Activist (a story by Alexey Sukhoverkhov)

Activist

No, not under an alien sky,
And not under the protection of alien wings—
I was then with my people,
There, where my people, alas, were.
Anna Akhmatova, “Requiem”

Police Morning

What was that I just dreamed? What was it? And why wasn’t it the alarm clock—what was that crash? With these thoughts, Denis reluctantly rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out what was happening. Someone was pounding on the door with all their might, so hard it seemed the walls of the concrete Khrushchyovka were shaking.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”—behind the decorative wall, seemingly built solely to eavesdrop on each other, came the voice of his awakened mother. And following her, his father grumbled:

“What, no doorbell? Why break the door down? Who the devil has come this early?”

Denis got up and looked at the clock. It was only about six o’clock; there was still plenty of time to sleep before heading to the university for classes.

“We’re not flooding any neighbors, we’re still sleeping,” his mother tried to explain to the uninvited visitors, opening the door more out of surprise than understanding what was going on.

Several men in camouflage uniforms and masks, armed with automatic rifles and wearing bulletproof vests, burst into the hallway.

“Does Denis Sergeyevich Ivashin live here?”

Without waiting for an answer, two men already burst into Denis’s room and swiftly pinned him to the floor. He had only just risen from his bed, so no force was needed to take him down. Just a sharp and precise kick to the ribs of the young man on the floor—to fix his position and affirm in their own eyes the privileged status of the uninvited visitors. Handcuffs clicked on Denis’s wrists behind his back with a characteristic sound, while one of the policemen pressed his head to the floor with his knee, the floor covered with worn cold linoleum.

For no apparent reason, apparently out of habit, one of the policemen ran his hands along Denis’s sides, who was wearing nothing but shorts and a T-shirt. Then two of them sat him on the edge of the bed, holding him by the arms.

“Denis Sergeyevich?” the senior officer who appeared in the doorway said in an authoritative voice. “You are under arrest. We will now bring in witnesses and conduct a search of the apartment. Here is the court order for the search.”

An open folder with a document appeared in front of Denis’s face. Along with this document, the police officer also showed him his badge.

“Do you have any prohibited items, weapons, drugs?”

However, the man’s quick glance that slipped toward the computer indicated his true intentions.

Two preselected witnesses, clearly not random, appeared in the doorway. First was a round, dough-like female neighbor with a strong, overwhelming scent of perfume. A malicious smirk on her lips, heavy breathing from the few steps taken from the door opposite. Next to her, slightly to the side, was an unknown man with a homeless appearance, taken from somewhere by the police.

“Why is she here? How could she have known that witnesses would be needed so early?” Denis thought for some reason. An involuntary thought came to his mind—could this eternally dissatisfied witch be cooperating with the police, could she be an informant?

However, all this no longer concerned Denis. The senior officer ordered him to be taken to the car. The hastily dressed young man left the apartment in handcuffs behind his back, escorted by two policemen. Behind him, his father’s desperate voice could be heard:

“Idiot! I warned you! Why the hell did you need this politics?”

The last thing Denis saw, or rather felt behind him, was another “guardian of order” heading toward his computer.

Waiting for Interrogation

…Time in the locked room with dim lighting dragged on extraordinarily long. It stretched like rubber, practically to infinity.

“Say nothing to the police. Sign nothing. Demand and wait for a lawyer,” Denis repeated to himself mentally. It seems you know that sooner or later they will come for you. You live and wait for it. You play out possible scenarios in your head.

And yet they come, these guardians of power, always unexpectedly. When you’re asleep and suspect nothing.

“Who would have thought, that guy in the YouTube video was right when he said the police come in the morning. Probably the only innovation since Stalin’s times—the cops now prefer to sleep at night, just like their victims. Don’t think about anything, relax. Say nothing when they call you, refer to the article of the constitution. Damn, which one?! Or maybe, after all, say something to them, maybe they’ll let you go?”

Indistinguishable, peeling paint of some green-blue color on the rough plaster. Furniture bolted to the floor. Terrible, incomparable stench. Penetrating the nose, hitting directly into the lungs. Soaking into clothes and skin. Face and hands.

Time stood still. The investigation was clearly in no hurry. Where could he go now? Let him wait and suffer. Denis didn’t know how much time had passed: minutes, hours, or maybe even days?..

Anthology of Fear

The Berlin Wall was still standing, although in many places, the barrier had been breached. The indignant German populace was boiling with anger, having finally realized the deceit of the socialist society. The state border, dividing East and West Berlin, had turned into a porous colander, draining water as if cooking pasta.

The terrified army and secret services were scurrying through the cities, attempting to halt the flood of newfound freedom. At the same time, they were trembling with fear, knowing that retribution for their crimes against their own people was imminent.

Spies and informers were burning documents. Almost every day, rallies were held, which could no longer be dispersed as the chains of slavish obedience had been shattered everywhere.

On one such day, a gathered crowd in a cold, provincial winter city stormed the Stasi building. The fence was instantly demolished by the surging human tide. Contrary to expectations, no one opened fire. Ordinary Germans, who had caught the scent of freedom, rushed through the broken door. Amid the whistles and jeers of the crowd, the former officers of the formidable organization scattered into the alleys. In an instant, there was no one left to defend the regime.

The outraged people claimed the personal files that this secret service had maintained on them for many years. But most importantly, the citizens finally obtained the names of the informers and traitors. Jubilant people at the building’s entrance celebrated their victory. Those emerging from the Stasi building declared the ultimate downfall of the totalitarian system – in their city, no one and nothing threatened the citizens anymore! Joyful laughter, whistles, and applause erupted. The crowd chanted, “Freedom! Freedom!! Freedom!!!”

The exhilarated people wanted to act further. Where should those who can do anything and are inspired by victory go? At that moment, someone remembered that right across the intersection stood the building of the Soviet House of Friendship of Peoples. Without much discussion, the proposal was accepted – after all, so many years after World War II, the accounts were settled, and it was time to rid themselves of oppressive servitude. People surged across the road and in an instant were at the gates and the painted iron fence surrounding the territory.

The steel mesh stretched over the steel rods did not withstand the onslaught for long. The excited people poured towards the doors of the low mansion, which was supposed to serve as the cultural center of the Soviet Union.

“Open up, you bastards! We’ve tolerated you long enough!” fists and feet pounded on the wooden door, “We’ll break it down and throw you out anyway!”

Suddenly, the door opened. From the doorway first peeked a balding head, and then the man himself stepped out – a man of about 35-40 years in a drab gray suit with his hands raised high.

“Stop! P-p-please wait,” he stammered in recently and poorly learned German, “This is just a cultural center!”

“We know your cultural centers! This is a KGB den, not a House of Friendship!” shouted the crowd.

“Well, please, listen to me!” begged the drab and deathly frightened man.

“And what will you tell us, scum?” a leader emerged from the crowd, who just yesterday was an ordinary German, oppressed and downtrodden by the system, but today felt the power of his people behind him.

“Yes, I am an officer, but we never worked here against the Germans. We have no documents about you here! My job is only to fight enemies among our own, Soviet citizens in East Germany,” the terrified regime henchman babbled, almost shrieking, “Go to the Stasi, they are the ones working against you. It’s all them, we have nothing to do with it! Over there, across the road! And here, we only have a library of Soviet literature that I guard!” Laughter echoed around.

“There’s no more Stasi in our city! They’ve scattered!”

“Well, forgive me,” the man in the gray suit mumbled, “Have mercy on me, I have a family, two daughters to raise. If I let you in, I’ll be fired! You know what the KGB is like. I’ll never find another job…”

It was clear that the man standing before the crowd had trembling hands raised high. Suddenly, a dark wet stain began to spread down his light gray pants. Then, a puddle started forming around his feet, right by his meticulously polished black shoes.

“He wet himself out of fear!” Even louder laughter erupted from the crowd, “Forget about him, let’s go! We’ve won anyway.”

The very first German who stood nearby spat right at the feet of the humiliated officer.

“To hell with him, they’re going to leave here anyway. Let them spy on each other at home. Let’s go drink beer and celebrate our victory!”

With a sense of disgust and revulsion, the crowd moved back and began to disperse. The man, trembling all over from terror, with bulging eyes and in his soiled gray suit, remained standing by the door for a long time, unable to move.

War at Home

The centenary of the revolution marked the end of the genetic heritage of the Russian people. Most of those who managed to survive were descendants of former investigators and guards. At least three generations of people capable of resistance and struggle perished in the roadside ditches of the civil war, at execution sites, in camps, and psychiatric hospitals.

Those who remained were only those who knew how to submit and wished to live without dealing with serious questions, knowing their place. Denis’s mother silently wiped away her tears and hastily tidied up the apartment after the search. His father didn’t go to work that day. He sat in the kitchen on a cold, hard stool inherited from the Soviet furniture store, Mebeltorg. On the table in front of him stood an open bottle of vodka, the only Russian cure for stress and all ailments.

The man had worked all his life. He had heard something about arrests and searches from his father and grandfather, who didn’t like to talk about it. He also remembered bits from old films about the times of repression that were occasionally shown on television in the early nineties. And what he knew about the police was mostly from modern TV series – endless cop shows that were impossible to avoid even by changing channels.

“Mother, is our son really a criminal? What did he do? I knew it, I told him how this would end!” he lamented, pouring another dose into a large shot glass.

“Enough already,” his wife responded, wiping her tears with her sleeve, “and stop drinking, let’s find a lawyer, or whoever we need…”

“Why couldn’t he be like others? He could have just studied, met with friends. Now he’ll be expelled from the university, his whole life down the drain, what a fool!” the father kept on.

All the mother could do was wipe the dust one last time – where once her son’s laptop, bought with their last money, had stood on the table…

It turned out she knew nothing about her Denis. From the offhand remarks of the plainclothes officer, her son had been calling for something. He had attended some illegal rallies. And now he had done something else for which he was arrested right from home…

The mother understood that no one would tell her the truth – if only to prevent her hysterics from interfering with their “investigative actions.”

The First Interrogation

Only the naive think that the fate of a detainee is decided in a Russian court. This myth is partly supported by lawyers who earn substantial money from others’ misfortunes. In reality, the verdict is made here, in this room, one could say, on the desk of the person handling the case.

The entire process is constructed like a car assembly line that cannot stop without a special order, or even better – like a blast furnace where human fates are burned. Or a crematorium.

First, materials are gathered against the victim, many of which are ready before they are even brought here. Then, quickly, with wordplay, the first court session is held to determine the preventive measure. And, finally, when the time comes, in a few formal steps after reading the same documents that almost verbatim repeat each other, the final sentence is given.

Only a small fraction of cases that reach the court, less than one percent, end in acquittal in Russia. And even then, it surely happens when third parties intervene: administrative resources or money. The rest happens according to statistics – approximately once every five years for each Russian judge.

It was before such a true arbiter of fate that Denis stood, entering the investigator’s office with his hands behind his back. This habit firmly sticks to detainees, like chewing gum to asphalt, after a few initial shouts while walking down long corridors.

“Sit down, I’m about to open the road to hell for you!” said the man sitting at the desk on the left, pointedly familiar, indicating a chair opposite him. Then, more restrained and politely, “Denis Sergeyevich, please state your last name, first name, patronymic, year of birth, and residential address.”

“I will not answer your questions without a lawyer. I refer to Article 51 of the Constitution…”

“What, you won’t even tell me your last name, first name, and patronymic? Actually, I don’t need anything from you, just to fill out some forms. We already have the forensic results, so all this is just a formality. By the way, your friends have already testified against you today, giving us what we needed… If you don’t want to cooperate with the investigation – fine. We’ll bring you to court in the next few hours to determine the preventive measure, and they will surely take this into account. Well, don’t you want to help yourself?”

Then, after thinking for a moment, he added:

“Never mind, you’ll sit for a month or two or three in pretrial detention, and then you’ll tell us everything we need and don’t need…”

Denis lowered his head onto his hands, leaning on the table, and stared downward. He knew that the only correct way to communicate with these people was to remain silent and “play dumb.”

Another investigator, sitting at the neighboring desk on the right, joined the interrogation. If the first one was obviously young and inexperienced, simple and probably not local, having come from somewhere far away to make a career, the second one, on the contrary, seemed seasoned and even worn and weary.

“Damn, my head hurts so much from yesterday… How many times do I have to tell you, learn, student,” the senior said to his colleague, “first, you need to talk normally with a person!”

And then to Denis:

“Denis Sergeyevich, you’re a smart person, after all, you’re studying at a university, not some hoodlum. You understand that we came for you – already with a search warrant. Based on a criminal case. We have everything we need on you, just need to clarify some details. By the way, I’ve always wanted to understand, what are you fighting for?”

“For freedom and social justice!”

“I’m also for freedom and social justice. And believe me, I have a lot of experience. Many caught red-handed corrupt officials have sat in your place, for example. But what do you need? And why do you think your current leaders are any better?”

“When people lose the opportunity to express their opinions in elections, they have no choice but to take to the streets!”

“I see. And when they’re forbidden to take to the streets, they start doing what you do,” the investigator retorted with a touch of sarcasm.

But Denis didn’t respond to him. The rest couldn’t be said – at least in the absence of a lawyer. He stopped mid-sentence. He had already taken a breath to say everything he thought. But he restrained himself, sighed heavily, and kept silent. A suffocating silence fell.

“Fine, if you don’t want to assist the investigation – then don’t. Here, the only thing I ask of you, here are some photos, do you recognize any of these people? We already know all your contacts anyway…”

“From where?” flashed through Denis’s mind, “Oh, right, from the phone. They took it at home…”

“Don’t even think, Denis Sergeyevich, that anything will help you. Only you can help yourself… If you don’t want to help yourself – so be it. We’ll still lock you up. One way or another, we’ll lock you up.”

Weak Link

A day later, one of Denis’ friends was sitting on the same chair across from the investigator. The “law enforcers” had thoroughly prepared for this meeting. With a seasoned eye, they immediately identified the weak link in the group – and it turned out to be Igor.

“Your friends, like Denis for example, have already given you up. Please, look: we have a list of your entire group. Come on, help yourself, help!”

Igor’s gaze was fixed on the floor. He wished he could disappear into his seat. But there was no point in that. And one floor below was the same prison. And another floor below that…

On the table in front of him was a folder with photographs of most of his comrades. The very names that had actually been retrieved from Denis’ mobile phone.

“Look, here’s what I propose. You agree, admit guilt, and go through the simplified procedure. Even if you get sentenced, you’ll serve significantly less time. Do you realize what every extra day in prison is worth?”

Igor sat across, ready to burst into tears. His heart was pounding out of his chest. His hands covered his face. He didn’t know how to respond.

“Think about it. You’re from a good family. Not some street thug. Why do you need all this? You study at a university. You have a wife, a young child. You’ll get out sooner, forget all of this. You’ll have a new, completely different life,” the investigator continued. “At least ask your lawyer!”

Like grasping at his last hope, Igor looked to the state-provided – but of course, investigator-selected – defender.

“We will think about it. We will discuss and think it over.”

At the next meeting, the investigator asked Igor, who by this time had agreed to everything, for a small addition to the deal with justice and with his own conscience. Just to “confirm” what was already in the case files against Denis and a few other unfortunate comrades. But it was too late to back out.

Decembrist

Initially, Olga, Denis’s girlfriend, received frequent calls from her friends.

“How is he? Any news on whether they’ll release him?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Everything’s uncertain. Apparently, they found a good lawyer. He promised to help…”

“Hang in there.”

Only later did Olga start to realize that her friends and close ones were interested in Denis’s fate not out of sympathy, but out of simple, often unattractive curiosity. People don’t just pass by—just like during a fire or after a car accident. Nowadays, they rush in horror not to help the victims but to record what they see on their mobile phone cameras.

Then she faced a difficult conversation with her mother.

“Olga, you’re such a fool. Why do you need him? You’re already twenty-four years old. If he gets five to eight years, what then? Will you wait for him? It’s time for you to get married. You need a husband who will take care of you, bring money into the house, give you a place and means to live. What’s so good about this Denis? What future awaits you both?”

“I love him, Mom!”

“He seems like a hero to you now. But when he returns, he’ll be completely different! You’ll see… I don’t want that kind of future for my grandchildren. It just doesn’t exist…”

Her mother hugged her daughter. They sat together on a worn fabric sofa in a small room on the fourth floor of an old, drafty, decrepit apartment building that had been slated for demolition for half a century. In an apartment that hadn’t seen a renovation in as long as the building had stood.

“Okay, even if you do wait for him, what will he do then? Who will hire him? He has no education. With a criminal record. What will he be? A street sweeper?”

In the corner, the TV, almost never turned off, stood. Not a single channel spoke about Denis and his friends’ case. Once again, the show host was inciting hatred and anger, accusing political figures from neighboring countries of fascism.

Like a pack of dogs, the Kremlin showman was echoed by so-called analysts. Like a cornered animal in a hunt, another person with a different point of view, accidentally or foolishly finding themselves part of this rout, tried to shout over them. Gradually, their voice was drowned out and faded away. And now the microphone was already being passed from one regime supporter to another.

In reality, Olga didn’t know Denis’s political views. Deep down, although she loved him, she couldn’t fully share his interest in what was happening. Politics was foreign to her and, as she thought, certainly not worth a happy family life. It would be better without it altogether.

But it wasn’t that simple. The very thought of Denis made her heart beat faster. She was drawn to him as if by an unknown magnet. He seemed strong and determined to her. Ready to argue and defend his point of view. Unafraid to take to the streets with his like-minded colleagues. And his optimism and ability to believe in a bright future, for which they were all doing this, warmed her.

Olga snuggled even closer to her mother. Both women were crying. They were together, side by side, and yet a wall of misunderstanding was growing between them. But, of course, not a stone one, but rather made of flimsy and thin drywall.

The Retribution

Denis didn’t return home. Even the lawyer hired by his parents couldn’t help him. During the hearing to decide the measure of restraint, the prosecutor’s representative quickly read out that Denis should be kept isolated from society because he:

“…might flee from the investigation and the court… continue engaging in criminal activity… influence prosecution witnesses and their testimonies… warn accomplices who have not yet been apprehended… convey information to them that has become known during the investigation… or otherwise obstruct the criminal proceedings…”

Then the lawyer dissected the defendant’s character, proving to the one-man tribunal what a good person Denis was. The main figure of the occasion could hardly express his position: whatever he began to say, he was quickly silenced and told to only state what was relevant to the criminal case. His political views interested no one. They were feared and not wanted.

In the end, the court decided to impose pre-trial detention for two months. The handcuffs clicked shut once again. His weeping mother was led out of the courtroom by a few friends and his girlfriend. The country was leading Denis into a new life.

The Main Trial

The testimony of the weak link proved sufficient for a final conviction. The previously issued sentence of Igor gave the already unwavering judge even more confidence. There is no need to prove what has already been acknowledged in a previous court session. Such is the foundation of “legality.”

During the breaks between sessions, Olga approached the cage where the particularly dangerous-to-society Denis was held. He stroked her long hair through the bars and tried to comfort her. Tears streamed down her chubby cheeks. It was as if an electric shock passed through her entire body when they held hands.

The guards displayed complete indifference and apathy towards what was happening. The only reason they did not interfere with these unscheduled meetings was sheer laziness. Their job wasn’t to plow the land or stand by a machine all shift, but to look around with an important guard’s air, doing nothing.

Then the verdict was announced. The trial ended. The punishment was assigned.

“I love you, son, no matter what!” These words from his father would accompany him down the corridor. They would be with him in the special train car. He would bring them to the barracks of the prison camp. He would preserve them in solitary confinement.