Cold Interrogation
The same worker joins them, perhaps not a worker, but someone far up the Soviet pecking order.
Whatever heating existed in this operating room, converted into a makeshift interrogation room, profiling or fact-checking workers, feels paltry and weak. The Nephew, being followed by another worker, someone who may get a wage bump for taking specific job duties, such as trailing suspected workers, enters this once operating room, seeing nothing by cold greyness, wooden furniture, and concrete surroundings. The supervisor suggests he sits, facing him as he sits opposing The Nephew. Once The Nephew sits, his shoulders slumped and loose, not portraying a depiction of fear or distress, he hears the metal door creak open. The same worker joins them, perhaps not a worker after all, but someone far up the Soviet pecking order. The Nephew can hear him light a cigarette and smoke, watching from the shadows.
The supervisor coughs, studying the letter, written in Mongolian, not Russian.
"You are from Mongolia, correct?"
The Nephew nods twice and scoots his chair inwards, careful with anything he says in Russian.
The supervisor sniffs.
"Your uncle is a history professor from a university in Ulaanbaatar, yes?"
The Nephew nods twice, hands on the table, folding them.
The supervisor stands, moves his chair back, and then pushes the written letter across the table.
"Explain this letter."
The letter would be unintelligible to any who does not know Mongolian, yet another language could never fool the Soviet censorship apparatus. Though The Nephew reads the letter, sentence by sentence, expected to give a solid interpretation of the work supervisor, smoking, he sees nothing out of the ordinary that would attract the wrong attention.
He sighs.
"My uncle writes about Mongolia, Mongolian history, and…family. Things about our family."
The supervisor reaches for a nearby notepad and pen.
"What family things? Explain further."
The Nephew scratches his head, feeling unsure of what could be interpreted as suspicious. Yet the head scratch, a sign of nervousness, has drawn the smoking worker away from the shadows, a little closer to their conversation but still out of sight. The Nephew rereads the bit about family, more confused than scared.
"He writes about health-related issues that he is having, my other uncle. My cousin has cancer."
The letter gets snapped by the worker in disguise, someone who looks Mongolian, who reads it. An exchange in fluent Russian between the supervisor and the worker, too fast for The Nephew to follow, not used to some advanced words in the worker's vocabulary.
The supervisor grunts.
"Our comrade will take a visit to see your uncle. We will find out why he writes what he writes."
The worker gets dismissed, leaving the room into the main churn of the factory, but The Nephew remains seated as the work supervisor stands. He grabs a telephone atop the table and puts it before The Nephew.
He walks towards the exit.
"You have to make a phone call, yes? You have five minutes. You will be compensated for your time today."
The Nephew hears the metal door close. He sits before this black telephone without that letter.
