Stuart Kaminsky: Blood and Rubles

“Legal opportunities?” Rostnikov asked. “Or opportunities that might be more dangerous than being a policeman?”

“Office. Ministry,” Lydia said.

“Sasha won’t accept that, even if I could get him transferred to an office job. He wants to be a policeman. He is an excellent policeman. Who knows, he might be king of all policemen when he reaches our age.”

“Don’t mock me,” Lydia said. “My hearing may be going, but nothing is wrong with my mind.”

Progress, Rostnikov thought. She finally admits that she has a hearing loss. He touched his wife’s hand. Sarah touched his cheek and moved away to get him some food.

“I’ll eat after our guest has left,” Rostnikov said in a normal voice.

“I understand,” said Sarah, sitting.

Sarah looked tired. Maybe it was too soon after her recovery to go back to work even if it was only part-time.

“So,” demanded Lydia. “What will you do?”

“I have spoken to Sasha,” shouted Rostnikov. “He is a grown man with a wife and two children. I cannot order him to quit for a safer job if he does not want to do so.”

“You can fire him,” Lydia said.

“I will not.”

Lydia glared at Rostnikov and rose from her chair, pointing a finger at him.

“I denounce you,” she said.

“You already did that,” Rostnikov replied, also rising.

“Then I … I …” Lydia said, her voice dropping just a decibel.

Rostnikov moved around the table and stood in front of Lydia, who continued to glare at him.

Rostnikov opened his arms, and Lydia Tkach immediately stepped into his embrace and began to cry.

“Inspector Tkach,” said the policeman, standing at Sasha’s bedside, “are these the three children who assaulted you?” The policeman was decidedly uncomfortable, for, in fact, the man lying in bed was his superior officer. But Yuri Pokov had survived for almost fifty years by simply doing what he was told-no more, no less. Such an attitude had earned him little opportunity for promotion and even less possibility of criticism. He resisted the urge to run his hand across his newly shaven head.

In the hall outside the hospital room people were waiting, including the lawyer Elvira Chazova had hired. Things were getting too complicated for Yuri Pokov, who considered himself a simple man. Now there were lawyers, trials for people who in the past would simply have been beaten and sent on their way, complaints of mistreatment, orders to be civil to civilians.

Sasha, his head still swathed in bandages and wearing a pair of his own shorts and a T-shirt, sat up leaning on one arm and looked at the three boys at the side of his bed. “No,” said Sasha. “They are not.” He slumped back onto the pillow and closed his eyes.

“Are you certain?” asked Yuri Pokov. “Please look again.”

Sasha opened his eyes. These boys were older than the ones who had attacked him. These boys were taller and heavier.

“I can have them put on their caps,” said Pokov.

“No,” said Sasha. “These are not them.”

Yuri nodded, and ushered the three boys out into the hall. He had promised each of them one hundred kopecks, which his superior, Sergeant Knitsov, had authorized.

“Well?” demanded Lermonov, the lawyer.

“He said they were not the boys who attacked him,” said Pokov.

Pokov looked around at the sizable gathering of people in the hall and wished that Sergeant Knitsov had taken this on himself. Pokov paid the three boys who had just left Sasha’s room and motioned for the next three boys. He opened the door and led the boys into the room. Sasha’s head was back on the pillow, his arm covering his face.

It was a rare sunny day for the season, and the shades were up. Outside the temperature had fallen to 20 degrees Fahrenheit.

“These?” asked Pokov.

Sasha turned, blinked, tried to focus. He definitely had difficulty focusing since the blow to his head. He immediately pointed to Alexei Chazov.

“That one. Not the other two,” he said.

Alexei Chazov paused as the others turned. He glared at Sasha as he was guided out by Yuri Pokov.

The next three boys included Boris and Mark Chazov and a boy Yuri’s sergeant had promised to set free on a pickpocketing charge if he went to the hospital and cooperated. The boy had agreed. The sergeant had been planning to let the boy go anyway.

“Those two,” Sasha said, pointing at Boris and Mark. “Not the other one.”

Boris smiled before turning. Mark looked around the room. Yuri Pokov wondered if he was getting that thing in his stomach again, the problem he had had five years ago. It certainly felt like it. Maybe it was just being in the hospital.

“Positive identification,” said Pokov to the lawyer.

“I wish to speak to him,” Lermonov said.

Yuri Pokov shook his head and let the boys stand in the hall. He was not afraid that they would bolt. Where was there to hide? Besides, an armed, uniformed officer stood a dozen feet from them, looking bored enough to shoot the children or even the lawyer if they caused him any trouble.

Pokov went back into the hospital room. This time Sasha did not move his arm from his face.

“Lawyer wants to see you,” said Pokov.

“No,” said Sasha.

Pokov nodded and went back into the hall, closing the door softly and turning to Lermonov to shake his head.

The three Chazov brothers had separated themselves from the other boys and were leaning against the wall.

“These boys are innocent,” said Lermonov.

“I’m certain of it,” said Pokov, looking at the Chazovs. Pokov did not like children even when they weren’t criminals who attacked policemen and murdered drunks.

“I must speak to the arresting officer,” Lermonov insisted.

“Inspector Tkach does not wish to speak to you,” said Pokov. “We leave.”

“But …” Lermonov said.

Pokov pointed at the armed policeman.

“My orders are to return these prisoners to custody and to comply with the wishes of Inspector Tkach. He does not wish to speak to you.”

“So it shall be,” said Lermonov with a shrug, motioning for the three boys to follow the others. “So it shall be.”

Sasha had a string of visitors during the day, some of whom he vaguely remembered the next day. He was sure Maya came and kissed him and said something as she held his hand. He was sure she cried. He was absolutely sure his mother came but did not say a word. That was impossible, but Sasha was certain that it was true. Rostnikov seemed to have suddenly appeared, looking down at him. When Sasha opened his eyes, Rostnikov said nothing. He only smiled. Sasha awakened sometime after dark to find Zelach sitting on a chair next to his bed, hands folded on his lap, looking at him.

“Go home, Zelach. Get some sleep. I’ll be fine,” Sasha muttered dryly.

Zelach stood.

“I could use a drink of water,” Sasha said, and Zelach gratefully accepted the job. He left the room and came back with a pitcher of water and a glass.

Sometime later, when the lights were dim and the other patients in the small ward were asleep, Elena Timofeyeva came to his side. He looked up at her. In her hand was a single flower. She placed it in the glass of water.

“Rostnikov gave it to me,” she said. “It came from the bush in the courtyard. He said he admires its ability to continue to bloom when other trees and bushes have gone winter bare and gray.”

Sasha nodded.

Elena felt uneasy. She and Sasha had been partners, but they had never really worked well together. He was too volatile, ready to take offense, brooding over domestic problems, certainly more than a bit of what the Americans called sexist. She did not dislike him. On the contrary, she felt something for him and his constant struggle to find ways to accept the world in which he had found himself. He was boyishly good-looking, even as he lay pale with a white bandage wrapped awkwardly around his head.