Again, again, again, again, again, until those using Nagants called for a pause to reload. Those using Tokarevs smirked and made loud complaints about the slowness of revolvers, about shooting one’s load too early. After all, a Tokarev pistol carried eight rounds, clearly the superior weapon, comrades.
Seven prisoners at a time, thought Kostya. How many in total? And why the hell can’t the Tokarevs just load seven rounds in the magazine?
When the Tokarevs had to pause to reload, they informed the Nagants that loading a magazine felt much like thrusting inside a woman.
Kneel.
Aim.
Fire.
Kneel, aim, fire, fire, fire, fire…
When the Nagant users called for a second reload, everyone took a break. The chained dogs snarled at any man who came too near, and the air stank of soil and blood.
Back inside, men scooped up Troynoy to splash on their faces; red tendrils stained the liquid. At the other barrel, they scooped up vodka, some in tin cups, others in their bare hands. The vodka, too, reddened. Cocaine appeared, thick lines of it. Left arm almost numb, Kostya refused the first offer, instead drinking more vodka. The second offer? Yes, comrade. Head nodding in a sudden and desperate need to sleep, he sniffed a line off the back of someone’s bloodspattered hand. Lights brightened; laughter sharpened; pain calmed.
Clarity. Purpose.
— Kneel!
Kostya laughed at the sky.
— Aim!
Tears ran down his face, his jaw.
— Fire!
Seven bullets, four in joy, two in doubt, one in despair.
A prisoner died yet failed to fall into the pit. He had to kick her corpse.
Reload.
Insult the Tokarev-lovers.
Kneel, aim, fire.
Pause for the Tokarevs.
Kneel, aim, fire.
Five more rounds.
Reload.
Curse the dogs.
Threaten to shoot the dogs.
Another line of cocaine as the man offering it spoke of strawberries growing in places like the fertile poligon, so lush, so sweet…
Kneel, aim, fire.
They sang ‘Yablochko,’ over and over.
More vodka. Crying out as he moved his left arm, grateful no one noticed, Kostya now understood why they stood so close to the prisoners. He could not shoot straight from any distance now even if someone aimed a gun to his own head.
And if I can’t shoot, then these apes…
Kneel, aim, fire.
He drank bloodied Troynoy by mistake. It packed a better hit than the vodka.
The dogs snapped and snarled. The men dropped ammunition as they tried to reload. The shooting postures changed and changed again: two-handed grip, one-handed grip, left hand behind the back or left arm slack, as the officer preferred, or as he needed so he might keep his balance.
Everyone laughed.
The Nagant so warm, so heavy…the stink, the stink…
Kostya noticed him then, over behind the vodka barrel. Taller than the others, quite slender, long golden hair tucked up beneath his cap, like a woman in some pathetic disguise in a bad play, he drew his weapon: not a gun, but a sword. His huge eyes fixed on Kostya, eyes of flame.
Gavriil?
Kneel.
No, wait, the ikon…
Aim.
Gavriil stood beneath the beam of a searchlight and shone the brighter.
Fire.
— I said, fire!
Kostya flinched: only his prisoner remained, screaming, screaming in animal terror, worse than the dogs. He staggered forward, jammed the muzzle of the Nagant in the base of the man’s skull, fired.
Spat.
Told himself he’d been stupid to bother with a clean gymnastyorka.
Sought Gavriil, failed to find him.
A call for a break to let the guns cool.
Two of the men found a strawberry patch and soon praised the fruit, so lush, so sweet. A third clapped Kostya on the good shoulder and offered him yet more cocaine. —Here, I’ve got the good shit. Stay sharp, Comrade Senior Lieutenant. We’ve got four hours to go yet.
THE BUTTER PRINCE
Tuesday 8 June
The radio announcer gave a time check. —At the tone, the time is fifteen hundred hours, or three p.m.
The lock clicked.
Temerity looked up. She sat in the front room, gnawed by fear’s fatigue, with the 1936 Directory for All Moscow splayed open on her lap. Efim Antonovich home? At this hour?
She’d paced the flat for much of the night in Kostya’s absence, checking the lock every few minutes, just in case, because maybe this time, this time, it would release. When she did sleep, dreams thieved any rest, dreams of exile and flight. She’d struggled to read a map in the last dream, a map on which borders writhed and legends blurred.
Now she struggled with the tiny typeface of the telephone directory.
God’s sake!
Kostya lay asleep, in his bedroom. He’d returned home around five that morning, loud and staggering, almost incoherent, waking both Temerity and Efim. Beneath waves of Troynoy cologne, he gave off a terrible odour: sweat, cordite, blood. Unclean, Temerity had thought. Kostya had then complained of pain in both his shoulders, ache of heavy use in the right, usual mess in the left. Done with that, he cursed about the tepid trickle of the shower. When Efim asked Kostya how he’d irritated his shoulder, Kostya shouted that Efim enjoyed no right to question him, and neighbours beat their fists on the walls. Then Kostya had laughed, low and steady. I couldn’t shower with those apes. I’m a senior lieutenant.
The two men had disappeared, Efim emerging a few moments later to the front room where Temerity sat. He seemed angry with her. In the animal kingdom, Nadezhda Ivanovna, it’s adapt or die. How much longer will you be with us?
So, on hearing the lock click and the door open, Temerity expected Efim, and she expected him still to be in a foul mood.
Instead, a different footfall, and a lower voice, almost melodious. —Kostya?
Temerity kept still, waiting for Kostya to respond.
Silence.
The man eased the door shut behind him, pried off his boots with the wooden bootjack, and padded into the kitchen. —Kostya, it’s just me. I don’t want to startle you.
Temerity hurried to put the phone book down before this man rounded the corner. —He’s asleep.
— Oh?
A man who looked to be in his fifties, shorter than Kostya, fluffy hair snow white, eyes bright blue, peeked into the front room. He wore NKVD uniform and took off his cap. —I am Vadym Pavlovich Minenkov, an old friend. And you, dear?
Temerity walked towards him. —Nadezhda Ivanovna Solovyova.
Vadym held out his hand, as though ready to accept something; Temerity held out hers. He kissed it, thinking how this petite woman with her dark hair and round hips looked nothing like Kostya’s previous willowy blondes. If well fed, she might run to a pleasing embonpoint. The eyes, the cast of her face, yes, compelling. Then he noticed her bare feet: a vulgar display. New days, new ways, he told himself, retrieving a brown paper package from the pouch on his portupeya. —Here, my dear, take this. I found dried mushrooms. Our Kostya adores mushrooms.
— Oh, so do I.
— He likes the agarics in a soup, a beef broth if you can manage it, and the puffballs and reindeer antlers sautéed in butter and black pepper and served on toast. Have you got any butter?