fighting. A good shot, Claus, always cool. They were glad to see each other; they remained standing, face to face, their hands in their pockets —friends. “You are really getting somewhere with building Socialism back there? Better standard of living? How about the youth?” Kondra- tiev raised his voice, with a joy which he felt was artificial, to say that everything was flourishing. They discussed the defense of Madrid, pro- fessionally; the morale of the International Brigades (excellent). “You remember Beimler—Hans Beimler?” said Claus. “Of course,” Kondra- tiev answered. “Is he with you?” “Not any longer.” “Killed?” “Killed. In the front line, at the University City, but from behind, by
impenetrable weapon, declared: “I know nothing about politics, I hate Trotsky, I am a Terrorist. Since childhood I have dreamed of being a Terrorist. I came to Moscow to become Comrade Tulayev’s mistress and kill him. He was so jealous; he adored me. I should like to die for the U.S.S.R. I believe that the love of the people must be spurred by overwhelming emotions ... I killed Comrade Tulayev, whom I loved more than my life, to avert the danger that threatened the Chief ... I can’t sleep for remorse—look at my eyes. I acted from love ... I am happy to have accomplished my mission on earth ... If I were free, I’d like to write my reminiscences for the papers . . . Shoot me! Shoot me!” During her periods of depression she sent her consul long messages (which of course were not transmitted), and she wrote to the examining judge: “You cannot shoot me because I am an trollop,” Gordeyev cursed, when he had spent three hours studying her case. Wasn’t she simulating insanity? Hadn’t she actually thought about committing a murder beforehand? Didn’t her declarations contain some echo of plans ripened by others? What was to be done with her, mad as she was? An embassy was taking an interest in her, news agencies on the other side of the globe distributed pictures of her, described the tortures which they claimed the examiners were inflicting on her . . . Psychiatrists in uniform, still faithful to the rite of question-and-answer, applied suggestion, hypnotism, and psychoanalysis in turn, to persuade her to admit her innocence. She exhausted their patience. “Well then,” Fleischman suggested, “at least persuade her that she
traps are in the list of indictments . . . We’ll have to dig up at least one genuine ex-Trotskyist, one genuine spy . . . Dangerous business . . .” “Papa,” said Ninelle uncomfortably, “you were so sweet and now you look angry ...” “Business, darling.” He kissed her on both cheeks, quickly, hut felt none of the happiness the pure caress should have give^ him—the ghosts of too many tortured men were astir in him, though he was not conscious of it. He returned to the conference. Fleischman sighed strangely: “Music . . . what music ...” “What do you mean?” Zvyeryeva Fleischman bent his pale forehead a little, thus spreading even more of his double chin over his
it, that served him right, that it was he, and not you, who had organized famine in the district ... I have your actual words, do I need to them to you? Is it true?” “It is false,” Makeyev murmured. “It is all false.” And the memory emerged mysteriously from his inner darkness. Alia, her face miserably swollen from crying . . . She held the queen of hearts in a trembling hand, she was shouting, but her wheezy breathless voice could hardly be heard: “And you, traitor and liar, when will some- one kill you?” What could she have thought, what could they have sug- gested to her, the poor simpleton? Was she denouncing him to save him or to ruin him? “It is true,” he said. “I ought to explain to you that it is more false than true, false, false ...” “That would be wholly useless, Makeyev. If you have the remotest chance of salvation, it lies in a complete and sincere confession . . .” The urgent memory of his wife had revived him. He became like himself again, grew sarcastic: “Like the others, you mean?” “To what are you alluding, Makeyev? What is it that you presume to think, counterrevolutionary Makeyev, traitor to the Party, murderer of the Party?” “Nothing.” he collapsed. “In any case, this may be your last interrogation. It may be your last day. A decision may be reached this very evening, Makeyev—did you hear me? Take the prisoner back to his cell.” ... At Kurgansk the man was taken from the prison in a van. Some- times he was informed of his sentence, sometimes he was left in doubt— and that was better, because occasionally men who had no
. . . Seriously, Popov, did you hear yourself say not yet? Not yet!” “I said not yet?” stammered. “Not yet what? What can it mat- ter? What do you mean by ... by picking on words like that? What is that I am not yet?” “. . . arrested, arrested, arrested, not yet arrested!” Rublev cried, with wild mockery in his eyes, in the reddish tangle of his eyebrows, in his bristling beard. Wall, window with dirty panes, iron grating . . . Popov stared at them stupidly. This insane reception staggered him. He let silence grow between them until it became almost uncomfortable. Rublev crossed his arms under his neck. “Rublev, I have come to decide your fate with you. We expect much
consequences: re- sponsibility to be established, the investigation to be begun over again from a different angle, the Chief to be told—what was the Tulayev case to be tied to now? “In whose charge was the prisoner?” Popov asked, without looking at anyone—because he knew very well. “In Comrade Zvyeryeva’s,” answered the Deputy High Commissar for Security, Gordeyev. “Did you have him a medical examination when he arrived, Comrade Zvyeryeva? Have you been receiving daily reports on his condition and his attitude?” “I thought . . . No . . .” reproach burst out: “Do you hear that, Gordeyev, do you hear that?”
of the great room. It was alive with movement and music. The faces of a dancing couple emerged before him, one charming, with eyes that smiled like pure spring, the other firm-featured and, as it were, illuminated by a restrained light: Sacha. Sacha held back his partner and they danced slowly round and round in one spot so that the young man could lean toward Kondratiev: “Thank you, Ivan Nicolayevich, for what you said to us . . The rhythmical revolution brought the other face toward Kondratiev, a face framed in chestnut braids caught in a knot at the neck, a smooth forehead, golden eyebrows; again the movement carried it away, and here was Sacha, his lips colorless, his eyes intense and veiled. Through the music, Sacha said softly, without apparent emotion: “Ivan Nicolayevich, I believe you will soon be arrested.” “I believe so too,” Kondratiev said simply, waving them an affection- ate good-by. He was impatient to escape from this irritating gathering, too- well-fed heads with rudimentary minds, these insignia of command, these girls with too carefully dressed hair who were nothing but young sex organs under gaudy silks, these young men who were uneasy despite themselves, incapable of really thinking because discipline forbade it, and who bore their lives almost joyously to imminent sacrifices which they did not understand . . . Perhaps it is a very good thing that we cannot wholly rule our minds and that they force on us ideas and images which we would ignobly prefer to dismiss; thus truth makes its way in spite of egotism and unconsciousness. In the great, brightly lit room,
that you are adorable? The daughter of my old friend will forgive the compliment, I am sure . . . Come in, come in!” He took her arm, seated her on the sofa in his study, smiled at her with every inch of his frank, military- looking face. None of the city’s noises penetrated here. Various pieces of precision apparatus, under glass bells, occupied the corners of the room. A cluster of green leaves filled the door that gave on the garden. A large portrait in a gold frame appeared to attract Xenia’s attention. The pro- fessor explained: “Count Montessus de Ballore, mademoiselle, the man of genius who deciphered the enigma of earthquakes ...” “But you too,” said Xenia enthusiastically, “you have . . .” “Oh, I—that was much easier. Once the trail has been blazed in scien- tific matters, all one has to do is to follow it ...” Xenia allowed herself to be distracted, because she shrank from her problem. “Yours is a magnificent and mysterious science, is it not?” The professor laughed: “Magnificent, if you insist, like all science. But not mysterious. We are hot on the track of mystery, mademoiselle, and it will not elude us!” The professor opened a file. “See—here are the co-ordi- nates for the Messina earthquake of 1908; no more mystery there. When I demonstrated them before the Tokio Congress . . .” But he saw that Xenia’s lips were trembling. “Mademoiselle . . . What is it? Bad news of your father? . . . Are you in trouble? Tell me . . .” “Kiril Rublev,” Xenia stammered. “Rublev, the historian? . . . The Rublev of the Communist Academy, you mean? I’ve of him, I believe I even met him once ... at a banquet ... a friend of your father, is he not?” Xenia felt ashamed of the tears she was holding back, ashamed of her
extreme Left, an- other professor, a man of thirty-five, listened to her as if her news moved him to profound grief. Was he not going to tear his hair, wring his hands? He did nothing of the sort. He had never heard of Rublev, but these Russian catastrophes haunted him day and night. “They are Shake- spearean tragedies ... Mademoiselle, I have cried my indignation in this very paper. ‘Mercy!’ I cried, ‘in the name of our love and devotion to the Russian Revolution.’ I was not heard, I aroused reactions which must likewise be accepted in good faith, I tendered my resignation to our managing committee . . . Today, the political situation makes it impos- sible for such an article to appear. We represent the average opinion of an audience which belongs to numerous parties; the ministerial crisis, of which the papers have not yet got wind, imperils all our work of the last few years ... A conflict with the Communists at this moment might have the most disastrous results . . . And should we save Dublev?” “Rublev,” Xenia corrected. “Yes, Rublev—should we save him? My unfortunate experience does not permit me to believe so ... I really cannot see how ... At most, I could try calling on your ambassador at once and expressing my con- cern to him ...” “At least do that,” murmured Xenia, completely discouraged, for she was thinking: “They won’t do anything, no one will do anything, they don’t even understand . . .” She felt like beating her head against the wall . . . She swept through several other editorial offices, so hastily, borne along by such a desperate and exasperated grief, that later she had only a confused memory of where she had gone. An old
want to make this moment last . . .” There was a silence, then Maria said: “I knew another Kostia. He belonged to the Communist Youth, like you, he was almost as good-looking as you are, but he was a fool and a skunk . . .” “What did he do to you?” “He made me pregnant, and left me because I am a believer.” “You are a believer, Maria?” Kostia put his arm around her shoulders, he sought her eyes and found them, with their look that was as dark and as luminous as the night. “I do not believe in ecclesiastical mumble-jumble, Kostia, try to under- stand me. I believe in everything that is. Look around us, look!”
showering insults: “. . . gutter rat . . Kostia went to the drunken man and caught him by the collar of his swaying pajamas. “Quiet, citizen. My wife is asleep next door. Which is your room?” “Number 4,” said the drunk. “Who’re you?” “Nobody. Stay on your feet! Don’t make any noise or I’ll give you a friendly poke in the j aw.” “Good of you . . . Have a drink?” Kostia pushed the door of No. 4 open with his elbow and flung the drunk inside, where he gently collapsed among overturned chairs. Some- thing made of glass rolled across the floor before breaking with a crystal- line tinkle. Kostia groped his way to the door of No. 7, a triangular closet with a low slanting ceiling in which there was a round dormer. The electric bulb, at the end of a long cord, lay on the floor between a pile of books and an enamel basin in which a pink chemise was soaking. The