day or by night: Had they come for him? There was no way he was prepared to stand up under torture!
He wasn ’ t called out, however. Everyone in the cell in this underground warehouse was amazed. (Only later did they realize it actually was a warehouse, and the thick glass apertures in the ceiling were set into the sidewalk on the city ’ s main street, along which carefree pedestrians constantly passed, people who had not yet been doomed to end here; and they could feel the walls tremble as streetcars passed above.)
They didn ’ t call him out. Everyone was amazed: These newcomers usually get dragged out straightaway.
So maybe it really was a mistake? Maybe they would let him go?
But on one of those days—he had lost count which one—he was called out. “ Hands behind your back, ” and a warder with jet-black hair led him out and then up a flight of stairs—to ground level?—and then higher and higher, several stories, the whole while clucking his tongue like some mysterious bird.
An interrogator in a GPU uniform sat at a desk in a shadowy room. You could barely make out his features, only that he was young and broad-faced. He silently pointed to a tiny table that stood in the opposite corner, diagonally from his desk. Vozdvizhensky found himself sitting on a narrow chair, facing a gloomy window some distance away. The lamp had not been turned on.
He waited with sinking heart. The interrogator continued to write in silence.
Then he said, severely: “ Tell me about your wrecking activities. ”
Vozdvizhensky was more astonished than frightened. “ There was never anything of the sort, I assure you! “ He wanted to add a perfectly reasonable thought: How can an engineer spoil anything?
But after the Industrial Party affair?
“ Never mind that, just tell me. ”
“ There was nothing, it could never happen! ”
The interrogator went on writing but still didn ’ t switch on the lamp. Then, without getting to his feet, he said in a firm voice: “ You ’ ve had a good look at your cell? But you haven ’ t seen everything yet. We can have you sleep on concrete without any planks. Or in some damp pit. Or keep you under a thousand-watt light that ’ ll blind you. ”
Vozdvizhensky could barely prop up his head in his hands. They really could do any of these things. And how would he ever endure it?
At this point the interrogator switched on his desk lamp, rose, switched on the overhead light, and moved to the middle of the room to look at the person he was interrogating.
Though he wore a Chekist ’ s uniform, his face looked utterly simple and naive. Broad-boned, a short, wide nose, and thick lips.
Then, in a milder voice: “ Anatoly Palych, I know very well that you weren ’ t involved in wrecking. But even you have to understand that from here no one leaves with an acquittal. It ’ s either a bullet in the back of the neck or a term in the camps. ”
It was not the harsh language, it was the kindly voice that amazed Vozdvizhensky. He stared fixedly at the interrogator ’ s face, and saw something familiar in it. It was such a simple face. Had he seen it before?
The interrogator went on standing in the middle of the room, under the light. He said not a word.
Vozdvizhensky knew he ’ d seen him before. But he couldn ’ t recall where.
“ You don ’ t remember Konoplyov? ” he asked.
Konoplyov! Of course! The fellow who didn ’ t know his strength of materials. And who then disappeared from the faculty.
“ Yes, I didn ’ t finish at the institute. On orders of the Komsomol they took me into the GPU. I ’ ve been here three years. ”
So what now?
They chatted a bit, quite easily, a normal human conversation. Just as if it were happening in that life, before the nightmare.
Konoplyov said: “ Anatoly Palych, the GPU doesn ’ t make mistakes. No one ever gets out of here just like
He wasn ’ t called out, however. Everyone in the cell in this underground warehouse was amazed. (Only later did they realize it actually was a warehouse, and the thick glass apertures in the ceiling were set into the sidewalk on the city ’ s main street, along which carefree pedestrians constantly passed, people who had not yet been doomed to end here; and they could feel the walls tremble as streetcars passed above.)
They didn ’ t call him out. Everyone was amazed: These newcomers usually get dragged out straightaway.
So maybe it really was a mistake? Maybe they would let him go?
But on one of those days—he had lost count which one—he was called out. “ Hands behind your back, ” and a warder with jet-black hair led him out and then up a flight of stairs—to ground level?—and then higher and higher, several stories, the whole while clucking his tongue like some mysterious bird.
An interrogator in a GPU uniform sat at a desk in a shadowy room. You could barely make out his features, only that he was young and broad-faced. He silently pointed to a tiny table that stood in the opposite corner, diagonally from his desk. Vozdvizhensky found himself sitting on a narrow chair, facing a gloomy window some distance away. The lamp had not been turned on.
He waited with sinking heart. The interrogator continued to write in silence.
Then he said, severely: “ Tell me about your wrecking activities. ”
Vozdvizhensky was more astonished than frightened. “ There was never anything of the sort, I assure you! “ He wanted to add a perfectly reasonable thought: How can an engineer spoil anything?
But after the Industrial Party affair?
“ Never mind that, just tell me. ”
“ There was nothing, it could never happen! ”
The interrogator went on writing but still didn ’ t switch on the lamp. Then, without getting to his feet, he said in a firm voice: “ You ’ ve had a good look at your cell? But you haven ’ t seen everything yet. We can have you sleep on concrete without any planks. Or in some damp pit. Or keep you under a thousand-watt light that ’ ll blind you. ”
Vozdvizhensky could barely prop up his head in his hands. They really could do any of these things. And how would he ever endure it?
At this point the interrogator switched on his desk lamp, rose, switched on the overhead light, and moved to the middle of the room to look at the person he was interrogating.
Though he wore a Chekist ’ s uniform, his face looked utterly simple and naive. Broad-boned, a short, wide nose, and thick lips.
Then, in a milder voice: “ Anatoly Palych, I know very well that you weren ’ t involved in wrecking. But even you have to understand that from here no one leaves with an acquittal. It ’ s either a bullet in the back of the neck or a term in the camps. ”
It was not the harsh language, it was the kindly voice that amazed Vozdvizhensky. He stared fixedly at the interrogator ’ s face, and saw something familiar in it. It was such a simple face. Had he seen it before?
The interrogator went on standing in the middle of the room, under the light. He said not a word.
Vozdvizhensky knew he ’ d seen him before. But he couldn ’ t recall where.
“ You don ’ t remember Konoplyov? ” he asked.
Konoplyov! Of course! The fellow who didn ’ t know his strength of materials. And who then disappeared from the faculty.
“ Yes, I didn ’ t finish at the institute. On orders of the Komsomol they took me into the GPU. I ’ ve been here three years. ”
So what now?
They chatted a bit, quite easily, a normal human conversation. Just as if it were happening in that life, before the nightmare.
Konoplyov said: “ Anatoly Palych, the GPU doesn ’ t make mistakes. No one ever gets out of here just like
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