Ivanov clutched the remnants of his gray hair. “And this is the Foreign Department, the pride of the OGPU!”
With each new case, it became clearer exactly what sort of people worked for the secret police: opportunists looking for easy money and ordinary bureaucrats—petty, ignorant, and vindictive.
They had taken up residence in the citadel of the Lubyanka like hyenas in caves. They went out to hunt because they needed to eat, and they hung on to their positions because everyone was afraid of the OGPU and because they themselves feared nothing and no one except the hyenas in the lair next door.
Alov had not raised his hand nor asked any questions. It was quite obvious the views of the employees had no effect on the decisions of the commission. Drachenblut and Babloyan had already decided in advance who would be “drowned” and who would be “saved” and settled all questions with a vote of two to one.
The meeting had been going on for three hours.
“Oh, why don’t they hurry up!” whispered Diana Mikhailovna barely audibly. “Now all the stores are about to shut, and I’ve got no food in the house.”
Alov tried to get away to go to the bathroom, wanting to check up on Rogov at the same time, but he was not allowed to leave.
“You should have thought about going to the bathroom earlier,” muttered Ivanov.
Only Eteri Bagratovna, was allowed to leave the room once in a while to bring in a fresh carafe of water or replace a broken pencil.
Once, on her return, she walked up to the chairman’s table and said something to the members of the commission. Drachenblut and Babloyan glanced at one another.
“Well, then,” said Ivanov in an ominous tone, looking around at the silent officers. “Let’s have a look at Alov’s work record.”
Babloyan picked up Alov’s files and began to shower him with questions that had nothing to do with Marxism and was all about Dunya and the theater group.
Alov, stifled by his cough, was unable to defend himself.
“I fear our friend Alov has absolutely lost his consciousness of class war,” pronounced Babloyan. “Where does he get this haughty attitude toward the efforts of the proletarian youth?”
Ivanov nodded in agreement. “His actions fail absolutely to answer the demands of our ideology.”
Drachenblut listened patiently as they talked gibberish about imperial chauvinism and poor moral character.
“Which of you supports the opinion that Alov has cut himself off from the masses?” Drachenblut asked.
Those officers who had not yet been questioned immediately realized that Alov was a clear candidate for dismissal. His name could take up one of the spaces on the quota for expulsion, and they all began to attack Alov.
Even Zharkov joined in. “For some time, Alov has been a man without a societal face.”
Not a single specific accusation was made against Alov. Everybody merely called him names that signaled something bad. What could he say in return? “It’s not true! I do have a societal face!”?
Alov stared dully at Drachenblut. Help me! he implored silently. But Drachenblut was looking the other way.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “Alov has not been able to win foreign journalists over to our side. As a result, he has been making enemies of potential friends of the USSR. I am of the opinion that Alov does not deserve to be a member of the Communist Party. Let’s put it to a vote.”
The decision was passed unanimously.
The meeting was over, and the officers took chairs and went back to their offices—some content, and others in a state of near desperation.
Alov caught up with his boss as Drachenblut was leaving the room. “Babloyan attacked me because of my wife. He’s a womanizer—everybody knows it. He spreads it around that he’s impotent, but you’ve seen for himself what he does and—”
“That has nothing to do with me,” Drachenblut cut him short and tried to push past.
Alov stood in his way. “Let me finish the job I have in hand! I have Rogov in a cell right now. Galina Dorina is working on him now, and by evening, we’ll have a witness statement.”
“Forget about your Galina,” Drachenblut said. “She’s been shot. It happened just now. She went berserk and killed that woman—what’s she called?—the Mincing Machine.”
Alov felt the room swim before his eyes. “What?”
“Go home and take care of that cough,” Drachenblut told him. “And hand in your pass at reception. As from today, you’re dismissed.”
Klim was shaken awake just before dawn. “Rogov? Get your things and come out.”
“Get your things” either meant a transfer to another prison or execution, but Klim felt nothing but dull apathy and emptiness. There was a heavy feeling in his heart too—was he about to have a heart attack? How absurd that would be….
The other prisoners watched in silence as Klim pulled on his dinner jacket onto his bare body.
“God rest your soul,” muttered Billiard, turning over onto his other side.
“So long,” mouthed Ahmed silently.
Klim went out into the corridor.
“Straight ahead. Right. Down the stairs,” the guard gave out curt commands in between yawns.
Klim was led into a room on the ground floor where a duty officer sat behind a counter. The officer passed him a form certifying his release from prison. “Sign this please!”
Klim couldn’t understand what was going on. Was it some sort of trick? Some plot thought up by the OGPU?
With rigid fingers, he took the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote his signature.
The duty officer piled up all the confiscated things on the counter: braces, keys, and so on.
“Our apologies,” he said. “You were arrested by mistake.”
Klim glanced at his wallet. Not even the money had been touched.
He was taken outside the gates and left.
While Klim had been under arrest, snow had fallen, and Moscow had been transformed. He too now bore little resemblance to the old Klim Rogov. He was still not fully aware of all the changes that had taken place in him, but there was definitely something wrong. The pain in his chest was still there, and he kept hearing a ringing in his ears like the chiming of distant bells.
Klim had always been cautious about any signs of illness, but now, he felt no anxiety neither did he have any wish to run to a doctor and find out what had happened to him. He just set off home.
On Krivokolenny Lane, Klim saw a small crowd reading a notice that had been posted on the gates. On it was a list of those who had been deprived of their electoral rights and were to be evicted immediately.
A young man in a coat too short for him was stabbing at the blacklist with his mitten, protesting indignantly that he was a useful member of society. “I’m not a lishenets! I’m studying to be a draftsman. I can show you my student card!”
The crowd said nothing. Only the steam of their breath rose up into the air above their heads.
There were other lists on other doorways. Clearly, the Kremlin had taken the decision to expel all potentially dangerous citizens from Moscow. They were carrying out a general purge of society.
Klim had to make a plan of action quickly. If the Party had already begun a wide-scale assault on counter-revolutionaries, the fact that Klim had been set free had been merely a happy accident—a bureaucratic error which had not been noticed in time.
Klim rubbed his cheeks, trying to concentrate. They’ll probably try to arrest me in another few hours, he thought. First, I have to find out what’s happened to Kitty, and then we can work out what to do next.