his head. He retains his modest life style, goes on seeing his old friends, drinking with them, and even goes so far as to protect them with his authority. Then, one fine morning comes his downfall, as abrupt and unforeseen as his rise. One night he’s yanked out of bed; he struggles, he protests; he’s told: ‘Later—you’ll tell all that later.’ Before the investigator he voices his anger and threatens to complain high up. The investigator laughs in his face. ‘But you
are
as high as you can get now, you idiot!’ And he comes straight to the point: ‘We know your loyalty to the Party. There’s a mission awaiting you, a mission only you can carry out.’He gives him some details; tells him it’s all about—Antonov. ‘Antonov absolutely must be broken. He’s your childhood friend, I know, and that’s why there’s no one better qualified to unmask him.’ ‘But what’s the charge?’ ‘He belongs to the Zinoviev gang.’ ‘Impossible! I know Antonov as well as I know myself. I’ll vouch for him. You’ll never make me believe that my friend Alexeyevich Antonov has betrayed the working class. Why, he’s given his life to it. You’ll never make me say he’s an enemy of the Party, after he’s shed his blood for the triumph of the cause.’ Makarov screams—he’s taken back to his cell. The interrogation is repeated ten times, a hundred times. The usual methods are used—in vain. Specialists are called in—in vain. Then the investigator appeals to ideology, patriotism, dialectic, individual conscience confronting the collective conscience, means and ends, self-sacrifice and the Communist ideal. Throughout his discourse, the investigator keeps playing with a sharp black pencil on his desk. Makarov can’t tear his eyes away from it—and that’s what saves him. He answers, ‘My life and my soul belong to the Party, but I would disgust myself if I destroyed my best friend; I would be unworthy of the Party.’ ‘In short, you refuse to carry out a Party order?’ ‘Not at all. The Party demands we tell the truth; I’m telling the truth.’ ‘But what if the Party says one thing and you another, who’s right?’ ‘The Party.’ ‘Listen: the Party has tried Antonov, the Party declares him guilty. And you, you proclaim he’s innocent!’ ‘Impossible! The Party can’t condemn my friend Antonov because the Party can’t lie.’ The investigator gets angry. Makarov, no intellectual, couldn’t care less about logic. And—this case is unique in the annals—the affair does not end in tragedy. Ten years in the clink instead of the bullet in the back of the neck, which the ‘gentleman of the fourth cellar’ had been ordered to administer. Why the reversal? Well, neither Makarovnor Antonov ever signed anything at all. Their dossiers were lying around for so long that the gods finally changed both tools and victims.”
Grisha’s astonishment grew. Where did Zupanev get all these stories? Had he known the heroes he was talking about?
“One fine day,” Zupanev went on, “Makarov and Antonov meet in the prison courtyard. They fall into each other’s arms. ‘How did you manage to hold out?’ Makarov asks. ‘It’s simple. They were trying to persuade me that I ought to confess for the good of mankind. To which I answered, “How can I hope to work for the good of mankind if to do so I must become a traitor?” It wasn’t easy. The interrogations went on and on, but you see? I’m here. And how did
you
manage to hold out?’ ‘Oh that was even simpler: I kept staring and staring at the investigator’s pencil, telling myself, I’m not a pencil, a human being is not a pencil.…’ ”
Oh yes, that watchman knew a lot of things. About prisons and torture sessions, judges and clowns—as if he had forced open mysterious doors to bring back secrets no one dared name. But why was he revealing all this to his young friend? How did he get access to the forbidden memories of an entire people
are
as high as you can get now, you idiot!’ And he comes straight to the point: ‘We know your loyalty to the Party. There’s a mission awaiting you, a mission only you can carry out.’He gives him some details; tells him it’s all about—Antonov. ‘Antonov absolutely must be broken. He’s your childhood friend, I know, and that’s why there’s no one better qualified to unmask him.’ ‘But what’s the charge?’ ‘He belongs to the Zinoviev gang.’ ‘Impossible! I know Antonov as well as I know myself. I’ll vouch for him. You’ll never make me believe that my friend Alexeyevich Antonov has betrayed the working class. Why, he’s given his life to it. You’ll never make me say he’s an enemy of the Party, after he’s shed his blood for the triumph of the cause.’ Makarov screams—he’s taken back to his cell. The interrogation is repeated ten times, a hundred times. The usual methods are used—in vain. Specialists are called in—in vain. Then the investigator appeals to ideology, patriotism, dialectic, individual conscience confronting the collective conscience, means and ends, self-sacrifice and the Communist ideal. Throughout his discourse, the investigator keeps playing with a sharp black pencil on his desk. Makarov can’t tear his eyes away from it—and that’s what saves him. He answers, ‘My life and my soul belong to the Party, but I would disgust myself if I destroyed my best friend; I would be unworthy of the Party.’ ‘In short, you refuse to carry out a Party order?’ ‘Not at all. The Party demands we tell the truth; I’m telling the truth.’ ‘But what if the Party says one thing and you another, who’s right?’ ‘The Party.’ ‘Listen: the Party has tried Antonov, the Party declares him guilty. And you, you proclaim he’s innocent!’ ‘Impossible! The Party can’t condemn my friend Antonov because the Party can’t lie.’ The investigator gets angry. Makarov, no intellectual, couldn’t care less about logic. And—this case is unique in the annals—the affair does not end in tragedy. Ten years in the clink instead of the bullet in the back of the neck, which the ‘gentleman of the fourth cellar’ had been ordered to administer. Why the reversal? Well, neither Makarovnor Antonov ever signed anything at all. Their dossiers were lying around for so long that the gods finally changed both tools and victims.”
Grisha’s astonishment grew. Where did Zupanev get all these stories? Had he known the heroes he was talking about?
“One fine day,” Zupanev went on, “Makarov and Antonov meet in the prison courtyard. They fall into each other’s arms. ‘How did you manage to hold out?’ Makarov asks. ‘It’s simple. They were trying to persuade me that I ought to confess for the good of mankind. To which I answered, “How can I hope to work for the good of mankind if to do so I must become a traitor?” It wasn’t easy. The interrogations went on and on, but you see? I’m here. And how did
you
manage to hold out?’ ‘Oh that was even simpler: I kept staring and staring at the investigator’s pencil, telling myself, I’m not a pencil, a human being is not a pencil.…’ ”
Oh yes, that watchman knew a lot of things. About prisons and torture sessions, judges and clowns—as if he had forced open mysterious doors to bring back secrets no one dared name. But why was he revealing all this to his young friend? How did he get access to the forbidden memories of an entire people
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