Jáchym Topol - Devil's Workshop

The message from the megaphone isn’t complicated. Come out with our hands over our heads. Somebody opens the door. It feels chilly out, but not actually cold. It’s early morning. The sun is coming up.

I want to get out, in the air. I put my hands over my head, take a step. Alex pulls me back. And grinning at me from the other side is Kagan.

Stick with me, Mr Hard-line repeats. I think I might be getting a tad allergic to him. People start walking out. The voice from the megaphone repeats its request.

They walk out silently. No panic, no fuss. Did they prepare for this moment? They walk slowly past me, the girls from the pit sticking close to each other. I think I recognize the boy with the ponytail. Faces with burning eyes. I don’t actually notice it right away. But these seekers of the bunks don’t have their hands up.

The guy walking past me now is swinging a lathe with nails sticking out of the bottom, another ragtag type in rubber boots has a pickaxe. They’re a regular army, these guys and girls in glasses with the gaunt appearance of mathematicians, deranged poets, computer geniuses. Youngsters in torn jeans, corduroy jackets, overalls and muddy trainers, marching out like they marched through the tunnel, quietly, one by one, but almost everyone’s carrying something they can whip or swing to defend themselves.

The one I’m looking for isn’t with them. Either that or she was one of the first ones out.

I’ve got Kagan on one side of me, Alex on the other, holding my elbow. We walk out. Alex kicks the door shut behind us.

Frosted bushes stand out against the white of the snow. I see prefab blocks of flats off in the distance. A scattering of stunted birch trees, shrubs, a heap of bricks here and there, rusty sheet metal on the ground. Looks like a construction site.

We hear a roar, screeching metal, coming closer. Then we see it, crushing trees, bushes, in its path, stones shooting out of its treads. An armoured personnel carrier, red stars painted on its green and sandy-yellow sides. A tall man in fatigues stands next to the driver, holding on with one hand, megaphone in the other. A flank of men advances through the bushes, also dressed in fatigues, helmets on, weapons in hand.

Should I jump into the bushes, crawl back in the house, scream that I’m an inostranyets ? I guess Alex can sense my confusion. He says, absolutely calmly: Follow my lead, got it?

The vehicle and the soldiers pass the piles of bricks, the phalanx quickly cutting a path through the shrubs. Our crew is surrounded in front of the house.

Now we see them, straggling in behind the soldiers, in ones and twos at first, but as the phalanx comes to a stop they fuse into a mob. There are people in the trees everywhere, shaking their fists, some clenching sticks, chunks of brick. A stone zips through the air, then another. A boy in front of me collapses, bleeding from the head. A shriek of hate erupts from the crowd. Women scream at the soldiers’ backs. The men facing us are wearing quilted coats and overalls, some of them are in track jackets. I know these overfed jailer types, I can spot them a mile off. The commander in the personnel carrier lifts the megaphone to his mouth, shouts a command, and the soldiers turn and point their guns above the rabble-rousers’ heads. They’re protecting us from the mob.

Then the commander points at us.

The patience of the Belarusian people is at an end! he thunders.

The boy’s knuckles next to me are white from his tight grip on the lathe, but his hand is shaking.

The big man in the APC lifts a sack in his hand. An ordinary grey sack.

Our investigation of the Jewish scum has led us here! the commander says into the megaphone. He points to the house.

From here the opposition and Jewish organizations are poisoning our city!

The mob roars, another stone flies, somebody cries out in pain. The soldiers raise their weapons. Suddenly it’s silent.

The commander shows the sack to the mob, holds it up over the heads of the soldiers, turns toward us.

The Jews and oppositionists feed the rats with their faeces, he says into the megaphone. That’s why they shit in the gutters. They want to destroy Sun City. Are we going to let them? he shouts. The people start screaming in hatred again.

The commander raises his hand. He’s doing a real ballet up there.

The president is watching! he shouts, and he hurls the sack to the ground. It sits a moment, bulging and thrashing, then everyone gasps as a ball of giant rats scrabble out, hairless, toothy, filthy things, feverishly gnawing each other, and suddenly, Bang! Bang! Bang! The commander empties his magazine, shooting the rats to bloody bits, and somebody in the crowd cries out with glee.

What shall we do with this nest of traitors? Spare them? Or punish them? the commander says through the megaphone.

It’s quiet for a moment. Then there’s a roar as the people hurl themselves at the soldiers. The soldiers lower their guns. And the attackers run right through them, rushing us in bunches, clubs and sticks coming down on heads, backs, all around me. I take a nasty blow. Somebody throws something over me, grips my head, drags me away. I hear gurgling, clomping feet, my forehead slams into something. The crowd is crushing me up against the APC. The commander offers me his hand, I grab hold, push off something soft with my feet, roll into a seat. The commander hauls someone else up: Alex. We start to move, cutting slowly through the crowd. I see some of our crew fighting. A few of them are standing backed against the wall of the house, swinging their sticks, there’s the flash of a pickaxe or two, it’s the last time I’ll see the grim, hard faces of these seekers of the bunks. We leave the battlefield, crossing a stretch of snow on to an asphalt road. The commander sits in front of me, driving now, Kagan squats beside him. And peeking out of the blankets next to him is Whistling Beak, Professor Luis. I turn around and see Maruška on the seat behind me. I close my eyes to give myself time to believe she’s really there. This part of town’s quiet and deserted, must be the outskirts of Sun City. We pass the hunched box of a prefab housing block.

Maruška has tears in her eyes.

I lean towards her, into her breath, and she smacks me in the face.

I thought you’d be glad we were back together again. I wrench the words out, slowly, to keep from biting my tongue as we jolt along the road.

You better fucking believe I am! You’re my assignment. But I had to leave my kids back there. Thanks to you.

We didn’t talk after that.

The sun climbs through the mist above the trees. The APC rolls onward, the forest around us thick as night. We climb a slope, and when we come to a bend in the road I do it, before I can change my mind. I slide down the side of the carrier into a snowdrift, and once the APC has rumbled out of sight, I take a breath, stand up, and scramble into the woods. Along the way I tear off the bandages Maruška put on, no need for them any more. Everywhere I’ve been I’ve run away, as soon as I had the chance. I think of Maruška’s children, her relationship with Alex, nothing I can do about that. I take another couple of steps and Kagan’s standing right there. He walks up and gives me a slap.

I’m not his apprentice, though, or some wimpy little student. I look around the woods. I could bury you right here, Kagan, after I get through with you. He laughs in my face.

What about those students of yours, you shithead? I say. He just snickers, doesn’t even get mad.

The best of every generation are sacrificed, Francysk Skaryna said that, and he was a true humanist, not like us, Kagan says, grinning at me. He turns and walks away and I follow him — what else can I do?