FORCES.’
Ganin marched his men forward twenty metres. The Commando came to meet them. Ganin tried to look confident as he gave the order to aim over the heads of the crowd, but several things alarmed him. First, the authority of the instructions he had received. Second, the fear that some idiot ranker would decide to lower his aim. And third, the knowledge that each militiaman had only one clip of bullets. THANK YOU FOR THE SHORTAGES was a cry which had its echo in the army too.
With a delaying hand raised to his troops, Ganin walked towards the Commando. At the same time a young man wearing two Junior Pioneer bonnets, one clipped over each ear, detached himself from the students. Swedish Television caught the decisive meeting of these two, the bearded student in big red ear-mufflers, and the rotund, pink-cheeked army officer, his breath fogging out before him in the cold air. The cameraman bravely moved in closer, but the sound recordist had sudden thoughts of his family back in Karlstad. This moment of prudence was just as well for the young lieutenant. Had the ensuing conversation been preserved, his rise to authority might have been slower.
‘So, Comrade Officer, are you going to kill us all?’
‘Just go. Disperse and we will not shoot.’
‘But we like it here. We have no classes at the moment. We were enjoying our exchange of views with Party Chief Krumov. Perhaps you could ask the loyal security officer why his esteemed boss broke off our productive discussions.’
Ganin had to make an effort not to smile. ‘I order you to disperse.’
But the student, instead of obeying, came even closer, linking his arm with the lieutenant’s. ‘So, Comrade Officer,how many of us have you been ordered to kill? Twenty? Thirty? All of us?’
‘Frankly,’ replied Ganin, ‘that’s not possible. We don’t have enough bullets. What with the shortages.’
The student burst out laughing and kissed Ganin suddenly on both cheeks. The pink-faced lieutenant laughed back, his face filling the eye-piece of the Swedish cameraman. ‘Look,’ he said confidentially, ‘I’m sure we can work something out.’
‘Of course we can, Comrade Officer.’ He turned away, and shouted back to his colleagues, ‘MORE BULLETS FOR THE SOLDIERS.’
As the Devinsky Commando advanced, their red bonnets flopping, with alternate cries of DOWN WITH THE SHORTAGES and MORE BULLETS FOR THE SOLDIERS, Ganin gestured uneasily at his men to lower their rifles. They did so anxiously, and didn’t look much happier when each of the students picked out a soldier and embraced him vigorously. But the pictures were splendidly dramatic, and the lack of sound enabled viewers to imagine dialogue which was inevitably more noble. Ganin was transformed in this moment from an indecisive, if not cowardly, junior officer into a symbol of decency, an advertisement for the power of negotiation and the middle way; while his brief, silent exchange of pluming breaths in a cobbled square before a palisade of dirty snow was widely taken as a sign that the army, if forced to choose between the people and the Party, would place its support behind the people.
Thereafter, Ganin’s rise had been so swift that his wife Nina scarcely had time to tack a new rank on his uniform before it became outdated. She was pleased when he moved into civilian clothes; but her amused relief was premature. The dinners Georgi found himself obliged to attend meantthat regular alterations had to be made to his suits as well. Now he stood in Solinsky’s office, a corpulent civil servant, red-faced from climbing the stairs, his middle button under pressure despite the doubled thread Nina had used. Awkwardly, he offered a cardboard file to the Prosecutor General.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Solinsky.
‘Comrade Prosecutor …’
‘Mr Prosecutor will do,’ Solinsky smiled. ‘Lieutenant-General.’
‘Mr Prosecutor, sir. We in the Patriotic Security Forces wish to encourage you in your work
Ganin marched his men forward twenty metres. The Commando came to meet them. Ganin tried to look confident as he gave the order to aim over the heads of the crowd, but several things alarmed him. First, the authority of the instructions he had received. Second, the fear that some idiot ranker would decide to lower his aim. And third, the knowledge that each militiaman had only one clip of bullets. THANK YOU FOR THE SHORTAGES was a cry which had its echo in the army too.
With a delaying hand raised to his troops, Ganin walked towards the Commando. At the same time a young man wearing two Junior Pioneer bonnets, one clipped over each ear, detached himself from the students. Swedish Television caught the decisive meeting of these two, the bearded student in big red ear-mufflers, and the rotund, pink-cheeked army officer, his breath fogging out before him in the cold air. The cameraman bravely moved in closer, but the sound recordist had sudden thoughts of his family back in Karlstad. This moment of prudence was just as well for the young lieutenant. Had the ensuing conversation been preserved, his rise to authority might have been slower.
‘So, Comrade Officer, are you going to kill us all?’
‘Just go. Disperse and we will not shoot.’
‘But we like it here. We have no classes at the moment. We were enjoying our exchange of views with Party Chief Krumov. Perhaps you could ask the loyal security officer why his esteemed boss broke off our productive discussions.’
Ganin had to make an effort not to smile. ‘I order you to disperse.’
But the student, instead of obeying, came even closer, linking his arm with the lieutenant’s. ‘So, Comrade Officer,how many of us have you been ordered to kill? Twenty? Thirty? All of us?’
‘Frankly,’ replied Ganin, ‘that’s not possible. We don’t have enough bullets. What with the shortages.’
The student burst out laughing and kissed Ganin suddenly on both cheeks. The pink-faced lieutenant laughed back, his face filling the eye-piece of the Swedish cameraman. ‘Look,’ he said confidentially, ‘I’m sure we can work something out.’
‘Of course we can, Comrade Officer.’ He turned away, and shouted back to his colleagues, ‘MORE BULLETS FOR THE SOLDIERS.’
As the Devinsky Commando advanced, their red bonnets flopping, with alternate cries of DOWN WITH THE SHORTAGES and MORE BULLETS FOR THE SOLDIERS, Ganin gestured uneasily at his men to lower their rifles. They did so anxiously, and didn’t look much happier when each of the students picked out a soldier and embraced him vigorously. But the pictures were splendidly dramatic, and the lack of sound enabled viewers to imagine dialogue which was inevitably more noble. Ganin was transformed in this moment from an indecisive, if not cowardly, junior officer into a symbol of decency, an advertisement for the power of negotiation and the middle way; while his brief, silent exchange of pluming breaths in a cobbled square before a palisade of dirty snow was widely taken as a sign that the army, if forced to choose between the people and the Party, would place its support behind the people.
Thereafter, Ganin’s rise had been so swift that his wife Nina scarcely had time to tack a new rank on his uniform before it became outdated. She was pleased when he moved into civilian clothes; but her amused relief was premature. The dinners Georgi found himself obliged to attend meantthat regular alterations had to be made to his suits as well. Now he stood in Solinsky’s office, a corpulent civil servant, red-faced from climbing the stairs, his middle button under pressure despite the doubled thread Nina had used. Awkwardly, he offered a cardboard file to the Prosecutor General.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Solinsky.
‘Comrade Prosecutor …’
‘Mr Prosecutor will do,’ Solinsky smiled. ‘Lieutenant-General.’
‘Mr Prosecutor, sir. We in the Patriotic Security Forces wish to encourage you in your work
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