I saw the brass buckle with its embossed star. The inside was filled with tin. A belt with a loaded buckle like that was an awesome weapon.
That was the style then — our enforcers all wanted leather officer’s belts. They filled the buckle with a layer of tin and went to dances. If there was a fight, the brass buckles flashed over the mêlée.
I said, “Get ready.”
“What’s up?”
“We’re taking a psycho to Iosser. Some inmate flipped out in barracks fourteen. He bit Auntie Shura.”
“Good for him,” said Churilin. “He obviously wanted some grub. That Shura sneaks butter from the kitchen. I’ve seen her.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
Churilin cooled the buckle under running water and put on the belt. “Let’s roll.”
We were issued with weapons and reported to the watch room. About two minutes later the controller brought in a fat, unshaven prisoner. He was resisting and shouting, “I want a pretty girl, an athlete! Give me an athlete! How long am I supposed to wait?”
The controller replied mildly, “A minimum of six years. And that’s if you get an early release. After all, you were charged with conspiracy.”
The prisoner paid no attention and went on shouting, “Bastards, give me an athletic broad!”
Churilin took a good look at him and poked me with his elbow. “Listen, he’s no nut! He’s perfectly normal. First he wanted to eat and now he wants a broad. An athlete… A man with taste. I wouldn’t mind one, either.”
The controller handed me the papers. We went out onto the porch. Churilin asked, “What’s your name?”
“Doremifasol,” the prisoner replied.
So I said, “If you’re really crazy, fine. If you’re pretending, that’s fine, too. I’m not a doctor. My job is to take you to Iosser. The rest doesn’t interest me. The only condition is, don’t overplay the part. If you start biting, I’ll shoot you. But you can bark and crow as much as you like…”
We had to walk about three miles. There weren’t any lumber trucks going our way. Captain Sokolovsky had taken the camp director’s car. They said he went off to take some kind of exam. We had to walk on foot.
The road went through a village towards the peat bogs, then past a grove all the way to the highway crossing. Beyond that rose the camp towers of Iosser.
Churilin slowed down near the village store. I handed him two roubles. We didn’t have to worry about military police at that hour.
The prisoner was clearly in favour of our idea. He even shared his joy. “My name is Tolik.”
Churilin brought back a bottle of Moskovskaya vodka. I stuck it in my jodhpur pocket. We had to hold back until we got to the grove.
The prisoner kept remembering that he was deranged. Then he’d get on all fours and growl. I told him not to waste his strength. Save it for the medical examination. We wouldn’t turn him in.
Churilin spread a newspaper on the grass and took a few biscuits from his pocket. We took turns drinking from the bottle. The prisoner hesitated at first. “The doctor might smell it. It would seem unnatural somehow…”
Churilin interrupted. “And barking and crowing is natural?… Have some sorrel afterwards, you’ll be fine.”
The prisoner said, “You’ve convinced me.”
The day was warm and sunny. Fluffy clouds stretched along the sky. At the highway crossing lumber trucks honked impatiently. A wasp vibrated over Churilin’s head.
The vodka was starting to take effect, and I thought, “How good it is to be free! When I get out I’ll spend hours walking along the streets. I’ll drop by the café on Marata. I’ll have a smoke near the Duma building…”
I know that freedom is a philosophical concept. That doesn’t interest me. After all, slaves aren’t interested in philosophy. To go wherever you want – now that’s freedom!
My fellow drinkers were chatting amiably. The prisoner was explaining, “My head isn’t working right. And I have gas, too… To tell the truth, people like me should be let out. Written off completely because of illness. After all, obsolete technology is written off, isn’t it?”
Churilin interrupted. “Your head isn’t working right? You had enough brains to steal, didn’t you? Your papers say group theft. What was it you stole, I’d like to know?”
The prisoner was modest. “Nothing much… A tractor.” “A whole tractor?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you steal it?”
“Easy. From a reinforced-concrete plant. I used psychology.”
“What do you mean?”
“I go in. Get in the tractor. I tie a metal barrel to the tractor and drive to the checkpoint. The barrel’s making a racket. The guard comes out. ‘Where are you taking that barrel?’ And I say, ‘It’s for personal needs.’ ‘Got documentation?’ ‘No.’ ‘Untie the fucker.’ I untie the barrel and drive off. Basically, the psychology worked… And then we took the tractor apart for spare parts.”
Churilin slapped the prisoner’s back in delight. “You’re a real artist, pal!”
The prisoner accepted it modestly. “People admired me.”
Churilin suddenly stood up. “Long live the labour reserves!”
He took a second bottle from his pocket.
By then the sun was shining on our meadow. We moved into the shade. We sat down on a fallen alder.
Churilin gave the command, “Let’s roll!”
It was hot. The prisoner’s shirt was unbuttoned. He had a gunpowder tattoo on his chest that said, “Faina! Do you remember the golden days?!” Next to the words were a skull, a bowie knife and a bottle marked “poison”.
Churilin unexpectedly got drunk. I didn’t notice it happen. He suddenly grew grim and still.
I knew that the garrison was filled with neurotics. Work as a prison guard inexorably leads to that. But Churilin of all people seemed comparatively normal to me. I remembered only one crazy act on his part. We were taking prisoners out to cut trees. We were sitting around the stove in a wooden shed, keeping warm, talking. Naturally, we were drinking. Churilin went outside without a word, got a pail somewhere, filled it with gasoline, climbed up on the roof and poured the fuel down the chimney. The shed burst into flames. We only just got out. Three people were badly burnt.
But that was a long time ago. So now I said, “Take it easy…”
Churilin silently took out his gun, then barked, “On your feet! The two-man brigade is now under the soldier’s command. If necessary, the soldier in charge will use arms. Prisoner Kholodenko, forward march! Private First Class Dovlatov, fall in behind!”
I continued trying to calm him down. “Snap out of it. Pull yourself together. And put away the gun.”
The prisoner reacted in camp idiom. “What’s the fucking stir?”
Churilin released the safety catch. I walked towards him, repeating, “You’ve just had too much to drink.”
Churilin started backing up. I kept walking towards him, without making any sudden moves. I repeated senseless things out of fear. I remember smiling.
But the prisoner didn’t lose spirit. He cried out cheerfully, “Time to run for cover!”
I saw the fallen alder tree behind Churilin. He didn’t have far to back up. I crouched. I knew that he might shoot as he fell. And he did.
A bang and a crash of twigs and branches.
The gun fell on the ground. I kicked it aside.
Churilin got up. I wasn’t afraid of him then. I could lay him out flat from any position. And the prisoner was there to help.
I saw Churilin take off his belt. I didn’t realize what it meant. I thought he was adjusting his shirt.
Theoretically I could have shot him, or at least wounded him. We were on a detail, in a combat situation. I would have been acquitted.
Instead I moved in on him again. My manners got in the way back when I was boxing, too.
As a result Churilin whopped me on the head with his buckle.
Most importantly, I remembered everything. I didn’t lose consciousness. I didn’t feel the blow itself. I saw blood pouring onto my trousers. So much blood I even cupped my hands to catch it. I stood there and the blood flowed.