Sacred Haven of Debauchery

In the morning, Lieutenant Colonel Yerofeyev received a call from headquarters. – Ivan Ivanich, a journalist is coming to see you – Victoria Adamovna Novitskaya. A prominent advocate for freedom of speech. She will be doing a report on the daily lives of Interior Ministry units in Chechnya. Show her everything she wants to see, within reason. And be gentle with her. She is, after all, a woman. – I understand. As soon as Yerofeyev hung up, the phone rang again. This time, it was the checkpoint. – Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, this is Sergeant Lebedev. There’s a woman here, says she’s a representative of the free press. She’s acting strangely. She demands that we let her through in the name of freedom of speech. – I’ll be right there, – said Ivan Ivanich, and, with a premonition of something unpleasant, went to meet the guest. – Novitskaya, Victoria Adamovna, – the young woman introduced herself at the checkpoint. – Journalist. – Yerofeyev, Ivan Ivanich. Police Lieutenant Colonel. Please, come in. – Well, tell me, where are you carrying out genocide? – Novitskaya asked cheerfully as soon as they were inside the unit. – What? – Genocide. Oh, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about. – You’re mistaken. – Okay, I see. You don’t want to admit it? Well, I’ll have to take a look around myself. Victoria Adamovna briskly headed into the military camp. – Well, here it is, what I expected – a pit for hostages. What do you call it? “Zindan”? – It used to be called a shell crater. After the crater was filled in, it’s not called anything. – Yes, yes. I mean, “zindan,” – Novitskaya said, not arguing, and spoke into her recorder: “In the center of the camp, a large pit was found, clearly used to hold civilian hostages. It appears to have been hastily filled in before my arrival…” – What hostages? What are you talking about?! – What? Nothing, I mean, about whom! For you, are people “what”? Like things? A means of making a profit? Well, of course! It all makes sense! The pit is empty because you’ve already ransomed the hostages! Ivan Ivanich stared at Novitskaya in astonishment. – What, you have nothing to say? Let’s go on. They walked in silence for a while. – Oh! – the correspondent suddenly exclaimed. – Oh! – What is it? – You wouldn’t dare. – Dare what? – Shoot me. – Why do you think I’m going to shoot you? – Yerofeyev asked in surprise. – Trust me, I know. You led me to this wall for a reason. And your riot police with their automatic weapons are right here. Oh, it’s not for nothing. – There are walls everywhere here! This, for example, is the wall of the mess hall. And the ones with the automatic weapons are the guards. They will only shoot in the most extreme case, if the unit is attacked. See? No one is going to shoot you. Novitskaya looked intently into the officer’s eyes. – I think I understand. You’re afraid to shoot me, so you decided to stage a shooting: you want to scare me. Is that it? – What is? – A staged event. Well, here again, what did I say? Lieutenant Colonel, how can you be so ashamed – in the last five minutes, your men have already twice mimicked my execution. – They just walked past you on patrol, – Yerofeyev corrected. – That’s just their job. – They mimicked my execution! But I’m not afraid of you anyway. The whole civilized world will learn about your dirty methods! – Damn it, we’re at war! And in war, people in uniform are always armed. We have to defend ourselves somehow, don’t we? – Against the civilian population? – the correspondent smiled skeptically. – Well, well. Okay, stop making excuses. There’s no need for that. I’m not asking for confessions from you. In the past, a confession was the queen of evidence. Now, times have changed. Now, to reveal the truth, all that is needed is the personal opinion of a representative of the free press. – I’m telling you again, this is not a pillory, as you thought, but a mess hall. By the way, now that we’re here, would you like to have lunch? We have borscht today. You were going to write about our daily lives, weren’t you? – How primitive, Lieutenant Colonel. Do you really think I’m going to eat your, probably, poisoned food? Your poisonous borscht! – Usually, everyone eats it. But, I don’t know what else to offer you. – Are you hinting that it’s time for me to leave? Are you kicking me out? How pathetic, Yerofeyev. Are you afraid of the truth? You should be. If I somehow manage to get out of here, I will tell everyone about what is happening here under your leadership… Novitskaya became more and more agitated. From words about freedom of speech, she imperceptibly moved on to shouts, and then to screams about that very freedom. Yerofeyev walked silently beside her. The officer felt bad. After leaving the checkpoint, Victoria Adamovna, still screaming something incoherent, got into the car and drove away. After Novitskaya left, Yerofeyev stood for a long time at the gate of the unit, completely absorbed in his thoughts. He wasn’t thinking about Victoria Adamovna and her threats. The Lieutenant Colonel was remembering how his unit’s positions were shelled at night, how several of his soldiers were blown up by a mine a few days ago, and about many other things that turned out to be completely uninteresting to the journalist. “You realize once again: everyone has their own truth about the war,” Yerofeyev thought to himself. – What are you thinking about, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel? – About the truth, Lebedev. It seems that everyone has their own. Especially after meeting such visitors. – Ah-ah-ah, – the sergeant said, shaking his head knowingly. – What do you think about her? – the officer asked. – She’s an idiot, Ivan Ivanich. – I mean, about the truth. Lebedev thought for a moment, and his face became somehow enlightened. – I think the truth is that today’s borscht will be made with fresh meat? I’m tired of canned food. – It will be, – Yerofeyev confirmed Lebedev’s assumption with a smile. – Although I don’t know if anyone will eat it. It’s poisoned. If you believe our dear guest. – That’s okay, they will eat it, don’t doubt it. We have immunity to journalistic poison. – Really. Is it innate? – No, it’s acquired. – Where do they give it? And, by the way, with what? – It’s given right here. With bullets, – Lebedev replied and smiled serenely. Copied from www.porco.ru