Winston’s War. Michael DobbsЧитать онлайн книгу.
mentioned his limp, but he has something badly wrong with his hips, which are out of line, and when he hurries he has to swivel his entire body in order to propel his right leg forward. So McFadden never likes to hurry. This isn’t working out as he had hoped.
He had planned to make the journey by underground train from his home near the Piggeries in North Kensington to the register office at Caxton Hall, but when he turned up at the station he found nothing but an untidy notice pasted on the gates – ‘closed for urgent structural repairs’. A minor deception, so far as official pronouncements went. The whole of London knows the truth. The station roofs are being reinforced so they can be used as bomb shelters.
Ah, but there isn’t going to be any bombing.
They have the Prime Minister’s word on that. He has flown back from Munich just the day before to announce that he has brought with him ‘peace with honour, peace for our time’. Mac doesn’t believe him, of course. Another cholemi, goddamn lie. Ever since the mohel had turned him over on the kitchen table and assured him that it wouldn’t hurt, moments before cutting the end off his prick, he has known that the System always lies. (Not that he can remember anything about his circumcision, of course, but his elder brothers Yulek and Vovek never spared him the more gruesome details. He had screamed for hours afterwards.) Mac knows about lies. Lies have followed him like a shadow wherever he has gone and were usually there to greet him when he arrived – in Poland, in Germany, and particularly all those years in Russia. Now he is in England, and the only difference in Mac’s mind between Mr Neville Chamberlain and the psychopath Stalin is that the Englishman went to a proper school and has learned not to scratch his balls in public – although, come to think of it, Mac has never seen photographs of Stalin holding his own umbrella, there is that difference, too.
His leg is hurting like hell. It’s always giving him gyp – he can’t remember a time when the bloody thing wasn’t on fire – and the damper it gets the more it burns, deep inside, right to the marrow of the bone. So Mac decides to take a short cut across the park. Not one of his better decisions. The flat expanse of Hyde Park is usually serene and calm, but something has happened. Instead of green acres, Mac is greeted by a bubbling chaos of mud. Like Judgement Day. On all sides the earth has been torn open where workmen with pickaxes and mechanical shovels have hacked a chaotic maze of holes into the thick London clay. Trenches everywhere. ‘Air Raids – Public – For The Use Of’ – hah! These bloody holes can’t offer protection from the rain let alone from fat Goering’s bombs. They aren’t finished and already they’ve begun to fill with water, sullen and brown. Typical English idiocy. Treating war like a game of cricket. Something to be called off if it rains. Tzibeleh! They grow like onions, these English, with their heads stuck firmly in the earth.
The spoil from the newly dug graves is beginning to cling to Mac’s shoes and find its way onto the legs of his trousers, even though the trousers, like the jacket, are conspicuously short. That’s why they had been cheap, from the pawnbrokers on the Portobello. It’s his only suit. And the rose in its lapel is wobbling once more.
McFadden isn’t his real name, of course. Jewish boys born in Poland just before the turn of the century had names like Kleinman and Dubner and Goldberg. He’d been born in the small market town of Wadowice at the foot of the Carpathian mountains, in an airless upstairs room next to the women’s ritual bath-house and on a hot summer’s day that had hung heavy with the dust from the harvest. He was one of six children and had been nothing more obvious than a schoolboy who spent his spare evenings as a part-time tailor’s assistant, someone who was of no interest to anyone other than his parents, but that was before they had decided that they needed a new type of System in Europe and tore the old one apart. Mac had belonged to a small class of friends, eighteen in total, and every one of them had been swept up in the madness, conscripted, forced to fight for the Kaiser as part of Auffenberg’s Fourth Army. But the Fourth Army had lasted only weeks and Mac’s unit had been cut to pieces in front of the river town of Jaroslaw. Literally, cut to pieces. It was amazing how high a boy’s screams could rise more than a year after his voice had broken. But still Mac hadn’t escaped the System, for those few of his class who remained alive had been captured and questioned, then stood against a crumbling farmyard wall beside a filthy chicken coop and told they had a choice. The System was giving them a choice! Either they could fight for the Tsar or, if they preferred, they could be shot. Not much of a choice when you’re still a few months short of your seventeenth birthday. So for the remainder of that awful year they had fought for the Russians against their old German comrades until the Revolution had come to rescue them from the madness and at last Mac had been able to throw away his rifle. But by then only he and Moniek, the doctor’s son, were left. Still, they were alive, they felt special and they rejoiced. It was the last time Mac could remember being happy.
He had celebrated the peace along with all the other soldiers, until the Bolsheviks had discovered that he and Moniek weren’t Russian at all and so didn’t fit into the Brave New System and its world of miracles. They knew it was truly a world of miracles, not only because the guys with the boots and rifle butts told them so but because their rabbi had always taught them that miracles would be beyond their comprehension. And nothing made sense any more. It was important in this new world to be internationalists, they were told, but apparently it was more important still to be Russians. Which they weren’t. So the angels with the boots and the rifle butts placed them once more in the service of the System and sent them off to labour camps, the gulags – Kolyma, Knyazh-Pogost, Sretenka, Yertsovo, Pomozdino, Shchelya-Yur, Solikamsk. An endless world of little miracles, often at thirty degrees below, filled with angels who in the morning would scream instructions – ‘anyone unconscious come out now or be left behind to freeze!’ – and saints who refused to distinguish between the living and the dead. They were all expected to work. They were herded from camp to camp, crammed into a metal-sided Stolypin rail carriage with room for twelve but often stuffed with thirty or thirty-five for days and even weeks on end. Mac remembered one carriage so filled with prisoners that for three days his feet hadn’t touched the floor. He had remained suspended between earth and heaven, hovering on angel’s wings, fighting for every breath, until an inspection had allowed them to sort the dead from the slowly dying and lay them on the floor of the carriage so that those who were left could complete the journey standing on the bodies. Pleas to offload the corpses were received with nothing but a beating. The paperwork had said that the Stolypin had started its journey with so many bodies, so that’s how many it must finish with. The journey lasted fifteen days.
Another time he had been thrown into a carriage of women, mostly withered old veterans but one or two with flesh still clinging to their bodies and so closely crowded that he’d had a continuous if inevitably crude form of sex with one of the younger ones for the best part of a week. It was his first time. Oh, what a lot he owed to this new world of miracles.
And so it went on, and on, and on, half starved then half beaten to death until their existence had been entirely forgotten and their names and origins wiped from any record. Nothing but entries on a transit sheet. Then, around the year of 1920 – who could be sure, time meant nothing, only suffering and food had meaning – he and little Moniek had found themselves in the gulag by the sea. Camp No. 3, Fourth Compound, Solovetsky Islands. On the other side of the world above the Arctic Circle. Intended for three hundred but housing more than four and a half thousand. The camp had grown and grown – another miracle. Only the number of latrine buckets had remained the same.
And Mac remembers, relives it all, no matter how hard he tries to obliterate it from his mind.
Moniek has almost died of fever on the endless journey. Mac drags him semi-conscious and rambling from the prison ship that has taken them there from Archangel, but there is no respite. Within hours of arriving they are set to work on the new harbour. Moniek, feverish, rambling in his mind, has never seen the sea before. The gently swelling water seems to him to be the new world he has been dreaming of, peaceful, embracing, infinite. He gives a quiet hurrah of joy, then begins to stumble into the surf. He doesn’t seem to notice that it’s barely above freezing. Now he turns around, he’s looking back like a guilty child, but the guards are laughing and waving him on – fish bait, they shout, go drink the ocean dry – and ignore him as Moniek struggles away from the shoreline, until all that