But Vasili said, “For you, Gleb Ivanovich, it’s free. You’re my friend, and you’re hurting. You don’t just want poppy juice. You need it.”
“Thanks very much! I won’t forget that,” Sukhanov said.
That was exactly what Vasili hoped. Having an MGB man in his corner was worth more than a little opium ever could be. It could prove worth its weight in gold and then some. “I hope it helps, that’s all,” he said.
“So do I!” Sukhanov shed his mittens, too, so he could divide the lump. He popped half into his mouth and put the rest in his pocket. As he gingerly chewed, he made a new face. “Tastes like a mountain of poppy seeds boiled down to half a liter,” he said.
“That’s close-it’s the juice from the seed pods,” Vasili said. “My father was a druggist. I never wanted to do that myself, but I know a little bit about it.”
“How long does the stuff take to work?” By the way Sukhanov said it, the sooner the better.
“Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour,” Vasili answered. “You’ll get light-headed and sleepy. It’s not just like being drunk, but it’s more like being drunk than anything else.”
“I was going to get drunk tonight,” the Chekist said. “Anything to dull this fucker even a little bit.”
“If you drink some now, that won’t be too bad. But don’t get smashed,” Vasili told him. “That wouldn’t be smart, not with the booze and the poppy juice in you at the same time. If the poppy does the job, you won’t need so much vodka anyway.”
“Here’s hoping!” Gleb Sukhanov looked at his wristwatch. Wearing one marked him as a prominent man in Smidovich, as it would have in Harbin. There weren’t enough in China or in Russia for all the men who wanted them. You had to have connections to get hold of one. “Bozhemoi! Why is the second hand moving so slow?”
“I hope the poppy juice helps, Comrade,” Vasili said again, “and I hope the dentist isn’t too awful.”
“This won’t be the first time I’ve visited Yakov Benyaminovich,” Sukhanov answered glumly. “He has ether to knock you out before he does his worst.”
“That’s good, anyhow.”
“Da.” Sukhanov nodded. “It’ll still be sore after I wake up, but it won’t be sore like this.” The rotten tooth must have twinged, because he pulled another horrible face.
Vasili thought about saying the Chekist could have some more opium then. He kept quiet, though. If Sukhanov came looking for it, he’d give him some. If not, not, and he’d have more to sell or trade. He’d already done his good deed for the day.
He did say, “Good luck, Gleb Ivanovich.”
“Thanks. I can use some.”
“Can’t we all?” Vasili patted him on the shoulder. They went their separate ways.
–
Juris Eigims sat by the T-34/85, cutting up sausage with a bayonet he wasn’t likely to use for anything more bloodthirsty. He reached back and set a hand on one of the tank’s big steel road wheels. “She’s an old whore, Comrade Sergeant,” he said, “but she’s our old whore.”
“Too right, she is. Who else would want the ancient bitch?” Konstantin Morozov returned. “Hack me off about twenty centimeters of that, will you?”
“Here you go.” The gunner tossed him a length.
“Thanks.” Konstantin took a bite. It was stale-not surprising, when it was plunder from an abandoned butcher’s shop. But it had enough salt and garlic and pepper in it to keep the ground-up pork from being too nasty. He alternated bites of chewy sausage and chunks of black bread.
“I never thought I’d get inside one of these beasts.” Eigims paused to light a cigarette, then went on, “I sure watched plenty of them go by when I was a little kid.”
“I bet you did,” Morozov said. Latvia and Lithuania had seen heavy fighting during the last war. The Balt knew better than to say that he hadn’t welcomed the T-34s he’d watched then. He would have been cheering on the Panzer IVs and Panthers that tried to hold them back. Well, too bad for him. All the Baltic lands were back under Russian rule, where they belonged. Morozov added, “When you were a little kid, I was in one of them, learning to be a tankman.”
Juris Eigims grinned crookedly. “Tell me more, Grandpa.”
What Konstantin told him was “Yob tvoyu mat’.” Had the Balt taken him the wrong way, the bayonet might have got blood on it along with sausage grease. As with most things, though, what you said mattered less than how you said it.
“It’s still a decent tank. It’s better than I thought it was going to be.” Eigims patted the road wheel again. “No wonder the Germans hated them so much. The only thing I still don’t like about it is the sight. That really needs to be better.”
“The suspension’s good. The engine’s good. The armor…It’s sloped well, but it won’t stop an AP round or a bazooka,” Konstantin said.
“Neither will a T-54’s,” Eigims said.
“Well, you aren’t wrong, no matter how much I wish you were. But with a T-54, we have as good a chance of killing the other guy as he does against us. The gun we’ve got now won’t put a round through a Pershing’s frontal armor, or a Centurion’s. Not a chance.”
“Mm, there is that,” the Balt allowed. “We’re still here, though.”
“I noticed that, yes,” Konstantin said dryly. Eigims chuckled. The tank commander continued, “We haven’t had to do any tank-against-tank fighting lately. That has a lot to do with why we’re still here.”
“Why are we here?” Juris Eigims spoke in musing tones. “Why is anybody here? Why is there a here to be in? What’s the point to any of it? Does any of it have a point?”
“You think I’ve got answers to shit like that?” Konstantin stared at his gunner. “What I’ve got is some schnapps, if you want it. You can use it to wash the taste of questions like those out of your mouth.”
“Do you have enough so everybody gets a slug?” Eigims asked. “I don’t want to make a pig of myself.”
“?‘From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.’ Karl Marx knew what he was talking about there, fuck me in the mouth if he didn’t,” Morozov said. Eigims didn’t try to tell him he was wrong, or that Marx was. For anybody in the Red Army to reject the preachings of the founder of the world Communist movement would have been like a Crusader bound for Jerusalem denying the Virgin Birth.
Konstantin opened one of the storage bins some enterprising mechanic or repairman had welded onto the T-34/85 during the last war. They weren’t standard issue on the Soviet tank, as they had been on German machines. He took out a nearly full bottle of golden schnapps and tossed it to Eigims. The gunner caught it and yanked out the stopper. He tilted his head back. His Adam’s apple worked.
After a couple of coughs, he shook his head and said, “Whew! Well, if hooch like that doesn’t cure me of the constipation of philosophy, nothing ever will.”
“There you go!” Konstantin said. Eigims held out the bottle to him. He drank. He liked vodka better than schnapps, but schnapps beat the crap out of nothing.
And talking about schnapps drew the rest of the crew. Konstantin gave Demyan Belitsky the bottle. “Thank you, Comrade Sergeant,” the driver said politely. After his own swig, he passed it to Ilya Goledod. The bow gunner also guzzled. Goledod, from what Konstantin had seen, owned a thirst respectable even by Russian standards.
“Me? What about me?” Vazgen Sarkisyan said, watching in alarm as the schnapps level fell.
“What, you mean you want some, too?” Goledod sound as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Konstantin wouldn’t have tested the loader like that. Sarkisyan was twice as thick through the shoulders as the man holding the bottle. Goledod handed it to him in the nick of time.
Though not a Russian, Sarkisyan could also put it away. He upended the bottle, drained it, and chucked it into the bushes. “Good shit,” he said.