SHORT STORIES

THE LIST OF PETROVITCH 

The comrade Simon Petrovitch was in his office as everyday, including Sundays. To his right was the “in” tray with the correspondence.  He stretched out his arm and took an envelope with calm.  He took the letter opener and started to cut the envelope. He took out the sheet and read:
   “Dear comrade: The present, is an answer to your letter, dated as 25th September, I am glad to tell you that the list has been totally approved except for the case of comrade prisoner Dimitri Efimovitch who has been removed from it.”
   It ended saying with the formula “without farther particulars, I greet you with comrade affection,” and was followed by an illegible sign. 
    Comrade Petrovitch was struck with a sudden shivering. He could not believe what was reading and had to repeat the phrase. Slowing in the words “the list has been totally approved”, then “except for the case” and the “who has been removed from it”.
    Petrovitch was petrified. He never had anyone removed before from a list. 
    He felt a cold sweat and a sharp pain from his stretched arm to his chest. His face became as pale as the ashes in the coal stove when it is cold. For a moment he felt the darkness. All was black. The clock in the wall was still ticking but he could not hear such faint sounds. Minutes were passing and he remained in utter darkness. He was unable to think but was aware of the idea that he was blind. Slowly he became aware of being sat in his chair. He was in his office. The left arm was hanging down stiff while his right arm was resting over the table.
    All was dark around Petrovitch but he was able to think, “It seems I have become blind”. This was a tight moment but nevertheless he felt himself calmed. In his live he have been able to keep calm, even in moments of great danger. Not that he was immunised to feeling fear but he had mastered the art of hiding it under an unruffled face.
    He was aware of the pain in the left arm and the chest. He tried to forget that and focus about his place in the real world. He was sitting in his office. The silver samovar was on the left side of the table at the reach of his outstretched arm. He even could have touched it now if he could rise the left arm, but he could not. A little near must have been the out tray for the correspondence. He could not see it at this moment but he was aware that the tray must be there. The “in tray” was near his right hand. He moved it and found the tray.
    “I have become blind” he said to himself. Then he tried to rise his left arm to touch the “out tray”, but felt a hard pain in his chest, so he had let it hanging. The left arm was hanging down and stiff. It was almost impossible to move it. It was as heavy as lead. He was for a few minutes trying to calm down and forget the pain.
    Now he felt he was able to think. He was able to reason, but he remained blind. He realised he would have to call someone to inform of his condition. If he stood up to get out of the office he would had to walk three steps to the right. Then, turning a little to the left, the office door must be four steps farther. He would have to prop himself on his right hand over the table and made force on his legs to stand up but his body was as heavy as lead. It was an unbearable work. Slowly he was rising his body half a foot above the chair perhaps, but it was very hard to do it. It was as if his body was denying him the trivial act of rising to stand up. He began to feel nausea and let his body to fall again over the chair. Not only was he blind, but he was also unable to stand up and to would have to ask for help. Then he began slowly to catch a sight of the letter he was reading ten minutes ago.
    Then the light came back to his mind and he turned to see again. There it was the table with the silver samovar, and near of it was the out tray. To his right was the in tray from where it had taken the letter. He looked ahead and saw the familiar naked grey wall. It was for years asking for a new coat of paint. Suddenly he remembered the letter and the words that he had read a few minutes ago. The words were reverberating in his mind: “except for the case of comrade prisoner Dimitri Efimovitch who has been removed from it.”
    It was in this very moment that he saw again the face of dear comrade Stalin facing him from the wall. The comrade was showing a heavy frown this afternoon. He was not watching the painting on his back, but he was seeing it just on the wall in front of him. The image of the comrade Staling was showing itself in all colours. He was seeing it very clear and crisp as if he would had turned back to watch the painting. But there it was, in all his bright colours, outshining the grey and dirty wall forever. The shining was heralding a radiant future for all mankind.
    He felt again a strong pain in the arm and in the chest. He felt for a minute the need to let himself laying on the floor but soon he brushed off the idea. He was sitting on his chair, propped by this own strong will, resting on his right outstretched arm over the table. This play of destiny has taken him by surprise. He always has been a cautious comrade, always alert to every detail to save the proletariat of his enemies. But as the time was passing, one is always ready to fall into a routine of normality and looses his youthful reflexes.
    When Petrovitch called a prisoner for questioning, the portrait of comrade Stalin was watching him with a stern glare over his head. It was a help to reinforce his authority. He had chosen this portrait himself among many others for it had the right kind of frown to frighten out the enemies of the people into submission. This was not a common portrait you could find anywhere for this one conveyed a peculiar threat. The portrait showed Uncle Joseph, the Little Father of the Russian people, as if he were pretending to look at something without interest when suddenly he raises his eyes and looks into yours. He does it with a malevolent searching stare, catching you unawares and finds your soul overflowing with dangerous thoughts.
    Petrovitch liked this portrait very much and he used to turn around in his chair to gaze it from time to time. It was a new modern rotating chair that he thought it was designed for this very purpose, just to enjoy Stalin's frowning image. But now, he was feeling very weak to turn around and watch his face. He was staring at the grey wall in front of him and there he was again. It was a kind of wonderful phenomenon. Uncle Joseph was staring at him just in front. He could see his face very clearly but now it seemed he was casting a much sterner glance than usual. In spite of his horrible frown, Petrovitch was able to divine a hidden sweet smile in his face. Sometimes he was aware that it was only a malicious smile like that of a joking uncle. He had the face of tender father, stern but loving, who would give you a good night kiss in spite of the howling winds in the frosty days of winter. His face was like that of a tipsy father who lights slowly his pipe with a match, approves with a smile your decisions, even your harshest decisions. For Petrovitch was not on this far-flung outpost just to distribute buns to the children.
    A grey light was entering by the window and the pitiful electric bulb was shining more miserably than ever. A cold shiver was running along his body and he realised the coal fire on the stove was nearly out.
    Ivan! He tried to call the comrade servant in a loud voice, but it went out a very faint thread of voice. It was by chance that Ivan appeared suddenly and said in a low voice: “I see the stove is getting cold”. He opened the little door, threw a little shovel of coal inside and started to blow on the fire. There were enough embers but he had to keep blowing on the fire for ten minutes.
    Petrovitch was still feeling a sharp ache in his chest, but seeing Ivan was going out he asked him in a low voice: “Tell comrade Vasil to come here.” Ivan went out of the office unaware of the bad condition of his comrade chief.
    On arrival, Vasil realised that Petrovitch seemed to have suffered a heart attack. He made an auscultation of his heart and the noises he heard told him it was very bad. He had the left arm in a rigid state and could not bend it at the elbow. The fingers had not strength but were not rigid.
    “You must go to the infirmary” -he said. “You know. You got a heart attack.”
    Vasil hooked off the phone and started to turn the crank with energy. Then he spit harsh words to someone. They were soon in the place, two men with a trolley to carry the comrade chief out. Petrovitch felt ashamed of this sudden sign of weakness on his part. Two male nurses took him from his shoulders and legs and put his body over the trolley's stretcher. They carried him to the infirmary, a place that was nearly freezing. Vasil himself fired an alcohol burner to warm a little a vial, then put an injection of digital into the vein of Simon Petrovitch for he had a very faint pulse. He would have put him on oxygen as a help but it was for nearly a year they got only an empty cylinder. They were still awaiting for the order. The cylinder would arrive any moment during the next few months. If Simon Petrovitch were in a situation to make a comment he would tell us “any of these days it would arrive for sure”. Vasil and the nurses would had to agree with these words.
    “Things from Moscow come slowly” -he would have added.
    And they would have answered “Oh, yeah! That's for sure!”
    If he would had been in good health, Simon Petrovitch would have been lecturing us saying,
    “This cylinder will arrive late but it will end arriving finally. After all, they had the most important things to worry about in Moscow. They have more to do than to worry about this miserable outpost in Kolima. A camp not alone or singular, but a forsaken scattered one… lost among thousands more. It was a labour camp, yes, but in a certain way it is also a promised land. A frigid one, of course, but a land with a shining future. They have many problems there, in Moscow. The troubles we got here are nothing but a single drop of water in an immense ocean.”
    They all would have agreed with these words. They had grown used to agree since childhood. In fact, agreeing was a very good soviet habit
    Vasil made many calls on the phone to other infirmaries throughout the camps asking for a cylinder of oxygen. They had none. They were all waiting for the arrival of supplies.
    Petrovitch was in bed, slowly improving, and his mind was repeating the words “the list has been totally approved”". This was foreseeable. He knew how to do things properly. But some words from this letter were now boring into his mind. “Except for the case of comrade prisoner Dimitri Efimovitch who has been removed from the list.” These words have made him feel rather worse. He had been always on the side of the strength, that is, the side of justice. A winning side always because he was on the side of the proletarian revolution. But now he was weak and started to feel a certain degree of pity for himself. He has made so many personal sacrifices for the Party and for the soviet people! And he was still here, in this forsaken and frosty place. He was still here, shut off for ten nasty years in a row; while others, with better connections and less merits, were loafing around in Moscow. He was remembering Markov and Victor; always joking, drinking, playing around with ballerinas… while the honest people had to do the hard rowing. Now he was recalling some unforgettable nights in the Bolshoy, in the dressing room of Martina Krasimova. Sweet nights of wine and champagne, noble products from the sunny lands. Martina was a pretty comrade full of joy and always ready for another glass of champagne. Then, they came to his mind the parades of the First of May. The streets were full of people. They were feeling the simple proletarian joy of passing a day without work, but they were also feeling the triumph of the future; for the spring temperatures were rising towards the highs of summer. Now, other people were delighting in the company of pretty young ladies and relishing the honey sweets of the life. For how long would Petrovitch have to remain locked up in these camps of grief?
    Simon Petrovitch was brooding over these sad thoughts and his mind wandered toward the prisoners. They were the real weak people of the land, the disinherited of the fortune. They all seemed to have fallen off the fast train that was in route to the proletarian paradise. A train not yet very comfortable, that is true, but a train that was running mightily on the rolling plains toward a shining future. A new contingent of prisoners was arriving here every week. It was like… as if they… down there, in Moscow… How much he was yearning for this city! It was as if down there… they were omniscient. As if they would knew before hand we needed to replace the “human resources” that were wearing down so fast.
    These fucking resources are dying out of nothing! They have a horrible lack of willpower.
    They not lived throught the Revolution. They have been enjoying a pampered life in a just society. They ignore what is to be slavering day and night in a capitalist society. And now, in just a few weeks they were dying with a simple cold. I am not surprised to see them so weak, for they lack a strong faith in the future of the true proletarians.
    It was an open idea of Petrovitch that this camp was not the best place in the world. It was not the best place to inject a little more of faith into the cold brains of these poor fellows. Sometimes he felt a little remorse for thinking it was a blessing they were dying so fast. If they should not die so easily. They were out in a hurry to carry out the works of the five-year-plan. But they were now suffering a painful shortage a food and coal for them all. Petrovitch did not know the opinion of the Party over this precise issue of the scarcity, and had never heard any argument debating this precise point.
    “ How weak and disinherited are we all in this far-out base of Kolima!” Petrovitch was grumbling.
    He was feeling weak. He was now realising he had pity. Not only was he feeling pity for himself, rotting in these frosty plains, a well deserved pity, but he was feeling pity also for the rations of the guards, so meagre in the last few weeks. Even, in this very moment, he was feeling pity for the prisoners. The Party, as any organic being, was capable of having an ambivalent sentiment in this point. The Party was generous, on this he had no doubts. And all this relentless and fierce fight had no other goals than a deep and sincere generosity. It had not other goal than the love of the proletarians, not other goal than the paradise they were building. If to build this paradise they had to whip many without pity… well, they were on the right track.
    Nobody could deny that in the actual phase of the process they were suffering from certain shortcomings. For example, the infirmary had only six beds. They were surely not enough. Well, some people were not thinking of a spa resort in the Black Sea when they built this place. In this moment, it is occupied a bed with comrade Petrovitch. Nobody ever thought this tough comrade would have to be ill some day. He never had caught a cold. It is also true now that this wide room was more like a freezer than an infirmary. They have just started to fire the stove a moment ago. The comrade chief would have to endure a little cold, as this room would need a day or two to heat up to fifty degrees. The coal supplies were delayed and the stock of coal was running out quickly. Even the Doc has moved his own desk to the infirmary to save coal by shutting his own stove to put out the fire. And it was not so much for helping the ill comrade, but for the need of saving coal; very scarce in this moment. The stove was rather small for the place but it was able to keep the temperature over forty Fahrenheit. Tomorrow it would rise ten or fifteen degrees.
    The season was not much advanced but those frosted winds appeared suddenly howling. We all hoped for a change of the weather. One of these days the weather would change and blow from the Southwest with temperate winds. Some of us had more faith in a change of the weather than in the arrival of the train with supplies. Well, in the end everything arrives. Even the coal.
    It was evident that Simon Petrovitch was a little low. His mind was wandering without course. It went out suddenly like a wild stallion grazing for a moment on the meadow when suddenly it went galloping out of sight.
    Some time has past. Now Petrovitch was looking out the window of the infirmary and he saw the arrival of the train with the supplies. The train was running slowly in front of the window. The engineer was smiling with pleasure. He was tanned as if he was coming from the sunny beaches of the Black Sea. He was greeting with a waving hand as if saying, “I am just here, comrade!”
    Now he could see the coal stoker standing proudly on the pile of coal of the second wagon that was after to feed the fire of the engine boiler. The stoker was showing the perfect teeth and the chubby cheeks of a well-fed proletarian. He had the strong arms raised and was wearing a light unbuttoned shirt to show the naked tanned chest. He was waving merrily greeting to the comrade chief of the camp who was looking out the window.
    Petrovitch felt this was a sign. He felt it was a harbinger announcing the arrival of better times. Once it had passed this wagon it was coming another full of coal.
    A new wagon full of coal was passing slowly before his eyes. What I say, it was not merely full but overflowing by the edges of the wagon. A hefty prisoner, shove in hand, was standing over the pile of coal. He was flaunting an upheld naked chest and very strong arms. While he was holding the shovel on this left hand, with his right one was waving a cheer to his chief comrade, rewarding him with a wide smile. Petrovitch was excited with the courtesy and tried to beat the prisoner at the greeting contest. So he wave his right hand lively and added his most sincere and bigger smile. After all he was obliged to beat him at this play. We have created a classless society, but some comrades had to bear a heavier burden, he was more loaded with obligations and duties than others.
    Another wagon full of coal was passing slowly and then another. On each wagon a proud prisoner was standing up, smiling happily and waving greetings with affection.
    Then another wagon was passing and then another. All they were full of coal until a total of five. It all was clear they had not any need to worry about the coal until the next autumn.
    After the wagons of coal had passed they were arriving others full of provisions. Some were full of potatoes. One, two, three, four wagons full of potatoes. Then others were coming up loaded with flour. The chief engineer perhaps he knew that Petrovitch was worried with the food scarcity and so the carriages were with open doors to show the arrival of plenty. With this sight Petrovitch would rest peacefully and improve of his temporary illness.
    Another wagon arrived full of crates with red apples from the mountains of Armenia. Another was carrying oranges from Georgia. Petrovitch was not aware at this moment that it was not yet the orange's season for he never had a clear idea of agriculture. To him this was not other but a new miracle of the soviet will; abundance for all without limits.
    The window was totally opened and the strong sun was entering. It was like a summer day, no one would have told you it was the end of October. It was a splendid day and Petrovitch was relishing the scene of the happy prisoners carrying the crates full of fruit to the store barrack.
    Petrovitch was with his shirt unbuttoned and a fresh breeze was refreshing his summer sweating. It was a feeling more common of the beaches on the south lands than of these latitudes. It all happened on another day. The prisoners were falling into lines. They were expectant and happy. A soft smile was drawn on their faces, while they were maintaining their chest upheld and their bellies tightened as Petrovitch asked them to be. They looked like a disciplined troop, ready to through themselves into the happiness of the battle. This was the way they were looking and not like a bunch of hungry and ragged prisoners. This meant that we were approaching our dreamed goal, the proletarian paradise.
    A guard was calling with a loud voice the names on the list. And the people named were answering "Present!" with a firm and happy voice. They get out of the line and were making a line apart as ordered. Petrovitch was remembering Dimitry. Poor fellow, Dimitry! He knew well his name of the many times he had read it, Dimitry Efimovitch. Poor fellow! It was a true that he was a little unruly and rather mouthy. But he was sure he had a golden heart. A few more years in this camp and he surely would learn the good manners. He will finish as soft as a mink glove.
    The guard was reading the names aloud. All they were hoping to hear their own. They were eager to come back to Moscow, the paradise of all pleasures. There the spring comes always in time and all the parks and gardens get full of iris and bluebells. The way the things ought to be. The girls there go walking in a coquette manner, their lips in red, swinging their hips, full of innocence. Their lips are full of smiles and from their mouths come out flying chirpy laughs. They go fluttering in the fresh air like silver bells.
    The guard was shouting the names. Abrahamov!, Present! Krivinsky!, present! Tchichov!, present!, Kerensky!, present!, Tolstoi!, present! They all were coming out of the file at the hearing of their names. They looked happy and were making signs of joy to the other less fortunate.
    The heat was getting stifling. Amazing thing! Petrovitch was ready to suffer any inconveniences for the sake of the Party. In spite of being with his shirt unbuttoned he was sweating much. It was like if he were in a tropical forest.
    Suddenly a frosty wind came from the Northwest and all this sweat become frost. He started to shiver in an amazing way. All this sun was dissolved in ten seconds. Now he saw himself in bed, rather unwrapped. He was alone in the infirmary and shivering. The stove was probably put out with the coal exhausted. He wrapped himself with the blanket and laid on the bed looking at a black spot in the ceiling. This could be this type of black fungus. They come out with force in the humid summer and were menacing with covering the whole ceiling. The infirmary was in need of new layer of whitewash.
    Petrovitch recalled the name of Dimitri. Poor Dimitri! Why he had the occurrence of being so rude? Why did he not comply with the authority principles? The times for the "claxis" had been long gone. The disorders, rebellions, the insults to the authority, all these were nothing that mere anarchy. The times of these ills had passed, in the same manner that the measles passes or even the youth. Now we are in the times of the praxis. We are now building the perfect society, moulding the new soviet man. The soviet workers, the civil servants, the officials of the Party, we all have to follow the orders without blinking. We had to advance without rest by the shining path made by the Party.
   At least, if he were not so insolent he would be now in list. They had not any need to remove him from it. This was deplorable. Now he was obliged to write a report. To explain everything. Why had he? This anarchist bravery of Dimitri was not going to carry him anywhere. It only was retarding the unstoppable events that were waiting for us to face a happy future.
    He could not remember well the details of the offence. He thought it was not his first time. He was often grumbling aloud, not muttering like others, but sometimes he threw subversive cries with unexpected strength. The guards do not knew what to do. He was increasing his bravery and insolence. It all started slowly and never happened anything. The guards were feigning deaf. Anyway they were not sure who was the offender.
    Who had done it? The guards were asking but nobody answered. They could not punish them all. They all shut their rotten mouths. We could not reduce them all the rations farther for they were already very meagre for the retard of the supplies. Petrovitch could not understand how they could have spare energy to protest. They could not be that hungry if they could have strength to throw out cries of scorn against society. It is true that this society had punished them. But they had been punished for just minor faults for we are building the bases of the new man. We punish the minor faults because these could carry them to commit much bigger crimes. We can not wait for them to do it. We have to prevent future crimes by punishing all evil thoughts. We have a duty to maintain high levels of discipline and morality.
    The insolence of Dimitri was slowly mounting. One day a guard entered into the wooden barrack and there was an insupportable stink.
    “--You are like pigs! ” Shouted the guard.
    There was a low muttering.
    “This is stinking!” Added the guard.
    “It is the smell of proletarian paradise” a loud voice replied.
    The prisoners were looking defiantly. The guard started to come up backwards and went out. There was an insufferable cold outside. The guard went livid to Petrovitch office. It followed a series of questioning, one by one, of all prisoners. It was aiming to found out who was the rotten apple who provoked this mutiny. For it was very clear they were at the verge of mutiny.
    Most of the prisoners feigned ignorance. But some of them talked. It was Dimitri but he was not the only one. They made a list with the names. Petrovitch ordered the prisoners to fall into lines. He was asking them in a low voice and criticising their behaviour. Some of them take a defiant stand and were muttering nonsense. When Petrovitch came before Dimitri he was looking back at him with a smile. He blamed him for his undue behaviour and he shout back at him: “Ja!, mein Führer!”
    It seemed to Petrovitch that the prisoner did not feel any remorse for his evil deed. Petrovitch suddenly drew out his gun and shut him in the face. Why would he need any delaying procedure? This was a war. And he could not tolerate insurrections.
    He sent to Moscow a list with the names of prisoners to be shot. He could not get frightened before an insurrection of capitalist inspiration.
    Now it all have the looks that this damned Dimitri had a godfather somewhere in the offices of the Politburo or in the KGB Headquarters. Petrovitch put his name in the list by mere procedure, but he had said nothing about Petrovitch having been shot already. He was feeling lazy this week to write a full report. Now he was obliged to inform “ad posterior” and had to produce a detailed account of the case. Up in the highs, a son a bitch was throwing nails into the delicate gears of revolutionary praxis.