Kostya picked it up, opened it: his true identification, not the Tikhon fakes. —Thank you.
Boris tapped on the door to signal to the guard outside to open it, and as they emerged into a larger office, Kostya caught sight of a big man in an NKVD uniform with major’s insignia hunched over in a chair. Thighs almost filling his galife pants, belly harassing the confines of his gymnastyorka and portupeya, Arkady held his cap in his wide hands. His fleshy neck claimed his jawline, and oval spectacles magnified his brown eyes. He’d gone bald on top. The remaining hair, trimmed short on the back of his head and over his ears, showed scattered white hairs in the dark grey. So did his heavy moustache. His eyebrows remained black.
— Arkady Dmitrievich?
Arkady looked up, and Kostya almost cried out. Kostya called Arkady old man in his thoughts, had done so since they’d met. Today, Arkady looked the part: sorrowful, worried, worn.
Arkady pulled on his cap and strode to Kostya, arms wide. —Welcome home, Little Tatar, welcome home.
Speech fled as the floor crashed into Kostya’s knees.
Arkady called to Boris. —Kuznets!
Already hurrying to his next appointment, Boris did not look back. —Tell him ten o’clock tomorrow morning, my office.
Kostya noticed a buckle-worn spot on Arkady’s portupeya and recalled how amber worry beads once hung there. Then he noticed nothing at all.
BEDSIDE MANNER
Friday 28 May
Arkady Dmitrievich Balakirev loathed doctors. His friend Vadym Minenkov once stated as a scientific fact — after too much vodka — that Arkady felt this way not only as part of the class struggle but as a personal penance. Arkady’s father had been a doctor who then married a wealthy woman, and they’d raised their one child in some luxury. Vadym had further mused on patronymics and how one would hope to love or at least respect one’s father, for one could never be free of his name. Arkady then told Vadym he was full of shit. In truth, Arkady feared doctors, not for their own sake — what, those pathetic intellectuals, those arrogant parasites? — but as signals of mortality and so often helpless.
Arkady shifted his weight in the wooden chair and looked down at Kostya, dosed with morphine and bromides and receiving fluids by an IV. Tucked away in this private room, Kostya had slept and slept, almost three days now. Rest, every doctor consulted had said, he needs rest. Dr. Scherba, standing on the other side of Kostya’s bed, had not uttered anything so facile, so obvious. Not yet, at least.
Dr. Efim Scherba, a short man with bright blue eyes, nearly bald with tight greying curls round his ears and the back of his head, studied an X-ray film and did his best to ignore Arkady. This Major Balakirev, his case officer while seconded to Moscow for medical research, reminded Efim of a wild boar: cunning, self-interested, dangerous. The X-ray film, an image of Kostya’s left shoulder and upper arm, showed many tiny pieces of shrapnel, some of it embedded in bone. Efim could guess the patient also suffered from muscle and nerve injury. Sighing, he looked up from the film.
Arkady raised his heavy eyebrows. —Well?
Pretending not to hear Arkady, Efim held the X-ray at a different angle and considered his arrival in Moscow a few hours before. He still felt dizzy with the speed of it all. He’d expected to travel to Moscow later in August, with his wife, Olga. Instead, Leningrad NKVD had knocked on his door, told him the new job started immediately, to pack his bag and please hurry. Olga had also grabbed clothes from a closet, only to flinch when an NKVD officer placed a hand on her shoulder: Not you, only the Comrade Doctor. In those last moments of privacy, the NKVD officers kind enough to wait in the hall, Efim and Olga whispered about obedience and risk. It’s morning, Olga pointed out, adding socks to Efim’s pile of undershorts, not night, so it’s not an arrest, and if the university in Moscow needs you now, then you must go. Efim tore shirts from hangers, asking Then why no letter or telegram? Why NKVD at the door? Is it the abortions? Olga tried to fix Efim’s collar, reminding him thousands of doctors had performed abortions when the procedure was legal, so why would NKVD object to that? Neither of them mentioned the several disappeared colleagues and friends. Then Olga insisted she’d be fine, as safe as anyone else in Leningrad. Efim hardly found that comforting. It’s Moscow, not Kolyma, Olga had said as the officers, sounding less polite now, warned Efim they had only a few minutes to catch the train. Olga’s last whisper: Spare me a martyrdom. Just be a good doctor.
When Efim’s train pulled into Moscow, NKVD officers gathered on the platform. Holster flaps open, they made no attempt at subtlety. One of them, a heavy man in his fifties perhaps, or hard-worn forties, some old Chekist with a thick moustache, and in command — Major Balakirev — spoke with a train guard, and the train guard pointed to Efim’s carriage. As the officers boarded, Arkady scanned the crowd. He spotted his prey, pointed at Efim, then made a chopping gesture with his other hand. The other officers shouted for the passengers to leave, which they did, shoving one another aside in their hurry. Once rid of the passengers, Arkady ordered the other officers to leave and stand guard outside at the carriage doors.
Arkady then settled himself in the seat next to Efim and asked to see his papers. Before Efim could produce them, Arkady waved his hand and explained that asking for Efim’s papers was just a little joke. I know who you are, Dr. Scherba. Welcome to Moscow. Now let’s get you settled in at Laboratory of Special Purpose Number Two. No, no, it’s not part of the university. Neck cold with sweat, Efim objected, pointed out the mistake. Arkady dug out a wad of folded papers from the pouch on the belt of his portupeya, pressed it flat with his hand, and pointed at a signature. Efim’s signature. Well, a competent forgery signalling his acceptance of the position of senior medical officer at the Laboratory of Special Purpose Number Two. Number Two? Efim asked. Yes, Number Two, Arkady said, plenty of special purpose in Moscow. We need to stop by the hospital first. You’ll find life moves faster here than in Leningrad.
Now, a few hours later, standing in a room of a Moscow hospital where he had no privileges, his suitcase near the door, Efim stared at an X-ray film and prepared to offer advice.
Scraping the chair on the floor, Arkady heaved his bulk and stood up. —You’ve had long enough. Tell me what you think.
— The patient has sustained shrapnel injuries, and he’s exhausted. He can be treated here first, then moved to a rest home.
Arkady took the X-ray film. —A rest home?
Efim almost asked for the film back, to confirm the patient’s name, which he must have misread. Nikto? —Proper convalescence, recovery in fresh air and sunshine, plenty of kumis to drink, and no physical strain until he is ready to resume work.
— He’s ready now.
— He’s unconscious. And he’s got fourteen pieces of shrapnel in him.
— Splinters.
— If nothing else, the strain on his nervous system—
— His nerves are fine.
— If you’re so certain, Comrade Major, then why do you ask my opinion?
Arkady strode to the hand-washing sink and turned on a faucet. Then he took out a lighter, ignited a flame, and held it to the X-ray film. —He needs to work. It’s as simple as…shit!