Joseph Densky brushed the bloodied graying sandy hair across his forehead. He rose to his feet unsteadily. With his fingers he eased open his left eyelid. All was well. Dried blood crackled on the eyelashes, but he could see.
He leaned back against the wall to take stock. The room was a not untypical examination room. Concrete floor. Washout gully. Small barred windows six or eight feet above his head. Steel door with spy-hole.
The spy-hole slid back. Densky watched the eye watching him. A moment later bolts were drawn back and the door opened.
“Where to now, my friend?” Densky said to the young militiaman who stood holding the door open.
The militiaman leaned forward.
“Only the bathhouse,” he whispered in a country accent. “There’s someone coming from Moscow to interrogate you.” Then as Densky stumbled into the corridor, the man raised his voice: “Hands behind the back! March!”
Chapter Seven
It was a soft gray Leningrad morning. The sun had not yet risen above the rooftops. The streetlamps in the square were still on, feeble now in the growing daylight.
Outside the air terminal building passengers were alighting from the airport bus. The tall, fair-haired man in a light Western raincoat who detached himself from the group of minor officials off the Moscow flight, set out briskly along the Nevsky Prospekt, street map in hand. From time to time he stopped and consulted his map, tucking his briefcase up under his arm. There were few people on the streets. A militiaman passed without a glance. Two drunks reeled from side to side, crashing into each other and falling on their knees in helpless laughter. A group of office cleaners, their head-scarves wrapped tightly round their necks, the pails on their arms full of cloths and scrubbing brushes, hurried toward the Lenfilm Studios. For Alex Letsukov it still seemed as if he were embarking on an ordinary day’s work.
Captain Zhubov at Police Station 16 had been briskly cooperative on the telephone. Yes, he understood perfectly why the Trade Union Department of the Nationalities Ministry might be interested in the Prisoner Densky. Yes, he had received an official Ministry request for specialist Letsukov to examine the prisoner. Yes, Prisoner Densky would be made available to him if Ministry Specialist Letsukov would present himself at Leningrad 16 at 7:30 A.M. on the morning of June 25th. He apologized for the early hour, but the station routine started early in the day. This was traditional.
The light over the main door flicked off as Letsukov began to mount the steps. It was exactly 7:30 A.M. Captain Zhubov welcomed him warmly with an offer of a bacon and sausage breakfast at the station cafeteria, the best in Leningrad, he claimed.
Letsukov declined and accepted instead tea in the Captain’s office while they discussed the preliminaries.
“Since the day of the arrest,” the Captain offered with some pride, “Densky has become an important figure. I have received no less than five separate requests for interviews by representatives of the highest authorities.”
Letsukov found it difficult to dislike this vainglorious young man who seemed to feel personally responsible for the growth of official interest in his new prisoner.
Zhubov handed him the file. It carried Densky’s name, Internal Passport number and the KGB stamp: To Be Preserved Forever.
“How long has Densky been a prisoner?” Letsukov opened the file.
“Three weeks.”
“What charges have been brought?”
“All charges are pending.”
Letsukov nodded and read quickly through the file. It seemed to contain little that was new to him. Densky’s part in the Blue Bridge demonstrations was already familiar. What Letsukov himself had been sent to ascertain was whether or not there was any evidence of dissident worker links between say, Leningrad and Tashkent, or Leningrad and the Ukrainian worker-dissidents in Kiev. He was himself inclined to believe there was none, that these shop-floor dissidents were mostly concerned with the price of vegetables and the scarcity of meat. Then he turned the page in the Densky dossier and began to read the appeal to international opinion. It was the first time Letsukov heard the title Free Trade Union Movement.
They had finished their tea and Zhubov rose to lead the way down to the examination room beside the basement cells. The steps were bare concrete, the walls white tiles decorated with a black diamond pattern. The stench of disinfectant rose to meet them.
Zhubov led the way to a room about ten feet by ten. A table and three chairs stood in the middle. The concrete floor was badly cracked and a large patch of damp spread around the crazed area. An ancient German steel helmet, upturned for use as an ashtray, rocked in the corner as Letsukov took a seat.
“Where is Comrade Densky being held, Captain?” Letsukov said.
“Citizen Densky,” the Captain corrected him sternly. “We do not accord the fraternal form of address to a prisoner.”
“I see.”
“Citizen Densky has been informed only that he will be presented for questioning this morning. Not by whom. You’re therefore free to assume whatever role is most convenient. With some prisoners it is helpful to create the illusion that you are a defense lawyer. This, however, is unlikely to work in Densky’s case.”
He checked his watch. “He should be brought in here any time now.”
“Captain, I wonder if my ministry made my technique clear. You are aware that I always examine prisoners alone.”
“The ministry did request that facility, yes.”
“Good. One more question. Physically, is Joseph Densky in good condition?”
“Powerful as a bull, Comrade.”
Outside Letsukov heard the stamp of boots… shouts… chains. And Joseph Densky stood in the doorway flanked by guards. Each wrist was chained to the corresponding ankle. One eyebrow was split by a partially healed scar. “Good morning, Comrade,” he said to Letsukov. “Where shall I sit?” He bustled forward, chains rattling. “I can’t tell you how much I look forward to these discussions. Now, shall it be here opposite you, so that you can catch the evasive gleam in my eye? Yes, just under the light? That’s where I’d certainly put you if the roles were reversed.” He grinned at Letsukov. “Which God forbid!”
Zhubov struggled vainly to assert his authority. “You will sit where and when directed, Prisoner Densky,” he bawled. Then fell silent. He knew he had made himself ridiculous.
The guards knew it, too. One of them stepped forward and struck Densky a blow across the kidneys with his short baton. “Listen to what the Captain tells you,” he snarled.
There was no mistaking the pain on Densky’s face. He arched his back and straightened slowly. “Ah, my friend,” he said, with a smile of pure menace, “come the Revolution!”
When they were seated and the door had closed behind Zhubov, Letsukov took a notepad from his briefcase, and placed it on the table in front of him. “You are Citizen Joseph Petrovitch Densky, worker, born Leningrad, nineteen twenty-six. Married. One child.”
“Correct,” Densky said. “Except for the designation, Citizen. Citizenship surely implies rights. I have none. I would prefer us to be accurate from the beginning.”
Letsukov nodded warily.
“I am First Assistant Secretary Letsukov.”
“A bureaucrat, then. Not a policeman.”
“Not a policeman.”
“And how can I be of help to you, First Assistant Secretary Letsukov?”