“What?”
“Was he angry just now?”
“Who?”
“Voroshilov!”
“Oh, no. No.”
“Thank you,” I said. I fumbled at the buttons of my suit. “Thank you,” I repeated.
I left the Kremlin and walked along the water. The air was clear and brisk. Night had fallen and I found that I was wandering in straight lines: the path by the river, then across the bridge, and back, and for miles along a road. I passed a silvery concert hall as a children’s orchestra streamed out of its doors: boys and girls hauling violins and trumpets and double basses wrapped in cloths. Parents’ hands rested on their children’s shoulders.
The moon was almost full. The city’s glass reflections looked like flashing signals.
I was irritated with Voroshilov but I was more irritated with myself: that I had done no research, that I was so ill-prepared. I was very hungry but in that state of mind where one cannot decide what to eat. I left the river and passed among stalls selling sandwiches, pelmeni, shashlyk. Finally, I ducked into a late-night café for a bowl of soup, some bread. I sipped from the bowl. I remember the soup was very peppery. I remember I was wondering whether I should try to meet with the other marshal, Budennyj. I turned this question over in my head.
The waiter asked me if I wanted a piece of apple cake with cream. I shook my head. I did not even say the word no. How many thousands of times did I revisit that moment and wish I had said yes. How many thousands of times did I long for a piece of apple cake with cream.
I went back to the hotel. I read from a novel about flying in a rocket to the stars. I never finished this book.
I went to sleep on the bed.
In the middle of the night, as is their way, there came a knock at the door.
THREE. PERFUME GARDEN
BUTYRSKAYA WAS MY FIRST PRISON. It was not the worst. I began to tremble as the car approached its gate: uncontrollably, as if I was having a seizure. The guard beside me did nothing. He rode with his truncheon on his lap. I held my jumping hands to my face and tried to slow my breathing, but my heart kept on skipping in my chest like a piece of gravel.
We stopped and someone got out to open the door. I asked the guard again: “What have I done?”
They ordered me out and into a line of other prisoners. The bricks shone in the moonlight. None of us spoke. We searched each other’s faces, fearful. Guards yelled commands, cars arrived and sped away, engines shrieked. The prison door creaked open and closed, like the jaws of a trap. From far away it is difficult to write of these things: everything sounds like an exaggeration, a story you have already heard. But I had not heard these stories. I stood in the night, trembling. I did not know it was Butyrskaya. I did not know the names of Moscow prisons. The windows were covered with sheet metal and the bricks were the shade of dried blood. The trap creaked open. A man told me to go inside.
Now it has been eight years since I stepped inside these prisons.
In a small room, two guards told me to take off my clothes. I asked them why. Our voices echoed. They repeated the order. I began to unbutton my shirt. I took off my shoes. Razor wire lay coiled beside the exit. I stripped off my jacket and pants, unthreaded the tie from my collar. I stood in my undergarments. “Continue,” a guard said. He pointed at my socks, gestured lazily at the rest. I removed my undershirt. I removed my socks. I took off my underpants. Everything was thrown into a bin. The concrete was cold as frost. One guard started sorting through my clothes. He crouched. He set aside my belt, tie, tore the elastic from my underpants. “What are you doing?” I said. The other guard told me to lift my arms and came wearily toward me. He began at my feet, feeling the spaces between my toes, then scraping the backs of my knees with his fingers, and up to my armpits, my splayed hands, and in every touch I felt the grubby casual-ness of his hands, and I thought of the hundreds of other men he had touched like this, in the middle of the night. I shuddered. He pulled back my ears, rubbing the insides with his thumb. He felt in my hair. He made me close my eyes and pushed at my lids, like a pawing animal. Suddenly his fingers were in my mouth, around my teeth. His hands tasted of vinegar. I gagged. Then he made me take my penis and show that there was nothing else between my legs. He told me to turn and I felt a new dread. But he did not touch me. He ordered me to pull apart my buttocks, to squat, but he did not touch me. He walked back toward the other guard. They told me I could get dressed.
The buttons had been torn from my clothes. My wallet had been taken. My shoes were missing their laces. “Through that door,” they said, and I wiped my mouth, and I passed from one circle of hell into the next.
Men in grey uniforms took my photograph.
“What is your name?” someone asked.
“What is my name?” I said. “You don’t know my name?”
“Please state your name.”
They pressed my fingers onto inkpads, then onto a shiny card, like a postcard, somewhere to jot a holiday message.
“Profile,” someone said, and they took another photograph. My wardens were not monstrous. They seemed tired. They seemed like fathers and brothers. They led me under buzzing electric lights, past painted brick, up and around and through a maze, deeper and deeper, and part of me tried to remember the turns, senselessly, fruitlessly, as if I might escape and run and then be free. We came to a corridor where it said on a plaque, INVESTIGATION — INTERROGATION, and I recoiled, clawed back to where I had come from, and for the first time a guard struck me, hard, across the side of my shoulder. I could have stepped away in jong sao, fought, punched my one-inch punch, and pivoted to a kick. Instead I crumpled inward, stumbled, caught the end of my tongue with my teeth. My shirt cuffs fluttered at my wrists. I climbed a metal grille stairway with nets on either side, to catch the suicide attempts. At the top of the stairs I came to a wide desk, like in a draftsman’s office. They told me to stop. “Sign,” they said. It was a list with the title REGISTERED LIVES. The other lives were hidden by a metal plate. Only one line was visible — a bare strip of paper for me to register my life, and then the metal plate would descend by one line, and my name would be hidden, and the next prisoner would see just the bare space for his or her ink to drop.
Lev Sergeyvich Termen
I went through two more sets of doors and into a cell.
IT IS DIFFICULT TO anticipate what will be our worst thing. Our worst things are not all the same. Hunger, thirst, fatigue. Or fear. I used to think that heartbreak was my worst thing. It is not. In a certain way, heartbreak is a reassurance. There is no reassurance in hunger, in thirst, in fatigue. Or in fear. These things are hollow things, un-things. I have learned that there are certain absences you can keep and hold; and other absences, like lost memories, which you cannot.
I WAITED IN MY cell for a hundred years. I do not know how long it truly was. Time becomes senseless over dilating hours. The room was rectangular and dimly lit. There was a hole in the ground. There was neither bed nor bench and the walls were strafed with rows of iron nails, pointed outward. The nails were to prevent a prisoner from leaning against anything. It seems nightmarish but the reality was so dull, so mundanely cruel. Those nails could have been used to build things.
I stood until I could not stand anymore. Then I sat on the floor, in my sagging and unbuttoned clothes. I sat. I sat. I lay down and turned on my side. In a cell, you gradually begin to count: bricks, tiles, the string of seconds. I began to list primes, counting upward. 223, 227, 229 … “What is today?” I asked myself. “It is the morning of Friday, March 10, 1939.”