Thank goodness, the prisoner didn’t lose his nerve. He grabbed the belt away from Churilin. Then he bandaged my head with a shirtsleeve.
Here Churilin began to realize what had happened, I guess. He grabbed his head and headed for the road, weeping.
His pistol lay in the grass, next to the empty bottles. I told the prisoner to pick it up.
And now picture this amazing sight: in front, bawling, is a guard. Behind him, a crazy prisoner with a gun. Bringing up the rear, a private with a bloody bandage on his head. And coming towards them all, a military patrol. A GAZ-61 carrying three men with sub-machine guns and a huge German shepherd.
I’m amazed they didn’t shoot my prisoner. They could have shot a round into him easily. Or set the dog on him.
When I saw the car, I passed out. My voluntary reflexes gave way, and the heat took its toll. I just had time to tell them that it wasn’t the prisoner’s fault. Let them figure out for themselves whose fault it was.
And to top it off, I broke my arm as I fell. Actually, I didn’t break it, I damaged it. They found a fracture in the upper arm. I remember thinking that this was really superfluous.
The last thing I remembered was the dog. It sat next to me and yawned nervously, opening its purple jaws.
The speaker over my head began to work – a hum followed by a slight click. I pulled the plug without waiting for the triumphant chords of the national anthem.
I suddenly remembered a forgotten feeling from childhood. I was a schoolboy, I had a fever. I would be allowed to miss school.
I was waiting for the doctor. He would sit on my bed, look at my throat, say, “Well, young man.” Mama would look for a clean towel for him.
I was sick, happy, everyone pitied me. I didn’t have to wash with cold water.
I was waiting for the doctor. Instead, Churilin showed up. He peeked through the window, sat on the windowsill. Then he stood up and headed towards me. He looked pathetic and beseeching.
I tried to kick him in the balls. Churilin took a step back and, wringing his hands, said, “Serge, forgive me! I was wrong… I repent… Sincerely, I repent! I was in a state of effect — ”
“Affect,” I corrected.
“All the more so…”
He took a careful step towards me. “I was joking… It was just for a laugh… I have nothing against you…”
“You’d better not.”
What could I say to him? What do you say to a guard who uses aftershave only internally?
I said, “What happened to our prisoner?”
“He’s fine. Crazy again. Keeps singing ‘My Motherland’. He’s being tested tomorrow. For the moment, he’s in the isolation cell.”
“And you?”
“Me? I’m in the guardhouse, of course. That is, actually I’m here, but in theory I’m in the guardhouse. A pal of mine is on duty there… I have to talk to you.”
Churilin came another step closer and spoke fast. “Serge, I’m doomed, done for! The comrades’ court is on Thursday!”
“For whom?”
“Me. They say I’ve crippled Serge.”
“All right, I’ll say I have no charges to bring against you. That I forgive you.”
“I already told them you forgive me. They say it doesn’t matter, the cup of patience runneth over.”
“What else can I do?”
“You’re educated, think of something. Put a spin on things. Otherwise those sons of bitches will hand my papers over to the tribunal. That means three years in the disciplinary battalion. And that’s even worse than the camps. So you’ve got to help me…”
He screwed up his face, trying to weep.
“I’m an only son. My brother’s doing time, all the sisters are married.”
I said, “I don’t know what to do. There is one possibility…”
Churilin perked up. “What?”
“At the trial I’ll ask you a question. I’ll say, ‘Churilin, do you have a civilian profession?’ You’ll reply, ‘No.’ I’ll say, ‘What is he supposed to do after his discharge – steal? Where are the promised courses for chauffeurs and bulldozer drivers? Are we any worse than the regular army?’ And so on. This will create an uproar, of course. Maybe they’ll let you out on bail.”
Churilin grew more animated. He sat on my bed and said, “What a brain! Now that’s a real brain! With a brain like that there’s really no need to work.”
“Especially,” I noted, “if you whack it with a brass buckle.”
“That’s in the past,” Churilin said, “forgotten… Write down what I’m supposed to say.”
“I told you.”
“Write it down. Or I’ll get mixed up.”
Churilin handed me a pencil stub. He tore off a scrap of newspaper. “Write.”
I neatly wrote “no”.
“What does it mean, ‘no’?” he asked.
“You said: ‘Write down what I’m supposed to say.’ So I wrote: ‘No’. I’ll ask the question: ‘Do you have a civilian profession?’ You’ll say: ‘No.’ After that I’ll talk about the driving classes. And then the commotion will start.”
“So I just say one word, ‘no’?”
“Looks that way.”
“That’s not enough,” Churilin said.
“They might ask you other questions.”
“Like what?”
“That I don’t know.”
“What will I reply?”
“Depends on what they ask.”
“What will they ask? Roughly?”
“Well, maybe: ‘Do you admit your guilt, Churilin?’”
“And what will I reply?”
“You reply: ‘Yes.’”
“That’s all?”
“You could say, ‘Yes, of course, I admit it and repent deeply.’”
“That’s better. Write it down. First write the question, and then my answer. Write the questions in regular script and print the answers. So I don’t confuse them.”
Churilin and I worked on this till eleven. The paramedic wanted to chase him out, but Churilin said, “Can’t I visit my comrade in arms?”
As a result we wrote an entire drama. We anticipated dozens of questions and answers. And at Churilin’s insistence I added parenthetical stage directions: “coldly”, “thoughtfully”, “bewildered”.
Then they brought lunch: a bowl of soup, fried fish and pudding.
Churilin was astonished. “They feed you better here than at the guardhouse.”
I said, “I suppose you’d prefer it the other way round?”
I had to give him the pudding and the fish.
After that Churilin left. He said, “My pal at the guardhouse goes off duty at twelve. After that some Ukrainian jerk is on. I have to get back.”
Churilin went to the window. Then he returned. “I forgot. Let’s trade belts. Otherwise they’ll add to my sentence for the buckle.”
He took my soldier’s belt and hung his on the bed.
“You’re in luck,” he said. “Mine’s real leather. And the buckle is weighted. One blow and a man’s out for the count!”
“You don’t say…”
Churilin went back to the window. Turned around again. “Thanks,” he said. “I won’t forget this.”
And he climbed out the window. Even though he could easily have used the door.
It’s a good thing he didn’t take my cigarettes.
Three days passed. The doctor told me I got off easy: all I had was a cut on the head.
I wandered around the military base. Spent hours in the library. Tanned myself on the roof of the woodshed.
Twice I tried to visit the guardhouse. Once a Latvian doing his first year of service was on duty. He raised his sub-machine gun as I approached. I wanted to pass cigarettes through him, but he shook his head.
I dropped by again in the evening. This time, an instructor I knew was on duty.
“Go on in,” he said. “You can spend the night if you want.”
He rattled the keys. The door opened.
Churilin was playing cards with three other prisoners. A fifth was watching the game with a sandwich in his hand. Orange peels were scattered on the floor.