Maria Zhuganova's 1st Interview

KHUZHIR, OLKHON ISLAND, LAKE BAIKAL, THE HOLY RUSSIAN EMPIRE ):

 [The room is bare except for a table, two chairs, and a large wall
mirror, which is almost sure to be one-way glass. I sit across from my
subject, writing on the pad provided for me (my transcriber has been
forbidden for “security reasons”). Maria Zhuganova’s face is worn, her
hair is graying, her body strains the seams of the fraying uniform she
insists on wearing for this interview. Technically we are alone,
although I sense watching eyes behind the room’s one-way glass.]

 We didn’t know that there was a Great Panic. We were completely
isolated. About a month before it began, about the same time as that
American newswoman broke the story, our camp was placed on indefinite
communication blackout. All the televisions were removed from the
barracks, all the personal radios and cell phones, too. I had one of
those cheap disposable types with five prepaid minutes. It was all my
parents could afford. I was supposed to use it to call them on my
birthday, my first birthday away from home.

 We were stationed in North Ossetia, Alania, one of our wild southern
republics. Our official duty was “peacekeeping,” preventing ethnic
strife between the Ossetia and Ingush minorities. Our rotation was up
about the same time they cut us off from the world. A matter of “state
security” they called it.

 Who were “they”?

 Everyone: our officers, the Military Police, even a plain-clothed
civilian who just seemed to appear one day out of nowhere. He was a mean
 little bastard, with a thin, rat face. That’s what we called him: “Rat
Face.”

 Did you ever try to find out who he was?

 What, me personally? Never. Neither did anyone else. Oh, we griped;
soldiers always gripe. But there also wasn’t time for any serious
complaints. Right after the blackout was put into effect, we were placed
 on full combat alert. Up until then it had been easy duty—lazy,
monotonous, and broken only by the occasional mountain stroll. Now we
were in those mountains for days at a time with full battle dress and
ammo. We were in every village, every house. We questioned every peasant
 and traveler and…I don’t know…goat that crossed our path.

 Questioned them? For what?

 I didn’t know. “Is everyone in your family present?” “Has anyone gone
missing?” “Has anyone been attacked by a rabid animal or man?” That was
the part that confused me the most. Rabid? I understood the animal part,
 but man? There were a lot of physical inspections, too, stripping these
 people to their bare skin while the medics searched every inch of their
 bodies for…something…we weren’t told what.

 It didn’t make sense, nothing did. We once found a whole cache of
weapons, 74s, a few older 47s, plenty of ammo, probably bought from some
 corrupt opportunist right in our battalion. We didn’t know who the
weapons belonged to; drug runners, or the local gangsters, maybe even
those supposed “Reprisal Squads” that were the reason for our deployment
 in the first place. And what did we do? We left it all. That little
civilian, “Rat Face,” he had a private meeting with some of the village
elders. I don’t know what was discussed, but I can tell you that they
looked scared half to death: crossing themselves, praying silently.

 We didn’t understand. We were confused, angry. We didn’t understand
what the hell we were doing out there. We had this one old veteran in
our platoon, Baburin. He’d fought in Afghanistan and twice in Chechnya.
It was rumored that during Yeltsin’s crackdown, his BMP 1 was the first
to fire on the Duma. We used to like to listen to his stories. He was
always good-natured, always drunk…when he thought he could get away with
 it. He changed after the incident with the weapons. He stopped smiling,
 there were no more stories. I don’t think he ever touched a drop after
that, and when he spoke to you, which was rare, the only thing he ever
said was, “This isn’t good. Something’s going to happen.” Whenever I
tried to ask him about it, he would just shrug and walk away. Morale was
 pretty low after that. People were tense, suspicious. Rat Face was
always there, in the shadows, listening, watching, whispering into the
ears of our officers.

 He was with us the day we swept a little no-name town, this primitive
hamlet at what looked like the edge of the world. We’d executed our
standard searches and interrogations. We were just about to pack it in.
Suddenly this child, this little girl came running down the only road in
 town. She was crying, obviously terrified. She was chattering to her
parents…I wish I could have taken the time to learn their language…and
pointing across the field. There was a tiny figure, another little girl,
 staggering across the mud toward us. Lieutenant Tikhonov raised his
binoculars and I watched his face lose its color. Rat Face came up next
to him, gave a look through his own glasses, then whispered something in
 the lieutenant’s ear. Petrenko, platoon sharpshooter, was ordered to
raise his weapon and center the girl in his sights. He did. “Do you have
 her?” “I have her.” “Shoot.” That’s how it went, I think. I remember
there was a pause. Petrenko looked up at the lieutenant and asked him to
 repeat the order. “You heard me,” he said angrily. I was farther away
than Petrenko and even I’d heard him. “I said eliminate the target,
now!” I could see the tip of his rifle was shaking. He was a skinny
little runt, not the bravest or the strongest, but suddenly he lowered
his weapon and said he wouldn’t do it. Just like that. “No, sir.” It
felt like the sun froze in the sky. No one knew what to do, especially
Lieutenant Tikhonov. Everyone was looking at one another, then we were
all looking out at the field.

 Rat Face was walking out there, slowly, almost casually. The little
girl was now close enough so we could see her face. Her eyes were wide,
locked on Rat Face. Her arms were raised, and I could just make out this
 high-pitched, rasping moan. He met her halfway across the field. It was
 over before most of us realized what had happened. In one smooth
motion, Rat Face pulled a pistol from underneath his coat, shot her
right between the eyes, then turned around and sauntered back toward us.
 A woman, probably the little girl’s mother, exploded into sobs. She
fell to her knees, spitting and cursing at us. Rat Face didn’t seem to
care or even notice. He just whispered something to Lieutenant Tikhonov,
 then remounted the BMP as if he was hailing a Moscow taxicab.

 That night…lying awake in my bunk, I tried not to think about what had
happened. I tried not to think about the fact that the MPs had taken
Petrenko away, or that our weapons had been locked in the armory. I knew
 I should have felt bad for the child, angry, even vengeful toward Rat
Face, and maybe even a little bit guilty because I didn’t lift a finger
to stop it. I knew those were the kinds of emotions I should have been
feeling; at that point the only thing I could feel was fear. I kept
thinking about what Baburin had said, that something bad was going to
happen. I just wanted to go home, see my parents. What if there’d been
some horrible terrorist attack? What if it was a war? My family lived in
 Bikin, almost within sight of the Chinese border. I needed to speak to
them, to make sure they were okay. I worried so much that I started
throwing up, so much so that they checked me into the infirmary. That’s
why I missed the patrol that day, that’s why I was still on bed rest
when they came back the following afternoon.

 I was in my bunk, rereading an outdated copy of Semnadstat. 2 I heard a
 commotion, vehicle engines, voices. A crowd was already assembled on
the parade ground. I pushed my way through and saw Arkady standing in
the center of the mob. Arkady was the heavy machine gunner from my
squad, a big bear of a man. We were friends because he kept the other
men away from me, if you understand what I mean. He said I reminded him
of his sister. [Smiles sadly.] I liked him.

 There was someone crawling at his feet. It looked like an old woman,
but there was a burlap hood over her head and a chain leash wrapped
around her neck. Her dress was torn and the skin of her legs had been
scraped clean off. There was no blood, just this black pus. Arkady was
well into a loud, angry speech. “No more lies! No more orders to shoot
civilians on sight! And that’s why I put the little zhopoliz down…”

 I looked for Lieutenant Tikhonov but I couldn’t see him anywhere. I got a ball of ice in my stomach.

 “…because I wanted you all to see!” Arkady lifted the chain, pulling
the old babushka up by her throat. He grabbed the hood and ripped it
off. Her face was gray, just like the rest of her, her eyes were wide
and fierce. She snarled like a wolf and tried to grab Arkady. He wrapped
 one powerful hand around her throat, holding her at arm’s length.

 “I want you all to see why we are here!” He grabbed the knife from his
belt and plunged it into the woman’s heart. I gasped, we all did. It was
 buried up to the hilt and she continued to squirm and growl. “You see!”
 he shouted, stabbing her several more times. “You see! This is what
they’re not telling us! This is what they have us breaking our backs to
find!” You could see heads start to nod, a few grunts of agreement.
Arkady continued, “What if these things are everywhere? What if they’re
back home, with our families right now!” He was trying to make eye
contact with as many of us as possible. He wasn’t paying enough
attention to the old woman. His grip loosened, she pulled free and bit
him on the hand. Arkady roared. His fist caved in the old woman’s face.
She fell to his feet, writhing and gurgling that black goo. He finished
the job with his boot. We all heard her skull crack.

 Blood was trickling down the gouge in Arkady’s fist. He shook it at the
 sky, screaming as the veins in his neck began to bulge. “We want to go
home!” he bellowed. “We want to protect our families!” Others in the
crowd began to pick it up. “Yes! We want to protect our families! This
is a free country! This is a democracy! You can’t keep us in prison!” I
was shouting, too, chanting with the rest. That old woman, the creature
that could take a knife in the heart without dying…what if they were
back home? What if they were threatening our loved ones…my parents? All
the fear, all the doubt, every tangled, negative emotion all fused into
rage. “We want to go home! We want to go home!” Chanting, chanting, and
then…A round cracked past my ear and Arkady’s left eye imploded. I don’t
 remember running, or inhaling the tear gas. I don’t remember when the
Spetznaz commandos appeared, but suddenly they were all around us,
beating us down, shackling us together, one of them stepping on my chest
 so hard I thought I was going to die right then and there.

 Was that the Decimation?

 No, that was the beginning. We weren’t the first army unit to rebel. It
 had actually started about the time the MPs first closed down the base.
 About the time we staged our little “demonstration,” the government had
 decided how to restore order.

 [She straightens her uniform, composes herself before speaking.]

 To “decimate”…I used to think it meant just to wipe out, cause horrible
 damage, destroy…it actually means to kill by a percentage of ten, one
out of every ten must die…and that’s exactly what they did to us.

 The Spetznaz had us assemble on the parade ground, full dress uniform
no less. Our new commanding officer gave a speech about duty and
responsibility, about our sworn oath to protect the motherland, and how
we had betrayed that oath with our selfish treachery and individual
cowardice. I’d never heard words like that before. “Duty?”
“Responsibility?” Russia, my Russia, was nothing but an apolitical mess.
 We lived in chaos and corruption, we were just trying to get through
the day. Even the army was no bastion of patriotism; it was a place to
learn a trade, get food and a bed, and maybe even a little money to send
 home when the government decided it was convenient to pay its soldiers.
 “Oath to protect the motherland?” Those weren’t the words of my
generation. That was what you’d hear from old Great Patriotic War
veterans, the kind of broken, demented geezers who used to besiege Red
Square with their tattered Soviet banners and their rows and rows of
medals pinned to their faded, moth-eaten uniforms. Duty to the
motherland was a joke. But I wasn’t laughing. I knew the executions were
 coming. The armed men surrounding us, the men in the guard towers, I
was ready, every muscle in my body was tensing for the shot. And then I
heard those words…

 “You spoiled children think democracy is a God-given right. You expect
it, you demand it! Well, now you’re going to get your chance to practice
 it.”

 His exact words, stamped behind my eyelids for the rest of my life.

 What did he mean?

 We would be the ones to decide who would be punished. Broken up into
groups of ten, we would have to vote on which one of us was going to be
executed. And then we…the soldiers, we would be the ones to personally
murder our friends. They rolled these little pushcarts past us. I can
still hear their creaking wheels. They were full of stones, about the
size of your hand, sharp and heavy. Some cried out, pleaded with us,
begged like children. Some, like Baburin, simply knelt there silently,
on this knees, staring right into my face as I brought the rock down
into his.

 [She sighs softly, glancing over her shoulder at the one-way glass.]

 Brilliance. Sheer f\*\*king brilliance. Conventional executions might
have reinforced discipline, might have restored order from the top down,
 but by making us all accomplices, they held us together not just by
fear, but by guilt as well. We could have said no, could have refused
and been shot ourselves, but we didn’t. We went right along with it. We
all made a conscious choice and because that choice carried such a high
price, I don’t think anyone ever wanted to make another one again. We
relinquished our freedom that day, and we were more than happy to see it
 go. From that moment on we lived in true freedom, the freedom to point
to someone else and say “They told me to do it! It’s their fault, not
mine.” The freedom, God help us, to say “I was only following orders.”