Lubyanka Prison
Moscow, The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
7th August 1941
”Walk with dignity comrade! You’re slouching!” Major General Nicholai Rubashov limped slowly through the prison corridor. He had never expected hell to be such a dreary place - grey concrete walls and always…always, bright light. He longed for darkness, sweet soft darkness…maybe even death. “Hey! Move it, filth!” One of the guards slapped him in the face and he hurried on as much as he could. The pain in his swollen knees was almost too much to bear, but he wouldn’t let the bastards have the satisfaction of seeing him give up…not now at least. Not as long as he had a shred of strength left. Rubashov’s uniform was torn and stained by his own blood, and all the insignias had been removed from it. He still wore his pince-nez eyeglasses on his broken nose - his tormentors always removed them carefully, before beating him up.
Rubashov had been arrested the day after he had delivered his report on how the Red Army should improve its defensive tactics to defeat the French invader. At first he had been treated with great respect and the interrogator had apologetically read the charges against him. This attitude changed completely when he denied the absurd allegation of him being a French spy. Then came the beatings, sleep deprivation, feigned drowning and so on.
They led him to the same interrogation room as before, but instead of Lieutenant Vasiliev standing on the other side of the simple wooden table; he was met by the piercing blue eyes of Major Gletkin. The blond Russian had been one of Stalin’s cronies since the last months of the civil war and often served as his bodyguard and trouble-shooter for low level stuff. It was either a very bad or a very good sign that he was here. “Ah, Comrade General, you look even worse than I feared. Please sit down.” Rubashov heard the noise of the door being closed behind him as he sat down, almost screaming from the pain in his knees.
“So, you have been informed about the charges against you?”
Rubashov nodded. “Yes, apparently I’m supposed to be an agent for the French imperialists.”
Gletkin laughed. “That’s absurd, who told you such nonsense?”
“That interrogation leader, Lieutenant Vasiliev…”
“I’m not surprised. Fortunately for us all, comrade Vasiliev has been removed from his position here at Lubyanka.” The Major produced a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”
“Yes, thank you, comrade!” Rubashov took a cigarette and Gletkin lit it for him. The prisoner puffed on it greedily.
“You know, Rubashov, I have always admired you and it pains me that you’re in this predicament. Still, the party cannot allow itself to be too lenient, but I do believe that your outstanding service record should be taken into account when you’re sentenced.”
“Sentenced?”
“Yes, comrade Rubashov. Surely you don’t expect your offences to go unpunished?”
“But I thought you said the charges against me were utter nonsense?”
“Yes of course, comrade. But I was referring to the accusation that you are working for the French government. It’s clear to the NKVD that you’re a counter-revolutionary and a Trotskyite!”
Rubashov stared at Gletkin. “What…”
“Do you deny it?! Traitor!” Gletkin’s hands trembled with sudden rage as he opened his leather briefcase and retrieved a manila folder. “This garbage you wrote in your report! It’s an obvious product of Trotskyism!”
“This is ridiculous, Gletkin. I never…”
“Silence!” Gletkin threw the report in Rubahsov’s face, which sent the prisoner’s cigarette flying across the floor. “Instead of lies, maybe you should tell me how you report to the Trotskists in Mexico!”
Rubashov was unfazed by the NKVD Major’s screaming. He didn’t belive for a second that Gletkin was really angry, it was all for show. ” Who has made these absurd accusations against me? What evidence do you have? This is madness…”
“Look, we can do this the easy way. If you’re prepared to cooperate and name your co-conspirators, I might have a chance of saving your life. Surely writing your memoirs in Siberia is better than being shot because of your misplaced loyalty to Trotsky…”
“When will this farce end, Gletkin? When I saw you, I hoped it was a sign that comrade Stalin had learnt about my fate and was intervening on my behalf. You know I’m not guilty of this…if I insulted the members of STAVKA, why not just remove me from my position?”
The interrogator sat down with a bored expression on his face. “You’re a counter-revolutionary and a traitor. Sergeant!” The door opened with a squeaking sound behind Rubashov. “This man refuses to cooperate. Don’t bother me again until he is in a more repentant state of mind.”
“Yes, comrade!” Rough hands grabbed Rubashov and as he was dragged out of the room into the corridor, while Glektin nonchalantly lit a cigarette, it wasn’t the fear of continued torture that was Rubashov's main concern astonishingly enough; it was the certainty that the Rodina was doomed. With these madmen at the helm of the state, how could they hope to defeat the imperialists?
