“I repeat my question,” said Ivanov and bent forward slightly.
“For how long have you belonged to the organized opposition?”
The telephone rang.
Ivanov took the receiver off, said,
“I am busy,” and hung it up again.
He leant back in his chair, leg stretched out, and waited for Rubashov’s answer.
“You know as well as I do,” said Rubashov, “that I never joined an oppositional organization.”
“As you like,” said Ivanov. “You put me into the painful position of having to act the bureaucrat.”
He put a hand in a drawer and pulled out a bundle of files.
“Let’s start with 1933,” he said and spread the papers out in front of him.
“Outbreak of the dictatorship and crushing of the Party in the very country where victory seemed closest.
You are sent there illegally, with the task of carrying through a purging and reorganization of the ranks. ...”
Rubashov had leant back and was listening to his biography.
He thought of Richard, and of the twilight in the avenue in front of the museum, where he had stopped the taxi.
“… Three months later: you are arrested.
Two years’ imprisonment.
Behaviour exemplary, nothing can be proved against you.
Release and triumphal return. ...”
Ivanov paused, threw him a quick glance and went on: “You were much feted on your return.
We did not meet then; you were probably too busy. ...
I did not take it amiss, by the way.
After all, one could not expect you to look up all your old friends.
But I saw you twice at meetings, up on the platform.
You were still on crutches and looked very worn-out.
The logical thing would have been for you to go to a sanatorium for a few months, and then to take some Government post—after having been four years away on foreign mission.
But after a fortnight you were already applying for another mission abroad. ...”
He bent forward suddenly, moving his face closer to Rubashov:
“Why—?” he asked, and for the first time his voice was sharp.
“You did not feel at ease here, presumably?
During your absence certain changes had taken place in the country, which you evidently did not appreciate.”
He waited for Rubashov to say something; but Rubashov was sitting quietly in his chair, rubbing his pince-nez on his sleeve, and did not answer.
“It was shortly after the first crop of the opposition had been convicted and liquidated. You had intimate friends amongst them.
When it became known what degree of decay the opposition had attained, there was an outbreak of indignation throughout the country.
You said nothing. After a fortnight, you went abroad, although you could not yet walk without crutches. ...”
To Rubashov it seemed that he smelt again the smell of the docks in the little port, a mixture of seaweed and petrol; wrestler Paul wagging his ears; Little Loewy saluting with his pipe. ...
He had hanged himself on a beam in his attic.
The dilapidated old house trembled every time a lorry passed; Rubashov had been told that on the morning when Little Loewy was found, his body had turned slowly on its own axis, so that at first they thought he still moved. ...
“The mission successfully concluded, you were nominated leader of our Trade Delegation in B.
This time, too, you carried out your duties irreproachably.
The new commercial treaty with B. is a definite success.
In appearance your behaviour remains exemplary and spotless.
But six months after you took over this post, your two closest collaborators, one of whom is your secretary, Arlova, have to be recalled under the suspicion of oppositional conspiracy.
This suspicion is confirmed by the inquiry.
You are expected to disavow them publicly.
You remain silent. ...
“Another six months later you are yourself recalled.
The preparations for the second trial of the opposition are proceeding.
Your name occurs repeatedly at the trial; Arlova refers to you for her exculpation.
Under these circumstances, to maintain your silence would look like a confession of guilt.
You know that and yet you refuse to make a public declaration until the Party sends you an ultimatum.