Magic
A stick tapped on the window, and Golubev recognized it. It was the riding-crop of the section chief.
‘I’m coming,’ Golubev shouted through the window as he pulled on his pants and buttoned the collar of his shirt. At that very moment the chief’s messenger, Mishka, appeared on the threshold of the room and in a loud voice pronounced the usual formula with which Golubev’s work day began:
‘The chief wants you!’
‘In his office?’
‘In the guardhouse.’
But Golubev was already walking out the door. It was easy working with this boss. He wasn’t cruel to the prisoners and, although he inevitably translated any delicate matters into his own crude language, he was intelligent and knew what was what.
True, at that time it was fashionable to show that you had been ‘reforged’ by the new world, and the chief simply wanted to stick to a safe channel in an unfamiliar stream. Perhaps. Perhaps. Golubev didn’t give it any thought at the time.
Golubev knew that his boss – his name was Stukov – had been in a lot of hot water with the higher-ups in camp, that a number of accusations had been leveled at him, but he didn’t know either the essence or the details of those investigations that had been abandoned.
Stukov liked Golubev for not accepting bribes and for his aversion to drunks – for some reason Stukov hated drunks… Probably he also liked Golubev for his boldness.
A middle-aged man, Stukov lived alone. He loved all sorts of news about technology and science, and stories of Brooklyn Bridge made him ecstatic. But Golubev couldn’t talk about anything even resembling Brooklyn Bridge.
Stukov, however, could learn about that sort of thing from Miller, Pavel Miller – an engineer, convicted of counter-revolutionary activity. Miller was Stukov’s favorite.
Golubev caught up with Stukov at the guardhouse.
‘All you ever do is sleep.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Did you know they brought in a new group of prisoners from Moscow? They came through Perm. I tell you, you were asleep. Get your crew and let’s go pick out the ones we need.’
The section stood on the very edge of the non-convict world, at the end of a railroad spur. From there human shipments were sent on through the taiga on foot, and Stukov had the right to select the men who were to be left behind.
Stukov had magical insight, tricks from the area of applied psychology, tricks that he had learned as a supervisor who had grown old working in the labor camps. Stukov needed an audience, and Golubev was probably the only one who could appreciate his extraordinary talent. For a long time this ability seemed supernatural to Golubev – until the moment when he realized he also possessed the magic power.
The camp office permitted them to retain fifty carpenters in the section. The men were lined up in front of the chief, not in a single row, but three and four deep.
Stukov walked slowly down the line, slapping his riding stick against his unpolished boots. From time to time his hand would rise.
‘Come forward… you. And you. No, not you. You, over there…’
‘How many have we got?’
‘Forty-two.’
‘OK, here’s eight more.’
‘You… you… you.’
While the names of the men were copied down, their personal files were also separated out. All fifty were well acquainted with axe and saw.
‘Thirty mechanics!’
Stukov walked down the line, slightly frowning.
‘Come forward… you… you… You, get back. What were you arrested for, theft?’
‘Yes, citizen chief, for theft.’
Thirty mechanics were selected without a single mistake.
Ten clerks were needed.
‘Can you pick them out by appearance?’
‘No.’
‘Let’s go, then.’
‘You, come forward… you… you…’
Six men came forward.
‘That’s all the bookkeepers there are in this group.’
They checked the files, and they were right; that’s all there were. They selected clerks from other groups that arrived later.
This was Stukov’s favorite game, and it amazed Golubev. Stukov was himself as delighted as a child by his magical power and was unhappy whenever he lost his sense of confidence. He didn’t make mistakes, but simply lost confidence and then he would stop the selection process.
Each time Golubev watched with pleasure this game that had nothing to do with cruelty or malicious joy at another’s misfortune.
Golubev was amazed at this knowledge of people and the unbreakable tie between body and soul.
He had witnessed these demonstrations of his boss’s magic power many times. There was no special trick to it – just years of experience in working with convicts. Convict clothes smooth out differences, but that simply lightens the task: to read the profession of a man in his face and hands.
‘Who are we going to pick out today, sir?’
‘Twenty carpenters. I also got a telegram from headquarters to pick out those who used to work in the secret police,’ Stukov smirked, ‘and who were convicted for non-political crimes. That means they’ll go back to their desks. What do you think of that?’
‘I don’t think anything. Orders are orders.’
‘Did you figure out how I picked out the carpenters?’
‘Well…’
‘I just picked out the peasants. Every peasant is a carpenter. I get good laborers from among the peasants. And I don’t make mistakes. But how can I pick out a member of the secret police? I don’t know. Maybe they have shifty eyes? What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Neither do I. Maybe I’ll learn by the time I’m old and ready to collect my pension.’
The group was mustered, as always, along the row of railroad cars. Stukov made his usual speech about work and the system of work credits, stretched out his hand, and walked twice along the railroad cars.
‘I need carpenters. Twenty of them. But I’ll pick them myself. Don’t move.’
‘You, come forward… you… you… That’s all of them. Get out their files.’
The chief’s hand felt for a slip of paper in his jacket pocket.
‘Stay where you are. There’s one other matter.’
Stukov held up the slip of paper.
‘Have any of you worked in the secret police?’
Two thousand convicts remained silent.
‘I ask you, did any of you work in the secret police?’
From the rear rows, pushing his neighbors aside with his fingers, a thin man made his way to the front. He really did have shifty eyes.
‘I worked as an informer, citizen chief.’
‘Get the hell away from me!’ Stukov said with contempt and delight.