The Case of Comrade Tulayev (New York Review Books Classics)

by Victor Serge

Kostia checked the timecards for absences, went down into the tunnel with messages, helped the organizer of the Young Communists in his various educational, disciplinary, and secret-service duties. A short, dark, bobbed-haired, energetic eighteen-year-old girl with rouged lips and small acid eyes passed. He waved to her. “So your little pal Maria hasn’t showed up for two days? I’ll have to take it up with the Y.C. office.” The girl stopped short and pulled up her skirt with a masculine gesture. A miner’s lamp hung from her leather apron. With her hair hidden under a thick kerchief, she looked as if she were wearing a helmet. She spoke passionately, slowly, in a low voice: “You won’t see Maria again. Dead. Threw herself in the Moskva yesterday. She’s in the morgue this minute. Go take a look at her if you feel like it. You made her do it — you and the Bureau. And I’m not afraid to tell you so.” The edge of her shovel gleamed evilly over her shoulder. She pushed her way into the gaping elevator.