Krymov got up. His feet were numb from sitting so long on the chair; at his first steps they almost gave way under him. He thought hurriedly, both while he was in the lavatory with the soldier watching him, and on his way back. He had a lot to think about.
When he got back the investigator was no longer there. A young man was sitting in his place. He had a captain's blue epaulettes on his uniform, bordered with red braid. He looked sullenly at Krymov as though he had known and hated him all his life.
'What are you standing up for?' he barked. 'Go on, sit down. And sit up straight, you sod. You'll catch it in the guts if you keep on slouching like that. That'll straighten you out.'
'So now we've introduced ourselves,' thought Krymov. He felt terrified, more terrified than he had ever felt during the war.
'Now it's going to begin in earnest,' he thought.
The captain let out a cloud of tobacco smoke. Through the haze, his voice continued: 'Here's a pen and some paper. Do you think I'm going to do your writing for you?'
The captain obviously enjoyed insulting him. Or was he just doing his duty? Perhaps he was like an artillery officer ordered to keep on firing day and night simply to fray the enemy's nerves.
'Don't slouch like that! Do you think you're here to have a good sleep?'
A few minutes later the captain shouted: 'Didn't you hear what I said? Have you gone deaf?'
He went up to the window, raised the black-out blind and switched off the light. A grey morning looked gloomily into Krymov's eyes. It was the first time he had seen daylight since he had arrived in the Lubyanka.
'So we've whiled the whole night away,' he thought.
Had he ever known a worse morning? Had he really, only a few weeks ago, been lying in a bomb-crater, happy and free, while friendly pieces of iron whistled over his head?
Time had become confused: it was only very recently that he had left Stalingrad, yet he had been sitting here in this office for an interminable length of time.
What a grey, stony light it was. The windows looked out onto the central pit of the Inner Prison. It wasn't light at all – it was just dirty water. Objects looked still more hostile, still more sullen and official than they had under the electric light.
No, it wasn't that his boots were too small; it was simply that his feet had swollen.
How had his past life and work become linked to the time he had been surrounded in 1941? Whose fingers had joined together things that could never be joined? And what was this for? Who needed all this? Why?
His thoughts burned so fiercely that there were moments when he quite forgot the aching pain in his spine and the small of his back. He no longer even felt how his swollen legs were bursting open the tops of his boots.
Fritz Hacken… How could he forget that in 1938 he had been sitting in a room just like this? Yes, but there was something very different in the way he had been sitting then – inside his pocket he had had a pass. What was worst of all was the way he had been so anxious to please everyone – the official in charge of issuing passes, the janitors, the lift attendant in military uniform. The investigator had said: 'Comrade Krymov, please assist us.'
No, there was something still more vile – his desire to be sincere! Yes, now he did remember. All that had been required of him was sincerity. And he had indeed been sincere: he had remembered Hack-en's mistaken appraisal of the Spartakist movement, the ill-will he had felt towards Thalman, the way he had wanted royalties for his book, the way he had divorced Else when Else was pregnant… He had, of course, remembered good things as well… The investigator had noted down the sentence: 'On the basis of many years' acquaintance I consider it improbable that he should have been involved in any direct sabotage against the Party; nevertheless, I am not able totally to exclude the possibility that he is a double agent…'
Yes. He had informed… Yes, and all the information about him in this file – this file that was to be kept in perpetuity – had been gathered from comrades of his who had also no doubt wished to be sincere. Why had he wanted to be sincere? His duty towards the Party? Nonsense! The really sincere thing to do would have been to bang his fist furiously on the table and shout: 'Hacken's my brother, my friend. He's innocent!' But instead he had fumbled about in odd corners of his memory, catching fleas, remembering all kinds of trifles, playing up to the man without whose signature his permit to leave the large grey building would remain invalid. He could remember very well his happy, greedy feeling when the investigator had said to him: 'Just a minute, comrade Krymov, let me sign your pass for you.' He himself had helped to pull the noose round Hacken's neck. And where had the seeker after truth gone when his exit-pass had been signed and validated? Hadn't it been to see Muska Grinberg, the wife of his friend? But then everything he had said about Hacken was true. Maybe, but then so was everything that had been said about him. He really had told Fedya Yevseev that Stalin had an inferiority complex about his ignorance of philosophy. Even the mere list of people he had associated with was quite terrifying: Nikolay Ivanovich Bukharin, Grigory Yevseevich Zinoviev, Lomov, Shatskin, Pyatnitsky, Lomi-nadze, Ryutin, Shlyapnikov with the red hair; he'd been to the Institute to see Lev Borisovich Deborin in the 'Academy'; Lashevich, Yan Gamarnik, Luppol; he'd been to the Institute to see Ryazanov when he was an old man; he'd twice stayed with his old friend Ekhe when he was in Siberia; and then in their day he'd seen Skrypnik in Kiev, Stanislav Kossior in Kharkhov, and Ruth Fischer; and yes… Well, thank God the investigator hadn't mentioned the most important thing of alclass="underline" Trotsky himself had thought well of him…
He was rotten all the way through. Why though? And were they any more guilty than he was? But he hadn't signed any confessions. Just wait, Nikolay, you will! Just like they did! Probably the real horrors are kept till later. They keep you for three days without sleep and then start beating you up. None of this seems much like Socialism, does it? Why does my Party need to destroy me? We were the ones who made the Revolution – not Malenkov, Zhdanov and Shcherbakov. We were merciless towards the enemies of the Revolution. Why has the Revolution been so merciless towards us? Perhaps for that very reason. Or maybe it hasn't got anything to do with the Revolution. What's this captain got to do with the Revolution? He's just a thug, a member of the Black Hundreds.
There he had been, just milling the wind, while time had been passing.
He was exhausted. The pain in his back and legs was crushing him… All he wanted was to lie down on his bunk, stick his legs in the air, flex his bare toes, scratch his calves.
'Stay awake!' shouted the captain, for all the world as though he were shouting out orders in battle.
It was as though the Front would break and the whole Soviet State collapse if Krymov were to close his eyes for one moment.
Krymov had never in all his life heard so many swear-words.
His friends, his closest associates, his secretaries, the people he had had the most intimate conversations with, had gathered together his every word and action. He was appalled when he remembered, 'Ivan was the only person I told about that'; 'That was when I was talking to Grishka – I've known him since 1920'; 'That was when I was talking to Mashka Kheltser, oh Mashka, Mashka!'
Suddenly he remembered the investigator saying that he shouldn't expect any parcels from Yevgenia Nikolaevna… That was a reference to a conversation in his cell with Bogoleev. People had been adding to the Krymov collection as recently as that.