No, it was only some sentries and medical orderlies.
All Klim could do now was put his trust in God. The surgeon operating was called Gabriel, like the angelic messenger, and that was probably a good sign.
As a teenager, Klim had served as an altar boy in the church. The high-school boys liked to make an impression, taking the collection bowl around the left-hand side of the church where the female parishioners stood. The service boys were allowed to join the priests behind the altar screen to gain a “better understanding of the church service,” but it was there that Klim had parted company with the Orthodox faith once and for all. One day, he had caught the priest taking snuff on the quiet. On another occasion, he had seen the deacon polishing off the last of the sacramental wine. After that, Klim and his friends took to sneaking the occasional nip from the bottles of altar wine themselves.
Klim wore a cross around his neck like an amulet and generally spoke to God in a familiar tone. He grumbled at him when something was wrong and went to church when he needed something. It didn’t matter to him whether the church was an Orthodox or a Catholic one.
Now, Klim felt as though everything he was going through was a punishment for his lack of faith back then. He was experiencing that fiery torment that his divinity teacher at school had promised awaited all lapsed believers.
Again, Klim heard rapid footsteps behind his back and felt himself tense in anticipation.
“So, what have we here?” Trotsky asked, pointing at the satyr peeping out of the sackcloth.
“It’s nothing—” Klim said. “A souvenir. I bought it at the market.”
Trotsky squatted down and gazed at the sculpture. He and the satyr looked rather alike: both had a broad forehead and a similar style beard, only one had no pince-nez, and the other lacked horns.
“Well, well, Comrade Argentinean,” Trotsky mused. “Perhaps you could let us have your souvenir? I think we might be able to use it for propaganda purposes.”
Klim nodded. “Sure.”
“And one more thing,” Trotsky added. “The doctor told me that your wife needs to stay in the hospital car for some time. I don’t want you to be left without anything to do, so we’ll provide you with some socially useful work. Seeing as you’re a journalist, you can write us leaflets about the dangers of religious indoctrination. Comrade Skudra will explain to you what you need to do. He’s a great expert on propaganda. Come with me, and I’ll introduce you to one another.”
Klim rose to his feet, overcome by the unexpected and joyful news. Nina had survived the operation.
He had asked God for a sign as to how to repay him if Nina’s life were spared, and now, Klim had his answer: he was now to write sermons denouncing God’s divinity for these devils in the Red Army. He felt sure that the Almighty was enjoying the irony immensely.
16. LUCIFER
Nina is quite weak and can barely lift her head. Her hair has been cut short, and now, she looks like a sick little pixie with her distant eyes, thin neck, and willowy arms. But she already wants me to come and sit with her. She looks forward to my visits and makes a fuss if Skudra keeps me away for too long. This makes me happy. If my darling is annoyed about something, then that means she still has an interest in this world and has no plans to go drifting off to the next.
She’s worried sick about her family. Zhora and Elena were plotting something, it seems, and were caught in the act. As for the old countess, we’ve no idea what’s become of her.
Nina has decided to go back to Nizhny Novgorod as soon as she’s well enough. She asked me if I would go with her as if I have a choice. I have more important questions on my mind, however. What if Trotsky goes off somewhere with his propaganda train and takes Nina along with him? What if the Whites try to bomb the train again?
I don’t want to move Nina from the hospital car—she’s getting the sort of food and medical attention here that the wounded and sick elsewhere can only dream of.
She has no right to this special treatment, and the only reason she’s still getting it is because Trotsky hasn’t yet had time to reconsider the decision he took in a fit of melodramatic generosity. Now that I’ve sold my soul to the devil, all that remains is for me to carry out my part of the bargain as best I can in the hope that he’ll forget about us.
Our angel, Dr. Gabriel, has said that as long as there are no complications and Nina gets plenty of rest, she ought to recover. Sablin asked to have a look at the patient and went into raptures over her perfect stitches.
“I’m green with envy,” he said as he came out of the hospital car. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to suture a wound like that!”
I only hope that the Red Army will stay put for the time being, and Nina will have time to get better.
The military camp in Sviyazhsk is swelling and growing before our very eyes. Every day, new trains bring reinforcements, but the Reds have taken no military action apart from shelling some of the White steamships since most of the recruits don’t know how to handle their rifles and still need to be trained.
Apparently, the Whites are not strong enough to move up the river Volga. Skudra told me there are plenty of White agitators making speeches in Kazan, but very few soldiers prepared to defend the city. The only troops the Whites can count on are the Czechs, but they’re not ready to die to save Russia. All they want is to get out of here as soon as possible.
I spend my days with the propaganda boys in the former telegraph station. We design posters, put together an army newspaper, and assemble newsstands. We also cut printing paper into strips and trade it for raw vodka. The local peasants glue these strips of paper over their windows to prevent the glass breaking from the bomb and shell blasts.
My job is to write the texts for propaganda leaflets debunking religion under the supervision of Skudra, a former pharmacist’s assistant from Riga.
For example, what is the secret of the sacred, luminous inscriptions that sometimes appear on the walls of churches? The truth of the matter is that there’s no miracle involved at all—just simple chemistry. All you need to do is take some softened beeswax, add white phosphorus, and then use this mixture to draw mysterious symbols that will glow in the dark.
Similarly, if you dissolve white phosphorus in carbon disulfide and dip the wicks of candles in the solution, the solvent will evaporate, and the phosphorus will ignite spontaneously in the open air. That’s how you produce the miracle of Holy Fire.
The people who have gathered in Sviyazhsk are like hordes of army ants. Here the survival of every individual depends on the success of the colony as a whole. Anyone who breaks away from their group will find themselves dead in no time. These “strays” quickly meet their deaths either at the hands of the Reds, the Whites, or the “neutral peasants” whose motto is “A plague on both your houses.” Nina and I have found refuge and protection with the Red Army, so we call it “our army.” I am sure the majority of my “comrades in arms” feel much the same way as we do.
Individual desires or ambitions count for nothing now; the collective is our only hope. God help anyone admitting that they want personal comfort or to be safe, well-fed, rested, and satisfied! As a result, we’re all leading a double life. We’re all pretending to be devoted ants—proud carriers of straw and dead caterpillars. But deep down inside, we’re still humans, and the more human you feel, the more difficult it is to pretend that instead of a heart, you have a dorsal vessel in your chest.