange of glances, the three boys made the unanimous decision to leave the man to his own thoughts. Anton rolled his eyes, but nobody responded to him.
Out of the three of them Misha seemed the most unsure of himself. His uniform hung pathetically from his skinny frame and when he remembered to unclench his hands, you could see that his fingernails were bitten right down to almost nothing. He took his cue from Vlad and Leo, never taking a single step unless they were leading the way. If the two boys had been older or wiser, they might have worried how Misha would cope once they reached Stalingrad. Instead they were barely aware of the fact that Misha’s constant nervousness and obvious need to always have one or either of them beside him made them feel a little braver.
Misha asked his friends, ‘Do you think that Mr Belov has been allowed home by now?’
Leo and Vlad exchanged an anxious look, Vlad leaving Leo to say quietly, ‘I hope so.’
However, Misha needed something more definite than that. ‘But how could he be blamed for what happened? It wasn’t his fault.’
Vlad nudged him, not unkindly. ‘Keep your voice down.’
Not one of them had the slightest idea what had happened after they’d signed the papers that declared them to be proper soldiers of Stalin; and maybe that was just as well. It certainly would not have done the three boys any good to know that their favourite teacher would never go home again.
The officials at the registrar office were frighteningly business-like. Mr Belov presented his boys, adding that a couple of them had been too ill to make the journey. His explanation was ignored. The class was counted, names taken and directions issued as to where to go next. Their teacher was led off to an empty office where he was left to think about himself for more than a few hours.
His eventual interview, with a different man, took far longer than he could ever have imagined. After maybe an hour or so of chat, where Mr Belov was invited to discuss his upbringing, his family and his wife, Mr Petrov slid into the real business of the day.
‘Comrade Belov, you do know why you’re here, don’t you?’ The interviewer spoke in a friendly tone, with a limp smile that failed to hide the seriousness of the turn in conversation.
Mr Belov hesitated in his answer; he already felt drained from the long hours sitting on a hard chair in this drab, grey room that was barely lit by a dingy light bulb.
‘Are you refusing to answer my question, comrade?’ It was the way the man’s thin lips curled, ever so slightly, around the word ‘comrade’ that made Mr Belov’s spine shiver momentarily.
‘No, please forgive me. I’m an old man and my mind wanders. Could I could trouble you for some water?’
Mr Petrov nodded in pretence. ‘Yes, yes. There will be plenty of time for that later.’
This most casual refusal confirmed for the teacher what had been the vaguest of fears up until now.
‘Yes, sir, I think I know why I’m here.’
The interviewer displayed his crooked teeth, before summarising the facts of Mr Belov’s situation. ‘You were ordered to bring your entire class here to be signed up to defend the Motherland. Is that not so?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A look of exaggerated confusion passed from one side of Mr Petrov’s face to the other. ‘Hmmm. And how many boys are in your entire class?’
There was no point in hiding; indeed there was nowhere to hide. Mr Belov knew that.
‘A total of thirty boys.’
Mr Petrov, in order to appear to be helpful, held up a sheet of paper containing a list. ‘Ah, yes. We have the names here, all thirty of them. You have known the boys for a long time, I’m sure?’
‘Yes, sir. They are like sons to me.’ The teacher felt like he was pleading for something, he just wasn’t quite sure what it was yet.
‘I have two boys myself, Mr Belov, so I know what children can be like.’ Here Mr Petrov paused to see if the teacher wished to agree with him. After a moment’s silence, he continued, ‘Children. They are so precious, are they not? Of course, they are the future. Our country’s fate will be their responsibility one day, which is why discipline is so, so important. When you think about it, comrade, your generation and my generation, we are all teachers. It is up to us to lead the young people on the right path, and insist that they do all that is required of them.’ He paused again, pressing his hands together beneath his chin.
Without meaning to, Mr Belov pictured those hands around his neck, imagining that they might feel damp and cold.
‘Forgive me, comrade, but remind me again. How many boys did you bring to us today?’
Mr Belov thought to himself, he is like a cat about to pounce on a defenceless bird, as he answered, ‘Fifteen.’
He felt like a character in a play. All he had to do was merely sit there and supply a little bit of dialogue. His answers were part of a script that had already been written out by Mr Petrov. It was chilling to know that nothing he would say was going to make a difference, one way or the other. He had already guessed the ending and could only assume that Mr Petrov knew this but was determined, for the sake of protocol, to do everything by the book.
‘Where are the other fifteen… that is, the rest of your students?’
Mr Belov attempted to choose his words with care since he didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone else, though it did seem to him that his explanation was an obvious one: ‘Surely, it is natural for mothers to protect… to want to protect their children, and, well, I suppose, you know how some can be braver than others.’
The eyes of the other man narrowed. ‘Are you telling me that there are mothers, Russian mothers, who would prefer to hold on to their sons, preventing them from carrying out their patriotic duty?’
Having no idea how to answer this question, Mr Belov remained silent.
‘And as for braver boys than others, you are their teacher. They were following you. It was your responsibility to bring all thirty in as you were instructed.’
Certainly Mr Belov was guilty, or, at least, had not been surprised to find himself with a smaller group of boys than he had set out with. He was neither blind nor deaf to the boys who had tiptoed away, or who had hung back to tie shoe laces, or who had said they were going to answer the call of Mother Nature behind a tree that was just out of sight. The forest soaked them up and their teacher did nothing to stop them from leaving.
‘I’m an old man, with an old heart, Mr Petrov. If you are asking me why I didn’t run after them to drag them back with my bare hands, it’s because I simply couldn’t.’
‘Oh, but that’s not my point at all, comrade, no, not at all. You see, it really should never have come to that: boys running away from fighting for their country and encouraged to do so by selfish women. You are the one with the knowledge, Mr Belov. The thirty of them should have marched in here after you explained what was required of them and why. It was all down to you. So, when you manage somehow to lose fifteen boys, we have to question if they may have felt there was an alternative to following our orders. It is most disturbing indeed.’
Feeling thoroughly defeated, Mr Belov did not interrupt or attempt to debate what was being said.
‘Do you understand that Russia is under attack, and that the eyes of the world are upon us?’
Again, Mr Belov did not utter a word.