The Matiushin Case by Andrew Bromfield, Oleg Pavlov

hobbled to the officers’ tent, silently escorted by the Moldavian. The officers at Dorbaz didn’t live in barracks but separately, in tents. Under the gloomy vault of the tent, Matiushin caught sight of unmade beds and felt a pang of greed at the table piled high with leftovers. The dusky light was filled with the famished breath of stale alcohol fumes. The commanding officer was lounging on his bed with his boots still on, trying to escape from the heat. Another officer – it wasn’t possible to make out who – was dozing in his corner, dead to the world. Without asking permission, the Moldavian sat down on a free bed and Matiushin was left standing on his own.
    â€˜So what’s all this? Got too much strength, don’t know what to do with it?’ the commanding officer said, looking up at him from the bed. ‘Do you know what they do here to people who don’t know what to do with their strength? I’m talking to you, comrade soldier: answer!’
    â€˜No, sir … ’ Matiushin declared through his stupor.
    â€˜Moldavian, why is he so slow-witted? You’re a really bad bastard. I entrusted the company to you; do you go about with your eyes closed?’
    â€˜We’ll handle it, comrade Captain. I have my procedures.’
    â€˜Handle it, handle it … I know about all that business. You’ve turned the barracks into a den of vice. Just remember: if need be, I’ll have your hide, and you can go to hell, I don’t give a damn about you.’
    â€˜I won’t go to hell,’ the Moldavian retorted. ‘And my hide’s tough enough to handle it.’
    â€˜Get up! And get out! And don’t you go getting cocky, or I’ll cocky you! You’ll cocky yourself into prison camp, have you got that? And explain to this fine fellow of yours where all roads lead to!’
    When they emerged from the stuffy half-light of the officers’ tent, the Moldavian didn’t hurry – he smoothed down his uniform and drew himself erect. He ordered Matiushin to walk forward, to the latrine. The hump of the little adobe shed stood on the outskirts of the camp, a long way behind the barracks, as grey and dried-up as the steppe. Matiushin remembered only the loud buzzing of the flies: there were as many of them as bees in a hive. The Moldavian pressed him hard up against the wall with his chest, but didn’t hit him; he only spoke in a powerful whisper:
    â€˜I’ll call for you tonight, and then you come, without any fuss. Better on the quiet. There are plenty like you in the regiment. They have a good life. They get to guzzle their fill. If I take a shine to you, I won’t let the others have you, you’ll be mine.’ He stepped away and stood menacingly over the toilet to relieve himself.
    The sergeants probably knew what kind of justice there would be that night, what sentence the Moldavian had pronounced. They stared at Matiushin cunningly and every last one of them kept shouting: ‘Better hang yourself! Better hang yourself!’ But Matiushin couldn’t understand what they wanted to do to him.
    The thought that they could kill him wasn’t frightening: if the Moldavian killed him, then later the Moldavian would be killed for that. In fact he , Matiushin, was the one who had been born to kill him .
    He was already delirious; a mysterious fire was devouring him. The camp was wearily living out the remains of the day in hungry anticipation of the evening roll call, remembering the rations that had been eaten at supper and not the long night that was approaching. Rebrov appeared out of nowhere and sat down on the bench beside Matiushin. He smoked a whole cigarette he’d got hold of from somewhere through the teeth at one side of his mouth, like an old hand. He didn’t talk about anything, he just kept quiet, as if he was a stranger, which was true in a way, because ever since the train, Matiushin had shrunk away