Atomsk: A Novel of Suspense

XV. EVENTS WITHOUT SIGNIFICANCE

May Day was celebrated throughout the Soviet Far East. The great victory against Germany and Japan, which Russia had won all by herself despite the treachery of England and America in standing idly by, was celebrated with pomp and magnificence. Pictures of Stalin were shown in all the major cities. Important officials made speeches; that is, some important officials did. But several of the most important officials of all did not make speeches. They spent the day at the telephone.

The more-than-regional commanding officer of the police troops, whose duty it was to make sure that the workers did not revolt against Socialism, was thoroughly tired of being kept waiting. Finally the phone rang. He snatched it up.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Entirely local. I know. Say no more on the telephone. There was nothing political to it. Evidence of espionage. What? All right. Tell the Vladivostok office to handle it. Put extra men on the American Consulate and all that sort of thing."

He put the phone down. His next-in-command awaited expectantly. The commanding officer deigned to talk:

"Terribly serious."

"Yes, Comrade Commander."

"N.K.A.R."

"You don't say!" The subordinate let his jaw drop in amazement. He had known of it long before the boss, but there was no point in repelling the boss' confidence. The telephone operator had already told him.

The commanding general lit a cigarette and then smiled. "But it's internal. Some of their Material got away—"

"Material?" The deputy commander honestly did not understand the term.

"The people they keep there. Not staff. The people they keep for the necessary tests — with their… their work. Some of them got loose. One or two are still missing. They shouldn't use politicals for that. Politicals are too mischievous, too bright. They ought to use deserters or prisoners of war. Common scum."

"I wish you'd told them so, Commander. They need practical advice like yours."

"I did tell them so, last year." The commanding general put out his cigarette. "Well, no harm's done. They asked for autonomy and they got it. Now they can chase their own laboratory material through the woods. We can't help them. They'd start telling Moscow, 'the MVD's moving in. The MVD's moving in.' And then the Fatherlet would fuss at us. Give them help if they ask for help, that's my motto. Come along. We can still see the parade."

"I talked to the Big Boy in Chita. He checked with Those People, you know who I mean. Well, Those People said to watch strangers but that they would do their own looking. If Those People want to do their own policing, we'd better let them do it. Just put on the ordinary emergency conditions. The one that inspects all travelers and picks up all passes for validation. And don't say any more about it. Don't even think about Those People. It isn't safe for you and me to butt in."

Dugan hid the motorcycle in a tree; he moved slowly through the woods, traveling only at night. At a police post, he stopped over long enough to rest and to mail a packet of letters wrapped in a jacket. To do this, he had to steal the stamps from the police post itself and to drop the parcel in a big letter-box on the chance that it might pass uninspected. The motorcycle, the package, and the stopover were noticed by different people; but these people, being unimportant people themselves, were not in on the secrets of the N.K.A.R. And the N.K.A.R. itself was not sure enough that the visitor was anything more than some escaping Material, which would not live long in any case. Someone had gotten out with the motorcyclist, but there was no evidence of his getting far. There had been a lot of disturbances and several crimes that May Day eve.

The stage was set for the birth of a brand-new Japanese officer, a Soviet prisoner of war.

"I never saw anything like that."

"A motorcycle."

"In a tree …"

"Why did They put it there?"

The two workers looked at the tree for a long time. It was unmistakably a motorcycle, lashed to two limbs well above the height of a man's head. But neither moved toward it. The tall, old worker said, "Let's leave it alone. Perhaps it's from Over There, and you know what happens if you even notice things from Over There. We never even came into this part of the woods, did we?"

"No, no, no, no," babbled the younger one.

"There's nobody here named Loginov," said the postmaster to his wife. "In fact, you might even say there's nobody here."

The wife waddled over to the counter and looked at the package which her husband was holding. He was still wearing his old overcoat. The courier postal launch had just left. The package was the biggest thing in the sack. She looked at the outside, though she could not read.

At last she declared, "No priest or gentleman wrote that."

"Lots of working class people can write well nowadays," said her husband, who saw some good in Communism.

"And what does it get them? I haven't seen a priest in sixteen years and two months."

"Shut up, old woman," said the old postmaster, rather kindly. The package was interesting. It was addressed:

Hold for Comrade I. Loginov

Due to Report for Work at Nakhtakhu this Summer Nakhtakhu, Maritime Territory, R.S.F.S.R.

He shook the package. Nothing rattled. Then he shook his head. "Drop it on the floor, Ivan," said the old woman, "accidentally, like."

Ivan lifted the package high above his head and brought it down with a slam against the floor, so that a corner of the paper wrapping burst open. The elaborate criss-cross of knotted string — four or five kinds of string, tied tightly together — kept the package intact except for the corner.

Husband and wife looked at the corner.

At last he spoke, "It's a jacket. A leather jacket."

"But it's an old one," she said.

"Who do you think Loginov will be?" he said.

"Leave it alone, leave it alone. Maybe there is no Loginov. Maybe it is just the inspector trying to trick you again. Here, put it up on the shelf."

The postmaster shoved the package up high on the shelf. Going to the table where his wife had already taken a seat, he murmured:

"Wish I had a jacket like that. Here by the ocean, it's cold."

"I know it," said the old woman, "but you leave that package alone."

"Come here, Corporal. Look what one of those bums has been doing. The nerve of him!"

The corporal hurried by, drying his face, chest, and back with a very worn towel.

The police private pointed to the edge of the wooden building. He dropped to his knees and waved his arm in a gesture showing the whole area underneath the floor. "He's been sleeping there. And eating there. He must have used that can for water. But I guess he's been gone a couple of days. It's not recent. No wonder our dog acted so funny."

"Who do you think it was?"

"Probably one of those Japanese from the lumber camp. They'd do anything to get out of work."

"Can I hunt him with the big dogs?" asked the private eagerly.

The corporal turned serious. "If he's Japanese, he's a foreigner, isn't he?"

"Yes, comrade," said the private disappointedly. He saw what was coming.

"And if he's a foreigner it's a matter of state security. I'd better do the hunting, myself."

"Yes, comrade," said the private.

The corporal suddenly grinned. "Don't look so gloomy! We'll do it together, tomorrow. I have four shells for the shotgun. If we don't find any Japanese, we may see some counter-revolutionary animals. Good for eating."

The young policeman's eyes shone. He was only eighteen. "But the Japanese…

"We'll never find him. They're like that — when they've loafed for a while, they go back to their camp."

Three Japanese officers, very shabby, sat in the hut reserved for the senior prisoners. Two were majors. One was a colonel. The colonel was speaking.

"My name," said Dugan, "is Tamazawa, Colonel Tamazawa Jotaro. I was executive officer of the Independent Mixed Brigade which was captured by the Russians at Eiko Bay. If we had managed to move south a few kilometers, we would have been taken by the Americans and I would be home now."

The mustached major bowed, "Perhaps it is better, sir, that you are not at home. Things are very bad in Japan just now. At least we eat food here in the Soviet Union."

Dugan closed his eyes for a long time, then opened them. "I do not believe it. The Americans are not that kind of people. You eat in this camp, yes, but you eat garbage. I tell you, I come from a camp where we Japanese did not eat at all."

The mustached major persisted. "You look plump, sir."

"That," said Dugan, "is because I am a colonel. The men gave me their good food and kept the worst for themselves. I could not accept that, so I escaped. I heard from other prisoners that yours is a model camp, and that men are occasionally selected for return home."

The clean-shaven major nodded respectfully. "That is the case. You should have a good opportunity. In the next year or two."

The mustached major said, "Sir, I don't see why you should go home first when I have been here just as long as you have."

"Don't you, Major?"

"No, Colonel," said the major. Then even he recognized the absurdity of using the title and refusing the respect. "Sorry, sir," he said. "I keep saying that we are all just citizens. When I get back to Great Japan I will be a good man again. I have been too long in Russia."

"Perhaps you have," said Dugan drily.

They sat in silence. The clean-shaven major took a cigarette butt out of his pocket. He offered it to Dugan, who lit it, took a puff, and returned it. They smoked the cigarette until it began to burn their lips.

Dugan stood up. "Then I can count on you gentlemen to straighten out my identity with the camp authorities?"

"Yes, sir," they chorused. The clean-shaven one went on. "I have already explained that you took a false name and lower rank because you were so ashamed at having to surrender the Japanese flag. I told them that you had been passing under the name of Lieutenant Oh."

"And what happened to Lieutenant Oh?"

"He died in January, sir, but we've been drawing rations for him and doubling up for him on roll call ever since."

"And the body?"

Both majors looked abashed. "We could not cremate him, colonel. So we buried him."

"Where?"

The mustached major pointed straight down.

"I am a Japanese colonel," said Dugan, in Japanese, "and my name is Tamazawa. Here is my card from the camp. They say that I am psychoneurotic and that I cannot work. It is not true. I can work when I do not have arthritis. But I must be treated. I am a Japanese colonel. I am entitled to the care due prisoners of war. I admire the Soviet Union. I have been very much impressed by the great progress which Russia has made. All I ask is that you get me a private room in a hospital for a few weeks and allow me to select an orderly from among the Japanese enlisted men in the camp. I will be glad to write propaganda for the Great Soviet Union. I admire the Great General Sutarin. But I must have medical treatment first—" and he went on babbling in Japanese.

"Does he know Russian?" asked the Soviet medical officer.

"Speak beautiful Russian," said Dugan in very bad Russian.

"Did you have this arthritic condition before the war?" asked the doctor. Dugan just looked blank.

The infantry captain in charge of the camp said rapidly in Russian, "He only knows a few words, Comrade Doctor. That's the way he's been ever since he revealed his true identity as a colonel. Talking all the time. Trying to run the camp. Disorganizing the other men. Bragging. But nothing subversive, nothing political. He even draws horrible Japanese pictures of Comrade Stalin all over the camp and writes under them in Russian, 'Greatest Man in World.' Do you think he is faking it, Colonel? He looks like a fake to me, Comrade Doctor, but fake or not, he is an awful nuisance."

"What did you do?"

"I disciplined him a couple of times."

The doctor grew stern. "How?"

The camp officer blushed. "Hung him up by his thumbs for two days and then the medical orderly said he might lose them, so I took him down. The thumbs are all right, now."

Acting as though he had caught the Russian word "thumb," Dugan held up his hands and wiggled his fingers and thumbs. "Tell the big doctor," said Dugan in Japanese, "that I am not angry at you for punishing me. I've done the same thing to prisoners, myself. Just a misunderstanding."

"What did he say?" asked the medical officer.

The camp captain looked more uncomfortable than ever. "He says to tell you that he is not mad at me. He says he's done the same thing to prisoners himself. In a minute he will start his set speech about how Stalin and the Japanese Emperor will effect a reconciliation some day and will then conquer America together…"

The two Russians looked at Dugan. Then the medical officer stared at the camp captain, and asked, "What was the other 'discipline' you used?"

The captain looked relieved. "Just a beating, sir. With a belt. No scars."

"Medically speaking," said the doctor, "I'd say put him on the list. But the politics is something you'll have to approve. And get checked."

"He's harmless that way, Comrade Doctor. Unless he's faking."

"You're sure there's no evidence for one of those sensational 'torture' reports? You know the capitalist press thrives on nothing but scandal. Chiefly about us." The doctor, who remembered something of the old pre-1917 world, allowed himself a grim chuckle. "They might even say you hung a colonel up by his thumbs for two days."

The young captain looked shocked. "They could. Funny how they can twist everything into a lie. They don't want to see the constructive side of things at all."

The medical man said, "Certify him for repatriation, then."

"You're sure he's not faking, medically speaking?"

"Of course not," snapped the doctor. "From the medicopsychological point of view, this is a very plain case. As long as he went under another name and pretended to be a lieutenant, you did not notice him because he was normal. He held his personality together by remaining privately at war with the Soviet Union. But when he admitted his real name and identity, he could not hide the situation from himself. He had to admit that he really was a colonel, that he really was a prisoner, that he really had surrendered his flag. For a Japanese, that is unthinkable. In his time, this fellow must have been a fine-looking man. He could almost pass for a Russian. But the truth tore him to pieces. His mind is more than half gone."

"Please, Sir Captain," said Dugan in Japanese, "what does the honorable doctor officer say?"

"He says you can go home to Japan." The captain spoke passable Japanese, which he had learned in a special school at Ulan Ude.

"But — but — but—" Dugan stammered, "I cannot go back to Japan. Not until I have gone to a rest home for convalescing. I will write the Great General Sutarin himself. You must not send me home until I am well. It is just arthritis. If you will just give me a room and an orderly, as befits an Imperial Japanese colonel who is proud to be a prisoner—"

"Shut up," said the Russian captain in Japanese. "What was that last?" asked the Russian doctor.

"He's going to write Stalin if we don't send him to a rest home before we make him go back to Japan. All he wants is a private room and a servant all for himself and a few other little things like that. I'd like to see him get them."

"So would I," said the doctor. "He's on the list. Got any more?"

"Two," said the captain. "One lost a leg. The other went blind." He turned to Dugan and said in Japanese, "Tamazawa-san, you can go along now."

When Dugan had left the room the doctor said, "I'm almost sorry for him. Look what he's going back to. American rule."

The captain said, absent-mindedly, "Those Japanese will try it again some day."

"You think so?" said the doctor, a funny look on his face. "The Americans have the atomic bomb. Japan can never fight again."

The captain looked at the doctor and gave him a significant smile.

The doctor returned the smile, even more significantly. "Not only the Americans, perhaps…" he said.

The blind man was led into the room.

The captain began a set speech. "The Soviet Union," said he, "is returning Japanese prisoners as fast as possible. You have been selected. Have you anything to say?"

The blind Japanese began to weep with joy.