‘Listen,’ I burst out, ‘I couldn’t give a shit about your law. If I have to go to jail I’ll go, but I will never take up arms for your fucking government…’
I was furious, and when I started talking like that I instantly felt powerful, even more powerful than that absurd situation. I was sure, absolutely sure, that I could change this machine that was threatening to regulate my life.
‘Is there a general around, or whatever the fuck you call your authorities? I want to see one, talk to him, since you and I don’t understand each other!’ I raised my voice, and she looked at me with the same expressionless gaze as before.
‘If you want to speak with the colonel, he’s here, but I don’t think that will solve anything. I advise you to keep calm. Don’t make things worse for yourself.’
It was good advice, thinking back on it now. She was telling me something important, I’m sure; she was showing me a better way, but at the time I was blind.
I felt sick. How is it possible, I asked myself, that just this morning I was free, I had my plans for the day, for the future, for the rest of my life, and now, because of a little piece of paper, I was losing my freedom? I wanted to yell and fight with someone, to show how angry I was. I needed to. I cut her off, shouting in her face:
‘For Christ’s sake, Holy Lord on the cross! If I want to talk to someone, I talk to him, period! Where the fuck is this commander of yours, general, whatever the hell he is?’
She rose from her chair and asked me to calm down and wait for ten minutes on the bench. I looked around and I didn’t see any bench. Fucking hell, what is this place? Everyone here is nuts, I thought, as I waited in the dark.
Suddenly a door opened, and a soldier, a middle-aged man, called me by name.
‘Come, Nicolay, the colonel is expecting you!’
I jumped up like a spring and ran over, eager to get out of that disgusting little room as quickly as possible.
We went out into a small courtyard surrounded by buildings all painted white, with propagandist drawings and posters illustrating the exercises that the soldiers had to do to learn to march. We crossed the courtyard and entered a room filled with light, with big windows and lots of flowerpots. In the middle of the flowers there was a bench, and next to the bench a large ashtray.
‘Wait here. The colonel will call you from this door. You can smoke if you like…’
The soldier was kind. He spoke to me in a very friendly tone. I’d calmed down and I felt more secure; it seemed that my situation would be cleared up and that someone would finally listen to me.
‘Thanks, sir, but I don’t smoke. Thank you for your kindness.’ I was trying to be as nice as possible myself, to make a good impression.
The soldier bade me goodbye and left me alone. I sat there on the bench, listening to the soldiers who had come onto the courtyard for drills. I looked out the window.
‘Left, left, one, two, three!’ the drill sergeant shouted desperately. He was a young man in an immaculate military uniform, marching along with a platoon of men who didn’t seem to have any desire to march.
‘Nicolay, you can come in, my boy!’ called out a firm male voice. Despite its kind, almost sweet tone, the voice had something off about it, a false note you could hear underneath.
I went up to the door and knocked, asking permission to enter.
‘Come in, son, come in!’ he said, his voice still kindly and brimming with friendliness. He was a big, strong man sitting at an enormous desk.
I went in, closed the door, and took a few steps towards him, then suddenly I halted.
The colonel was about fifty and was very stocky. His head, which was shaven, was marked by two long scars. His green uniform was snug; his neck was so wide that his jacket collar was completely taut, as if it were about to tear open. His hands were so large that you could barely see his nails, they were so deeply set. A split ear suggested he was an experienced wrestler. His face might have been copied from the Soviet military propaganda posters of the Second World War: unrefined features, a straight wide nose, big resolute eyes. On the left side of his chest a dozen medals hung in a row.
Jesus help me, this one’s worse than a cop… I could already imagine how our meeting was going to end. I didn’t know where to start; it was like there was no way I would be able to express myself in front of somebody like him.
Suddenly, interrupting my thoughts, he spoke. He was looking through a file similar to the ones in which police keep confidential information on criminals.
‘I’ve been reading your story, my dear Nicolay, and you’re starting to grow on me. You didn’t do very well in school, in fact you didn’t do much at all, but you did play four different sports… That’s good. I played a lot of sports when I was young too. Studying is for the weak; real men do sports, prepare themselves for combat… You did wrestling, swimming, long-distance running and target shooting… Good, you’re well prepared; I think you have a good future ahead of you… There’s just one flaw: Tell me, why do you have two convictions? Did you steal something?’ He looked me straight in the eyes and if he could have done he would have looked right into my mind.
‘No, I didn’t steal anything; I don’t steal from people… I beat up a few guys, twice. They charged me with “attempted murder with serious bodily harm”…’
‘That’s nothing, don’t worry… I got into fights when I was young too; I understand completely. Men need to make their space in the world, to define themselves. Fighting is the best way – that’s how you find out who’s worth something and who’s not even worth spit…’
He was talking as if he were about to give me a prize. I felt uncertain; I didn’t know what to say and above all I didn’t know how to explain to him that I had no intention of doing military service.
‘Listen, son, I couldn’t care less about your jail time, your criminal convictions and all the rest of it; I think you’re a good kid, God bless you, and I want to help you out because I like you. I have your whole life written here, from your first day of school…’ He set the file on the desk and closed it, tying the two ribbons on the side. ‘I’ll give you two choices, something I do only in exceptional cases, for people I really care about. I can put you in the Border Guard and send you to the Tajikistan border – you’ll have a good career, and if you like mountain climbing, it’s perfect. Or, I can put you with the paratroopers, a school for professionals – after six months you’ll become a sergeant and you’ll go far there too. Eventually you could even get into special forces, in spite of your background. The army will give you everything: a paycheque, a home, friends and an occupation at your level. So what do you say? Where do you want to go?’
It was like listening to the ravings of a madman. He was saying things that made no sense at all. The army giving me all the things that I already had! How could I explain to him that I didn’t need an occupation at my level, or friends, or a salary, or a house…
It was like when you get on the wrong train and suddenly realise there’s no way to make it turn back. I took a breath and blurted out my response:
‘To be honest, sir, I want to go home!’
He changed instantly. His face turned red, as if a pair of invisible hands were strangling him. His hands balled into fists and his eyes took on a strange glint, like the sky before a storm.
He took my file and threw it in my face. I managed to put up my hands in time to ward off the blow. The file hit my fingers and came open, and the papers scattered all over the room, on the desk, the windowsill, the floor.
I stood as still as a statue. He kept glaring at me, full of hatred. Then he suddenly began shouting in a terrible voice, which I could immediately tell was his real one: