Autopsy Room One.”
She pointed through a glass window. A two-high line of corpses lay on the floor, each wrapped in a sheet with a number tied to a bloodless toe. Chests of ice had been laid around them like waiting coffins.
“Too many bodies, not enough pathologists, and now we don’t even have enough autopsy rooms. Citizens should travel to another city if they feel they have to kill themselves. The problem isn’t so bad in Leningrad, you know. Maybe the Party could organize special tours there.”
She sighed and entered the second, smaller, autopsy room, leaning against the polished steel table and closing her eyes. Korolev wanted to do the same, but he reminded himself that if he leaned against anything in this place he’d lose consciousness in moments. Even standing, he felt sleep licking his neck and his eyelids drooping down. He clenched his hand into a fist and punched back at the wall behind him, hoping the pain would wake him up. The punch sounded like a pistol shot against the steel. Chestnova’s eyes flew open and she looked at him in terror. She was still looking at him uncertainly when the attendants arrived with the stretcher that carried the dead body.
Korolev spoke to cover his embarrassment.
“I’d no idea there were so many of them—the suicides. Perhaps it’s the coming of the winter. Is that what brings it on?”
“It could be anything with these people,” Chestnova said, color returning to her cheeks. “All I know is it’s un-Soviet to take your own life at a time of national threat. If you’re unhappy, you should find solace in useful work. These people,” Chestnova said, waving her hand toward the mortuary and the other autopsy room, “were selfish. Individualists. They all put themselves before the State.”
“That’s right, Comrade Doctor,” one of the attendants said, as they removed the body from the blankets and laid it out. “They make work for us when they should be helping. And most of them Party members, what’s more—they should be ashamed.”
The attendants barely looked at the corpse as they worked, but their movements were efficient and quick. The girl was still caked with blood and excrement, but they showed no squeamishness.
“Shall I ask Comrade Esimov to assist, Doctor?” the second attendant asked.
“No, let him sleep. The captain here can take the notes. Is that all right, Comrade?”
“Of course,” Korolev said, thinking that at least he’d be able to read them for a change.
“Let’s begin. Preliminary examination of unidentified female homicide victim commencing at three forty-five p.m., second of November, nineteen thirty-six. Am I going too fast?”
Korolev shook his head and the doctor began to clean the woman’s body with a small hose, gently removing the thicker patches of dried body fluids with a brush. She called out details of the surface injuries to him as she uncovered them and then, when the body was clean, she stood back and reached for a large surgeon’s knife. She smiled apologetically to the two men before making a deep and precise Y cut in the chest. Then, with practiced efficiency, she peeled back the skin to reveal the girl’s ribcage and internal organs. Korolev met the photographer’s eyes for a moment before they both glanced away—it just wasn’t right for a person to look like something you’d see on a meat-shop slab, ribs sticking out of their bruised white skin.
As always, the autopsy was slow going; the doctor, despite her tiredness, was thorough. After half an hour, Gueginov, who’d been taking pictures when instructed, suggested they take a break and a nip of vodka to fortify themselves for the rest of the examination.
“Have we guh-glasses?” he said, putting his flask down beside the girl’s head.
“Sample jars. They’ll do well enough,” Chestnova said, “There are some in the drawer.” She pointed with her elbow as she scrubbed at her hands in the sink.
“Huh-here we go,” Gueginov
She pointed through a glass window. A two-high line of corpses lay on the floor, each wrapped in a sheet with a number tied to a bloodless toe. Chests of ice had been laid around them like waiting coffins.
“Too many bodies, not enough pathologists, and now we don’t even have enough autopsy rooms. Citizens should travel to another city if they feel they have to kill themselves. The problem isn’t so bad in Leningrad, you know. Maybe the Party could organize special tours there.”
She sighed and entered the second, smaller, autopsy room, leaning against the polished steel table and closing her eyes. Korolev wanted to do the same, but he reminded himself that if he leaned against anything in this place he’d lose consciousness in moments. Even standing, he felt sleep licking his neck and his eyelids drooping down. He clenched his hand into a fist and punched back at the wall behind him, hoping the pain would wake him up. The punch sounded like a pistol shot against the steel. Chestnova’s eyes flew open and she looked at him in terror. She was still looking at him uncertainly when the attendants arrived with the stretcher that carried the dead body.
Korolev spoke to cover his embarrassment.
“I’d no idea there were so many of them—the suicides. Perhaps it’s the coming of the winter. Is that what brings it on?”
“It could be anything with these people,” Chestnova said, color returning to her cheeks. “All I know is it’s un-Soviet to take your own life at a time of national threat. If you’re unhappy, you should find solace in useful work. These people,” Chestnova said, waving her hand toward the mortuary and the other autopsy room, “were selfish. Individualists. They all put themselves before the State.”
“That’s right, Comrade Doctor,” one of the attendants said, as they removed the body from the blankets and laid it out. “They make work for us when they should be helping. And most of them Party members, what’s more—they should be ashamed.”
The attendants barely looked at the corpse as they worked, but their movements were efficient and quick. The girl was still caked with blood and excrement, but they showed no squeamishness.
“Shall I ask Comrade Esimov to assist, Doctor?” the second attendant asked.
“No, let him sleep. The captain here can take the notes. Is that all right, Comrade?”
“Of course,” Korolev said, thinking that at least he’d be able to read them for a change.
“Let’s begin. Preliminary examination of unidentified female homicide victim commencing at three forty-five p.m., second of November, nineteen thirty-six. Am I going too fast?”
Korolev shook his head and the doctor began to clean the woman’s body with a small hose, gently removing the thicker patches of dried body fluids with a brush. She called out details of the surface injuries to him as she uncovered them and then, when the body was clean, she stood back and reached for a large surgeon’s knife. She smiled apologetically to the two men before making a deep and precise Y cut in the chest. Then, with practiced efficiency, she peeled back the skin to reveal the girl’s ribcage and internal organs. Korolev met the photographer’s eyes for a moment before they both glanced away—it just wasn’t right for a person to look like something you’d see on a meat-shop slab, ribs sticking out of their bruised white skin.
As always, the autopsy was slow going; the doctor, despite her tiredness, was thorough. After half an hour, Gueginov, who’d been taking pictures when instructed, suggested they take a break and a nip of vodka to fortify themselves for the rest of the examination.
“Have we guh-glasses?” he said, putting his flask down beside the girl’s head.
“Sample jars. They’ll do well enough,” Chestnova said, “There are some in the drawer.” She pointed with her elbow as she scrubbed at her hands in the sink.
“Huh-here we go,” Gueginov
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