That was the great Yurievich, a man immune to criticism or discipline, in spite of words and actions which were at times intemperate. Not in terms of his devotion to the state; that was never in question. Dimitri Yurievich was the fifth child of impoverished peasants from Kourov. Without the state he would be behind a mule on some aristocrat’s land. No, he was a Communist to his boots, but like all brilliant men he had no patience with bureaucracies. He had been outspoken about interference and he had never been taken to task for it.
Which was why so many wanted to know him. On the assumption, Nikolai suspected, that even knowing the great Yurievich would somehow transfer a touch of his immunity to them.
The lieutenant knew that was the case today and it was an uncomfortable feeling. The «guests» who were now on their way to his father’s dacha had practically invited themselves. One was the commander of Nikolai’s battalion in Vilnius, the other a man Nikolai did not even know. A friend of the commander from Moscow, someone the commander said could do a young lieutenant a good turn when it came to assignments. Nikolai did not care for such enticements; he was his own man first, his father’s son second. He would make his own way; it was very important to him that he do so. But he could not refuse this particular commander, for if there was any man in the Soviet Army who deserved a touch of «immunity,» it was Colonel Janek Drigorin.
Drigorin had spoken out against the corruption that was rife in the Select Officer Corps. The resort clubs on the Black Sea paid for with misappropriated funds, the stock-houses filled with contraband, the women brought in on military aircraft against all regulations.
He was cut off by Moscow, sent to Vilnius to rot in mediocrity. Whereas Nikolai Yurievich was a twenty-one-year-old lieutenant exercising major responsibility in a minor post, Drigorin was a major military talent relegated to oblivion in a minor command. If such a man wished to spend a day with his father, Nikolai could not protest. And, after all, the colonel was a delightful person; he wondered what the other man was like.
Nikolai reached the stables and opened the large door that led to the corridor of stalls. The hinges had been oiled; the old entrance swung back without a sound. He walked down past the immaculately kept enclosures that once had held the best of breeds and tried to imagine what that Russia had been like. He could almost hear the whinnies of fiery-eyed stallions, the impatient scruffing of hooves, the snorting of hunters eager to break out for the fields.
That Russia must have been something. If you weren’t behind a mule.
He came to the end of the long corridor where there was another wide door. He opened it and walked out into the snow again. In the distance, something caught his eye; it seemed out of place.
They seemed out of place.
Veering from the corner of a grain bin toward the edge of the forest, there were tracks in the snow. Footprints, perhaps. Yet the two servants assigned by Moscow to the dacha had not left the main house. And the grounds-keepers were in their barracks down the road.
On the other hand, thought Nikolai, the warmth of the morning sun could have melted the rims of any impressions in the snow; and the blinding light played tricks on the eyes. They were no doubt the tracks of some foraging animal. The lieutenant smiled to himself at the thought of an animal from the forest looking for grain here, at this cared-for relic that was the grand dacha’s stables. The animals had not changed, but Russia had.
Nikolai looked at his watch; it was time to go back to the house. The guests would be arriving shortly.
Everything was going so well, Nikolai could hardly believe it. There was nothing uncomfortable at all, thanks in large measure to his father and the man from Moscow. Colonel Drigorin at first seemed ill-at-ease—the commander who had imposed himself on the well-known, or well-connected, subordinate—but Yuri Yurievich would have none of it. He welcomed his son’s superior as an anxious—if celebrated—father, interested only in furthering his son’s position. Nikolai could not help but be amused; his father was so obvious. Vodka was delivered with the fruit juice and coffee, and Nikolai kept a sharp eye out for dangling cigarettes.
The surprise and delight was the colonel’s friend from Moscow, a man named Brunov, a high-ranking party functionary in Military-Industrial Planning. Not only did Brunov and Nikolai’s father have mutual friends, it was soon apparent that they shared an irreverent attitude toward much of Moscow’s bureaucracy—which encompassed, naturally, many of those mutual friends. The laughter was not long coming, each rebel trying to outdo the other with biting comments about this commissar-with-an-echo-chamber-for-a-head and that economist-who-could-not-keep-a-ruble-in-his-pocket.
«We are wicked, Brunov!» roared Nikolai’s father, his eyes alive with laughter.
«Too true, Yurievich!» agreed the man from Moscow. «It’s a pity we’re so accurate.»
«But be careful, we’re with soldiers. They’ll report us!»
«Then I shall withhold their payrolls and you’ll design a backfiring bomb.»
Dimitri Yurievich’s laughter subsided for a brief moment. «I wish there were no need for the functioning kind.»
«And I that such large payrolls were not demanded.»
«Enough,» said Yurievich. «The groundskeepers say the hunting here is superb. My son has promised to look out for me, and I promised to shoot the biggest game. Come now, whatever you lack we have here. Boots, furs … vodka.»
«Not while firing, father.»
«By God, you have taught him something,» said Yurievich, smiling at the colonel. «Incidentally, gentlemen, I won’t hear of you leaving today. You’ll stay the night, of course. Moscow is generous; there are roasts and fresh vegetables from Lenin-knows-where…»
«And flasks of vodka, I trust.»
«Not flasks, Brunov. Casks! I see it in your eyes. We’ll both be on holiday. You’ll stay.»
«I’ll stay,» said the man from Moscow.
Gunshots rang through the forest, vibrating in the ears. Nor were they lost on the winter birds; screeches and the snapping of wings formed a rolling coda to the echoes. Nikolai could hear excited voices as well, but they were too far away to be understandable. He turned to his father.
«We should hear the whistle within sixty seconds if they hit something,» he said, his rifle angled down at the snow.
«It’s an outrage!» replied Yurievich in mock anger. «The groundskeepers swore to me—on the side, mind you—that all the game was in this section of the woods. Near the lake. There was nothing over there! It’s why I insisted they go there …»
«You’re an old scoundrel,» said the son, studying his father’s weapon. «Your safety’s released. Why?»
«I thought I heard a rustle back there. I wanted to be ready.»
«With respect, my father, please put it back on. Wait until your sight matches the sound you hear before you release it.»
«With respect, my soldier, then there’d be too much to do at once.» Yurievich saw the concern in his son’s eyes. «On second thought, you’re probably right. I’d fall and cause a detonation. That’s something I know about.»
«Thank you,» said the lieutenant, suddenly turning. His father was right; there was something rustling behind them. A crack of a limb, the snap of a branch. He released the safety on his weapon.
«What is it?» asked Dimitri Yurievich, excitement in his eyes.
«Shh,» whispered Nikolai, peering into the shaggy corridors of white surrounding them.