‘Yes, Sir!’
‘That’s it, very good. Now go to the door, there’s a truck waiting for you.’ And he turned to the next cell. I stared hard at his back and yelled:
‘Thank you, Sir!’
He waved his hand lazily, without looking at me, as friends do when they part ways after spending the day together.
From the hall, I could see a military truck in the courtyard, and two soldiers with their rifles aimed at me.
‘You! Get in the truck. Now, now!’ one of them shouted in my face.
I knew very well that once I was in there I wouldn’t have another chance to escape. I froze, as if struck by lightning. I still couldn’t believe that what was happening to me was real.
‘Get in the truck, I said! What, are you deaf?’ he taunted, pointing his rifle at me.
I had no choice, and so I got in. Twenty men climbed in behind me, then the armoured door closed and the truck took off.
Inside it was so dark you couldn’t see a thing. Some of them were speaking, asking questions: Where is the train? Is it far away? As if wherever the train was made any difference. Some of the men were calm; they said they already knew where they had been assigned. One said:
‘I don’t care. My father knows the commander at the base they’re sending me to. He set it all up; I’ll hide out for my whole term of service. I’ll pass the time with the country girls…’
As I listened to them talk, I realised that none of them felt responsible for his own life. I was surrounded by children. For many of them, military service was their first opportunity to be on their own, without their parents coddling them. It was a new experience, they said, an adventure. I couldn’t believe my ears. They were losing two years of their life doing something that none of them would ever have chosen to do, and in spite of all that they were happy.
After a few hours, we reached the railway station. It was enclosed by a red brick wall with heavy barbed wire on top. It reminded me of the sorting yard in the central prisons. The train was there on the tracks, with a long row of sleeper cars. Floodlights from the towers illuminated a square full of young men, like me, dressed in civilian clothes. Some carried bags, as if they were going on a holiday. There were guards everywhere, some with dogs; it was just like when they’d taken me to jail. I lost all hope of escape.
My only thought at that moment was procuring a toothbrush and a few other things I needed – I’d left the house without imagining I’d end up here, and I hadn’t brought anything with me. I went up to a guy with a backpack and asked him if he happened to have a toothbrush. He looked at me strangely. It was clear that even though he was taller than me and definitely seemed stronger he still didn’t know a thing about the crude realities of life. I smiled at him.
‘Listen up – give me your toothbrush, toothpaste, towel and soap… I want to show you a trick!’ I tried to sound friendly.
‘What trick?’ he asked.
‘A funny trick, trust me,’ I said, forcing myself to chuckle, as if I actually wanted to astonish him with some sleight of hand.
‘Give me your stuff while there’s still time!’
He looked a little suspicious, but in the end his childlike curiosity won out, and he reached into his backpack, which was full of all kinds of stuff his mummy had packed for him to help make him comfortable during his tour, and pulled out a small bag. I snatched it out of his hands and slipped it under my jacket, and walked away as if nothing had happened.
‘Hey, what about the trick?’ the idiot asked, a smile still on his lips. Poor fool, he still hadn’t realised that I’d ripped him off.
I glared at him, and in an ugly voice replied:
‘Get lost or I’ll rip your eyes out, you piece of shit!’
Filled with shame and fear, head hanging, he walked back over to the others in his group.
As soon as we reached the yard we lined up in fours. There were a few hundred of us altogether. The soldiers passed by and took away whatever they considered ‘useless’, which was nearly everything. Bags, backpacks and any other possessions were immediately confiscated.
‘Money, watches, jewellery, cigarettes… everything out of your pockets!’ the soldiers yelled.
The others looked around, disorientated. The most fragile ones burst into tears after a soldier yelled at them. I was angry, but at the same time I almost felt like laughing at their behaviour.
At last the doors of the train opened and they ushered us on one at a time. Two soldiers made another sweep, throwing everything they found on the floor in a corner: watches, chains and other items, until a giant pile formed. I had put the bag between my legs, inside my underwear – to be more precise, I’d hidden it under my balls. The soldiers didn’t even touch me; I raised my arm to show that I didn’t have anything in my trousers, and they let me by.
I took a place at the window, just as I had done in jail. I had learned that that was the best spot, the safest.
The train hadn’t even pulled away and the complaints had already begun. One guy was whining about the guards hitting him because he hadn’t boarded the train fast enough, others because they’d lost the things they had brought from home. It was clear that they had never felt the sense of vulnerability and powerlessness that you feel in the face of the system, when you are crushed by the reality of power.
After a two-day journey, we reached a place similar to the one we had just left. There were lots of soldiers in the yard wearing various uniforms. It was midday, and all the men had come to the windows to get a look.
And they began to chatter:
’Look, the tankers! They’re here for me, I’m going with them!’
‘The ones in blue berets are the paratroopers. Look, that guy has a bayonet hooked on his boot!’
‘Well, the infantry still have the smartest uniforms!’
The cheerful voices made me nauseous. I wanted to get off that damned train as quickly as possible.
The officers opened the doors and let us out, and then they began to call us, one by one. The first on the list were the ones headed for the infantry, so the yard was immediately half emptied. Then they called the artillery, and almost the entire second half left. After that, they called three groups simultaneously: paratroopers, tankers and motorists. Then there were about twenty of us left. Some officers in blue, navy and white uniforms came; they were the spetsnaz, the autonomous special units of the infantry, and they took most of the rest.
There were three of us left. A man in civilian clothes came, gave us a melancholy look, and said:
‘Saboteurs, let’s go!’ Without waiting for us, he turned and started walking towards the car, an armoured military off-road vehicle parked on the other side of the yard. We didn’t look at one other, just followed him, and after a moment an officer ran after us with a folder full of papers. Each unit’s representative had signed a piece of paper covered with stamps and other scribbles before leaving with his group. Now the officer, still running, yelled at the top of his lungs:
‘Zabelin! Give me your bloody signature for once, you bastard!’
The man in civilian clothes casually kept walking. The soldier gave up, and, cursing, gestured contemptuously in our direction.
‘Your unit is bullshit; you’re just a bunch of amateurs!’
The man in civilian clothes stood by the car with the keys in his hand, staring at us.
‘All right, boys, I’m Senior Lieutenant Zabelin, in charge of the saboteur training unit… Which of you boys can drive?