Like now, gazing through a cloudy pane of glass covered in thick dust. Immobile black fields with small white spots (remnants of snow) spread outside. Ignatov testily taps his fingers on the varnished tabletop.
There were fifteen deaths during one eight-day stretch of idle time.
He’d noticed long ago that people die during the waits. Either the loud knocking of the wheels urges on tired hearts or the swaying of a railroad car calms them. But fact is fact: there’s hardly an idle time when a couple of surnames aren’t crossed out in the gray “Case” folder.
Eleven old people, four children.
When you’re carrying nearly a thousand souls, there’s nothing surprising in a few dying, right? The elderly from old age, some from illnesses. But children, too? Yes, that’s right, from weakness. It can’t be helped; it’s the road.
“Comrade commandant?” Polipyev, the supply manager, puts his head inside the door with a coy knock. “So, lunch? Shall I bring it?”
And then the aroma of thoroughly cooked barley flavored with a touch of salted pork fat floats into the compartment. Crystals of salt sparkle on the long, pearly grains. There’s a thick slice of spongy bread on the side.
Ignatov takes the plate from the tray. Polipyev stands meekly, arms at his sides. He used to attempt to help the commandant by spreading a linen napkin evenly on the table and placing the plate nicely in the center, setting the silverware properly (spoon with knife, to the right; fork to the left) and then the salt and pepper… But this isn’t a commandant, he’s a beast: “If I see those knickknacks one more time…” Well, be my guest if you want to chow without etiquette. Gulp your porridge down with just a spoon.
“Comrade Ignatov,” says Polipyev, lifting the empty tray in front of his chest like a shield, “what’re we going to do with the lamb?”
Ignatov looks up with a heavy, silent gaze.
“April’s almost here, I’m afraid it won’t keep. The ice box is good, of course, but you can’t reason with the weather.” Polipyev lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Maybe we should use it all? I could make any number of things out of it – country cabbage soup and navy-style macaroni. Even consommé with profiteroles… So, soup, main course, and jellied meat from the bones: we’ll eat for a week. Why have we just been eating barley since we set out from Kazan? Your fighters are looking at me with daggers in their eyes. They’ve promised to eat me if I don’t give them meat.”
“They won’t eat you without an order.” Ignatov bites off some bread and takes the spoon in his hand, chewing menacingly. “If the lamb spoils, though, then absolutely I’ll see to it that they eat you.”
Polipyev displays a vague smirk that could be a smile or an acknowledgement of understanding, plus submissive agreement.
“And you!” Ignatov pokes his spoon at Polipyev’s chest. “Can you tell me how much longer we’ll be traveling? A week? A month? Half a year? What am I going to feed you – you personally! – if we eat everything up now?”
“Well, what of it. Let it stay in the ice box, then,” sighs Polipyev and disappears outside the door.
Ignatov throws his spoon.
Lamb!
Canned meat and condensed milk and butter. The refrigerator in the commandant’s railroad car is stuffed with provisions. All these riches are intended for staff: escort personnel, the two stokers, and the engine driver. Well, and the commandant himself, of course. According to the plan, the deportees were to be fed at stations. And this was written in black and white in the special instruction for agencies of the transport division of the State Political Administration: “Throughout the special train’s itinerary, provide uninterrupted supply of hot water to those evicted and organize feeding sites at stations serving hot food at least once every two days.” Well, where are they, those feeding sites?
Ignatov realized at the very first station that this was going to be a problem. Special trains with dekulakized people stretched all along the railway, one after the other, and some were stuck for a long time on the track between stations, awaiting instructions. “Where will I find you all those provisions?” the station chief gently asked Ignatov. “Be grateful I’m giving you hot water.” Ignatov expressed gratitude that hot water was offered so meticulously.
But there’s not enough food for the deportees. Ignatov is glad when he manages to scare up porridge: wheat, oat, barley, occasionally spelt or broken grain. It’s porridge when it can’t be thinned very much. They thin soups mercilessly, for example, several times, sometimes even with icy water. Ignatov has tried arguing with the station officials about this, but it’s no use – they even make accusations. “What, do you pity them or something?” they’ll ask. “I’m responsible for them!” he’ll snap. “Who am I going to hand over at our destination point?” “And where is your destination point?” they say, waving him off.
And truly, where is it? He doesn’t know. Apparently nobody knows. At yet another station, after waiting a week or even two in a holding yard, Ignatov would receive the invariable instruction: “Proceed to point such and such, and wait until further notice.” He proceeds. Arrives. Hurries to the station chief to report. And again waits until further notice.
He calms himself because he isn’t the only one. He’s met other, more experienced commandants at stations and they’ve spoken a little. Yes, they say, we’re also going along until further notice. Yes, people are dying in the railroad cars. Yes, a lot. There’s always this sort of natural attrition, and nobody will question that. The main thing is for you to guard them strictly, so there are no emergencies.
And it would have all been all right if not for the daily rounds… He suddenly realized he was beginning to recognize faces. Each time he sat in his compartment, plunging his spoon into hot, fluffy porridge, he would remember someone, either the emaciated, white-headed adolescent albino with the trusting pink eyes from the third car, or the fat, freckled woman from the sixth with the large scarlet birthmark on her cheek (“Boss man, share at least something, I’m wasting away, I am…”), or the small woman with the pale face and the green eyes half the size of her face from the eighth.
That same thought comes right now: all these people had hot water for lunch today. They’re not people, he corrects himself. Enemies. The enemies had hot water for lunch and this makes the porridge seem flavorless.
He recalls being a three-year-old lad, sitting on the windowsill of their basement window in the evenings, watching for his mother’s square shoes among the feet running along the street. His mother came home after dark. Averting her eyes, she would give him plain hot water to drink and put him to bed.
Fool. Weakling. Crybaby. Bakiev would have ridiculed him, and rightfully so.
He stands and carries his untouched dish off to the kitchen compartment, to Polipyev. Let him choke down his own barley.
That same evening, faint with a disagreeable premonition, Polipyev gives all the lamb from the icebox in the commandant’s railroad car to the deputy chief of the local train station. Dark red with the finest white marbling, the meat disappears into a voluminous wicker basket and floats out of Polipyev’s life forever, just as five or more kilos of butter and a dozen cans of the nicest condensed milk departed the refrigerator earlier. The handover takes place late in the evening, in darkness, on the verbal instruction of the special train’s commandant but without delivery documents and receipts, throwing the cautious Polipyev into a state of vague alarm.