Cadet Candidate Yakov (2)
The first day of induction vanished in a blur.
Filling out forms, a rudimentary physical test, hauling an armful of gear still reeking of red dye, and choking down my first meal of Soviet mess-hall fare…
— Snrrrk…
No. More accurately, it was because of the fellow next to me.
Gailis, who had dropped into a dead sleep the instant his head touched the pillow.
His bunk, which had been by the entrance, had somehow migrated over beside mine. I had no idea why. One moment it was elsewhere; the next, he was right there.
— Snrrrk, phooo…
The moment he lay down he launched into a full-throated snore. He had talked without pause when we introduced ourselves, and he slept every bit as loudly as he spoke.
— Khhrrrng, phooooo…
Sleep is a lost cause…
He must have been exhausted beyond measure. Earplugs would have been a blessing, but in the Soviet Union of the 1920s such luxuries did not exist. Clamping the pillow over my ears did nothing.
It was already a night that would not grant easy sleep. I had no choice but to stare at the ceiling with open eyes and endure my first sleepless night.
And then the next morning.
— BAAAAAH!
The day began with the grating blare of a bugle. I forced my stiff body upright and found Gailis on the neighboring bunk already lacing his boots. Having gone to bed early, he had risen early as well.
"Yasha, good morning!"
"…Yeah."
"Oh, right—I forgot to ask yesterday. Yasha, what's your hometown like? Georgia's the land of wine, isn't it? I'd love to try that amber wine myself! How do they get grapes to turn out that color? How do I know about it? My grandfather used to grow wine grapes too! Back in our Riga…"
His mouth did not rest for a single second while he tied his boots. What kind of torture was this at dawn?
I pressed a hand to my throbbing temples and let Gailis's words pass in one ear and out the other. Even so, the sheer volume made even passive listening a chore.
"Yasha, are you listening?"
"…Yeah."
"Right? Anyway, that amber wine…"
His chatter continued while I changed into my uniform and cinched my bootlaces. I had hoped that silence might eventually shut him up, but the boy had no mercy. He ignored my lack of replies entirely, carrying on a cheerful monologue of questions and answers with himself.
The snoring might have been preferable.
I swallowed a sigh and stood.
"We'll be late for assembly. Let's go."
"I'll come with you! Anyway, about that wine…"
He did not close his mouth the entire way to the parade ground.
The morning run began the moment we arrived. I lost count of how many laps we did.
"Physical strength is ideology! Marxism comes from a sturdy pair of legs! Even if your legs tremble, your convictions must not! I'll straighten out those lazy minds of yours!"
Instructor Savelyev bellowed with his hands clasped behind his back. His firm belief was that cadet candidates needed physical conditioning above all else. The word "moderation," however, was clearly missing from his vocabulary.
— Wheeeee…!!!
The whistle finally blew only when our legs were genuinely trembling, just as he had promised.
Next came Instructor Lapin's reading of Pravda and Izvestia.
Cadet candidates took turns reading aloud from the Party organ Pravda and from Izvestia. At this point in time Izvestia was not yet the exclusive organ of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, but it served ably as the bulletin of the Central Executive Committee of the Soviets, while Pravda was the organ of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.
Both papers carried articles on science, economics, culture, and more, but like all state-run press they functioned less as newspapers than as stiff, joyless ideological primers designed to inject doctrine into their readers.
In any case, only after absorbing Party matters from Pravda, memorizing government business from Izvestia—new laws and the like—and surviving the instructor's quiz could one finally escape newspaper hell.
The real work of the day came after that.
"Today's topic is the three sources and three component parts of Marxism. Ah, that is to say… the great teacher Marx declared…"
Political Commissar Voronin stood with a textbook in hand, all but reciting from the Party program. The cadet candidates' faces crumpled in unison. Ideological instruction was already a headache; having an instructor who simply fumbled through the manual only made sleep inevitable.
Even Gailis, who had been chattering nonstop, fell silent. That said enough.
"Yasha… what do I do? I think this is the end for me…"
"If they catch you dozing, it's twenty laps of the parade ground. Hold on a little longer."
I, however, was different.
I had studied much the same material in my previous life. An era I had only ever groped at through books and papers was now breathing right before my eyes. Someday distinguished scholars would write papers titled things like "How and What Did the Soviet Union Teach at Its Military-Political Schools to Educate the People?"—and here I was, witnessing that ideological education with my own eyes.
How could I not be interested?
It was around the time Voronin was writing a passage of Marx's theory on the blackboard.
"…Is there a cadet candidate who can explain Marxism?"
At Voronin's question, the classroom went quiet. Everyone hurried to lower their eyes. My mouth itched.
But the first rule of people who love history: do not show off.
History enthusiasts are always tempted to flaunt what they know. I myself, as a boy, had been guilty of oversharing my knowledge in history class—raising my hand to correct a teacher's wrong date, launching unsolicited explanations whenever friends stumbled over some historical detail…
And the result?
Surely everyone marveled and praised me, right?
— Not a chance.
I had soured more than a few lessons by sparring with the teacher over history, and among my classmates I earned nicknames like know-it-all, show-off, and the guy who can't read the room.
After getting burned a few times, I learned. The moment you show off knowledge, it ceases to be a weapon and becomes a blade—and that blade sinks into your own back, not anyone else's.
So do not step forward. For a student of history, the finest answer here was silence.
"Let's see… ugh."
And of course, at that exact moment, my eyes met Voronin's.
But… why was he looking at me with such a pitiful expression?
I pulled free of my imagination and surveyed the room. Only then did the situation become clear.
The cadets' response to Voronin's lecture was catastrophic. Questions met only silence. Some dozed, some stared blankly into space, none of them listening. Whatever authority Voronin had possessed at our first meeting had drained away; his voice grew smaller and smaller. Even the hand gripping the textbook seemed to lose strength. He looked like a man talking to a white wall, wilting by degrees.
"…Cadet Svanidze."
At last he squeezed his eyes shut and called my name—like a drowning man asking for help.
"Would you explain the three sources of Marxism…?"
It was practically a plea.
Hmm…
I had no intention of breaking the first rule of a history student. Besides, this was the same interviewer who had strained every nerve to crush me during the entrance interview. If anything, he ought to have nursed a grudge; he would never truly be asking for help.
And yet… I was only human, and looking away from that pitiable face left me uneasy. The other cadets were glancing at me as well, their eyes saying, You take this one. Gailis, beside me, was jabbing his finger into my side.
Ah, to hell with it.
I answered Voronin's question at once.
What mattered here was not flaunting knowledge. This was a socialist state. Drag in capitalism, democracy, or liberalism by accident while showing off and you could find yourself Mensheviked. Bukharin's famous fate—executed as a Rightist after telling the peasantry, "Get rich, accumulate property, develop the economy!"—was warning enough.
So I refined every word in my head before I spoke.
"…Your insight is quite remarkable. And that point you just made about French socialism—even the textbook doesn't lay it out that clearly. Where on earth did you learn such things?"
Life had returned to his withered voice. His eyes shone as he asked.
Where had I learned it…
"Odds and ends that stuck in my head, Comrade. There were a lot of books on the subject at home. My father… is a man who stays close to books."
Stalin truly was a voracious reader, so it was not entirely a lie.
"Indeed—an excellent father. Raised under such a man, of course a talent like you would emerge."
Voronin nodded with a smile.
Well… I wondered whether he would still be smiling if he knew that my father was the Red Tsar who could erase millions of lives with a single sheet of paper.
I swallowed a hollow laugh and turned my head—and suddenly felt a stare burning into the back of my neck.
"……?"
I looked around. A cadet stood with his arms crossed, glaring at me. The moment our eyes met, he muttered just loud enough to be heard.
"…Read a few books and thinks he can put on airs."
…?
I was certain I had never seen his face before. When exactly had I stepped on this man's foot?