sat on top – sitting on the roof was known as riding the armour – along with a group of soldiers I didn’t know. As the car made the long journey in the dark, I realised that the others were speaking to me with some disdain. They were part of a special group from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and evidently I, the newcomer, was not welcome.
The first thing I noticed when we got to the base – and this would sink in over the days to come – was that everything worked opposite to the way it did at boot camp. There was no light to be seen at the checkpoint, there was no sign of recognition for entering vehicles – I only realised that we had arrived because in the dark I saw three soldiers cupping their hands to try to conceal their cigarettes. Smoking at the checkpoints was prohibited, especially at night – the risk of being spotted, even from a distance, was extremely high.
They took me to an ugly building, a military container for the transport of supplies that had been turned into a sort of cabin, with a small window and a rough-hewn wooden door. They handed me over to a soldier in civvies carrying a cut Kalashnikov with a folding stock. He put away my papers, and without even glancing at them, handed them back as soon as we were alone.
‘My name’s Pasha, but everyone calls me “Moscow”. You’re with us. Come on, put your stuff on the bunk in the back and take off that uniform, I’ll give you a jumpsuit. Have you got trainers?’
I looked at my papers in disbelief. According to regulation, all documentation regarding soldiers had to be kept in the office of the unit to which we were assigned. Giving them back to a soldier was strictly forbidden. So I introduced myself and immediately asked,
‘Hey, what’s the story with the documents, why did you give them to me? Where’s the secretary?’
He looked at me as if I were from another planet.
‘Who am I supposed to give them to, babyface? We haven’t got offices or secretaries, so everyone’s his own secretary around here. We’re saboteurs, a mobile unit. Today we’re in one place, tomorrow in another. We’re independent, get it?’ he said, chewing on a hunk of black bread. The smell of burned grain was overpowering and it reminded me of kvass, a drink that my grandmother made. ‘Follow me,’ Moscow said, before I could respond.
The cabin was full of men in everyday clothes – some were sleeping, others eating or chatting. I was surprised by the number of weapons lying around – there was a Kalashnikov at the foot of every bunk, and there must have been at least twenty more stacked against the wall, not counting the rifles that some of the men were holding. On the ground lay crates full of new cartridges, still covered with a thin coat of grease, and a crate with several hand grenades. Other ammunition was scattered around, along with a couple of rounds for RPG-7 grenade launchers. In one corner there was a stack of bulletproof vests, modified just like Zabelin had taught us in boot camp; they were short, with the bottom cut off in front so you could move your legs more easily and use the sides as pockets for ammunition. From two normal jackets you could make one good one, and at chest height, in the hand-sewn pockets, you would always insert a double set of iron plates.
I would soon learn that the saboteur base never stayed in the same place for long, and from time to time they would put us with units that needed our assistance. In the intervals between one operation and another we would sleep in the place we called ‘home’, that is, the temporary barracks, where the only things we never ran out of were weapons and ammunition, which were scattered everywhere and even got mixed up with our food.
Moscow led me to the back of the base. Next to a tumbledown wood cabin, there was a steel vat filled with water, and a pole with the flag of the Russian Federation, just like the one I had seen in the propaganda video, was attached to it. From the vat, you could see a man’s head, half-submerged, making bubbles as he breathed out of his nose.
‘Ivanisch, the new guy’s here . . .’
The head in the water lifted and I saw the face of a man in his forties, clean-shaven and with the expression of someone who wants to steal something. It was Captain Nosov, and in a very calm, low voice, one of those voices that can frighten you, he asked me:
‘So, you’re the hotshot delinquent? Zabelin has told me a lot of things about you . . .’
I was surprised, because I had no idea what Zabelin could have written about me, but I gave an affirmative response all the same.
‘That’s me, Comrade Captain!’
Nosov looked me straight in the eye.
‘Forget all that “Comrade Captain” crap. Here, we’re just one big family, call me Ivanisch.’
‘All right, Ivanisch . . .’
‘How is that old Zabelin?’ he asked me, as he kept working in the vat. ‘Has he gone completely deaf yet?’
I didn’t know what he meant; it was as if we were talking about two different people. ‘Deaf?’ I asked, confused. ‘He hears everything just fine. He’s good, actually. He said to tell you hello.’
The captain gave me a serious look.
‘Boy, I was side by side with Zabelin in Afghanistan for a long time. In Kabul they tried hard to destroy us, and after a bomb went off he nearly lost his hearing. As the years have gone by it’s got worse. Shit, don’t tell me you didn’t notice!’ he concluded, smiling.
Images of Zabelin as I had seen him in the three months spent in training camp flashed through my head.
‘I really didn’t, I didn’t notice. I’d never have thought,’ I replied. Only then did I realise what a tough guy Zabelin was. He had been able to hide from all of us something that should have been so obvious.
‘You think that if he were all in one piece they’d keep him in that shithole? Zabelin’s a professional saboteur. If he were completely fit he’d be here with us right now.’ Nosov said this with anger. Then he stood up and stepped out of the vat, resting his feet on an empty wooden crate, the kind they use to transport Kalashnikovs.
‘Soldier, towel!’ he thrust out his arm, waiting for Moscow to pass him the green rag that he’d already been brandishing for a while, almost like a votive offering, the ones they would put at the statues of pagan gods in ancient temples. Just then I realised that it wasn’t a towel but a flag; it was green, with different-coloured stripes and some Arabic writing in white. Nosov took the flag and started drying himself, making the strangest faces.
I couldn’t help laughing. His face turned serious and he asked:
‘What the fuck are you laughing at, delinquent? I put my skin on the line every blessed day to conquer these shit flags – I have the right to use them to wipe my ass, since they’re no good for anything else.’
Moscow laughed too, and bit off another hunk of black bread.
Nosov cut us short:
‘Listen, boy, this is how things work around here; until you’ve had some experience in the clean-up crew, our family won’t accept you for military operations. Now go and eat, rest, and starting tomorrow you’ll go and clear the fields. Just the other day we finished a mission close by, so you’ll have some work to do. Then, we’ll see.’
He started getting dressed, throwing the green flag to the ground. It was soaking wet; it had become a useless scrap of fabric, destined to be buried in the mud.
Moscow
