My grandmother started repeating what my grandfather had said to the policeman, and although the man nodded to indicate that he had heard every word, she went on, following the tradition through to the end. There was something false, something theatrical about all this, but it was a scene that had to be acted out; it was a question of criminal dignity.
‘Everyone on the floor, face down. We have a warrant for the arrest of…’ The policeman didn’t manage to finish his sentence, because my grandfather, with a broad and slightly malicious smile – which in fact was the way he always smiled – interrupted him, addressing my grandmother:
‘By the passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who died and rose again for us sinners! Svetlana, my love, ask this stupid cop if she and her friends are from Japan.’
My grandfather was humiliating the police by speaking about them as if they were women. All the other criminals laughed. Meanwhile my grandfather went on:
‘They don’t look Japanese to me, so they can’t be kamikazes… Why, then, do they come armed into the heart of Low River, into the home of an honest criminal, while he is sharing a few moments of happiness with other good people?’
My grandfather’s speech was turning into what the criminals call ‘song’ – that extreme form of communication with policemen where a criminal speaks as if he were thinking out loud, talking to himself. He was merely expressing his own thoughts, not deigning to answer questions or establish any contact. That is the normal procedure when someone wants to indicate to policemen that what he is saying is the only truth, that there is no room for doubt.
‘Why do I see all these dishonest people with covered faces? Why do they come here to dishonour my home and the good faith of my family and my guests? Here, in our land of simple, humble people, servants of Our Lord and of the Siberian Orthodox Mother Church, why do these gobs of Satan’s spit come to afflict the hearts of our beloved women and our dear children?’ In the meantime another policeman had dashed into the room and addressed his superior:
‘Comrade Captain, allow me to speak!’
‘Go ahead,’ replied a small, stocky man, in a voice that seemed to come from beyond the grave. His rifle was aimed at the back of my father’s head. My father, with a sardonic smile, went on sipping his tea and crunching my mother’s home-made walnut biscuits.
‘There are crowds of armed men outside. They’ve blocked off all the roads and have taken hostage the patrol that was guarding the vehicles!’
Silence fell in the room – a long, heavy silence. Only two sounds could be heard: the crunch of my father’s teeth on the biscuits and the wheezing of Uncle Vitaly’s lungs.
I looked at the eyes of a policeman who was standing next to me; through the holes in his hood I could see he was sweaty and pale. His face reminded me of that of a corpse I had seen a few months earlier, after it had been fished out of the river by my friends: its skin was all white with black veins, its eyes like two deep, murky pits. There had also been a hole in the dead man’s forehead where he had been shot. Well, this policeman didn’t have a hole in his head, but I reckon both he and I were thinking exactly the same thing: that before very long he was going to have one.
Suddenly the front door opened and, pushing aside the policeman who had just delivered his chilling report, six armed men, friends of my father and my grandfather, entered the room, one after the other. The first was Uncle Plank, who was also the Guardian of our area; the others were his closest associates. My grandfather, completely ignoring the presence of the policemen, got to his feet and went over to Plank.
‘By Holy Christ and all His blessed family!’ said Plank, embracing my grandfather and shaking his hand warmly. ‘Grandfather Boris, thank heaven no one has been hurt!’
‘What is the world coming to, Plank? It seems we can’t even sit quietly in our own homes!’
Plank started speaking to my grandfather as if he were summarizing what had happened, but his words were intended for the ears of the policemen:
‘There’s no need to despair, Grandfather Boris! We’re all here with you, as we always are in times of happiness and trouble… As you know, my dear friend, nobody can enter or leave our houses without our permission, especially if he has dishonest intentions…’
Plank went over to the table and embraced all the criminals, one by one. As he did so he kissed them on the cheeks and gave the typical Siberian greeting:
‘Peace and health to all brothers and honest men!’
They gave the reply that is prescribed by tradition:
‘Death and damnation to all cops and informers!’
The policemen could only stand and watch this moving ceremony. By now their rifles were drooping as low as their heads.
Plank’s assistants, communicating through the women present, told the policemen to get out.
‘Now I hope all the cops present will leave this house and never come back again. We’re holding their friends, whom we captured earlier; but once they’re out of the district we’ll let them leave in peace…’ Plank spoke in a calm, quiet voice, and if it hadn’t been for the content of his words, from his tone you might have thought he was telling a gentle, soothing story, like a fairy tale for children before they went to sleep.
Our friends formed a corridor with their bodies, along which the policemen began to file, one by one, hanging their heads.
I was elated; I wanted to dance, shout, sing and express some great emotion that I couldn’t yet understand. I felt I was part of, belonged to, a strong world, and it seemed as if all the strength of that world was inside me.
I don’t know how or why, but suddenly I jumped down from the bench and rushed into the main room, where the red corner was. On the shelf, lying on a red handkerchief with golden embroidery, were the guns of my father, my uncle, my grandfather and our guests. Without thinking, I picked up my grandfather’s magical Tokarev and ran back to the policemen, pointing it at them. I don’t know what was going through my head at that moment; all I felt was a kind of euphoria. The policemen were walking slowly towards the door. I stopped in front of one of them and stared at him: his eyes were tired and seemed bloodshot; his expression was sad and desolate. I remember for a moment feeling as if all his hatred was concentrated on me. I aimed at his face; I tried as hard as I could to pull the trigger, but couldn’t move it a millimetre. My hand grew heavier and heavier and I couldn’t hold the pistol up high enough. My father burst out laughing, and called out to me:
‘Come here at once, you young rascal! It’s forbidden to shoot in the house, don’t you know that?’
The policemen left, and a group of criminals followed them, escorting them to the boundary of the district; and then, when the escort came back, the second car, containing the policemen who were being held hostage, started off towards the town. But it was preceded by a car belonging to Plank’s friends, who drove slowly to prevent the policemen from speeding up, so that the locals could insult them at their leisure, accompanying them out of the district in a kind of victory ceremony. Before they started off, someone had tied a washing line onto the back of their car with various things hanging on it: underpants, bras, small towels, dishcloths, and even one of my T-shirts, my father’s contribution to the work of denigration. Scores of people had come out of the houses to watch the sight of this washing line snaking its way along. The children ran along behind the car, trying to hit it with stones.
‘Look at those thieving cops! They come to Low River to steal our underpants!’ shouted one of the crowd, accompanying his comments with whistles and insults.