Free Fall (5 page)

Sadness came over me. I was going to a place where every human value I had ever known would be meaningless. I couldn't turn back; I would be forced to accept the rules of the game, of which I was now a part. I thought of the stories told by my grandfather Nikolay, who had travelled all over Europe during the Second World War. I remember vividly how this strong man – who, when I was little, had always seemed so real and pure – could handle the difficulties of everyday life without batting an eye, but when the word ‘war' came out of his mouth, he would suddenly become sad and almost seem to wilt. I thought back on the war in Transnistria, when I was still a little boy, and the only thing that came to mind was the frightening number of bodies on the streets of Bender, my hometown.

Meanwhile, the voices on the film went on with their insane story, explaining, in the same flat tone they used in propaganda announcements for the masses, that the Chechens were the bad guys and the Russians the good guys; that truth, power and even God himself were on our side, and that the only good thing a Russian could do in this life was kill as many Chechens as possible, and
exterminate all their allies, the Arab terrorists, fundamentalist Muslims and ‘all the weak elements under the influence of their propaganda'. There was no way I wanted to get into that mess, but the reality was clear. When the film concluded, with a shot of the same flag as the beginning, I had already lost all hope.

The three officers began to explain to us the reasons why we had to go and risk our lives, and my comrades seemed hypnotised: they were sitting on the sofa with foolish half-grins on their faces, and they punctuated the officers' every statement with enthusiastic nods of affirmation.

‘So, boys,' the portly colonel broke in, ‘the Nation is asking you to do your part! Are you ready?'

These words cut me like a knife. I couldn't feel anything; my head was about to blow off and shoot ahead by itself, like an old locomotive speeding downhill, detached from the rest of the train.

All three of us leapt to our feet, and together, in perfectly idiotic unison, we yelled with all our might:

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel! We will serve and honour the Russian Federation!'

‘Good thing . . .' he said ironically, switching off the television, his fat finger pushing so hard on the remote control that it went
crack
.

Once we were out of that office, they didn't allow us to return to the barracks. They led us to a room where we waited to hear our fate.

After a few hours, Zabelin arrived. He was in good spirits, even whistling a little tune. My comrades asked him loads of questions: ‘What are they going to do with us?' ‘What's going to happen to us?' He hated stupid questions, as I said, so he looked at them with a smile and said:

‘Did they have you watch that video? You'll be in next year's version . . .' At which they stopped asking questions.

Zabelin took me aside and whispered to me. ‘Nicolay, I put in a word for you with someone I know; he's called Captain Nosov,' he said, looking at me sternly. ‘He's an old friend of mine, an expert saboteur. You'll be on his independent team. Do what he says, and if you're lucky, you'll go home alive and in one piece.' Then he shook my hand. Before leaving, he told us all to go to hell, an old Russian saying for good luck.

Half an hour went by and then a soldier came in, with three new uniforms. They had the paratroopers' insignia printed on them, and naturally they came with the blue beret so loved and sought after by every paratrooper. He brought army boots too, which weighed at least a kilo each. Another soldier set down three knapsacks identical to the ones in which they had brought our provisions, and said:

‘You have to wear uniforms because during the trip you'll be with the paratroopers. Put your clothes in these backpacks, and when they leave you to your units you can put your civvies back on.'

I put on the uniform and looked at my reflection in the window. I didn't like seeing the gear on me – it seemed
unnatural. My comrades, however, were amused by the situation. They adjusted one another's berets, struck model poses, as if they were getting ready for a party or an award ceremony.

We had a few hours' flight to Chechnya. On the plane with us were soldiers who belonged to other units in the paratrooper force. They were joking, laughing, shouting, talking about the political situation and the war. To buck up their courage, they said the Chechens were ‘a bunch of fags – they can't even keep their guns up'. Another threw out some serious insults towards the Arabs.

I would soon discover that in this war, for the sake of practicality – and thinking back on it now, it's a very shameful thing – all our enemies were called ‘Arabs', whether they were Chechens, Muslims, Afghans, Taliban, terrorists, or fighters who had sided with any political creed. The word ‘Arab' was the way we indicated the enemy.

There were two lieutenants next to me who seemed not to give any weight to the ruckus. They let the soldiers talk, and the atmosphere was upbeat, almost party-like.

We landed at night. They separated me from my comrades and pointed me to the armoured car headed for the mobile immediate-response unit, where the team of saboteurs under Captain Nosov was stationed.

I sat on top – sitting on the roof was known as riding the armour – along with a group of soldiers I didn't know. As the car made the long journey in the dark, I realised that the others were speaking to me with some disdain.
They were part of a special group from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and evidently I, the newcomer, was not welcome.

The first thing I noticed when we got to the base – and this would sink in over the days to come – was that everything worked opposite to the way it did at boot camp. There was no light to be seen at the checkpoint, there was no sign of recognition for entering vehicles – I only realised that we had arrived because in the dark I saw three soldiers cupping their hands to try to conceal their cigarettes. Smoking at the checkpoints was prohibited, especially at night – the risk of being spotted, even from a distance, was extremely high.

They took me to an ugly building, a military container for the transport of supplies that had been turned into a sort of cabin, with a small window and a rough-hewn wooden door. They handed me over to a soldier in civvies carrying a cut Kalashnikov with a folding stock. He put away my papers, and without even glancing at them, handed them back as soon as we were alone.

‘My name's Pasha, but everyone calls me “Moscow”. You're with us. Come on, put your stuff on the bunk in the back and take off that uniform, I'll give you a jumpsuit. Have you got trainers?'

I looked at my papers in disbelief. According to regulation, all documentation regarding soldiers had to be kept in the office of the unit to which we were assigned. Giving
them back to a soldier was strictly forbidden. So I introduced myself and immediately asked,

‘Hey, what's the story with the documents, why did you give them to me? Where's the secretary?'

He looked at me as if I were from another planet.

‘Who am I supposed to give them to, babyface? We haven't got offices or secretaries, so everyone's his own secretary around here. We're saboteurs, a mobile unit. Today we're in one place, tomorrow in another. We're independent, get it?' he said, chewing on a hunk of black bread. The smell of burned grain was overpowering and it reminded me of
kvass
, a drink that my grandmother made. ‘Follow me,' Moscow said, before I could respond.

The cabin was full of men in everyday clothes – some were sleeping, others eating or chatting. I was surprised by the number of weapons lying around – there was a Kalashnikov at the foot of every bunk, and there must have been at least twenty more stacked against the wall, not counting the rifles that some of the men were holding. On the ground lay crates full of new cartridges, still covered with a thin coat of grease, and a crate with several hand grenades. Other ammunition was scattered around, along with a couple of rounds for RPG-7 grenade launchers. In one corner there was a stack of bulletproof vests, modified just like Zabelin had taught us in boot camp; they were short, with the bottom cut off in front so you could move your legs more easily and use the sides as pockets for ammunition. From two normal jackets you could make one good one, and at chest height, in the
hand-sewn pockets, you would always insert a double set of iron plates.

I would soon learn that the saboteur base never stayed in the same place for long, and from time to time they would put us with units that needed our assistance. In the intervals between one operation and another we would sleep in the place we called ‘home', that is, the temporary barracks, where the only things we never ran out of were weapons and ammunition, which were scattered everywhere and even got mixed up with our food.

Moscow led me to the back of the base. Next to a tumbledown wood cabin, there was a steel vat filled with water, and a pole with the flag of the Russian Federation, just like the one I had seen in the propaganda video, was attached to it. From the vat, you could see a man's head, half-submerged, making bubbles as he breathed out of his nose.

‘Ivanisch, the new guy's here . . .'

The head in the water lifted and I saw the face of a man in his forties, clean-shaven and with the expression of someone who wants to steal something. It was Captain Nosov, and in a very calm, low voice, one of those voices that can frighten you, he asked me:

‘So, you're the hotshot delinquent? Zabelin has told me a lot of things about you . . .'

I was surprised, because I had no idea what Zabelin could have written about me, but I gave an affirmative response all the same.

‘That's me, Comrade Captain!'

Nosov looked me straight in the eye.

‘Forget all that “Comrade Captain” crap. Here, we're just one big family, call me Ivanisch.'

‘All right, Ivanisch . . .'

‘How is that old Zabelin?' he asked me, as he kept working in the vat. ‘Has he gone completely deaf yet?'

I didn't know what he meant; it was as if we were talking about two different people. ‘Deaf?' I asked, confused. ‘He hears everything just fine. He's good, actually. He said to tell you hello.'

The captain gave me a serious look.

‘Boy, I was side by side with Zabelin in Afghanistan for a long time. In Kabul they tried hard to destroy us, and after a bomb went off he nearly lost his hearing. As the years have gone by it's got worse. Shit, don't tell me you didn't notice!' he concluded, smiling.

Images of Zabelin as I had seen him in the three months spent in training camp flashed through my head.

‘I really didn't, I didn't notice. I'd never have thought,' I replied. Only then did I realise what a tough guy Zabelin was. He had been able to hide from all of us something that should have been so obvious.

‘You think that if he were all in one piece they'd keep him in that shithole? Zabelin's a professional saboteur. If he were completely fit he'd be here with us right now.' Nosov said this with anger. Then he stood up and stepped out of the vat, resting his feet on an empty wooden crate, the kind they use to transport Kalashnikovs.

‘Soldier, towel!' he thrust out his arm, waiting for Moscow to pass him the green rag that he'd already been
brandishing for a while, almost like a votive offering, the ones they would put at the statues of pagan gods in ancient temples. Just then I realised that it wasn't a towel but a flag; it was green, with different-coloured stripes and some Arabic writing in white. Nosov took the flag and started drying himself, making the strangest faces.

I couldn't help laughing. His face turned serious and he asked:

‘What the fuck are you laughing at, delinquent? I put my skin on the line every blessed day to conquer these shit flags – I have the right to use them to wipe my ass, since they're no good for anything else.'

Moscow laughed too, and bit off another hunk of black bread.

Nosov cut us short:

‘Listen, boy, this is how things work around here; until you've had some experience in the clean-up crew, our family won't accept you for military operations. Now go and eat, rest, and starting tomorrow you'll go and clear the fields. Just the other day we finished a mission close by, so you'll have some work to do. Then, we'll see.'

He started getting dressed, throwing the green flag to the ground. It was soaking wet; it had become a useless scrap of fabric, destined to be buried in the mud.

Moscow and I went back to the barracks, and on the way he told me how things worked in the unit. From what I
understood, the two most important rules were: don't try to escape, and eat at every opportunity.

‘What's this business about the clean-up crew?' I asked impatiently. ‘What fields am I supposed to clear? It's not like I have to go pick tomatoes, right?'

‘Really? You haven't figured it out?' he said, giving me a sad look. ‘You have to collect the bodies. They make you do it so you get used to contact with dead bodies, so you won't have a hard time at the crucial moments. We've all been there, friend – you'll be on clean-up duty for a couple of weeks.'

The next morning, following Moscow's directions, I reported for duty at a big military truck. There, on the wooden benches placed along the walls, sat ten others. I said hello and took my place.

The clean-up crew was composed of twenty people or so. Calling them ‘soldiers' didn't really seem right; they were like gravediggers, except they wore uniforms and drank a lot of alcohol.

Our job was very simple. We would go wherever battles had taken place, often major clashes, and gather all the bodies – human and animal – that we saw on the ground. We would toss the bodies into the truck, then jump in with them and take a pleasant ride back to camp.

My first ‘pick', as we called them, was in a half-destroyed and long abandoned village.