CHAPTER 9. AND HE WHO WALKS THROUGH LIFE WITH A SONG

“We don’t care if it’s bread or shit…” muttered the interrogator-executioner.

“Thank you all very much,” she said. Then, turning to him: “Well done. You managed it. Now you’ll need a couple of days in the hospital.”

The grotesque theatre—disguises, threats, manipulations—had been a combat test. They needed to know where he would draw the line in his openness and whether he could withstand their instruments. That’s what they told him. They added that other tortures might follow. Many don’t survive the test of solitude. Teenagers, who fear boredom or peer contempt, fail easier; for an adult it’s essential to learn to be self-sufficient, to be interesting to oneself. Declining health becomes another form of torture for someone used to being hale; hunger and cold shorten resistance, achieved by transfer to disciplinary housing. It couldn’t be ruled out—but for now he only needed some medical treatment.

After he left, she spoke frankly with the investigator. From that conversation it emerged that both of them were from “The Tower,” but their attitudes toward what was happening diverged sharply.

“Operational necessity requires forcing a resolution,” he declared. “My man in the General Staff reports three attack vectors on Kiev have been developed. That implies total capture. If we cut off the viper’s head now, it won’t strike back.”

“Your Kiev is no taller than my waist—and I’m not impressed.” she parried, nearly quoting an old film.

“Regional responsibility is mine now,” she continued. “You and your forces were transferred to my command by joint headquarters. Your rank and seniority don’t matter. And don’t reproach me for keeping him for my amusement. It’s not about him—it’s about regional stability. You’re watching over your homeland here and now; I’m positioning pieces globally for decades. You’ll be better off with a well-intentioned, prudent neighbor. We need a balanced, predictable nuclear partner. Right now you’re giving him a popgun he doesn’t know how to fire—he’ll be killed before his first shot. In a year, though, he’ll be ready, and then he’ll personally ‘waste everyone in the toilets,’ as they like to say.”

“Your precious Chernihiv will be shelled into oblivion—then ‘liberated’ from imaginary fascists, with everyone tortured until they confess crimes they never committed,” replied the senior, showing both the origin of his commander and the planned fate of the Russian-speaking city.

“That’s no reason to desert or sabotage the main operation. The ‘little cockroach’ variant isn’t primary—it only executes if the ‘little bug-beetle’ fails. We’re on schedule; strategically it’s more important to proceed exactly this way, even in wartime. Only a high probability of failure will make me force events,” she cut in, then softened her tone.

“And send your best sniper and your best chemist to the sessions.”

“I sculpted him from what I had,” he smirked, quoting the prima donna.

“I’m glad you at least understand me,” she replied with a smile, and launched into further revelations. “These people are full of learned helplessness. Explanations and personal example don’t work on them. You have to take them by the hand and literally walk them through an obstacle course to show there’s nothing to fear. We’ll mold a human being and a citizen. Nicholas II came to the throne unprepared and bungled everything. That won’t happen with us. We have a year. Step by step. Support us—and maybe something will come of this.”