Written by Werther
… He is sleeping, and he sees that he is at a suburban station and he needs to cross the canvas on which the train stopped. You need to get up, go through the tambour, and you will be on the other side. However, he discovers that there is no other door, and the train starts to move, and it’s too late to jump, and the train takes it further. He is in the space of a dream and, as it were, starts recalling something that meets on the way: this is a tall building, a petunia bed, and an ominous, dark brick garage. At the gate is a man waving a Mauser. This is Nahum the Fearless, watching the former pregabachek Max Markin, a former nazi-rostela, nicknamed the Angel of Death, the right-wing Socialist-Revolutionary Serafim Los and the sex-woman Inga undressing before entering the darkness of the garage and dissolving into it. This vision is replaced by others.
… And here he is, already in red Odessa. Wrangel is still in the Crimea. White Poles near Kiev. The former Junker is an artilleryman, Dima works in Izogit, flaunting posters and slogans. Like other employees, he dines in the dining room with the cards together with Inga. A few days ago they briefly went to the registry office and left the husband and wife.
When they were already finishing dinner, two men with a revolver and a Mauser approached him from behind and told him to go out without a noise to the street and lead him directly over the pavement to
… In the seven-story building dominated by unnatural silence and solitude. Only on the sixth floor was the convoy with a girl in a gymnastic dress: the first beauty in the city Vengrzhanovskaya, taken with her brother, a member of the Polish-English conspiracy.
… The investigator said that everyone who was at the lighthouse, already in the basement, and forced to sign the finished protocol, so as not to waste time. At night, Dima heard the throes of constipation and shouted names: Prokudin! Von Diederichs! Vengrzhanovsky! He remembered that the garage was forced to undress, not separating men from women…
Larisa Germanovna, learning about the arrest of her son, rushed to the former Socialist-Revolutionary Seraphim Los. Once they, along with the current pregubchek, also a former Socialist-Revolutionary, Max Markin fled from exile. Losk was able, in the name of the old friendship, to beg him “to give him the life of this boy.” Markin promised and called the Angel of Death. “The shot will go into the wall,” he said, “and the junker will be shown as deducted in the expense.”
In the morning, Larissa Germanovna found a name in the newspaper in the list of those who had been shot by Dimino. She again ran to Losyu, and Dima in the meantime another road came to the apartment where they lived with Inga. “Who let you out?” she asked her husband. Markin! She thought so. He is a former Left Socialist-Revolutionary. Contra crawled through the organs! But let’s see who wins. Only now Dima realized who was before him and why the investigator was so well informed. Inga, meanwhile, went to the most luxurious hotel in the city, where in the suite there lived Trotsky’s authorized representative Naum Fearless, who once killed the German ambassador Mirbach to break the Brest peace. Then he was a Left Socialist-Revolutionary, now a Trotskyite, in love with Lev Davydovich. “Citizen Lazarev, you’re under arrest,” he said unexpectedly, and before he could recover from surprise and horror,
Dima, meanwhile, came to his mother’s dacha, but found her dead. Called the neighbor doctor could no longer help, except for advice immediately to hide, even in Romania.
And now he is an old man. He lies on a straw mattress in the camp hospital, panting with a cough, with pink foam on his lips. In the fading consciousness pass pictures and visions. Among them is a flowerbed, a garage, Nahum Fearless, fire and sword affirming the world revolution, and four naked: three men and a woman with slightly short legs and a well developed pelvis…
It is difficult for a man with a Mauser to present himself in the basement of a building on Lubyanka Square crawling on his knees and kissing the boots of people around him with polished cream. Nevertheless, he was later red-handed when crossing the border with a letter from Trotsky to Radek. He was pushed into the basement, facing the brick wall. The red dust fell, and he disappeared from life.
“Probably, you will not falter, sweeping the person.” Well, the martyrs of dogma, you too are the victims of the century, “as the poet said.