would have been suicidal. Such details didn’t always stop the men with the fancy rank marks on their sleeves. Today, they sufficed.
Mouradian got a glass of tea and some bread and sausage in the officers’ tent the next morning. When a bottle came along, he swigged before he passed it. He didn’t drink like a Russian—he had but one liver to give for his country—but he drank. In weather like this, vodka made good antifreeze. It also helped you not notice the long, dull hours crawling by.
Lieutenant Mogamedov ducked into the tent not long after he did. The Azeri made a beeline for the samovar. As he gulped hot, sweet tea, he shivered theatrically. “Cold out there!”
Azeri and Armenian could agree on something. The Russian and Ukrainian flyers who made up the majority only hooted at a southerner’s discomfort. They started telling stories about really cold weather. Stas had flown against the Japanese in Siberia. He’d been through plenty worse than this himself. That didn’t mean he enjoyed it.
Mogamedov tore at the coarse black bread with his teeth. He ignored the sausage. Stas realized after a minute that the cheap, fatty stuff was bound to be mostly pork. His new copilot didn’t drink any of the free-flowing vodka, either.
That was interesting. Mogamedov might not be a pious Muslim—you couldn’t very well be a pious anything and a New Soviet Man at the same time—but he didn’t go out of the way to flout the tenets of his ancestral faith.
If I want to, chances are I can use that against him , Stas thought. All he had to do was whisper in an informer’s ear, and Mogamedov would find Chekists crawling over him like lice. And all Stas had to do after that was look at himself in the mirror for the rest of his life.
One of his bristly eyebrows quirked. If only he didn’t despise people who did such things. But he did. He knew exactly what he thought of people who sold out their friends and neighbors and acquaintances so they could move up themselves. No Russian, not even the filthiest mat, could describe the blackness of such treachery. For that, you needed Armenian.
Proof of how strongly he felt about it was that he wouldn’t give an Azeri to the KGB. If Mogamedov did himself in by avoiding pork and alcohol, then he did. Stas wouldn’t be especially sorry. But he wouldn’t grease the skids—even with lard.
That thought, perhaps aided by the vodka he’d knocked back, made him chuckle to himself. Isa Mogamedov noticed. Unlike most of the men eating breakfast, he wasn’t drinking part of it, so he noticed things they might have missed. “What’s funny, Comrade Pilot?”
“I was just remembering a joke somebody told me,” Mouradian answered—a lie, but a polite lie.
But the Russian sitting next to him gave him a nudge and said, “Well, tell it, then. I could use a laugh.” By his slurred speech, he’d drunk more of his breakfast than Stas had.
Mouradian couldn’t even shoot him a resentful look. Mogamedov might notice that, too. Instead, he really had to remember a joke, and he had to come out with it. He chose a long, complicated story about a pretty girl in Moscow who wanted to record a message for her grandmother in far-off Irkutsk but couldn’t afford it, and about the lecherous fellow who ran the recording shop and saw a chance to take it out in trade. “So there she is, on her knees in front of him, holding it”—Stas illustrated with appropriate lewd gestures—“and he says, ‘Well? Go ahead!’ And she leans forward, and she says, ‘Hello? Granny?’ ”
The Russian officer bellowed laughter. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “That’s good! Bozhemoi , that’s good!” he spluttered, and laughed some more.
Mogamedov laughed, too, even if not quite so much. Everybody who’d listened laughed. You couldn’t hear that joke without laughing—at least, Stas had never run into anybody who could.
Another vodka bottle came around. He swigged from it. No, vodka
Mouradian got a glass of tea and some bread and sausage in the officers’ tent the next morning. When a bottle came along, he swigged before he passed it. He didn’t drink like a Russian—he had but one liver to give for his country—but he drank. In weather like this, vodka made good antifreeze. It also helped you not notice the long, dull hours crawling by.
Lieutenant Mogamedov ducked into the tent not long after he did. The Azeri made a beeline for the samovar. As he gulped hot, sweet tea, he shivered theatrically. “Cold out there!”
Azeri and Armenian could agree on something. The Russian and Ukrainian flyers who made up the majority only hooted at a southerner’s discomfort. They started telling stories about really cold weather. Stas had flown against the Japanese in Siberia. He’d been through plenty worse than this himself. That didn’t mean he enjoyed it.
Mogamedov tore at the coarse black bread with his teeth. He ignored the sausage. Stas realized after a minute that the cheap, fatty stuff was bound to be mostly pork. His new copilot didn’t drink any of the free-flowing vodka, either.
That was interesting. Mogamedov might not be a pious Muslim—you couldn’t very well be a pious anything and a New Soviet Man at the same time—but he didn’t go out of the way to flout the tenets of his ancestral faith.
If I want to, chances are I can use that against him , Stas thought. All he had to do was whisper in an informer’s ear, and Mogamedov would find Chekists crawling over him like lice. And all Stas had to do after that was look at himself in the mirror for the rest of his life.
One of his bristly eyebrows quirked. If only he didn’t despise people who did such things. But he did. He knew exactly what he thought of people who sold out their friends and neighbors and acquaintances so they could move up themselves. No Russian, not even the filthiest mat, could describe the blackness of such treachery. For that, you needed Armenian.
Proof of how strongly he felt about it was that he wouldn’t give an Azeri to the KGB. If Mogamedov did himself in by avoiding pork and alcohol, then he did. Stas wouldn’t be especially sorry. But he wouldn’t grease the skids—even with lard.
That thought, perhaps aided by the vodka he’d knocked back, made him chuckle to himself. Isa Mogamedov noticed. Unlike most of the men eating breakfast, he wasn’t drinking part of it, so he noticed things they might have missed. “What’s funny, Comrade Pilot?”
“I was just remembering a joke somebody told me,” Mouradian answered—a lie, but a polite lie.
But the Russian sitting next to him gave him a nudge and said, “Well, tell it, then. I could use a laugh.” By his slurred speech, he’d drunk more of his breakfast than Stas had.
Mouradian couldn’t even shoot him a resentful look. Mogamedov might notice that, too. Instead, he really had to remember a joke, and he had to come out with it. He chose a long, complicated story about a pretty girl in Moscow who wanted to record a message for her grandmother in far-off Irkutsk but couldn’t afford it, and about the lecherous fellow who ran the recording shop and saw a chance to take it out in trade. “So there she is, on her knees in front of him, holding it”—Stas illustrated with appropriate lewd gestures—“and he says, ‘Well? Go ahead!’ And she leans forward, and she says, ‘Hello? Granny?’ ”
The Russian officer bellowed laughter. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “That’s good! Bozhemoi , that’s good!” he spluttered, and laughed some more.
Mogamedov laughed, too, even if not quite so much. Everybody who’d listened laughed. You couldn’t hear that joke without laughing—at least, Stas had never run into anybody who could.
Another vodka bottle came around. He swigged from it. No, vodka
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