The Last Mission

[TheExecuter]

XXIV
January 1938​

The two men who had come to arrest Rubashov stood outside on the dark landing and consulted each other. The porter Vassilij, who had shown them the way upstairs, stood in the open lift doorway and panted with fear. He was a thin old man; above the torn collar of the military overcoat he had thrown over his nightshirt appeared a broad red scar which gave him a scrofulous look. It was the result of a neck wound received in the Civil War, throughout which he had fought in Rubashov’s partisan regiment. Later, Rubashov had been ordered abroad and Vassilij had heard of him only occasionally, from the newspaper which his daughter read to him in the evenings. She read to him the speeches which Rubashov made to the Congresses; they were long and difficult to understand, and Vassilij could never quite manage to find in them the tone of voice of the little bearded partisan commander who had known such beautiful oaths that even the Holy Madonna of Kazan must have smiled at them. Usually Vassilij fell asleep in the middle of these speeches, but always woke up when his daughter came to the final sentences and the applause, solemnly raising her voice. To every one of the ceremonial endings, “Long live the International! Long live the Revolution! Long live Stalin”, Vassilij added a heartfelt “Amen” under his breath, so that the daughter should not hear it; then took his jacket off, crossed himself secretly and with a bad conscience and went to bed. Above his bed also hung a portrait of Stalin, and next to it a photograph of Rubashov as partisan commander. If that photograph were found, he should probably also be taken away.

It was cold, dark and very quiet on the staircase. The younger of the two men from the Commissariat of the Interior proposed to shoot the lock of the door to pieces. Vassilij leaned against the lift door; he had not had the time to put on his boots properly, and his hands trembled so much that he could not tie the laces. The elder of the two men was against shooting; the arrest had to be carried out discreetly. They both blew on their stiff hands and began to hammer against the door; the younger banged on it with the butt of his revolver. A few floors below them a woman screamed in a piercing voice. “Tell her to shut up,” said the young man to Vassilij. “Be quiet,” shouted Vassilij. “Here is Authority.” The woman became quiet at once. The young man changed over to belaboring the door with his boots. The noise filled the whole staircase; at last the door fell open.

The three of them stood by Rubashov’s bed, the young man with his pistol in his hand, the old man holding himself stiffly as though standing to attention; Vassilij stood a few steps behind them, leaning against the wall. Rubashov was still drying the sweat from the back of his head; he looked at them shortsightedly with sleepy eyes. “Citizen Rubashov, Nicolas Salmanovitch, we arrest you in the name of the law,” said the young man. Rubashov felt for his glasses under the pillow and propped himself up a bit. Now that he had his glasses on, his eyes had the expression which Vassilij and the elder official knew from old photographs and color prints. The elder official stood more stiffly to attention; the young one, who had grown up under new heroes, went a step closer to the bed; all three saw that he was about to say or do something brutal to hide his awkwardness.

“Put that gun away, comrade,” said Rubashov to him. “What do you want with me, anyhow?”

“You hear you are arrested,” said the boy. “Put your clothes on and don’t make a fuss.”

“Have you got a warrant?” asked Rubashov.

The elder official pulled a paper out of his pocket, passed it to Rubashov and stood again to attention.

Rubashov read it attentively. “Well, good,” he said. “One never is any the wiser from those things; the devil take you.”

“Put your clothes on and hurry up,” said the boy. One saw that his brutality was no longer put on, but was natural to him. A fine generation we have produced... Rubashov recalled the propaganda posters on which youth was always represented with a laughing face. He felt very tired. “Pass me my dressing-gown, instead of fumbling around with your revolver,” he said to the boy. The boy reddened, but remained silent. The elder official passed the dressing-gown to Rubashov. Rubashov worked his arm into the sleeve. “This time it goes at least,” he said with a strained smile. The three others did not understand and said nothing. They watched him as he got slowly out of bed and collected his crumpled clothes together.

The house was silent after the one shrill woman’s cry, but they had the feeling that all the inhabitants were awake in their beds, holding their breath. Then they heard someone in an upper story pull the plug and the water rushing down evenly through the pipes.

At the front door stood the car in which the officials had come, a new American make. It was still dark; the chauffeur had put on the headlights, the street was asleep or pretended to be. They got in, first the lad, then Rubashov, then the elder official. The chauffeur, who was also in uniform, started the car. Beyond the corner the asphalt surface stopped; they were still in the centre of the town; all around them were big modern buildings of nine and ten stories, but the roads were country cart tracks of frozen mud, with a thin powdering of snow in the cracks. The chauffeur drove at a walking pace and the superbly sprung motor car creaked and groaned like an oxen wagon.

“Drive faster,” said the lad, who could not bear the silence in the car.

The chauffeur shrugged his shoulders without looking round. He had given Rubashov an indifferent and unfriendly look as he got into the car. Rubashov had once had an accident; the man at the wheel of the ambulance had looked at him in the same way. The slow, jolting drive through the dead streets, with the wavering light of the head lamps before them, was difficult to stand. “How far is it?” asked Rubashov, without looking at his companions. He nearly added: to the hospital. “A good half-hour,” said the older man in uniform. Rubashov dug cigarettes out of his pocket, put one in his mouth and passed the packet around automatically. The young man refused abruptly, the elder one took two and passed one on to the chauffeur. The chauffeur touched his cap and gave everybody a light, holding the steering wheel with one hand. Rubashov’s heart became lighter; at the same time he was annoyed with himself for it. Just the time to get sentimental… But he could not resist the temptation to speak and to awaken a little human warmth around him. “A pity for the car,” he said. “Foreign cars cost quite a bit of gold, and after half a year on our roads they are finished.”

“There you are quite right. Our roads are very backward,” said the old official. By his tone Rubashov realized that he had understood his helplessness. He felt like a dog to whom one had just thrown a bone; he decided not to speak again. But suddenly the boy said aggressively: “Are they any better in the capitalist states?”

Rubashov had to grin. “Were you ever outside?” he asked.

“I know all the same what it is like there,” said the boy. “You need not try to tell me stories about it.”

“Whom do you take me for, exactly?” asked Rubashov very quietly. But he could not prevent himself from adding: “You really ought to study the Party history a bit.”

The boy was silent and looked fixedly at the driver’s back. Nobody spoke. For the third time the driver choked off the panting engine and let it in again, cursing. They jolted through the suburbs; in the appearance of the miserable wooden houses nothing was changed. Above their crooked silhouettes hung the moon, pale and cold.

In every corridor of the new model prison electric light was burning. It lay bleakly on the iron galleries, on the bare whitewashed walls, on the cell doors with the name cards and the black holes of the judas-eyes. This colorless light, and the shrill echoless sound of their steps on the tiled paving were so familiar to Rubashov that for a few seconds he played with the illusion that he was dreaming again. He tried to make himself believe that the whole thing was not real. If I succeed in believing that I am dreaming, then it will really be a dream…

He tried so intensely that he nearly became dizzy; then immediately a choking shame rose in him. This has to be gone through, he thought. Right through to the end. They reached cell No. 404. Above the spy hole was a card with his name on it, Nicolas Salmanovitch Rubashov. They have prepared everything nicely… The sight of his name on the card made an uncanny impression on him. He wanted to ask the warder for an extra blanket, but the door had already slammed behind him.

 

[canonized]

Wow you are pumping these updates out like crazy ! An excellent update ! The subtle twist here was amazing XD Not to mention the "the devil take you" portion made me laugh for some reason XD . It made me think of like "ahh .. well , everything seems to be in order . damn your eyes ."

 

[El Pip]

I wondered where all my time was going. Now I know, you've stolen it all and are using it to write a string of excellent updates.

You're not fooling anyone you know.

Anyway, it should be interesting to see how a cog in the system reacts to being put through the same system he used to feed people into. Very interesting indeed in fact.

 

[TheExecuter]

Wow you are pumping these updates out like crazy ! An excellent update ! The subtle twist here was amazing XD Not to mention the "the devil take you" portion made me laugh for some reason XD . It made me think of like "ahh .. well , everything seems to be in order . damn your eyes ."

XD Yep, 'like crazy!'

Glad you enjoyed it!

I wondered where all my time was going. Now I know, you've stolen it all and are using it to write a string of excellent updates.

You're not fooling anyone you know.

Anyway, it should be interesting to see how a cog in the system reacts to being put through the same system he used to feed people into. Very interesting indeed in fact.

<whistles innocently>

Why Pip, I don't have a clue what you are talking about!

Besides, we all know the time is better spent in my hands than yours!

You've once again proved to be an excellent predictor of the plot...we will indeed be seeing how our 'Party man' responds to being persecuted by his own.

And in that note...update coming soon!

 

[TheExecuter]

XXV
January, 1938​

Rubashov resumed walking up and down his cell, six and a half steps to the window, six and a half steps back. At length, he put his pince-nez on and propped himself at the window. The yard was now in daylight, a grayish light tinged with yellow, not unfriendly, promising more snow. It was about eight – only three hours had passed since he first entered the cell. The walls surrounding the yard looked like those of a barracks; iron gates were in front of all the windows, the cells behind them were too dark for one to see into them. It was impossible even to see whether anyone stood directly behind his window, looking down, like him, at the snow in the yard. It was nice snow, slightly frozen; it would crackle if one walked on it. On both sides of the path which ran round the yard at a distance of ten paces from the walls, a hilly parapet of snow had been shoveled up. On the rampart opposite the sentinel was pacing up and down. Once, when turning, he spat in a wide arc into the snow; then leant over the ramp to see where it had fallen and frozen. They will shoot me. He leaned his forehead on the window pane. The yard lay white and still.

So he stood a while, without thinking, feeling the cool glass on his forehead. Gradually, he became conscious of small but persistent ticking sound in his cell. He turned round listening. The knocking was so quiet that at first he could not distinguish from which wall it came. While he was listening, it stopped. He started tapping himself, first on the wall over the bucket, in the direction of No. 406, but got no answer. He tried the other wall, which separated him from No. 402, next to his bed. Here he got an answer. Rubashov sat down comfortably on the bunk, from where he could keep an eye on the spy hole, his heart beating. The first contact was always very exciting.

No. 402 was tapping regularly; three times with short intervals, then a pause, then again three times, then again a pause, then again three times. Rubashov repeated the same series to indicate that he heard. He was anxious to find out whether the other knew the ‘quadratic alphabet’ – otherwise there would be a lot of fumbling until he had taught it to him. The wall was thick, with poor resonance; he had to put his head close to it to hear clearly and at the same time he had to watch the spy hole. No. 402 had obviously had a lot of practice; he tapped distinctly and unhurriedly, probably with some hard object such as a pencil. While Rubashov was memorizing the numbers, he tried, being out of practice to visualize the square of letters with the 25 compartments – five horizontal rows with five letters in each. No. 402 first tapped five times – accordingly the fifth row: V to Z; then twice; so it was the second letter of the row: W. Then a pause; then two taps – the second row, F to J; then three taps – the third letter of the row: H. Then three times and then five times; so fifth letter of the third row: O. He stopped.

WHO?

A practical person. He wants to know at once whom he has to deal with. According to the revolutionary etiquette, he should have started with a political tag; then given the news; then talked of food and tobacco; much later only, days later, if at all, did one introduce oneself. However, Rubashov’s experience had been so far confined to countries in which the Party was persecuted, not persecutor, and the members of the Party, for conspiratorial reasons, knew each other only by their Christian names – and changed even these so often that a name lost all meaning. Here, evidently, it was different. Rubashov hesitated as to whether he should give his name. No. 402 became impatient; he knocked again: WHO?

Well, why not? He tapped out his full name: NICOLAS SALMANOVITCH RUBASHOV, and waited for the result.

For a long time there was no answer. Rubashov smiled; he could appreciate the shock it had given his neighbor. He waited a full minute and then another; finally he shrugged his shoulders and stood up from the bunk. He resumed his walk through the cell, but at every turn he stopped listening to the wall. The wall remained mute. He rubbed his pince-nez on his sleeve, went slowly, with tired steps, to the door and looked through the spy hole into the corridor.

The corridor was empty; the electric lamps spread their stale, faded light; one did not hear the slightest sound. Why had No. 402 become dumb?

Probably from fear; he is afraid of compromising himself. Perhaps No. 402 was an apolitical doctor or engineer who trembled at the thought of this dangerous neighbor. Certainly without political experience, else he would not have asked for the name as a start. Presumably mixed up in some affair of sabotage. Has obviously been in prison quite a time already, has perfected his tapping and is devoured b the wish to prove his innocence. Still in the simple belief that his subjective guilt or innocence makes a difference, and with no idea of the higher interests which are really at stake. In all probability he was now sitting on his bunk, writing his hundredth protest to the authorities, who will never read it, or the hundredth letter to his wife, who will never receive it; has in despair grown a beard – a black Pushkin beard – has given up washing and fallen into the habit of biting his nails and erotic day dreams. Nothing is worse in prison than the consciousness of one’s innocence; it prevents acclimatization and undermines one’s morale…Suddenly the ticking started again.

Rubashov sat down quickly on the bunk; but he had already missed the first two letters. No. 402 was now tapping quickly and less clearly, he was obviously very excited:

…RVES YOU RIGHT.

“Serves you right.”

That was unexpected. No. 402 was a conformist. He hated the oppositional heretics, as one should, believed that history ran on rails according to an infallible plan and an infallible pointsman, Stalin. He believed that his own arrest was merely the result of a misunderstanding, and that all the catastrophes of the last years – from China to Spain, from the famine to the extermination of the old guard – were either regrettable accidents or caused by the devilish tricks of Rubashov and his oppositional friends. No. 402’s Pushkin beard vanished; he now had a clean shaven, fanatical face; he kept his cell painfully tidy and conformed strictly to the regulations. There was no sense in arguing with him; this kind was un-teachable. But neither was there any sense in cutting off the only and perhaps the last contact with the world.

WHO? Knocked Rubashov very clearly and slowly.

The answer came in agitated fits and starts:

NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.

AS YOU LIKE, tapped Rubashov, and stood up to resume his wandering through the cell, taking the conversation to be ended. But the tapping started again, this time very loudly and ringingly – No. 402 had obviously taken off a shoe in order to give more weight to his words:

LONG LIVE H.M. THE EMPEROR!

So that’s it. There still exist genuine and authentic counter-revolutionaries – and we thought that nowadays they only occurred in the speeches of Stalin, as scapegoats for his failures. But there sits a real one, an alibi for Stalin in flesh and blood, roaring, just as he should: long live the Monarch…

AMEN, tapped out Rubashov, grinning. The answer came immediately, still louder if possible.

SWINE!

Rubashov was amusing himself. He took off his pince-nez and tapped with the metal edge, in order to change the tone, with a drawling and distinguished intonation:

DIDN’T QUITE UNDERSTAND.

No. 402 seemed to go into a frenzy. He hammered out HOUN--, but the D did not come. Instead his fury suddenly flown, he tapped:

WHY HAVE YOU BEEN LOCKED UP?

With touching simplicity…The face of No. 402 underwent a new transformation. It became that of a young Guards officer, handsome and stupid. Perhaps he even wore a monocle. Rubashov tapped with his pince-nez:

POLITICAL DIVERGENCIES.

A short pause. No. 402 was obviously searching his brain for a sarcastic answer. It came at last:

BRAVO! THE WOLVES DEVOUR EACH OTHER.

Rubashov gave no answer. He had enough of this sort of entertainment and started on his wanderings again. But the officer in 402 had become conversational. He tapped:

RUBASHOV…

Well, this was just about verging on familiarity.

YES? Answered Rubashov.

No. 402 seemed to hesitate; then came quite a long sentence:

WHEN DID YOU LAST SLEEP WITH A WOMAN?

Certainly No. 402 wore an eye-glass; probably he was tapping with it and the bared eye was twitching nervously. Rubashov did not feel repelled. The man at least showed himself as he was; which was pleasanter than if he had tapped out monarchist manifestos. Rubashov thought it over for a bit, and then tapped:

THREE WEEKS AGO.

The answer came at once:

TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT.

Well, really, that was going a bit far. Rubashov’s first impulse was to break off the conversation; but he remembered the man might later become very useful as a connecting link to No. 400 and the cells beyond. The cell to the left was obviously uninhabited; there the chain broke off. Rubashov racked his brain. An old pre-war song came to his memory, which he had heard as a student, in some cabaret where black-stockinged ladies danced the French can-can. He sighed resignedly and tapped with his pince-nez:

SNOWY BREASTS FITTING INTO CHAMPAGNE GLASSES…

He hoped that was the right tone. It was apparently, for No. 402 ured:

GO ON. DETAILS.

By this time he was doubtless plucking nervously at his moustache. He certainly had a little moustache with twirled-up ends. The devil take the man; he was the only connecting link; one had to keep up with him. What did officers talk about in the mess? Women and horses. Rubashov rubbed his pince-nez on his sleeve and tapped conscientiously:

THIGHS LIKE A WILD MARE.

He stopped, exhausted. With the best will in the world he could not do more. But No. 402 was highly satisfied.

GOOD CHAP! He tapped enthusiastically. He was doubtless laughing boisterously, but one heard nothing; he slapped his thighs and twirled his moustache, but one saw nothing. The abstract obscenity of the dumb wall was embarrassing to Rubashov.

GO ON, urged No. 402.

He couldn’t. THAT’S ALL – tapped Rubashov and regretted it immediately. No. 402 must not be offended. But fortunately No. 402 did not let himself be offended. He tapped on obstinantly with his monocle:

GO ON – PLEASE, PLEASE…

Rubashov was now again practiced to the extent of no longer having to count the signs; he transformed them automatically into acoustic perception. It seemed to him that he actually heard the tone of voice in which No. 402 begged for more erotic material. The begging was repeated:

PLEASE – PLEASE…

No. 402 was obviously still young – probably grown up in exile, sprung from an old Army family, sent back into his country with a false passport – and he was obviously tormenting himself badly. He was doubtless plucking at his little moustache, had stuck his monocle to his eye again and was staring hopelessly at the whitewashed wall.

MORE – PLEASE, PLEASE.

…hopelessly staring at the dumb, whitewashed wall, staring at the stains caused by the damp, which gradually began to assume the outlines of the woman with the champagne-cup breasts and the thighs of a wild mare.

TELL ME MORE – PLEASE.

Perhaps he was bent over the bucket, the curve of his bowed neck straining as his round eyes sought to paint the absurd picture of such a woman. Suddenly, Rubashov was reminded of his relation with the girl Arlova, who had been shot.

 

[El Pip]

He has a vivid imagination I'll give Rubashov that much. Then again what else is there to do in a cell if not read far too much into brief snatches of human contact?

Of course that does assume his cell mate is actually a prisoner, and not an interrogator trying to get a psychological head start. Maybe that's being excessively paranoid and untrusting, but this is the Soviet Union after all.

 

[canonized]

Unique and striking ; this is your caliber as a writer , Executer ! I'm really impressed with this chapter ! The identity crisis indicative of communist regimes also finds a thematic window here . Bravo ! One of your most unique chapters yet !

 

[TheExecuter]

Unique and striking ; this is your caliber as a writer , Executer ! I'm really impressed with this chapter ! The identity crisis indicative of communist regimes also finds a thematic window here . Bravo ! One of your most unique chapters yet !

Thanks! o

Your always looking for those more artistic elements in the form and structure of the story, aren't you!

He has a vivid imagination I'll give Rubashov that much. Then again what else is there to do in a cell if not read far too much into brief snatches of human contact?

Of course that does assume his cell mate is actually a prisoner, and not an interrogator trying to get a psychological head start. Maybe that's being excessively paranoid and untrusting, but this is the Soviet Union after all.

Exactly...trust no one!

That brings up the question: Do they need to interrogate him at all?

Update coming up shortly.
TheExecuter

 

[TheExecuter]

XXVI
January, 1938​

The exact moment in which he had slid into the daydream was as impossible to establish afterwards as the moment in which one falls asleep. Only when he heard the rattle of the key in the lock did he wake up to the fact that it was already midday, and that he had walked back and forth in the cell for hours on end. He even had hung the blanket round his shoulders because, presumably also for several hours, he had been rhythmically shaken by a kind of ague and had felt the nerve of his tooth pulsating in his temples. He absently spooned out his bowl which the orderlies had filled with their ladles, and continued his walk. The warder, who observed him from time to time through the spy hole, saw that he had shiveringly hunched up his shoulders and that his lips were moving.

Once more Rubashov breathed the air of his erstwhile office in the Trade Delegation, which was filled with the peculiarly familiar odor of Arlova’s big, well formed and sluggish body; once more he saw the curve of her bowed neck over the white blouse, bent over her notebook while he dictated, and her round eyes following his wanderings through the room in the intervals between the sentences. She always wore white blouses, of the same kind as Rubashov’s sisters had worn at home, embroidered with little flowers at the high neck, and always the same cheap earrings, which stood out a little from her cheeks as she bent over her notebook. In her slow, passive way, she was as if made for this job, and had an unusually quietening effect on Rubashov’s nerves when he was overworked. He had taken over his new post in the trade delegation in Bulgaria immediately after his return from Spain and had thrown himself into work headfirst.

Rubashov needed some time to get used to his new way of life; it amused him that he now had a diplomatic passport, which was even authentic and in his own name; that, in formal clothes, he had to take part in receptions; that policemen stood to attention for him, and that the inconspicuously dressed men in black bowlers who sometimes followed him about were doing it solely out of tender care for his safety.

At first he felt slightly estranged by the atmosphere in the rooms of the trade delegation, which was attached to the legation. He understood that in the bourgeois world one had to be representative and play their game, but he considered that the game was played rather too well here, so that it was hardly possible to distinguish appearance from reality. When the First Secretary of the legation drew Rubashov’s attention to certain necessary changes in his dress and in his style of living – the First Secretary had before the Revolution forged money in the service of the Party – he did not do this in a comradely, humorous way, but with such underlined consideration and tact that the scene became embarrassing and got on Rubashov’s nerves.

Rubashov had twelve subordinates, each with a clearly defined rank; there were First and Second Assistants, First and Second Book Keepers, Secretaries and Assistant Secretaries. Rubashov had the feeling that the whole bunch of them regarded him as something between a national hero and a robber chief. They treated him with exaggerated respect and indulgently superior tolerance. When the Secretary to the legation had to report to him about a document, he made an effort to express himself in the simple terms one would use to a savage or a child. Rubashov’s private secretary, Arlova, got on his nerves the least; only he could not understand why she wore such ridiculously high-heeled, patent leather shoes with her pleasant, simple blouses and skirts.

It was nearly a month before he first spoke to her in a conversational tone. He was tired by dictating and walking up and down, and suddenly became aware of the silence in the room. “Why do you never say anything, Comrade Arlova?” he asked, and sat down in the comfortable chair behind his writing desk.

“If you like,” she answered in her sleepy voice, “I will always repeat the last word of the sentence.”

Every day she sat on her chair in front of the desk, in her embroidered blouse, her heavy, shapely bust bent over the notebook, with bowed head and earrings hanging parallel to her cheeks. The only jarring element was the patent leather shoes with pointed heels, but she never crossed her legs, as most of the women did whom Rubashov knew. As he always walked up and down while dictating, he usually saw her from behind or half in profile, and the thing he remembered most clearly was the curve of her bent neck. The back of her neck was neither fluffy nor shaved; the skin was white and taut over the vertebrae; below were the embroidered flowers on the edge of her white blouse.

In his youth Rubashov had not had much to do with women; nearly always they were comrades, and nearly always the start of the affair had been a discussion prolonged so late into the night that whichever was the other’s guest missed the last tram home.

After that unsuccessful attempt at a conversation, another fortnight passed. At first Arlova had really repeated the last word of the dictated sentence in her drowsy voice; then she had given it up, and when Rubashov paused, the room was again still and saturated with her sisterly perfume. One afternoon, to his own surprise, Rubashov stopped behind her chair, put both his hands lightly on her shoulders, and asked her whether she would go out with him in the evening. She did not jerk back and her shoulders kept still under his touch; she nodded in silence and did not even turn her head. It was not a habit of Rubashov’s to make frivolous jokes, but later in the same night he could not forbear saying with a smile: “One would think you were still taking down dictation.” Her eyes had the same expression as ever, when she pronounced that sentence which could no more leave Rubashov’s memory than the folded hands of the Pietà.

“You will always be able to do what you like with me.”

“But why?” asked Rubashov, astonished and slightly startled.

She did not answer. Probably she was already asleep. Asleep, her breathing was as inaudible as waking. Rubashov had never noticed that she breathed at all. He had never seen her with shut eyes. It made her face strange to him; it was much more expressive with shut eyes than with open.

The next day and all the following day, she sat again in her white blouse, bent over the desk; the next night and all the following nights, a paler silhouette of her face was raised against the dark bedroom curtain. Rubashov lived by day and by night in the atmosphere of her large, lazy body. Her behavior during work remained unaltered, her voice and the expression of her eyes was the same; never did they contain the least suggestion of an allusion. From time to time, when Rubashov was tired by dictating, he stopped behind her chair and leaned his hands on her shoulders; he said nothing, and under the blouse her warm shoulders did not move; then he found the phrase he had been searching for, and, resuming his wandering through the room, he went on dictating.

Sometimes he added sarcastic commentaries to what he was dictating; then she stopped writing and waited, pencil in hand, until he had finished; but she never smiled at his sarcasms and Rubashov never discovered what she thought of them. Only once, after a particularly dangerous joke of Rubashov’s, referring to certain personal habits of Stalin’s she said suddenly in her sleepy voice: “You ought not to say such things in front of other people; you ought to be more careful altogether…” But from time to time, particularly when instructions and circulars from above arrived, he felt a need to give vent to his heretical witticisms.

It was the time of preparation for the second great trial of the opposition. The air in the legation had become peculiarly thin. Photographs and portraits disappeared from walls overnight; they had hung there for years, nobody had looked at them, but now the light patches leaped to the eye. The staff restricted their conversation to service matters; they spoke to each other with a careful and reserved politeness. At meals in the Legation canteen, when conversation was unavoidable, they stuck to the stock phrases of official terminology, which, in the familiar atmosphere, appeared grotesque and rather uneasy. It was as though, between requests for salt cellar and mustard pot, they called out to each other the catchwords of the latest Congress manifesto. Often it happened that somebody protested against a supposed false interpretation of what he had just said, and called his neighbors to witness, with precipitate exclamations of “I did not say that,” or “That is not what I meant.” The whole thing gave Rubashov the impression of a queer and ceremonious marionette play with figures, moving on wires, each saying their set piece. Arlova alone, with her silent, sleepy manner, seemed to remain unchanged.

Not only the portraits on the walls, but also the shelves in the library were thinned out. The disappearance of certain books and brochures happened discreetly, usually the day after the arrival of a new message from above. Rubashov made his sarcastic commentaries on it while dictating to Arlova, who received them in silence. Most of the works on foreign trade and currency disappeared from the shelves – their author, the People’s Commissar for Finance, had just been arrested; also nearly all old Party Congress reports treating the same subject; most books and reference books on the history of antecedents of the Revolution; most works by living authors of jurisprudence and philosophy; all pamphlets dealing with the problems of birth control; the manuals on the structure of the People’s Army; treatises on trade unionism and the right to strike in the People’s state; practically every study of the problems of political constitution more than two years old, and, finally, even the volumes of the Encyclopedia published by the Academy – a new revised edition being promised shortly.

New books arrived, too; the classics of social science appeared with new footnotes and commentaries, the old histories were replaced by new histories, the old memoirs of dead revolutionary leaders were replaced by new memoirs of the same defunct. Rubashov remarked jokingly to Arlova that the only thing left to be done was to publish a new and revised edition of the back numbers of all newspapers.

In the meantime, a few weeks ago, an order had come from “above,” to appoint a librarian who would take the political responsibility for the contents of the legation library. They had appointed Arlova to this post. At first Rubashov had mumbled something about a “kindergarten” and had held the whole thing for an imbecility, up to the evening when, at the weekly meeting of the legation Party cell, Arlova had been sharply attacked from several sides. Three or four speakers, amongst whom was the First Secretary, rose and complained that some of the most important speeches of Stalin were not to be found in the library, that one the other hand it was still full of oppositional works, and that books by politicians who had since been unmasked as spies, traitors and agents of foreign powers had until quite recently occupied prominent positions in the shelves; so that one could hardly avoid a suspicion of an intentional demonstration. The speakers were dispassionate and cuttingly businesslike; they used carefully selected phrases. It seemed as though they were giving each other cues for a prearranged text. All speeches ended with the conclusion that the Party’s chief duty was to be watchful, to denounce abuses mercilessly, and that whoever did not fulfill this duty made himself an accomplice of the vile saboteurs. Arlova, summoned to make a statement, said with her usual equanimity, that she was far from having an evil intent, and that she had followed every instruction given to her. But, while she was speaking in her deep, slightly blurred voice; she let her glance rest a long time on Rubashov, which she otherwise never did in the presence of others. The meeting ended with the resolution to give Arlova a “serious warning.”

Rubashov, who knew only too well the methods lately brought into use in the Party, became uneasy. He guessed that there was something in store for Arlova and felt helpless, because there was nothing tangible to fight against.

The air in the legation became even thinner. Rubashov stopped making personal comments while dictating, and that gave him a singular feeling of guilt. There was apparently no change in his relations with Arlova, but this curious feeling of guilt, which was solely due to the fact that he no longer felt capable of making witty remarks while dictating, prevented him stopping behind her chair and putting his hands on her shoulders, as he used to do. After a week, Arlova stayed away from his room one evening, and did not come the following evenings either. It was three days before Rubashov could bring himself to ask her the reason. She answered something about a migraine in her sleepy voice and Rubashov did not press her any further. From then on she did not come again, with one exception.

This was three weeks after the cell meeting which had pronounced the “serious warning,” and a fortnight after she had first stopped visiting him. Her behavior was almost as usual, but the whole evening Rubashov had the feeling that she was waiting for him to say something decisive. He only said, however, that he was glad she was back again, and that he was overworked and tired – which was actually the case. In the night he noticed repeatedly that she was awake and staring into the dark. He could not get rid of this tormenting sense of guilt. That was her last visit to him.

Next day, before Arlova had appeared in his office, the Secretary told Rubashov, in a manner which was supposed to be confidential, but with each sentence carefully formulated, that Arlova’s brother and sister-in-law had been arrested a week ago back home. Arlova’s brother had married a foreigner; they were both accused of having treasonable connections with her native country in the service of the opposition.

A few minutes later Arlova arrived for work. She sat, as always, on her chair in front of the desk, in her embroidered blouse, slightly bent forward. Rubashov walked up and down behind her, and all the time he had before his eyes her bent neck, with the skin slightly stretched over the neck bones. He could not take his eyes off this piece of skin, and felt an uneasiness which amounted to physical discomfort. The thought would not leave him that back home the condemned were shot through the back of the neck.

At the next meeting of the Party cell Arlova was dismissed from her post as librarian because of political untrustworthiness, on the motion of the First Secretary. No comment was made and there was no discussion. Rubashov had excused himself from attending the meeting, complaining of an almost intolerable toothache. A few days afterwards Arlova and another member of the staff were recalled. Their names were never mentioned by their former colleagues; but, during the weeks he remained in the legation before he was himself recalled, the sisterly scent of her large, lazy body clung to the walls of his room and never left them.

 

[canonized]

Thanks! o

Your always looking for those more artistic elements in the form and structure of the story, aren't you!

I can't help it XD I've been reading Kolyma Tales by Shalamov and I just finished One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Solzhenitsyn so Communist imprisonment is fresh on my mind , my friend .

Please keep up the good work . And even though I'm surprised at the speed of your updates it only serves to spur me to write my updates faster ! Plus , thanks to you , I can't get February Song out of my head . I think your writing has really gone through a metamorphosis . The edges of the butterfly's wings are beginning to bud out . Fly with it , my friend ! You have my full attention !

 

[canonized]

Mmnn , a wonderful chapter . Meandering and melodic , you get this hazy comfortable yet noir-esque feeling like something out of Walker Percy's The Moviegoer . Almost existential .

You've given me something excellent to fall asleep afterwards with , my friend . A dulling blanket of smoke and muted politics .

 

[El Pip]

Very impressive. I felt I was in the legation as the atmosphere changed, becoming both oppressive and 'thinner' as you put it, not a word that first springs to mind in such circumstances, yet undoubtedly correct.

Congratulations on ;"You will always be able to do what you like with me.” which is frankly a spooky line, given the context. The entire relationship has a 'Secretary' type feel but without the humour.

 

[TheExecuter]

XXVII
February, 1938​

ARIE, YE WRETCHED OF THE EARTH.

Since the morning of the tenth day after Rubashov’s arrest, his new neighbor to the left, the occupant of No. 406, tapped out the same line at regular intervals, always with the same spelling mistake: “ARIE” instead of “ARISE.” Rubashov had tried to start a conversation with him several times. As long as Rubashov was tapping, his new neighbor listened in silence; but the only answer he ever received was a row of letters and to conclude always the same crippled verse:

ARIE, YE WRETCHED OF THE EARTH.

The new neighbor had been put in there the night before. Rubashov had woken, but had only heard muffled sounds and the locking of cell No. 406. In the morning after the first bugle-blast, No. 406 had at once started to tap: ARIE, YE WRETCHED OF THE EARTH. He tapped quickly and deftly, with the technique of a virtuoso, so that his spelling mistake and the senselessness of his other messages must have had not technical but mental causes. Probably the new neighbor’s mind was deranged.

After breakfast, the young officer in No. 402 gave the sign that he wanted conversation. Between Rubashov and No. 402 a sort of friendship had developed. The officer with the eye glass and the turned up moustache must have been living in a state of chronic boredom, for he was always grateful to Rubashov for the smallest crumbs of conversation. Five or six times during the day he would humbly beg Rubahov:

DO TALK TO ME…

Rubashov was rarely in the mood for it; neither did he know quite what to talk about to No. 402. Usually No. 402 tapped out classical anecdotes of the officer’s mess. When the point had been reached, there would be a painful silence. They were dusty old anecdotes, of a patriarchal obscenity; one imagined how, having tapped them to a conclusion, No. 402 would wait for roars of laughter and stare despairingly at the dumb, white-washed wall. Out of sympathy and politeness, Rubashov occasionally tapped out a loud HA HA with his pince-nez as a laughter substitute. Then there would be no holding No. 402; he imitated an outburst of merriment, by drumming against the wall with fists and boots; HA HA HA HA and making occasional pauses, to make sure Rubashov was joining in. If Rubashov remained silent, he was reproachful: YOU DIDN’T LAUGH… If, in order to be left in peace, Rubashov gave one or two HA HA’s, No. 402 informed him afterward: WE HAD JOLLY GOOD FUN.

Sometimes he reviled Rubashov. Occasionally, if he got no answer, he would tap out the whole of a military song with an endless number of verses. It sometimes happened, when Rubashov was walking to and fro, sunk in a daydream or in meditation, that he started humming the refrain of an old march, the sign for which his ear had unconsciously registered.

And yet, No. 402 was useful. He had been there for more than two years already; he knew the ropes, he was in communication with several neighbors and heard all the gossip; he seemed informed of everything which happened in the building.

On the morning after the arrival of No. 406, when the officer opened the usual conversation, Rubashov asked him whether he knew who was his new neighbor. To which No. 402 replied:

RIP VAN WINKLE.

No. 402 was fond of speaking in riddles, in order to bring an element of excitement into the conversation. Rubashov searched his memory. He remembered the story of a man who had slept for twenty-five years and found an unrecognizable world on his awakening.

HAS HE LOST HIS MEMORY? asked Rubashov.

No. 402, satisfied by his effect, told Rubashov what he knew. No. 406 had once been a teacher of sociology in a small state in the southeast of Europe. At the end of the Great War he took part in the revolution which had broken out in his country. A “Commune” was created, which led a romantic existence for a few weeks, and met the usual bloody end. The leaders of the revolution had been amateurs, but the repression which followed was carried out with professional thoroughness; No. 406, to whom the Commune had given the sonorous title of “State Secretary for the Enlightenment of the People,” was condemned to death by hanging. He waited a year for his execution, then the sentence was commuted to lifelong imprisonment. He served twenty years of it.

He served twenty years, most of the time in solitary confinement, without communication with the outside world, and without newspapers. He was to all intents and purposes forgotten; the administration of justice in that country was still a rather patriarchal character. A month ago he was suddenly released by an amnesty – Rip Van Winkle, who, after more than twenty years of sleep and darkness, finds himself on the earth again.

He took the first train hither, to the land of his dreams. Fourteen days after his arrival he was arrested. Perhaps, after twenty years of solitary confinement, he had become too talkative. Perhaps he had told people what he had imagined the life would be like over here – during the days and nights in his cell. Perhaps he had asked for the addresses of old friends, the heroes of the Revolution, without knowing that they were nothing but traitors and spies. Perhaps he had laid a wreath on the wrong grave, or had wished to pay a call on his illustrious neighbor, Comrade Rubashov.

Now he could ask himself which was better: two decades of dreams on a palliasse in a dark cell or two weeks’ reality in the light of day. Perhaps he was no longer quite sane. That was the story of Rip Van Winkle…

Rubashov lay on his bunk, with eyes shut.

For that too you must pay, for that too you are responsible; for you acted while he dreamed.

 

[TheExecuter]

I can't help it XD I've been reading Kolyma Tales by Shalamov and I just finished One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Solzhenitsyn so Communist imprisonment is fresh on my mind , my friend .

Please keep up the good work . And even though I'm surprised at the speed of your updates it only serves to spur me to write my updates faster ! Plus , thanks to you , I can't get February Song out of my head . I think your writing has really gone through a metamorphosis . The edges of the butterfly's wings are beginning to bud out . Fly with it , my friend ! You have my full attention !

Sorry about the song... XD

I must confess that these updates consist of a substantial amount of 'pre-written' material. Whenever I got stuck on a previous chapter, I would write in a future chapter that more inspired me. Now all that is left is to make sure that there are no continuity gaps and do a little rewriting to get the pacing right. I have a few more chapters dealing with Rubashov, Ian, and the purges before we shift towards the main events of the story. I think the style will change significantly once the romance begins. Hopefully that won't be too much of a problem.

Mmnn , a wonderful chapter . Meandering and melodic , you get this hazy comfortable yet noir-esque feeling like something out of Walker Percy's The Moviegoer . Almost existential .

You've given me something excellent to fall asleep afterwards with , my friend . A dulling blanket of smoke and muted politics .

I'll have to check out Percy's work! Glad you enjoyed the update...have some more!

Very impressive. I felt I was in the legation as the atmosphere changed, becoming both oppressive and 'thinner' as you put it, not a word that first springs to mind in such circumstances, yet undoubtedly correct.

Congratulations on ;"You will always be able to do what you like with me.” which is frankly a spooky line, given the context. The entire relationship has a 'Secretary' type feel but without the humour.

Thanks! I was trying to subtly bring to mind Rubashov's conversation with Ian where they talked about walking on the narrow mountain path, and that 'he who gets dizzy is lost'...but, I seem to have lost that connection in the rewrite. Oh well.

As for the spooky line, I'm sure she didn't mean that Rubashov would always be able to fail to stand up for her...but maybe she did...who knows what women are thinking, anyway!

 

[El Pip]

Rubashov is starting the process of institutionalisation, falling into patterns and regimes determined by his surroundings and the system not his own choice.

Bringing up an earlier point, has he been interrogated? Or as you said do they even need to? With no legal process to follow, thus no need for such things as evidence, the only compulsion would be if they wanted him to name yet more traitors so they can meet their quota. (Perhaps the most inhuman part of the later purges; people being accused not on hearsay or even a false confession, but being purged just so the local NKVD man could meet his quota of 'traitors').

Another excellent update.

who knows what women are thinking, anyway!

Amen brother!

 

[TheExecuter]

Rubashov is starting the process of institutionalisation, falling into patterns and regimes determined by his surroundings and the system not his own choice.

Bringing up an earlier point, has he been interrogated? Or as you said do they even need to? With no legal process to follow, thus no need for such things as evidence, the only compulsion would be if they wanted him to name yet more traitors so they can meet their quota. (Perhaps the most inhuman part of the later purges; people being accused not on hearsay or even a false confession, but being purged just so the local NKVD man could meet his quota of 'traitors').

No interrogation as of yet. I'm debating whether to put it in...currently the interrogation would be rather long...and brutal. I'll decide soon what I'll do with that stuff. Reading about the purges has been very depressing...survival seemed very random.

 

[TheExecuter]

XXVIII
February, 1938​

At the serving out of supper, Rubahov had the feeling that there was something unusual in the air. He could not explain why; the food as doled out according to routine, the melancholy tune of the bugle sounded punctually at the prescribed time; yet it seemed to Rubashov that there was something tense about the atmosphere. Perhaps on of the orderlies had looked at him a shade more expressively than usual; perhaps the voice of the old warder had had a curious undertone. Rubashov did not know, but he felt the tension in his nerves, as rheumatic people feel a storm.

After the “Last Post” had died away, he spied out into the corridor; the electric bulbs, lacking current, burnt at half strength and shed their dim light onto the tiles; the silence of the corridor seemed more final and hopeless then ever. Rubashov lay down on his bunk, stood up again, stubbed out his cigarette and lit a new one. He looked down into the yard: it was thawing, the snow had become dirty and soft, the sky was clouded over; on the parapet opposite, the sentinel with his rifle was marching up and down. Once more Rubashov looked through the judas into the corridor: silence, desolation and electric light.

Against his custom, and in spite of the late hour, he started a conversation with No. 402. ARE YOU ASLEEP? he tapped.

For a while there was no answer and Rubashov waited with a feeling of disappointment. Then it came – quieter and slower than usual:

NO. DO YOU FEEL IT TOO?

FEEL – WHAT? asked Rubashov. He breathed heavily; he was lying on the bunk, tapping with his pince-nez.

Again No. 402 hesitated a while. Then he tapped so subduedly that it sounded as if he were speaking in a very low voice:

IT’S BETTER FOR YOU TO SLEEP…

Rubashov lay still on his bunk and was ashamed that No. 402 should speak to him in such a paternal tone. He lay on his back in the dark and looked at his pince-nez, which he held against the wall in his half-raised hand. The silence outside was so thick that he heard it humming in his ears. Suddenly the wall ticked again:

FUNNY – THAT YOU FELT IT AT ONCE…

FELT WHAT? EXPLAIN! tapped Rubashov, sitting up on the bunk.

No. 402 seemed to think it over. After a short hesitation he tapped:

TONIGHT POLITICAL DIFFERENCES ARE BEING SETTLED…

Rubashov understood. He sat leaning against the wall, in the dark, waiting to hear more. But No. 402 said no more. After a while, Rubahov tapped:

EXECUTIONS?

YES, answered 402 laconically.

HOW DO YOU KNOW? asked Rubashov.

FROM HARE LIP.

AT WHAT TIME?

DON’T KNOW. And, after a pause: SOON.

KNOW THE NAMES? asked Rubashov.

NO, answered No. 402. After another pause he added: OF YOUR SORT. POLITICAL DIVERGENCIES.

Rubashov lay down again and waited. After a while he put on his pince-nez, then he lay still, one arm under his neck. From outside nothing was to be heard. Every movement in the building was stifled, frozen in the dark.

Rubashov had never witnessed an execution – except, nearly, his own; but that had been during the Civil War. He could not well picture to himself how the same thing looked in normal circumstances, as part of an orderly routine. He knew vaguely that the executions were carried out at night in the cellars, and that the delinquent was killed by a bullet in the neck; but the details of it he did not know. In the Party death was no mystery, it had no romantic aspect. It was a logical consequence, a factor with which one reckoned and which bore rather an abstract character. Also death was rarely spoken of, and the word “execution” was hardly ever used; the customary expression was “physical liquidation.” The words “physical liquidation” again evoked only one concrete idea: The cessation of political activity. The act of dying in itself was a technical detail, with no claim to interest; death as a factor in a logical equation had lost any intimate bodily feature.

Rubashov stared into the darkness through his pince-nez. Had the proceedings already started? Or was it still to come? He had taken off shoes and socks; his bare feet at the other end of the blanket stuck up palely in the darkness. The silence became even more unnatural. It was not the usual comforting absence of noise; it was a silence which had swallowed all sound and smothered it, a silence vibrating like a taut drum skin. Rubashov stared at his bare feet and slowly moved the toes. It looked grotesque and uncanny, as though the white feet led a life of their own. He was conscious of his own body with unusual intensity, felt the lukewarm touch of the blanket on his legs and the pressure of his hand under his neck. Where did the “physical liquidation” take place? He had the vague idea that it must take place below, under the stairs which led down, beyond the barber’s room. What did the executioner say to his victim? “Stand with your face to the wall?” Did he add “please?” Or did he say: “Don’t be afraid. It won’t hurt…” Perhaps he shot without any warning, from behind, while they were walking along – but the victim would be constantly turning his head around. Perhaps he hid the revolver in his sleeve, as the dentist hides his forceps. Perhaps others were also present. How did they look? Did the man fall forwards or backwards? Did he call out? Perhaps it was necessary to put a second bullet in him to finish him off.

Rubashov smoked and looked at his toes. It was so quiet that one heard the crackling of the burning cigarette paper. He took a deep pull on his cigarette. Nonsense. Penny novelette. In actual fact, he had never believed in the technical reality of “physical liquidation.” Death was an abstraction, especially one’s own. Probably it was now all over, and what is past has no reality. It was dark and quiet, and No. 402 had stopped tapping.

He wished that outside somebody might scream to tear this unnatural silence. He sniffed and noticed that for some time already he had the scent of Arlova in his nostrils. Even the cigarettes smelled of her; she had carried a leather case in her bag and every cigarette out of it had smelled of her powder…the silence persisted. Only the bunk creaked slightly when he moved.

Rubashov was just thinking of getting up and lighting another cigarette when the ticking in the wall started again. THEY ARE COMING, said the ticking.

Rubashov listened. He heard his pulses hammering in his temples and nothing else. He waited. The silence thickened. He took off his pince-nez and tapped:

I HEAR NOTHING…

For a whole while No. 402 did not answer. Suddenly he tapped, loudly and sharply:
NO. 380. PASS IT ON.

Rubashov sat up quickly. He understood: the news had been tapped on through eleven cells, by the neighbors of No. 380. The occupants of the cells between 380 and 402 formed an acoustic relay through darkness and silence. They were defenceless, locked within their four walls; this was their form of solidarity. Rubashov jumped from his bunk, pattered over bare-footed to the other wall, posted himself next to the bucket, and tapped to No. 406.
ATTENTION. NO. 380 IS TO BE SHOT NOW. PASS IT ON.

He listened. The bucket stank; its vapors had replaced the scent of Arlova. There was no answer. Rubashov pattered hastily back to the bunk. This time he tapped not with the pince-nez, but with his knuckles:

WHO IS NO. 380?

There was again no answer. Rubashov guessed that, like himself, No. 402 was moving pendulum-like between the two walls of his cell. In the eleven cells beyond him, the inhabitants were hurrying noiselessly, with bare feet, backwards and forwards between the walls. Now No. 402 was back again at his wall; he announced:

THEY ARE READING THE SENTENCE TO HIM. PASS IT ON.

Rubashov repeated his previous question:

WHO IS HE?

But No. 402 had gone again. It was no use passing the message on to Rip Van Winkle, yet Rubashov pattered over to the bucket side of the cell and tapped it through; he was driven by an obscure sense of duty, the feeling that the chain must not be broken. The proximity of the bucket made him feel sick. He pattered back to the bed and waited. Still not the slightest sound was heard from outside. Only the wall went on ticking:

HE IS SHOUTING FOR HELP.

HE IS SHOUTING FOR HELP, Rubashov tapped to 406. He listened. One heard nothing. Rubashov was afraid that the next time he went near the bucket he would be sick.

THEY ARE BRINGING HIM. SCREAMING AND HITTING OUT. PASS IT ON, tapped No. 402.

WHAT IS HIS NAME? Rubashov tapped quickly, before No. 402 had quite finished his sentence. This time he got an answer.

BOGROV, OPPOSITIONAL. PASS IT ON.

Rubashov’s legs suddenly became heavy. He leant against the wall and tapped through to No. 406.

MICHAEL BOGROV, FORMER SAILOR ON BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN, COMMANDER OF THE EASTERN FLEET, BEARER OF THE FIRST REVOLUTIONARY ORDER, LED TO EXECUTION.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, was sick into the bucket and ended his sentence:

PASS IT ON.

He could not call back to his memory the visual image of Bogrov, but he saw the outlines of his gigantic figure, his awkward, trailing arms, the freckles on his broad, flat face with the slightly turned up nose. They had been roommates once; Rubashov had taught him reading, writing and the fundamentals of historical thought; since then, wherever Rubashov might happen to be, he received twice a year a handwritten letter, ending invariably with the words: “Your comrade, faithful unto the grave, Bogrov.”

THEY ARE COMING, tapped No. 402 hastily, and so loudly that Rubashov, who was still standing next to the bucket with his head leaning against the wall, heard it across the cell! STAND AT THE SPY HOLE. DRUM. PASS IT ON.

Rubashov stiffened. He tapped the message through to No. 406: STAND AT THE SPY HOLE. DRUM. PASS IT ON. He pattered through the dark to the cell door and waited. All was silent as before.

In a few seconds there came again the ticking in the wall: NOW.

Along the corridor came the low hollow sound of subdued drumming. It was not tapping nor hammering: the men in cells 380 to 402, who formed the acoustic chain and stood behind their doors like a guard of honor in the dark, brought out with deceptive resemblance the muffled, solemn sound of a roll of drums, carried by the wind from the distance. Rubashov stood with his eyes pressed to the spy hole, and joined the chorus by beating with both hands rhythmically against the concrete door. To his astonishment, the stifled wave was carried on to the right, through No. 406 and beyond; Rip Van Winkle must have understood after all; he too was drumming. At the same time Rubashov heard to his left, at some distance still from the limits of his range of vision, the grinding of iron doors being rolled back on their slidings. The drumming to his left became slightly louder; Rubashov knew that the iron door which separated the isolation cells from the ordinary ones, had been opened. A bunch of keys jangled, now the iron door was shut again; now he heard the approach of steps, accompanied by sliding and slipping noises on the tiles. The drumming to the left rose in a wave, a steady, muffled crescendo. Rubashov’s field of vision, limited by cells No. 401 and 407, was still empty. The sliding and squealing sounds approached quickly, now he distinguished also a moaning and whimpering, like the whimpering of a child. The steps quickened, the drumming to the left faded slightly, to the right it swelled.

Rubashov drummed. He gradually lost the sense of time and space, he heard only the hollow beatings as of jungle tom-toms; it might have been apes that stood behind the bars of their cages, beating their chests and drumming; he pressed his eye to the judas, rising and falling rhythmically on his toes as he drummed. As before, he saw only the stale, yellowish light of the electric bulb in the corridor; there was nothing to be seen save the iron doors of Nos. 401 to 407, but the roll of drums rose, and the creaking and whimpering approached. Suddenly shadowy figures entered his field of vision: they were there. Rubashov ceased to drum and stared. A second later they had passed.

What he had seen in those few seconds, remained branded on Rubashov’s memory. Two dimly lit figures had walked past, both in uniform, big and indistinct, dragging between them a third, whom they held under the arms. The middle figure hung slack and yet with doll like stiffness from their grasp, stretched out at length, face turned to the ground, belly arched downwards. The legs trailed after, the shoes skated along on the toes, producing the squealing sound which Rubashov had heard from the distance. Whitish strands of hair hung over the face turned towards the tiles, with mouth wide open. Drops of sweat clung to it; out of the mouth spittle ran thinly down the chin. When they had dragged him out of Rubashov’s field of vision, further to the right and down the corridor, the moaning and whimpering gradually faded away; it came to him only as a distant echo, consisting of three plaintive vowels: “u-a-o.” But before they had turned the corner at the end of the corridor, by the barber’s shop, Bogrov bellowed out loudly twice, and this time Rubashov heard not only the vowels, but the whole word; it was his own name, he heard it clearly: Ru-ba-shov.

Then, as if at a signal, silence fell. The electric lamps were burning as usual, the corridor was empty as usual. Only in the wall No. 406 was ticking:

ARIE, YE WRETCHED OF THE EARTH.

 

[El Pip]

Blimey that must have spooked Rubashov. How on earth did Bogrov know he was there?

Actually what am I saying, Rubashov of all people must know how bad his prospects are, that he has held it together for this long probably indicates he's beyond being spooked at this stage.

Another excellent update.

 

[canonized]

Wow . Totally gripping . I'm on the edge of my seat . I can't wait to find out what happens next O.O . Maybe you'll finally make a cameo in your own work , eh ? har har har XD

 

[TheExecuter]

Blimey that must have spooked Rubashov. How on earth did Bogrov know he was there?

Actually what am I saying, Rubashov of all people must know how bad his prospects are, that he has held it together for this long probably indicates he's beyond being spooked at this stage.

Another excellent update.

Creepy, eh? Two possibilities...Bogrov read Rubashov's name on the door, or the interrogators informed Bogrov of Rubashov's presence for some reason...I'll let your paranoia decide which is the truth.

As per your request, we will see Rubashov's interrogation. Bear with me, it will be in several installments.

Wow . Totally gripping . I'm on the edge of my seat . I can't wait to find out what happens next O.O . Maybe you'll finally make a cameo in your own work , eh ? har har har XD

Thanks, you won't have long to find out!

As for cameos...I've already mapped out most of the characters in the story, and the few I haven't decided on are far in the future. Some people have noticed some eery similarities between Ian and the author though...

Thanks for you guys' continued support!

On with the show...