Occupied City

Of course, I wanted to believe him and was more than curious to hear his information and to see his evidence. However, equally, I could not help but have my doubts and suspicions about his words and about the man himself. For though he claimed to be a former BW engineer, he seemed to me to have the air more of a medical man than of a technician.

And though he had fallen to his knees, cowering and shaking before me, though he had offered no resistance when I had disarmed him, I did not believe the man was afraid of me. His actions, it seemed to me, were rather those of a highly trained actor, well versed in the dissemination of lies. And above all else, beneath this façade, it was difficult for me to determine the motivations of the man, what had led him to my room, to my wardrobe, the reasons he had for telling me the things he was telling me, and what reward he sought.

All was a mystery to me.

But still I listened to him. And still I agreed to investigate his claims. But in return, I had something to ask of him. And so I wrote a name on a piece of paper torn from this very martyr-log. And I gave him the name on the paper, telling him it was a test.

And I kept his pistol.

Martober the 86th, between day and night

Terrible dreams, every night, these dreams of Moscow, of the War College. First, of the fleas. Next, of the rats. Then, of the cells. The floorboards ripped up. Replaced with wire nets. And finally, the men.-Barefoot men, naked men. The men thrown into the cells. The men thrown onto the wire. The rats beneath the wire floor. The rats hungry, the rats biting. Up through the wire. Deep into the skin. Infected, plagued. Every night, these dreams. But in the dream last night, on the far wall was written, with blood for ink, in my brother’s hand, the words, ‘Avenge me.’

No date at all. The day was dateless.

The man from the wardrobe visited me again last night. And, as he had promised he would, he returned the page from this martyr-log on which I had written a name. And, as I had feared he would, beneath the name he had written an address — the address I have been searching for this last year. I know now I have no more excuses, only decisions to make.

Don’t remember the date. There was no month, either. Devil only

knows what there was.

Recently, I often think of those rotting, stinking old saints, their fossilized remains dug up from their graves and displayed in the Museum of Godlessness in the former Saint Basil’s Cathedral in Red Square opposite the un-rotting, un-stinking body of the Great Vladimir Il’ich Ulyanov.

Recently, I often think of the decay of the saints and, particularly, the temptations of Jesus in the wilderness. I often think those forty days and forty nights were not so long, those temptations not so great, not compared to these years in this city, this wilderness and its temptations.

Every night before I sleep I say my brother’s name three times.-Then I say the Jesus Prayer three times. Finally, I spin the gun’s barrel three times and I pull the trigger, once.

The Great Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy once wrote that God sees the truth, but waits. But this poor citizen now knows, Man also sees the truth, but then he runs.

The 1st date.

The man from the wardrobe was here again. This time he was not shaking with fear, but shaking with anger.

‘You are the same as the Americans, Comrade,’ he spat. ‘I give you information, I give you evidence, but you do not use it for justice, you use it only for your own ends. You are just the same. All the same!’

The man then took out a piece of paper, a document and he read, ‘In 1941, in Ulan Bator and other areas of Mongolia, a Professor Klimeshinski carried out BW experiments on human beings using plague, anthrax and glanders. The subjects of these experiments were political prisoners and Japanese prisoners of war. The prisoners in chains were brought into an 8 man tent, on the floor of which were kept, under wire nets, a number of rats infected with pest fleas; the latter transmitted the infection to the subject of the experiment. The experiments were positive in most cases and infection ended in bubonic plague. Beside the rats, ground squirrels and other rodents also proved efficient intermediary hosts. It is known that the escape of one prisoner infected with bubonic plague started a great plague epidemic among the Mongols in the summer of 1941. To check the further spread of the epidemic, a chase was unleashed with the participation of many air units, during which some 3 to 5,000 Mongols met their death.

‘Glanders,’ he continued to read, ‘may be spread by guerillas, secret agents, or airplanes in regions in the possession or under the occupation of the enemy.

‘It is also known that in Moscow, from 1939 to 1940, a group of investigators, with the code name WAR COLLEGE, used infected food to try anthrax on political prisoners and prisoners of war who had been isolated in experimental cells.

‘It is believed that the Russians favour the infection of herds or pastures, or letting loose infected animals in enemy territory as dissemination by aircraft has proven unsatisfactory.

‘However, in conclusion, it is our belief that Stalin will not initiate BW until it is an absolute necessity and only as a last resort should German troops penetrate deep into Russian territory and an anti Soviet revolution breaks out in the country. In that instance, Stalin will order the use of BW agents, alleging that it was first started by the Germans.’

The man from the wardrobe stopped reading and he put away the piece of paper. And then he smiled and he said again, ‘Just the same. All the same. But not me! I will show you, show you all — Japanese, American, Chinese and Soviet — I will show you all. I will teach you all. I will infect you all!

‘First, I will infect Tokyo. Then, the whole of Japan. Finally, the world itself.

‘How you ask — never why, only how; always the first question and always the last — too late, always much too late — is the question why. Perhaps it is because, hidden in your hearts, you already know why. So you only, always ask how –

‘Well simply, I will poison the water supply. I will release fleas. I will release rats. And they will drop like flies — occupiers and collaborators alike — writhing in intestinal pain. There will not be enough ambulances, enough stretchers or beds. They will lie where they fall, one on top of the other, or side by side, their faces up and faces down, their hands raised, frozen and petrified, at their throats, dying in agony, fear and silence. And on your head will be these dead …’

The man is obviously mad and so I have nailed the wardrobe door shut.

Tokyo & Moscow. Februarius the thirtieth.

Each night I sleep, I dream of Russia, I dream of Moscow. In last night’s dream, in my second-hand leather jacket, I was pursuing a man when I saw that this man, this Japanese man who was running away from me, in his turn, was pursuing a third man who, not sensing our chase behind him, was simply walking at a brisk pace along the pavement. Then this third man heard the sound of our running boots and he turned to look behind him and I saw that the third man was my brother. Of course, when I awoke, I was still in Tokyo but my toes felt cold, my socks were damp and the bed muddy.