Jáchym Topol - Devil's Workshop

I help her up. She’s from somewhere else, I can tell by the look in her eyes: they’re afraid. Not that I’ve met a lot of Belarusians, but the people here are like hawks, always on the alert. Well, she may have been scared in the yard that time, but I turned out to be wrong about her.

A few more people jump down. Talking under their breath. Someone, maybe one of the big guys that pushed Ula through the window, finds a metal door in the shadows behind the rubbish bins. He kicks it, hard. We creep out to the street one, two at a time. Nobody says a word. Maruška and I walk away. I don’t know how Ula got out of there.

We stride down a deserted street. No cars, no pedestrians, nothing. Well, we didn’t get much of a chance to warm up, did we? I say, wrapping my arm around Maruška. I tell her that I’m sure it’ll be safer if they’ve got martial law. We look totally normal. Just two ordinary people, maybe hurrying home to their sick kid. Maruška doesn’t object to having my arm around her shoulders. We walk. I feel lucky.

Evil, piercing eyes, pointy chin, this dezhurnaya is one nasty old bag. She won’t let us in. The uniform? Maruška’s ID? Barking orders in Russian? Pleading in Belarusian? None of it works. She’s like a stone wall.

Finally Maruška waved some money in front of her face and the old bag opened the museum’s heavy wooden door. It was a close call. We had to get in. And not just because of Kagan.

There were tents burning on the square. Hundreds of protesters surrounded by cops. We forced our way through the screaming crowd at the last minute. Protesters dropping under baton blows, cops packing them into vans, people fleeing left and right. I squeezed up against Maruška from behind, pushing her forward, covering her back as she cleared a path, kicking people out of the way as we slowly edged through the crowd surging back towards the tents, the epicentre of the madness. Then we broke into a run and didn’t stop till we reached the museum. We could still hear shouting and engines from the square. Finally the old bag snatched the note and opened the door.

It’s warm inside. But the old bag won’t let us go any farther. Maruška has some words with her — Russian or Belarusian, I can’t tell. I look around the entrance hall: the Museum of the Great Patriotic War. The walls are covered with yellowing maps of victorious campaigns, black-and-white photos of long-dead veterans, magnificent decorations, flags and battle standards, all long since chewed through by moths.

Maruška, I say, this is just like back home! It really does remind me of Terezín. With the display cases and everything, it’s a bit like the Monument.

The dezhurnaya is yapping away at Maruška. Then she points to me. She wants more cash because I’m an inostranyets . Ticket for foreigner! She’s all over us. Maruška tries to explain that I’m a Western expert, I work for the ministry. The ministries are all shut down, snaps the old bag, yanking on my sleeve. I give the dezhurnaya a little pat on the behind, trying to calm her the way Lebo used to do with the aunts when they got mad because somebody had trampled mud all over their kitchen. I get hit so hard I see stars. I fall on my back and see she’s getting ready to kick me.

Maruška makes her move. I see the gleam as she stabs a needle into the lady’s forearm.

The dezhurnaya topples. Maruška drags her off by the legs into the shadows. I should help, but I just sit there, where I landed, on the cold marble. Blood drips from my nose. Oof, that old bag really walloped me. I tilt my head back. I’m sitting under a big black-and-white picture. Guys throwing kids off a truck. A pile of bodies on the ground.

Fascists massacre orphanage, it says.

Maruška squats down beside me, breathing fast. Pulls out a handkerchief, wipes the blood off my face. Looks where I’m looking.

Yeah, and the reason they were orphans was the communists murdered their parents. Who would dare take care of them? They took the kids away to special camps where they died quick. That’s what’s happening in this picture. Azarichi or Chervony berag, Red Riverbank. You might want to remember that. If nothing else.

Awful.

Didn’t have that in your country, huh? Haven’t seen that, have you? But you should’ve, since you’re the expert. You are a Western expert, right?

She gives me the handkerchief. I press it to my nose. Maruška is trying to teach me. Just like Sara.

You know how many people the Nazis killed in Czechoslovakia?

No, not off the top off my head, but we can easily Google it.

Three hundred sixty-two thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight! And you know how many here in Belarus?

About the same?

She clenches her fist. Shakes her head. Rolls her eyes. She is seriously angry. She actually stamps her feet! She looks like an angry teacher, picking on a kid in class.

I give her the bloody handkerchief back. She shoves it in her pocket. My nose isn’t bleeding any more. But it’s all stuck together inside.

They killed four million people here. It’s in the Guinness Book of Records ! And you know how many people there were in Czechoslovakia and how many in Belarus?

No.

The same. Ten million. But you in the West, you don’t have a clue! Terezín was nothing!

What is she getting so angry about? I guess the dezhurnaya got her upset.

The world never saw camps like we had here in Belarus! Maruška yells.

Maruška!

They say all the death camps were in Poland. That’s bullshit! All the tour operators only go to Auschwitz! But that’s going to change.

Maruška?

The Spider’s digging into my hip. But I don’t want to get up while she’s still squatting. I should’ve hidden it in my boot. Somewhere safer. Later.

She looks at me without seeing me, looking right through me.

I wave my hand in front of her eyes, back and forth.

Maruška, hello!

What?

What do we do with the dezhurnaya ?

She’s asleep, Maruška says. At least I hope so.

She gets up, dusts off her skirt, not that there was even a speck of dirt on the marble. Let’s go, she says. I follow her.

We pass through enormous rooms full of display cases, weapons on the walls, ancient things manufactured during the war and before the war, there’s even a cannon. I don’t have time to check it out — where is she dragging me to?

The parquet floor creaks as we walk over it, plus I’m snorting a little through my nose, which echoes in the silence. I’ll wait till the blood congeals and deal with it later. My hands don’t hurt at all any more.

I stop at a display case with a miniature wooden model inside. A mock-up of the Trostenets extermination camp. Here in Minsk, it says.

Tiny little barricades, topped with barbed wire of thread. Flaming borders made of skewers. Teeny-tiny light bulbs represent the fire’s glow. Tiny little bodies stacked along the borders. Smoke rising from corpses painted on the plywood. The caption says: Jews from the West were murdered here.

Psst, Maruška hisses to me. I walk over to where she’s standing, by the wall. The darkened hall stretches behind us as far as I can see. A beam of moonlight falls through the windows. A huge map hangs on the wall in front of us. Maruška rolls it back. Well, look at that. A lift. I feel Maruška’s breath on my face. She isn’t angry any more.

An old wooden lift. Carved with stars, sickles, and hammers. Stalin himself probably rode in it, whenever he managed to tear a chunk of time out of his crowded schedule to oversee the construction. We sink into the depths. I hear ropes and chains unwinding, then there’s a jerk as we come to a stop. The door opens on to a gaping chill. I hope Maruška knows where we are. It’s dark and cold. Damp. Suddenly a bright light stabs me in the eyes.