that even though he was taller than me and definitely seemed stronger he still didn’t know a thing about the crude realities of life. I smiled at him.
‘Listen up – give me your toothbrush, toothpaste, towel and soap . . . I want to show you a trick!’ I tried to sound friendly.
‘What trick?’ he asked.
‘A funny trick, trust me,’ I said, forcing myself to chuckle, as if I actually wanted to astonish him with some sleight of hand.
‘Give me your stuff while there’s still time!’
He looked a little suspicious, but in the end his childlike curiosity won out, and he reached into his backpack, which was full of all kinds of stuff his mummy had packed for him to help make him comfortable during his tour, and pulled out a small bag. I snatched it out of his hands and slipped it under my jacket, and walked away as if nothing had happened.
‘Hey, what about the trick?’ the idiot asked, a smile still on his lips. Poor fool, he still hadn’t realised that I’d ripped him off.
I glared at him, and in an ugly voice replied:
‘Get lost or I’ll rip your eyes out, you piece of shit!’
Filled with shame and fear, head hanging, he walked back over to the others in his group.
As soon as we reached the yard we lined up in fours. There were a few hundred of us altogether. The soldiers passed by and took away whatever they considered ‘useless’, which was nearly everything. Bags, backpacks and any other possessions were immediately confiscated.
‘Money, watches, jewellery, cigarettes . . . everything out of your pockets!’ the soldiers yelled.
The others looked around, disorientated. The most fragile ones burst into tears after a soldier yelled at them. I was angry, but at the same time I almost felt like laughing at their behaviour.
At last the doors of the train opened and they ushered us on one at a time. Two soldiers made another sweep, throwing everything they found on the floor in a corner: watches, chains and other items, until a giant pile formed. I had put the bag between my legs, inside my underwear – to be more precise, I’d hidden it under my balls. The soldiers didn’t even touch me; I raised my arm to show that I didn’t have anything in my trousers, and they let me by.
I took a place at the window, just as I had done in jail. I had learned that that was the best spot, the safest.
The train hadn’t even pulled away and the complaints had already begun. One guy was whining about the guards hitting him because he hadn’t boarded the train fast enough, others because they’d lost the things they had brought from home. It was clear that they had never felt the sense of vulnerability and powerlessness that you feel in the face of the system, when you are crushed by the reality of power.
After a two-day journey, we reached a place similar to the one we had just left. There were lots of soldiers in the yard wearing various uniforms. It was midday, and all the men had come to the windows to get a look.
And they began to chatter:
’Look, the tankers! They’re here for me, I’m going with them!’
‘The ones in blue berets are the paratroopers. Look, that guy has a bayonet hooked on his boot!’
‘Well, the infantry still have the smartest uniforms!’
The cheerful voices made me nauseous. I wanted to get off that damned train as quickly as possible.
The officers opened the doors and let us out, and then they began to call us, one by one. The first on the list were the ones headed for the infantry, so the yard was immediately half emptied. Then they called the artillery, and almost the entire second half left. After that, they called three groups simultaneously: paratroopers, tankers and motorists. Then there were about twenty of us left. Some officers in blue, navy and white uniforms came; they were the spetsnaz, the autonomous special units of the infantry, and they took most of the rest.
There were three of us left. A man in civilian clothes came, gave us a melancholy look, and said:
‘Saboteurs, let’s go!’ Without waiting for us, he turned and started walking towards the car, an armoured military off-road vehicle parked on the other side of the yard. We didn’t look at one other, just followed him, and after a moment an officer ran after us with a folder full of papers. Each unit’s representative had signed a piece of paper covered with stamps and other scribbles before leaving with his group. Now the officer, still running, yelled at the top of his lungs:
‘Zabelin! Give me your bloody signature for once, you bastard!’
The man in civilian clothes casually kept walking. The soldier gave up, and, cursing, gestured contemptuously in our direction.
‘Your unit is bullshit; you’re just a bunch of amateurs!’
The man in civilian clothes stood by the car with the keys in his hand, staring at us.
‘All right, boys, I’m Senior Lieutenant Zabelin, in charge of the saboteur training unit . . . Which of you boys can drive?
‘I can, Senior Lieutenant Sir!’ I replied, with the voice of a young communist – full of energy and faith in the Nation’s future.
He gave me a funny look:
‘Tell me, how many times have you been in?’
‘Two, Senior Lieutenant Sir!’ I replied, without missing a beat.
He whistled, and then asked:
‘Did you steal? Deal drugs?’
‘No, Senior Lieutenant Sir!’
‘Well then,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘are you going to share what the hell you did that was serious enough to get two juvenile convictions?’
‘I impaired some people’s health, Senior Lieutenant Sir!’
‘You impaired some people’s health? What language are you speaking, boy! Can’t you explain yourself any better?’
It was like talking to my late, great uncle Sergey. He used the same expressions, and his voice wasn’t cruel or fake like that of other soldiers.
‘I beat up and stabbed two people, Senior Lieutenant Sir! But I did my time and I’ve learned my lesson!’ I kept playing the good soldier, responding in the way I imagined that soldiers were supposed to respond: fast, like tap-dancing with your tongue.
‘Good boy! I like you!’ he said, amused. ‘Now take the keys and be careful with the transmission, it’s an old car . . .’ Then he paused, looked at all three of us and said in a normal voice, without any trace of mockery or arrogant bullshit or anything of the sort:
‘Never call me “Senior Lieutenant Sir” again, is that clear? From now on, you’re saboteurs. We don’t have ranks, just names, remember that. So I’m “Comrade Zabelin” to you. Let’s go, get this thing started . . .’
The saboteurs’ camp was in the paratroopers’ camp. It was a base within the base, with
