schedule of classes and a stack of books printed on mealy gray paper. Do not mark, others must use. Measured for a khaki uniform of heavy cotton. Poked and studied shamelessly by a large, frightening nurse. Drenched with kerosene in case of lice. Assigned a narrow cot between Voluta and Goldman. Told to learn the words to the songs by tomorrow morning, but the lights must be turned off at ten. Inside himself, Khristo was desolate. Not at all what he had expected. He had imagined himself as Antipin’s assistant, just a bit important, we’ll take him out dancing with us.
It was not to be. A white card outside the office door said V. I. Ozunov. A bald man with a fringe of black hair, a brush of a blackmustache, delicate gold-rimmed glasses and a dark, ferocious face, who wore the uniform of an army major. Khristo sat hypnotized as Ozunov reeled off a monotone of forbidden sins. The underlying message was writ large: we have you, boy. Now dance to this music. As for threats, we needn’t bother, right?
“What has become of comrade Antipin?” Khristo asked, one try for bravery.
Ozunov smiled like a snake. “Antipin was yesterday. Today is Ozunov.”
End of rebellion.
Yet as much as he struggled and sweated with the languages and the levantine webs of theory, there was one area in which he succeeded. He was, it turned out to his and everyone else’s amazement, gifted in the craft.
It began with the affair of the knitting needles. Five students were taken to a classroom and seated around a scarred wooden table. The room stank of carbolic soap. Beads of condensation ran slowly down the fogged-up window, colored a sickly white by the winter sky above the city.
Ozunov paced up and down and addressed the backs of their heads, his hands clasped behind him.
“On your desk are sealed envelopes. Do not touch them. Also a pair of knitting needles. Do not touch them, either. We presume you to know what they are, much as we presume that you have never used them.”
They laughed politely.
“Good, good. You are not old babas after all, though your degenerate love of prattle and gossip might lead one to think otherwise. I am relieved.”
He paced.
They waited.
“Voluta!”
The Pole jumped. “Yes, Major Ozunov.”
“Turn the letter over. To whom is it addressed?”
“To the British ambassador, Major Ozunov.”
“A keen analysis, Voluta. Do we all agree?”
They turned their letters over. All were the same, they agreed.
“What might the envelope contain? Stoianev!”
“A plot?”
“Kerenyi?”
“The reports of spies.”
“Oh yes? Semmers, you agree?”
“Uhh, it is possible, comrade Major.”
“And so, Voluta?”
“A denunciation.”
“Goldman. Your opinion on this matter.”
“Perhaps a false denunciation.”
“Always the Romanian, eh Goldman? You see the complexity, the winding and twisting of political matters, I give you that. But then, could it not be a false denunciation ? By spies ? In Stoianev’s plot ? What about that? Or it could be the information, no shock to anyone around here, that Ozunov’s students are a blithering pack of donkeys’ behinds!” He finished with a shout.
He paced silently, his boots slapping the scrubbed wooden floor, and breathed with a fury. “The point is, comrades, you don’t know. Not such a difficult solution, is it? You don’t know because the letter is sealed. It could be birthday greetings from the Belgian consul. It could be a love note from the stable boy. It could be anything. Now, how shall we discover this elusive truth?”
Kerenyi: “Take the letter out and read it.”
“Brilliant! You shall now all do exactly that. When I give the word, you have ten minutes. Oh, by the way …” He stopped, leaned over Voluta and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tear the envelope. We don’t want the gentleman to know that someone is reading his mail. And here’s a hint, little as any of you deserve it, use the knitting needles.”
For the
It was not to be. A white card outside the office door said V. I. Ozunov. A bald man with a fringe of black hair, a brush of a blackmustache, delicate gold-rimmed glasses and a dark, ferocious face, who wore the uniform of an army major. Khristo sat hypnotized as Ozunov reeled off a monotone of forbidden sins. The underlying message was writ large: we have you, boy. Now dance to this music. As for threats, we needn’t bother, right?
“What has become of comrade Antipin?” Khristo asked, one try for bravery.
Ozunov smiled like a snake. “Antipin was yesterday. Today is Ozunov.”
End of rebellion.
Yet as much as he struggled and sweated with the languages and the levantine webs of theory, there was one area in which he succeeded. He was, it turned out to his and everyone else’s amazement, gifted in the craft.
It began with the affair of the knitting needles. Five students were taken to a classroom and seated around a scarred wooden table. The room stank of carbolic soap. Beads of condensation ran slowly down the fogged-up window, colored a sickly white by the winter sky above the city.
Ozunov paced up and down and addressed the backs of their heads, his hands clasped behind him.
“On your desk are sealed envelopes. Do not touch them. Also a pair of knitting needles. Do not touch them, either. We presume you to know what they are, much as we presume that you have never used them.”
They laughed politely.
“Good, good. You are not old babas after all, though your degenerate love of prattle and gossip might lead one to think otherwise. I am relieved.”
He paced.
They waited.
“Voluta!”
The Pole jumped. “Yes, Major Ozunov.”
“Turn the letter over. To whom is it addressed?”
“To the British ambassador, Major Ozunov.”
“A keen analysis, Voluta. Do we all agree?”
They turned their letters over. All were the same, they agreed.
“What might the envelope contain? Stoianev!”
“A plot?”
“Kerenyi?”
“The reports of spies.”
“Oh yes? Semmers, you agree?”
“Uhh, it is possible, comrade Major.”
“And so, Voluta?”
“A denunciation.”
“Goldman. Your opinion on this matter.”
“Perhaps a false denunciation.”
“Always the Romanian, eh Goldman? You see the complexity, the winding and twisting of political matters, I give you that. But then, could it not be a false denunciation ? By spies ? In Stoianev’s plot ? What about that? Or it could be the information, no shock to anyone around here, that Ozunov’s students are a blithering pack of donkeys’ behinds!” He finished with a shout.
He paced silently, his boots slapping the scrubbed wooden floor, and breathed with a fury. “The point is, comrades, you don’t know. Not such a difficult solution, is it? You don’t know because the letter is sealed. It could be birthday greetings from the Belgian consul. It could be a love note from the stable boy. It could be anything. Now, how shall we discover this elusive truth?”
Kerenyi: “Take the letter out and read it.”
“Brilliant! You shall now all do exactly that. When I give the word, you have ten minutes. Oh, by the way …” He stopped, leaned over Voluta and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tear the envelope. We don’t want the gentleman to know that someone is reading his mail. And here’s a hint, little as any of you deserve it, use the knitting needles.”
For the
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