The Matiushin Case by Andrew Bromfield, Oleg Pavlov Page A

– and everyone heard a loud racket and horrendous screams. They all stayed there, waiting to see who’d get the best of it, no one interfered. About ten minutes later the commotion in the catering block stopped. The foreman appeared, dragging the battered kitchen worker along the floor by his hair.
    â€˜I told you, didn’t I tell you, to clear out of here before lunch? You were asked nicely, right? Decided you were smarter, did you?’ the foreman harangued him, feeding his fury with his own words.
    â€˜YabastardIllkillya-a-a!’ the dishwasher screeched.
    â€˜You … Don’t you go making out you’re mental!’
    Everyone standing about doing nothing came alive, wanting to get it over with quickly, to smack down this old buddy who no longer mattered to anyone.
    The words showered out of every mouth: ‘What were you told? Didn’t get it, did you? You didn’t get it, you scumbag!’
    A week later, they suddenly took Matiushin’s bandages off altogether. His feet had healed up. Only he couldn’t understand what good they were to him like that – healthy – now that they’d taken away his crutches. Now that he was well, not doubled up over crutches, Matiushin felt useless and doomed. All that week he’d worked – sweeping the paths in the garden, standing duty on the ground floor where the menials lived, running errands for the doctors, lugging medicines and papers about whenever he was sent for. But when they took the bandages off and the crutches away, he retreated to his own floor and hunkered down there, not knowing what would happen to him. The foreman sauntered around that floor without noticing him, and Matiushin was in torment, wondering if there was an order for him to be discharged and what the army surgeon would say. But that evening the foreman called him over and gave him a job to do.
    â€˜First thing tomorrow you scoot over to the catering block … I promised the cook I’d let him have someone, but watch yourself, you try swinging the lead – and I’ll have you over in the latrines in a flash!’
    Early the next morning, the cook met Matiushin with a knife in his hand and wouldn’t let him inside the door of the catering block, making him stand outside among the empty tables. This skinny little Uzbek, who looked like a fourteen-year-old, seemed like a harmless little snake, creeping about but unable to bite. Finally he condescended to let Matiushin in, told him to sit down, thrust into his hands a bowl containing pieces of cold pork – actually from the cabbage soup at lunch – and sliced up half a loaf of bread. That was how he showed that he was good-natured and could even be generous with chow if he wanted. Matiushin wasn’t hungry, but he started chewing away willy-nilly – tucking in and taking a look around. The little Uzbek was pleased, thought he’d tamed him. He came up to Matiushin’s chest and they were only the same height when Matiushin was sitting down.
    Inside, the catering block was just that, a block – square-shaped and faced from floor to ceiling with glassy tiles. It was like a sauna in there: the room got no air, only the hot sunlight. The heat was nothing to the Uzbek. Deciding that his assistant had gorged himself enough, he showed how fierce he could be by grabbing the bowl out of his hands without any warning and barking, baring his teeth, to make him stand over by the sink.
    It wasn’t even a sink but a huge vat with aluminium kitchenware dumped in it. The little Uzbek jumped up and sat on the high windowsill, looking down on Matiushin as he worked. When the pans and huge cauldrons had all been washed, he ordered Matiushin to wash the floor and watched him again as he crawled around with the rag. When the floors had been washed, he showed how good-natured he could be again and gave back the bowl of food: Matiushin was already hungry, or perhaps it was rage