We started afresh; once again, all my personal details, including, this time, those of my convictions: the article numbers, and the dates. Then my health: diseases, vaccinations; she even asked me if I consumed alcohol or drugs, if I smoked cigarettes. And so it went on for an hour… I couldn’t remember the exact dates of my convictions, so I made them up on the spur of the moment, trying at least to get the right time of year, and if possible the right month.
When we had finished I tried to explain to her that it must have been a mistake, that I couldn’t do military service, that I had asked for and been granted a postponement of six months, promising that in the meantime I would finish a course of study and then go to university. If everything went according to plan, I added, I was going to open a school of physical education for children, there in Bender.
She listened to me – but without looking me in the eye, which worried me. Then she gave me a sheet of paper: it said that from that moment onwards I was the property of the Russian government and my life was protected by the law.
I couldn’t understand what all this meant in practical terms.
‘It means that if you try to escape, self-harm or commit suicide, you’ll be prosecuted for damaging government property,’ she informed me coldly.
I suddenly felt trapped. Everything around me began to seem much more ominous and sinister than before.
‘Listen,’ I snapped, ‘I couldn’t give a shit about your law. I’m a criminal, period. If I have to go to jail I’ll go, but I’ll never pick up the weapons of your fucking government…’
I was furious, and when I started to talk like that I immediately felt strong, even stronger than that absurd situation. I was sure, absolutely sure, that I would succeed in changing this machine that was supposed to regulate my life.
‘Where are the fucking generals, or whatever you call your authorities? I want to see one and talk to him, since I can’t make you understand!’ I raised my voice, and she looked at me with the same indifferent expression as before.
‘If you want to speak to the Colonel, he’s here, but I don’t think it’ll get you anywhere… In fact, I advise you to keep calm. Don’t make things worse for yourself…’
It was good advice, if I think about it now. She was telling me something important, I’m sure of it; she was trying to show me a better way, but at the time I was blinded.
I felt sick. How can this be, I said to myself. Only this morning I was free, I had my plans for the day, for my future, for the rest of my life, and now, because of a piece of paper, I was losing my freedom. I wanted to shout and argue with someone, show them how angry I was. I needed it. I interrupted her, shouting in her face:
‘Jesus, Blessed Lord on the cross! If I want to speak to someone, I speak to him, and that’s that! Where is this fucking commandant, general, or whatever he’s called?’
She got up from her chair and asked me to calm down and wait for ten minutes, on the bench. I looked around but couldn’t see any bench. ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, what is this place? Everyone’s crazy here,’ I thought, as I waited in the dark.
Suddenly a door opened and a soldier, a middle-aged man, called me by my first name:
‘Come with me, Nikolay. The Colonel’s expecting you!’
I jumped up like a spring and ran towards him, eager to get out of that dingy little office as quickly as possible.
We went out onto a small square surrounded by buildings all painted white, with propaganda drawings and posters with pictures of the exercises the soldiers had to do to learn how to march in a group. We crossed the square and entered a room full of light, with large windows and lots of flowers in pots. Among the flowers was a bench, and beside 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 talked to me in a very friendly tone. I had calmed down and felt more confident; it seemed that my situation was at last going to be cleared up and my voice heard.
‘Thank you, sir, but I don’t smoke. Thank you very much for your kindness.’
I tried to be as polite as possible myself, to create a good impression.
The soldier took his leave and left me alone. I sat there on the bench, listening to the sounds made by the soldiers, who had gone out onto the square for their drill. I watched from a window.
‘Left, left, one, two, three!’ came the desperate shouts of the instructor, a young man in an immaculate military uniform, marching with a platoon of men who didn’t seem very keen on drilling.
‘Nikolay! You can come in, son!’ a very rough male voice called me. Despite its kind, almost gentle tone, there was something false about it, an unpleasant tune in the background.
I approached the door, knocked and asked for permission to enter.
‘Come in, son, come in!’ said a big strong man sitting behind an enormous desk, his voice still amiable and kindly.
I entered, closed the door and took a few steps towards him, then stopped abruptly.
The Colonel was about fifty years old and very stocky. His head, which was shaven, was marked by two long scars. His green uniform was too small for him; his neck was so wide the collar of his jacket was stretched tight and seemed on the point of tearing. His hands were so fat you could hardly see his fingernails, so deep did they sink into the flesh. One split ear was a sure sign of an experienced wrestler. His face might have been copied from the Soviet military propaganda posters of the Second World War: coarse features, straight thick nose, large resolute eyes. On the left side of his chest, a dozen medals hung in a row.
‘Jesus be with me, this guy’s worse than a cop…’ I was already imagining how our meeting might end. I didn’t know where to start; I felt incapable of expressing what I wanted to say in front of someone like him.
Suddenly, interrupting my thoughts, he started the conversation. He was looking at a folder which resembled those in which the police keep classified information about criminals.
‘I’m reading your story, my dear Nikolay, and I like you more and more. You didn’t do too well at school – in fact you hardly ever attended – but you belonged to four different sports clubs… Excellent! I did a lot of sport myself when I was young. Studying is for eggheads; real men do sport and train to become fighters… You did wrestling, swimming, long-distance running and shooting… Excellent! You’re a well-qualified young man; I think you’ve got a great future in the army… There’s only one blemish. Tell me, how did you get two convictions? Did you steal?’
He looked me straight in the eye, and if he could have done he would have looked into my brain.
‘No, I didn’t steal anything. I don’t steal… I hit some guys on two different occasions. I was charged with “attempted murder with serious consequences”.’
‘Never mind, don’t worry… I used to get into fights when I was young; I quite understand! Men need to carve out their own space in the world, to define themselves, and the best way of doing that is to fight. That’s where you find out who’s worth something and who’s not worth a spit…’
He was talking to me as if he were about to give me a prize. I hesitated; I didn’t know what to say now, and above all I didn’t know how I was going to explain to him that I had no intention of doing military service.
‘Listen, son, I couldn’t care less about your past in prison, the criminal prosecutions and all the rest of it; as far as I’m concerned you’re a good lad, may Christ bless you, and I’m going to give you a hand because I like you. I’ve got your whole life in writing here, since your first day at school…’ He laid the file on the desk and closed it, tying up the two ribbons at the side. ‘I’ll give you two choices, something I only do in exceptional cases, for people I think very highly of. I can put you in the border guard, on the frontier with Tajikistan: you’ll have a good career, and if you like climbing mountains that’s the place for you. Alternatively I can put you in the parachute regiment, a school for professionals: you’ll become a sergeant after six months and you’ll have a good career there too; and in time you’ll be able to join the special forces, despite your past. The army will give you everything: a salary, a home, friends and an occupation suited to your abilities. Well, what do you say? Which do you prefer?’