How much does a woman bleed?
He got himself into uniform.
Questions of menstrual cycles irked him all morning, providing a merciful distraction as he emerged from Dzerzhinskaya and strode towards Lubyanka and most certainly did not study a boarded-up office window on the third floor. Inside, he strode to Evgenia Ismailovna’s desk, ready to report in and enjoy the solace of tea, except a different woman sat there. He asked for both Evgenia and Boris. The new woman explained that Comrade Captain Kuznets was busy elsewhere and that Comrade Ismailovna was ill. Kostya nodded, accepting paperwork. Her courses? Former girlfriends had complained of sore breasts and cramps, and refused sex, but, in the end, they’d explained nothing.
How does it feel, to bleed like that, bleed to a purpose, bleed without injury?
These stubborn questions also interfered with his concentration as he interrogated some Comintern members accused of spying, an Italian woman called Nina Fontana who kept asking after her husband and children, and a German woman called Ursula Friesen. Both women spoke passable Russian, despite their injuries. Kostya played his game, addressing each woman in a soft voice, in her own language, offering cigarettes: the Nikto Touch. Everyone in his department marvelled at his skill with foreigners, especially the women. Get Nikto on it. Let handsome Nikto finish it. Call Nikto. Other officers had tried the business with the cigarettes, got nowhere.
The cigarettes, Kostya knew, accomplished little.
It’s the language. Their own language breaks them.
He ached to be anywhere else, free of bare walls and heavy doors, yet here, burrowed in Lubyanka’s basement, burrowed in duty, he felt safe, safe from Vadym’s death.
Ursula and Nina both signed the confession forms, new ones based on Kostya’s templates. Nina extracted a promise from Kostya that she’d be sent to the same camp as her husband, a promise Kostya could not keep and indeed soon forgot. Nina didn’t even try to read her confession form. Instead, she looked her interrogator in the eye and insisted the Soviet government take responsibility for her children. —You’ve a duty, now, comrade. Believe what you like about my guilt, but you know, you know, that my children have done nothing.
Andrei.
Timur.
Timofei.
Enrico, you are now Genrikh. Miguel, you are now Mikhail. Perhaps they’ll call you Misha.
— My children, comrade!
Kostya straightened papers. —I’ll see that they’re looked after.
He ate lunch in the cafeteria, taking his time, the taste of the shchi a little too sharp today, the noise of people eating a little too loud.
Matvei Katelnikov sat at his table and offered him a cigarette. Kostya accepted, and the two officers smoked together, in silence.
Yury Stepanov, eyes bright and strange, as though he struggled with some deep thought, offered him condolences. He sounded sincere. Kostya thanked him. That, too, sounded sincere.
Back in the department, Evgenia’s substitute called out to him, her voice nasal and high. —Comrade Senior Lieutenant Nikto. You’re required for poligon duty tonight.
— What? Why?
She gave him a stern look, almost a warning. —Languages. The commanding officer has asked for help with the paperwork, and you were named.
— That should have been cancelled. I am supposed to be on bereavement leave.
— Your orders are right here. Comrade Captain Kuznets signed them.
— When?
— Earlier this morning.
As Kostya shut his eyes, he saw text dance, and he heard pleas in different languages. —Words, words, words.
— Pardon me, comrade?
Walking away, he called over his shoulder. —I’ll be there. Of my own free will, yet twice as much by compulsion.
— Comrade Senior Lieutenant Nikto!
He froze, and others looked up from their work and conversations. The rebuke and accusation in her voice: a civilian to an NKVD officer? How dare she?
Kostya refused to turn around. —I am busy, comrade. What is it you wish?
— Look at me when I speak to you!
A man’s voice from somewhere behind Kostya: —I will not tolerate this!
Yury Stepanov.
He strode to the woman and slammed his open hands on her desk. —You, comrade, will not presume to command any of us. Comrade Senior Lieutenant Nikto works very hard under extremely difficult circumstances, and you—
— We all work hard, Comrade Sergeant, and I will not—
— Shut up! Shut up, you stupid bitch!
Other officers joined Yury now, and their deep voices rose in a collective until the woman’s higher voice collapsed in tears and defeat.
Kostya got to his office and slammed the door behind him. His startled officemates, subordinate in rank, hurried to their feet, addressed Senior Lieutenant Nikto in tones of respect, apologized that they hadn’t expected him, and explained they could leave. Wishing he’d got the strength to tell them to stay, or even invite them out for a drink, Kostya stood out of their way.
He sat at his desk, almost frantic with paperwork, for hours. Then, not bothering with supper, he signed a car out of Garage Number One and drove himself to the poligon.
Metriks: surname, first name and middle name, for those lacking the cultural habit of patronymic.
Age.
Address.
Hair colour, eye colour, height, weight, ethnicity.
Kostya tugged on a clerk’s sleeve and pointed to a blank on the form. —This one’s German, not Dutch.
— Are you certain, Comrade Senior Lieutenant?
— Can you speak German?
— No, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.
— I can. So I am the one to be certain, yes?
— Yes, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.
Kostya leaned over another desk. —That one’s French.
— Thank you, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.
A third desk and clerk. —Italian.
— Very good, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.
Eyes shut, Kostya rubbed his temples. Welcome to Iosif Vissarionovich’s Butcher Shop. Today’s speciaclass="underline" international cuts. —I need some air.
The master-sergeant heard him. —Don’t go far. We’ll start soon.
— What?
— The squad is short a man tonight. Is that not why you’re here?
Kostya broke a match, took out another, lit his cigarette. —Of course.
Outside, in view of a grassy area perfect for picnics and games, another officer leaned on the stone cottage wall. He wore an old leather coat. —I remember you. Earlier in the summer, one of the Nagants. I’m Lev.
All expectations of etiquette and rank had departed, this poligon its own world now. —Konstantin.
Lev took a packet from his right pocket and pressed it into Kostya’s right hand, whispering the street value of the cocaine inside it.
— Why are you giving this to me?
Lev grinned. —Because you’ll need it tonight. And someday further on, I may need a favour.
Kostya nodded, tucking the little envelope into his pouch. —Hand-some coat. Old Chekist?
— Yes, my father’s. I had a cough last week, so he insisted I wear it to work, keep warm. I’m almost cooked. If I take it off, you won’t tell him, will you?
— Your secret’s safe with me.
Cigarette done, Lev headed inside, where the barrels of vodka and Troynoy stood ready, where other executioners prepared for the night’s work.
Kostya followed him. Then he measured out some cocaine and sniffed it, making sure Lev could see him.