He did not need to be told that the transplant of bone marrow from his elder son had not gone well. His body told him that with its pain and feverish heat. "Comrade Plumber," he called weakly. "Can you find a nurse? I need a bedpan very badly."
From the other bed Sheranchuk called back in a troubled voice, "At once! But your son Vassili is here to see you."
"Then let him get the nurse," said Smin, "and he may come in afterward."
Sheranchuk tried a reassuring smile at the boy waiting just outside the door. "You heard," he said, wondering what new worry it was that made Vassili Smin look so much as though he were going to cry. "The nurses' station is at the end of the hall, please."
"Of course," Vassili said, casting one more horrified glance toward his father's bed. Although the screens were in place, they did not conceal everything. Vassili saw the clamps that looked like long, ugly scissors hanging from tube connections to keep them tight, the orange and white hoses that dangled from plastic bottles on stands — worst of all, the blue-paneled box that clicked and blinked with red lights. When he had found a nurse and returned to the room, Vassili sat resolutely by Sheranchuk's bed, not looking toward his father. Certainly not listening to those ugly, intimate sounds that came from him.
Sheranchuk tried to help. "Look," he said, talking to cover the sounds, "see what the American doctors have brought us." He displayed a little flashlight, a pocket calculator, and best of all a wonderful small flat box, tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand, that was an electronic alarm clock. "Your father has received them too, Perhaps he will give you the calculator."
But Vassili was not to be diverted from his misety. Alarmed, Sheranchuk said, "What is it, Vassili? Have you had some bad news that worries you?"
The boy looked at him through tears. "Yes, I have had bad news, and what worries me is that I must tell it to my father."
And when Smin heard the news a few minutes later, he sat up straight in his bed, regardless of all the tubes and wires and catheters, and cried, "Nikolai? Arrested on a narcotics charge? But that is completely out of the question!"
"It's true, Father," sobbed his younger son, casting an imploring glance at the other bed, where Sheranchuk was scowling blackly as he pretended to devote all his attention to reading a newspaper.
"It cannot be true," Smin whispered. But as he fell back against his pillow, he knew that it must be. He closed his eyes, cursing silently. This terrible weakness! It was worse than the pain. Yes, to be truthful, the pain was almost unbearable, in spite of everything the doctors could do. His whole body was a mass of stinking, running sores. He could hardly swallow, he could not piss or move his bowels without agony, and yet he must do those things every few minutes anyway. But the pain could be borne, if only he had the strength to act — to get out of this bed, at least. And go to see his son! Or to plead with his son's captors. Or to go to anyone, to do anything, to try to get this matter somehow set aside.
It was at least a mercy that he was having one of the less and less frequent periods of not only wakefulness but even lucidity. "Tell me exactly what happened, Vassa," he begged, and listened in misery as the boy explained how the organs had come for his brother. Yes, of course it was the organs; it was a matter of smuggling, after all, and thus under the jurisdiction of the KGB. They had simply appeared and taken Senior Lieutenant Nikolai Smin away. Why had they accused him? Because someone in the hospital had run certain tests on Nikolai's blood or urine or bone marrow — they had endless samples of all of his fluids, of course, to make sure the transplant might work. And that someone had found chemical traces of hashish in Nikolai's sample. . and had reported it at once. "You must not blame the doctors," Vassili said sorrowfully. "It was their duty, of course."
"Of course," Smin croaked sourly. "And how is your mother taking this?"
"She has gone to see what she can do. Grandmother too. She insisted on going along. I don't know where."
Smin sighed despondently. He roused himself to turn on his side and call to his roommate. "Comrade Plumber? I must apologize for intruding this unpleasant family matter on you—"
"It is I who must apologize," Sheranchuk said soberly. "Forgive me. You are having a private conversation with your son and I should not be here. With your permission I will go out to visit friends for a while."
"Thank you," said Smin. He watched Sheranchuk silendy as the man got out of bed, pulled a red-striped pajama top over his bare chest, and. hurried away.
"He is the lucky one," Smin said somberly to his son. "I think he will be released soon, while I—"
"Yes, Father?"
Smin did not finish the thought. It was no longer important that he was sure he would never leave Hospital No. 6 alive. "Ah, my poor Kolya," he whispered in anguish. "If only he had confided in me!"
There was a pause. Then Vassili said, "What would you have done if he had, Father?"
Smin blinked at the boy. "Why, I would have tried to help him, of course. No matter what!" Smin studied his son, struck by something in his tone. "Do you think that would be wrong, Vassili?"
The boy said quickly, "Oh, no. Of course not, Father. A father should help his son."
There was still that false note, though. Smin scowled, trying to force himself to be more alert, more intelligent; something was troubling the boy. "What is it, Vassa? Have I done something wrong?"
"Of course not, Father!"
"Then" — struck by a sudden and unpleasant thought—"is it — that is, have you — I mean, is there something you should tell me?"
"No, Father."
"Yes, Father," Smin insisted. "You have some trouble I don't know about, don't you?"
"Really not," his son said. "I give you my word as a Komsomol."
"Then what is it? I don't have the patience for guessing games, son. Is there something you want to ask me, perhaps about the accident, or something I have done?"
"No."
"Yes!" shouted Smin. "I have not raised you for sixteen years without knowing when something is troubling you. Tell me what it is!"
Vassili opened his mouth. Then he closed it, shaking his head, and abrupdy burst out, "Why did you have me circum-sized, Father?"
Smin gazed at his son in astonishment. The boy went on rebelliously. "Yes, it was done for health reasons, I know — but wasn't it performed on the eighth day after I was born, according to a Jewish religious custom?"
"How did you know it was on the eighth day?" Smin demanded, startled.
"I didn't know. They knew."
"You were questioned?" Smin whispered, in shock.
"Yes, by the organs, for two hours! But I knew nothing to tell them, only— Well, there was that dinner at grandmother's flat; they said it was a religious rite too. They called it a 'seder.' Was it? And then they asked me about a ceremony on my thirteenth birthday."
Smin waved a shaking hand. "What did they do to you?"
Vassili tried to be reassuring. "Nothing at all, Father. Really. They were only asking about these things and the difficulty was that I could not answer. But is it true? Did I have what they called a 'bar mitzvah' on my thirteenth birthday?"
Smin closed his eyes again. It was a mistake. He felt himself drifting off and he could not afford that. He forced himself to rouse and speak to his son. "On your thirteenth birthday you had a birthday party, of course. Thirteen is a significant age, worth special attention. What you had was the best party your mother and I could give you, but it was certainly not a bar mitzvah. You know that. Do you remember any religious services connected with it?"