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train fast enough, others because they’d lost the things they had brought from home. It was clear that they had never felt the sense of vulnerability and powerlessness that you feel in the face of the system, when you are crushed by the reality of power.
    After a two-day journey, we reached a place similar to the one we had just left. There were lots of soldiers in the yard wearing various uniforms. It was midday, and all the men had come to the windows to get a look.
    And they began to chatter:
    â€™Look, the tankers! They’re here for me, I’m going with them!’
    â€˜The ones in blue berets are the paratroopers. Look, that guy has a bayonet hooked on his boot!’
    â€˜Well, the infantry still have the smartest uniforms!’
    The cheerful voices made me nauseous. I wanted to get off that damned train as quickly as possible.
    The officers opened the doors and let us out, and then they began to call us, one by one. The first on the list were the ones headed for the infantry, so the yard was immediately half emptied. Then they called the artillery, and almost the entire second half left. After that, they called three groups simultaneously: paratroopers, tankers and motorists. Then there were about twenty of us left. Some officers in blue, navy and white uniforms came; they were the
spetsnaz
, the autonomous special units of the infantry, and they took most of the rest.
    There were three of us left. A man in civilian clothes came, gave us a melancholy look, and said:
    â€˜Saboteurs, let’s go!’ Without waiting for us, he turned and started walking towards the car, an armoured military off-road vehicle parked on the other side of the yard. We didn’t look at one other, just followed him, and after a moment an officer ran after us with a folder full of papers. Each unit’s representative had signed a piece of paper covered with stamps and other scribbles before leaving with his group. Now the officer, still running, yelled at the top of his lungs:
    â€˜Zabelin! Give me your bloody signature for once, you bastard!’
    The man in civilian clothes casually kept walking. The soldier gave up, and, cursing, gestured contemptuously in our direction.
    â€˜Your unit is bullshit; you’re just a bunch of amateurs!’
    The man in civilian clothes stood by the car with the keys in his hand, staring at us.
    â€˜All right, boys, I’m Senior Lieutenant Zabelin, in charge of the saboteur training unit . . . Which of you boys can drive?
    â€˜I can, Senior Lieutenant Sir!’ I replied, with the voice of a young communist – full of energy and faith in the Nation’s future.
    He gave me a funny look:
    â€˜Tell me, how many times have you been in?’
    â€˜Two, Senior Lieutenant Sir!’ I replied, without missing a beat.
    He whistled, and then asked:
    â€˜Did you steal? Deal drugs?’
    â€˜No, Senior Lieutenant Sir!’
    â€˜Well then,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘are you going to share what the hell you did that was serious enough to get two juvenile convictions?’
    â€˜I impaired some people’s health, Senior Lieutenant Sir!’
    â€˜You
impaired some people’s health
? What language are you speaking, boy! Can’t you explain yourself any better?’
    It was like talking to my late, great uncle Sergey. He used the same expressions, and his voice wasn’t cruel or fake like that of other soldiers.
    â€˜I beat up and stabbed two people, Senior Lieutenant Sir! But I did my time and I’ve learned my lesson!’ I kept playing the good soldier, responding in the way I imagined that soldiers were supposed to respond: fast, like tap-dancing with your tongue.
    â€˜Good boy! I like you!’ he said, amused. ‘Now take the keys and be careful with the transmission, it’s an old car . . .’ Then he paused, looked at all three of us and said in a normal voice, without any trace of mockery or arrogant