A drinking song. Kostya recognized it; characters sang a politer variant in the movie Lieutenant Kizhe. Soon five other voices joined in.
The driver shook his head, in fondness. —Special Squad Number Three in there. Those guys can sing all night. Must be fun at a party.
— Let’s go.
As they pulled onto the street, the driver attempted small talk: the weather, the state of the roads, the sudden availability of lemons. He soon gave up and joined the song. The sky darkened as they crossed the eight-lane Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge, smooth asphalt and painted lines pointing to the Soviet promise of a radiant future.
Kostya looked up. The sky looks bruised.
The men sang and sang.
They continued south, Kostya oblivious to their progress until the brakes squeaked and the engine stopped.
As he hopped out of the lorry, the smells of the poligon reached him: diesel, sweat, earth, and dogs. Then he saw the wooden barracks, a separate stone cottage, and the range itself, gated and fenced like a courtyard with guard towers at each of the four corners. On each guard tower stood an electric searchlight. The dogs sounded agitated, even frightened, barking with an urgency that made Kostya frown. A tractor engine idled.
Inside the barracks, in what looked like a dining hall made over into a maze of men and desks, Kostya presented himself to the man in charge, a master-sergeant, and wrinkled his nose at the reek of Troynoy cologne. The master-sergeant raised his eyebrows when he read Kostya’s insignia and identification card, then snarled at his colleagues to stand up and greet the senior lieutenant. A little chill passed between the poligon regulars as they obeyed. No doubt this senior lieutenant had come to inspect them, to review their efficiencies.
To report.
Kostya nodded his approval. —Thank you, comrades. Carry on.
The photographer wrestled with his flash; his assistant attached a little wooden bracket stuck on the end of a thin steel rod to the back of a chair. A clerk knocked his overflowing in-tray to the floor; Kostya retrieved it. The dossiers, mostly tied shut, held their contents, no release here, and the clerk babbled his thanks. Then the clerk turned pale and backed away. Sweat appeared on his forehead, and he asked the master-sergeant to excuse him.
The master-sergeant shook his head. —Not now, you fool.
An odour of excrement wafted.
Kostya stared at the clerk. Really?
The master-sergeant struck the clerk upside the head, called him a pig, and dismissed him. The man walked backwards away from them, only turning when he reached a door. Then he ran.
The master-sergeant ordered another man to replace the clerk, then muttered he’d see the first clerk shot. Eyes to the ground, his subordinates laughed. A joke, of course. Just a joke.
As the rest of the men of Special Squad signed in, the master-sergeant picked up a piece of paper, a typewritten list. He read it, looked up at Kostya, read it again. —Your name is on the duty roster?
Kostya nodded. —I could have avoided it, but then I’d never get the taste out of my mouth.
More laughter, more downcast eyes.
And a little tug at the master-sergeant’s own mouth. Senior Lieutenant Nikto must hover near disgrace. Sending such a man to the arse end of the city for poligon duty? An insult, surely. A whiff of demotion.
Kostya read these thoughts in the master-sergeant’s eyes, sidled up to him, and spoke in a murmur. —I’m here because I’m an excellent shot, Comrade Master-Sergeant. What do you say: three rounds into the wall, one next to each of your ears and one just over the top of your head? Or between your legs, yes?
The master-sergeant inclined his head just enough to signal a bow. —Not necessary, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.
The photographer called out. —Ready.
From far within the barrack, prisoners queued, clothing rumpled, hair greasy, faces dirty and stubbled. One at a time, a prisoner proceeded to the first desk, sat down, and reviewed metriks with the clerk.
Surname, first name, patronymic.
Age.
Address.
Hair colour, eye colour, height and weight, ethnicity.
The prisoner proceeded to the second desk, here confirming the correct duplication of his metriks on the execution warrant. Surname, first name, patronymic. Age. Address. Hair colour, eye colour, height and weight, ethnicity. This time the prisoner also signed on a large piece of paper so the clerk could compare the present signature with the recorded one.
Third desk, to witness a third clerk stamp the warrant.
To the chair before the camera.
The assistant reviewed the stamped form and wrote the prisoner’s name on a little slate with chalk.
— Place your head in the wooden bracket, comrade. Hold the slate up. A little higher. Good. Bright light. Turn to the side, please. Bright light. Thank you, comrade. Next.
The prisoner stood up, seeing only spots of yellow. His vision cleared, and an officer came into focus within swirls of smoke: a handsome man, wavy black hair, big green eyes, livid red scars on his left ear and neck. The prisoner reached for the officer, asked him for a cigarette. A hand on his elbow then: the photographer’s assistant steered him to the doorway that led to the courtyard. The prisoner mumbled an apology. One did not bother secret policemen for cigarettes when shuffling towards death.
Dogs barked.
The camera flashed, flashed, flashed.
The master-sergeant stood near Kostya and cleared his throat. —Special Squad is in the stone house. Would you like to see it?
Drawing hard on his cigarette, Kostya nodded. Then he followed the master-sergeant to the little stone house, unfurnished and unlit, and discovered some of the men of Special Squad drinking vodka from one of two barrels. The master-sergeant introduced him; the men of Special Squad responded with correct protocol, if little enthusiasm. Kostya moved to the other barrel, bent over to scoop some up in his hand, flinched — not vodka but Troynoy cologne.
His eyes burned.
Then he laughed at himself, making sure the men noticed. Cautious and deferential, they invited him to the vodka barrel. When he scooped up a drink in his hands, they nodded and smiled.
Search lights clicked on and illuminated the courtyard. Dogs growled and whined now; men snarled at them to shut up. The men inside the stone house lined up and marched into the courtyard; Kostya among them.
Seven prisoners now stood in the courtyard, facing a guard tower and a wall, the lip of a long pit at their feet.
Kostya followed the other officers to line up behind the prisoners. On a table to their right, the table tilted slightly on the uneven ground: boxes and boxes of bullets, one neat pile for the Tokarevs, and one neat pile for the Nagants.
As a tractor chugged, Kostya noticed how much soil in the courtyard seemed fresh beneath tire prints. The courtyard would soon run out of room for mass graves.
The Special Squad now stood in a perfect line about two metres back from the pit.
Voices murmured and whispered; prisoners bargained with the officers, bargained with God.
— Kneel!
The prisoners obeyed. Some also bowed their heads.
— Aim!
The officers pulled their weapons from holsters. Three of the men, Kostya noted, used a Tokarev, and the other three, like him, used a Nagant. Each man aimed at the back of a skull.
— Fire!
Dogs howled.
No one knelt at the edge of the grave.
The next seven prisoners marched to the lip of the pit.
Prisoners knelt.
Officers aimed.
— Fire!