13 March
The car-assembly line switched over to the late shift. Ilinaya stopped work and began scrubbing her hands using a bar of black rancid-smelling soap, the only kind available if any was available at all. The water was cold, the soap wouldn’t lather — it simply disintegrated into greasy shards — but all she could think about were the hours between now and the beginning of her next shift. She had her night planned out. First, she’d finish scraping the oil and metal filings from under her fingernails. Then she was going home, changing her clothes, daubing some colour on her cheeks before heading to Basarov’s, a restaurant near the railway station.
Basarov’s was popular with people visiting on business, officials stopping over before they continued their journey on the Trans-Siberian railway east or west. The restaurant served food — millet soup, barley kasha and salted herring — all of which Ilinaya thought was terrible. More importantly it served alcohol. Since it was illegal to sell alcohol in public without selling food, meals were a means to an end, a plate of food was a permit to drink. In reality the restaurant was little more than a pick-up joint. The law that no individual was to be sold more than one hundred grams of vodka was ignored. Basarov, the manager and namesake of the restaurant, was always drunk and often violent and if Ilinaya wanted to ply her trade on his premises he wanted a cut. There was no way she could pretend she was drinking there for the fun of it whilst sneaking off with the occasional paying customer. No one drank there for the fun of it; it was a transient crowd, no locals. But that was an advantage. She couldn’t get work off the locals any more. She’d been sick recently — sores, redness, rashes, that kind of thing. A couple of regulars had come down with more or less the same symptoms and bad-mouthed her around town. Now she was reduced to dealing with people who didn’t know her, people who weren’t staying in town for long and who wouldn’t find out they were pissing pus until they reached Vladivostok or Moscow, depending on which way they were travelling. She didn’t take any pleasure from the idea of passing on some kind of bug even if they weren’t exactly nice people. But in this town seeing a doctor about a sexually transmitted infection was more dangerous than the infection itself. For an unmarried woman it was like handing in a confession, signed with a smear. She’d have to go to the black market for treatment. That required money, maybe a lot of money, and right now she was saving for something else, something far more important — her escape from this town.
By the time she’d arrived the restaurant was crowded and the windows steamed up. The air stank of makhorka, cheap tobacco. She’d heard drunken laughter fifty paces before stepping through the door. She’d guessed soldiers. She’d guessed right. There were often some kind of military exercises taking place in the mountains and off-duty personnel were normally directed here. Basarov catered specifically for this sort of clientele. He served watered-down vodka, claiming, if anyone complained and they often did, that it was a high-minded attempt to limit drunkenness. There were frequent fights. Even so, she knew that for all his talk about how hard his life was and how terrible his customers were, he made a tidy profit, selling the undiluted vodka he skimmed off. He was a speculator. He was scum. Just a couple of months ago she’d gone upstairs to pay him his weekly cut and, through a crack in his bedroom door, caught sight of him counting out rouble note after note after note, which he stored in a tin box tied shut with string. She’d watched, hardly daring to breathe, as he’d wrapped his box in a cloth before hiding it in his chimney. Ever since then she’d dreamed of stealing that money and making a break for it. Of course Basarov would snap her neck for sure if he caught up with her, but she figured that if he ever discovered his tin box was empty his heart would give out right there, by his chimney place. She was pretty sure his heart and that box were one and the same thing.
By her reckoning the soldiers were going to be drinking for another couple of hours. At the moment all they were doing was groping her, a privilege they weren’t paying for unless you counted free vodka as payment, which she did not. She surveyed the other customers, convinced she could earn a little extra money before the soldiers started clocking on. The military contingent took up the front tables, relegating the remaining customers to the back. These customers were sitting on their own — just them and their drinks and their plates of untouched food. No doubt about it: they were looking for sex. There was no other reason to hang around.
Ilinaya straightened her dress, ditched her glass and made her way through the soldiers, ignoring the pinches and remarks until she found herself at one of the back tables. The man sitting there was maybe forty, maybe a little younger. It was hard to tell. He wasn’t handsome, but she reckoned he’d probably pay a little more because of that. The better-looking ones sometimes got it into their heads money wasn’t necessary, like the arrangement might be mutually pleasurable. She sat down, sliding her leg up against his thigh and smiling:
— My name is Tanya.
It helped, at times like these, to think of herself as someone else.
The man lit a cigarette and put his hand on Ilinaya’s knee. Not bothering to buy her a drink he tipped half his remaining vodka into one of the many dirty glasses surrounding him and pushed it towards her. She toyed with the glass, waiting for him to say something. He finished his drink, showing no sign of wanting to talk. Trying not to roll her eyes, she pushed for a little conversation.
— What’s your name?
He didn’t reply, reaching into his jacket pocket, rummaging around. He pulled out his hand, his fist clenched shut. She understood this was a game of sorts and that she was expected to play along. She tapped his knuckles. He turned his fist upside down, slowly extending his fingers, one by one…
In the middle of his palm was a small nugget of gold. She leaned forward. Before she could get a good look he closed his hand and slipped it back into his pocket. He still hadn’t said a word. She studied his face. He had bloodshot, boozy eyes and she didn’t like him at all. But then she didn’t like many people and certainly none of the men she slept with. If she wanted to get fussy she might as well call it quits, marry one of these locals and resign herself to staying in this town forever. The only way she was going to return to Leningrad, where her family lived, where she’d lived all her life until being ordered to move here, to a town she’d never even heard of, was if she could save up enough money to bribe the officials. Without any high-ranking, powerful friends to authorize the transfer, she needed that gold.
He tapped her glass, uttering his first word.
— Drink.
— First you pay me. Then you can tell me what to do. That’s the rule, that’s the only rule.
The man’s face fluttered as if she’d tossed a stone onto the surface of his expression. For a moment she saw something beneath his bland, plump appearance something unpleasant, something which made her want to look away. But the gold kept her looking at him, kept her in her seat. He took the nugget from his pocket, offering it. As she reached out and picked it from his sweaty palm he closed his hand, trapping her fingers. It didn’t hurt but her fingers were trapped all the same. She could either surrender to his grip or pull her hand out without the gold. Guessing what was expected she smiled and laughed like a helpless girl, letting her arm go slack. He released his grip. She took the nugget and stared at it. It was the shape of a tooth. She stared at the man.
— Where did you get it?
— When times are tough, people sell whatever they’ve got.
He smiled. She felt sick. What kind of currency was this? He tapped the glass of vodka. That tooth was her ticket out of here. She finished her drink.
Ilinaya stopped walking.
— You work in the mills?
She knew he didn’t but there weren’t any houses around here except mill-worker houses. He didn’t even bother to reply.
— Hey, where are we going?
— We’re almost there.
He’d led her to the railway station on the edge of town. Though the station itself was new it was set in amongst one of the oldest districts, made up of ramshackle one-room huts with tin roofs and thin wood walls, huts lined up side by side along sewage-stinking streets. These huts belonged to the workers at the lumber mill, who lived five or six or seven to a room, no good for what they had in mind.
It was freezing cold. Ilinaya was sobering up. Her legs were getting tired.
— This is your time. The gold buys you one hour. That’s what we agreed. If you take away the time I need to get back to the restaurant that leaves you twenty minutes from now.
— It’s around the back of the station.
— There’s just forest back there.
— You’ll see.
He pressed forward, reaching the side of the station and pointing into the darkness. She pushed her hands into her jacket pockets, caught up with him, squinting in the direction he was pointing. She could see train tracks disappearing into the forest and nothing else.
— What am I looking at?
— There.
He was pointing at a small wood cabin to one side of the railway track not far from the edge of the forest.
— I’m an engineer. I work on the railways. That’s a maintenance cabin. It’s very private.
— A room is very private.
— I can’t take you back where I’m staying.
— I know some places we could’ve gone.
— It’s better like this.
— Not for me it isn’t.
— There was one rule. I pay you, you obey. Either give me back my gold, or do as I say.
Nothing about this was good except for the gold. He stretched out his hand, waiting for the gold to be returned. He didn’t seem angry or disappointed or impatient. Ilinaya found this indifference comforting. She began walking towards the cabin.
— Inside you get ten minutes, agreed?
No reply — she’d take that as a yes.
The cabin was locked but he had a set of keys and after fumbling for the right one struggled with the lock.
— It’s frozen.
She didn’t respond, turning her head to the side and sighing to indicate her disapproval. Secrecy was one thing and she’d already presumed he was married. But since he didn’t live in this town she couldn’t understand what his problem was. Perhaps he was staying with family or friends; perhaps he was a high-ranking Party member. She didn’t care. She just wanted the next ten minutes over.
He crouched down, cupped his hands around the padlock and breathed on it. The key slipped in, the lock clicked open. She remained outside. If there wasn’t going to be any light the deal was off and she’d keep the gold to boot. She’d already given this guy more than enough time. If he wanted to waste it on an expedition to nowhere that was up to him.
He stepped into the cabin, disappearing into the darkness. She heard the sound of a match being struck. Light flickered from the heart of a hurricane lamp. The man cranked up the lamp and hung it from a crocked hook sticking out from the roof. She peered inside. The cabin was filled with spare track, screws, bolts, tools and timber. There was a smell of tar. He began clearing one of the work stations. She laughed.
— I’ll get splinters in my bum.
To her surprise he blushed. Improvising, he spread his coat across the work surface. She stepped inside.
— A perfect gentleman…
Normally she’d take off her coat, maybe sit on the bed and roll down a stocking, make a performance of it. But with no bed and no heating all she planned on allowing him to do was to lift up her dress. She’d keep the rest of her clothes on.
— Hope you don’t mind if my jacket stays on?
She shut the door, not expecting it would make much difference to the temperature, which was almost as cold inside as it was out. She turned around.
The man was much closer than she remembered. She caught sight of something metallic coming towards her — she didn’t have time to work out what it was. The object connected with the side of her face. Pain shot through her body from the point of impact travelling down her spine to her legs. Her muscles went slack; her legs slumped as though her tendons had been snipped. She fell back against the cabin door. Her eyesight blurred, her face felt hot, there was blood in her mouth. She was going to pass out, lose consciousness but she fought against it, forcing herself to stay awake, focusing on his voice.
— You do exactly as I say.
Would submission satisfy this man? Shards of broken tooth dug into her gum and convinced her otherwise. She didn’t feel like believing in his mercy. If she was going to die in a town she hated, a town she’d been transferred to by compulsory State writ, one thousand seven hundred kilometres from her family, then she’d die scratching this bastard’s eyes out.
He grabbed her arms, no doubt expecting any resistance to have evaporated. She spat a mouth full of blood and phlegm in his eyes. He must have been surprised because he let go. She felt the door behind her and pushed against it — the door swung open and she fell into the snow outside, onto her back, staring up at the sky. He grabbed at her feet. She kicked frantically, trying to get out of reach. He grabbed hold of one foot, pulling her back into the cabin. She concentrated, taking aim: her heel caught his jaw. The contact was good, his head flicked round. She heard him cry out. He lost his grip. She rolled onto her stomach, got up and ran.
Staggering blindly, it took her a couple of seconds to realize she’d run straight out from the cabin, away from town, away from the station and down the railway tracks. Her instincts had been to get away from him. Her instincts had let her down. She was running away from safety. She checked behind. He was chasing her. Either she continued in this direction or she turned back towards him. There was no way she could get around him. She tried to scream but her mouth was full of blood. She choked, spluttered, breaking her rhythm and losing some of the distance between them. He was catching up.
Suddenly the ground began to vibrate. She looked up. A freight train was approaching, hurtling towards them, plumes of smoke rushing out of the high iron front. She raised her arms, waving. But even if the driver saw her there was no stopping in time with barely five hundred metres between them. There were only seconds before a collision. But she didn’t step off the tracks, continuing towards the train, running faster — intent on throwing herself under it. The train gave no sign of slowing. There was no screech of metal brakes, no whistle. She was so close the vibrations almost shook her to her feet.
The train was about to smash into her. She flung herself to the side, off the tracks into the thick snow. The engine and wagons roared past, rocking the snow off the tips of the nearby trees. Breathless, she peered behind her, hoping her pursuer had been cut down, crushed under the train or trapped on the other side of the tracks. But he’d held his nerve. He’d jumped to her side and was lying on the snow. He stood up, staggering towards her.
She spat the blood from her mouth and cried out: calling for help, desperate. This was a freight train, there was no one to hear or see her. She got up and ran, reaching the edge of the woods, not slowing down, smashing through the branches that jutted out. Her plan was to loop around and double back onto the tracks towards town. She couldn’t hide here: he was too close, there was too much moonlight. Even though she knew it would be better to remain focused on running she gave in to temptation. She had to look. She had to know where he was. She turned around.
He was gone. She couldn’t see him. The train was still thundering past. She must have lost him when she entered the forest. She changed direction, running back towards the town, towards safety.
The man stepped out from behind a tree, catching hold of her waist. They crashed down into the snow. He was on top of her, ripping at her jacket and shouting. She couldn’t hear him over the sound of the train. All she could see were his teeth and tongue. Then she remembered: she’d prepared for this moment. She reached into her coat pocket, feeling for a chisel, stolen from work. She’d used it before but only as a threat, only to show she could fight if fighting was required. She clutched the wooden handle. She’d get one chance at this. As he put his hand up her dress she brought the metal tip into the side of his head. He sat upright, clutching his ear. She sliced at him again, cutting the hand that clutched his ear. She should have struck again and again, she should have killed him, but her desire to get away was too strong. She scrambled backwards on all fours like an insect, still holding the bloody chisel.
The man dropped onto his hands and knees, crawling after her. Part of his earlobe hung loose, dangling from a flap of skin. His expression twisted with anger. He lunged for her ankles. She managed to keep out of reach, barely, outpacing him until she backed into a tree trunk. With her brought to a sudden stop, he caught up, took hold of her ankle. She slashed at his hand, jabbing and cutting. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her towards him. Face to face, she leaned forward, trying to bite his nose. With his free hand he clasped her neck, squeezing, keeping out of her reach. She gasped, trying to break free, but his grip was too strong. She was suffocating. She threw her weight sideways. The two of them tumbled — rolling in the snow, over and over each other.
Inexplicably he let go, releasing her neck. She coughed, catching her breath. The man was still on top, pinning her down, but no longer looking in her direction. His attention was on something else, something to the side of them. She turned her head.
Sunken into the snow beside her was the naked body of a young girl. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her hair was blonde, almost white. Her mouth was wide open and had been stuffed with dirt. It formed a mound, rising above her thin blue lips. The girl’s arms and legs and face appeared to be uninjured, covered in a light layer of snow which had been disturbed when they’d rolled into it. Her torso had been savaged. The organs were exposed, ripped, torn. Much of the skin was missing, cut away or peeled back, as though her body had been attacked by a pack of wolves.
Ilinaya looked up at her pursuer. He seemed to have forgotten about her. He was staring at the girl’s body. He began to retch, doubled over and was sick. Without thinking she put a consoling hand on his back. Remembering herself, remembering who this man was and what he’d done to her, she pulled her hand away, got up and ran. This time her instincts didn’t let her down. She broke through the edge of the forest, running towards the station. She had no idea if the man was chasing her or not. This time she didn’t scream, didn’t slow down and didn’t look back.
14 March
Leo opened his eyes. A flashlight blinded him. He didn’t need to check his watch to know the time. Arresting hour — four in the morning. He got out of bed, heart pounding. In the dark he staggered, disorientated, bumping into one man, pushed to the side. He stumbled, regained his balance. The lights came on. Adjusting to the brightness he saw three officers: young men, not much older than eighteen. They were armed. Leo didn’t recognize them but he knew the kind of officers they were: low ranking, unthinkingly obedient: they’d follow whatever orders they’d been given. They’d be violent without hesitation: any slight resistance would be answered with extreme force. They gave off a smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol. Leo supposed these men hadn’t been to bed yet: drinking all night, staying up for this assignment. Alcohol would make them unpredictable, volatile. To survive these next few minutes Leo would have to be cautious, submissive. He hoped Raisa understood that as well.
Raisa was standing in her nightclothes, shivering but not from cold. She wasn’t sure whether it was shock or fear or anger. She couldn’t stop shaking. But she wouldn’t look away. She wasn’t embarrassed; let them be embarrassed at their violation, let them see her crumpled nightdress, her untidy hair. No, they were indifferent: it was all the same to them, part of their job. She saw no sensitivity in these boys’ eyes. They were dull: flicking from side to side like a lizard — reptilian eyes. Where did the MGB find these boys with souls of lead? They made them that way, she was sure of it. She glanced at Leo. He was standing with his hands in front, his head dropped in order to avoid eye contact. Humility, meekness: maybe that was the smart way to behave. But she didn’t feel smart right now. There were three thugs in their bedroom. She wanted him defiant, angry. Surely that was the natural reaction? Any ordinary man would feel outrage. Leo was political even now.
One of the men left the room, to return almost immediately holding two small cases.
— This is all you can take. You can carry nothing on your person except your clothes and your papers. In one hour we leave whether you’re ready or not.
Leo stared at the cases, canvas stretched tight over a timber frame. They offered a modest space, enough for a day trip. He turned to his wife.
— Wear as much as you can.
He glanced behind him. One of the officers was watching, smoking.
— Can you wait outside?
— Don’t waste time making requests. The answer to everything is no.
Raisa got changed, sensing this guard’s reptile eyes roaming over her body. She wore as many clothes as she could reasonably manage: layers on top of layers. Leo did the same. It might have been comical, in other circumstances, their limbs swollen by cotton and wool. Dressed, she grappled with the question of what, of all their belongings, they should bring and what they were forced to leave behind. She examined the case. It was no more than ninety centimetres wide, maybe sixty centimetres high and twenty centimetres deep. Their lives had to reduce to fit this space.
Leo knew there was a chance they’d been told to pack merely as a way of being moved without any of the emotional fuss, the struggle which came with the realization that they were being sent to their deaths. It was always easier to move people around if they clung to the notion, no matter how small, that they were going to survive. However, what could he do? Give up? Fight? He made several quick calculations. Precious space had to be wasted with the inclusion of The Book of Propagandists and The Short Course of the Bolshevik Party, neither of which could be abandoned without it being construed as a subversive political gesture. In their current predicament such recklessness was nothing less than suicidal. He grabbed the books, putting them in the case, the first objects either of them had packed. Their young guard was watching everything, seeing what went in, what choices they made. Leo touched Raisa’s arm.
— Take our shoes. Pick the best, one pair each.
Good shoes were rare, tradable, a valuable commodity.
Leo gathered up clothes, items of value, their collection of photos: photos of their wedding, his parents, Stepan and Anna, but none of Raisa’s family. Her parents been killed in the Great Patriotic War, her village wiped out. She’d lost everything except the clothes she’d been wearing. With his case full Leo’s eyes came to rest on the framed newspaper clipping hanging on the wall: the photo of himself, the war hero, the tank destroyer, the liberator of occupied soil. His past made no difference to these guards: with the signing of an arrest warrant every act of heroism and personal sacrifice had been made irrelevant. Leo took the clipping out of the frame. After years of carefully preserving it, revering it on the wall as though it were a holy icon, he folded it down the middle and tossed it in the case.
Their time was up. Leo shut his case. Raisa shut hers. He wondered if they’d ever see this apartment again. It was unlikely.
Escorted downstairs, all five of them crammed into the elevator, pressed together. There was a car waiting. Two of the officers sat in the front. One sat in the back, his breath stinking, sandwiched in between Leo and Raisa.
— I’d like to see my parents. I’d like to say goodbye.
— No fucking requests.
Five in the morning and the departure hall was already busy. There were soldiers, civilian passengers, station workers all orbiting the Trans-Siberian express train. The engine, still clad in armour plating from the war, was embossed on the side with the words HAIL TO COMMUNISM. While passengers boarded the train, Leo and Raisa waited at the end of the platform, holding their cases and flanked by their armed escort. As though they were infected with a contagious virus, no one approached them, an isolated bubble in a crowded station. They’d been given no explanation, nor did Leo bother asking for one. He had no idea where they were going or who they were waiting for. There was still a chance they’d be sent to different Gulags, never to see each other again. However, this was unmistakably a passenger train, not the zak cars, the red cattle trucks used to transport prisoners. Was it possible they were going to escape with their lives? There was no doubt that they’d been lucky so far. They were still alive, still together, more than Leo had dared to hope for.
After Leo’s testimony he’d been sent home, placed under house arrest until a decision could be made. He’d expected it to take no more than a day. On the way to his apartment, on the fourteenth-floor landing, aware that he still had the incriminating hollow coin in his pocket, Leo had tossed it over the side. Maybe Vasili had planted it, maybe not, it no longer mattered. When Raisa had arrived back from school she’d found two armed officers outside their door; she’d been searched and ordered to remain inside. Leo had explained their predicament: the allegations against her, his own investigation and his denial of the charges. He hadn’t needed to explain that their chances of survival were slim. As he’d talked she’d listened without comment or question, expressionless. When he’d finished her response had taken him by surprise.
— It was naive to think this wouldn’t happen to us too.
They’d sat in their apartment, expecting the MGB to come at any minute. Neither of them had bothered to cook; neither of them had been hungry even though the sensible thing to do would’ve been to eat as much as possible in preparation for what might lay ahead. They hadn’t got undressed for bed, they hadn’t moved from the kitchen table. They’d sat in silence — waiting. Considering they might never see each other again Leo had felt an urge to talk to his wife: to say things that needed to be said. But he’d been unable to formulate what they might be. As the hours passed he’d realized this was the most time they’d spent together, face to face, uninterrupted, for as long as he could remember. Neither of them had known what to do with it.
The knock on the door hadn’t come that night. Four in the morning had passed, there’d been no arrest. As it had approached midday the following day, Leo made breakfast, wondering why they were taking so long. When the first knock on the door finally came, he and Raisa had stood up, breathing fast, expecting this to be the end, the arrival of officers collecting them, splitting them apart and taking them to their separate interrogations. Instead it was some trivial matter: a changing of the guards, an officer using their bathroom, questions about buying food. Perhaps they couldn’t find any evidence, perhaps they’d be cleared and the case against them would collapse. Leo had only flirted with these thoughts briefly: accusations never collapsed through lack of proof. All the same, a day became two days, two days became four days.
A week into their confinement, a guard had entered the apartment, ashen-faced. Seeing him, Leo had been certain their time had finally come, only to listen as the guard announced, in a voice trembling with emotion, that their Leader, Stalin, was dead. Only at this moment did Leo allow himself to contemplate whether or not they might just have a chance of surviving.
Able to gather the vaguest details of their Leader’s demise — the newspapers had been hysterical, the guards hysterical — all Leo could piece together was that Stalin had died peacefully in his bed. His last words had purportedly been about their great country and their great country’s future. Leo didn’t believe it for a second, too schooled in paranoia and plot not to see the cracks in the story. He knew from his work that Stalin had recently arrested the country’s foremost doctors, doctors who had spent their entire working lives keeping him well, as part of a purge of prominent Jewish figures. It struck him as no coincidence that Stalin had died of apparently natural causes at a time when there were no expert medical professionals to identify the source of his sudden illness. Morality aside, the great Leader’s purge had been a tactical error. It had left him exposed. Leo had no idea whether Stalin had been murdered or not. With the doctors locked up that certainly gave any would-be assassins a free hand to do as they pleased, which was to sit back and watch him die, safe in the knowledge that the very men and women who could stop them were behind bars. Having said that, it was just as possible that Stalin had fallen ill and no one dared contradict his orders and release the doctors. If Stalin had recovered they might have been executed for disobedience.
This skulduggery was of little importance to Leo. What was important was that the man was dead. Everyone’s sense of order and certainty had dissolved. Who would take over? How would they run the country? What decisions would they make? Which officers would be in favour and which would be out of favour? What was acceptable under Stalin might be unacceptable under new rule. The absence of a leader would mean temporary paralysis. No one wanted to make a decision unless they knew their decision would be approved. For decades no one had taken action according to what they believed was right or wrong but by what they thought would please their leader. People had lived or died depending on his annotations on a list: a line against a name saved a person, no mark meant they were left to die. That was the judicial system — line or no line. Closing his eyes, Leo had been able to imagine the muted panic within the corridors of the Lubyanka. Their moral compass had been neglected for so long it spun out of control: north was south and east was west. As for questions of what was right and wrong — they had no idea. They’d forgotten how to decide. In times like these the safest course of action was to do as little as possible.
In these circumstances the case of Leo Demidov and his wife, Raisa Demidova, which had no doubt proved divisive, inflammatory and problematic, was best shunted to the margins. That’s why there’d been the delay. No one had wanted to touch it: everyone was too busy repositioning with the new power groups in the Kremlin. To complicate matters further, Lavrenti Beria, Stalin’s closest aide — and if anyone had poisoned Stalin, Leo suspected it was him — had already assumed the mantle of Leader and dismissed the notion that there was a plot, ordering the doctors to be released. Suspects released because they were innocent — who’d heard of such a thing? Certainly Leo couldn’t remember any precedent. In these circumstances, prosecuting a decorated war hero, a man who’d made the front page of Pravda, without any evidence might be deemed risky. So, on the sixth of March, instead of a knock on the door bringing news of their fate, Leo and Raisa had been granted permission to attend the State funeral of their great Leader.
Still technically under house arrest, Leo and Raisa and their two guards had dutifully joined the crowds, all of them making their way towards Red Square. Many had been crying, some uncontrollably — men and women and children — and Leo had wondered if there was a person in sight, out of all the hundreds of thousands gathered in their collective grief, who hadn’t lost some family or friend to the man they were apparently mourning. The atmosphere, fraught, charged with an overwhelming sense of sadness, perhaps had something to do with an idolization of this dead man. Leo had heard many people, even in the most brutal of interrogations, cry out that if only Stalin knew about the excesses of the MGB he would intervene. Whatever the real reason behind the sadness, the funeral had offered a legitimate outlet for years of pent-up misery, an opportunity to cry, to hug your neighbour, to express a sadness that had never previously been allowed to show itself because it implied some criticism of the State.
The main streets around the State Duma had been packed so tight with people it was hard to breathe, moving forward with as little control as a rock caught in a rockslide. Leo had never let go of Raisa’s hand and although shoulders pressed into him from all sides he’d made sure they weren’t pulled apart. They’d quickly been separated from their guards. As they’d neared the Square the crowd contracted further. Feeling the squeeze, the mounting hysteria, Leo had decided enough. By chance, they’d been pushed to the edge of the crowd and he’d stepped into a doorway, helping Raisa out of the crowd. They’d sheltered there, watching as the streams of people continued past. It had been the right decision. Up ahead, people had been crushed to death.
In the chaos they could’ve attempted escape. They’d considered it, debated it, whispering to each other in that doorway. The guards accompanying them had been lost. Raisa had wanted to run. But running would’ve given the MGB all the reason they needed to execute them. And from a practical point of view they had no money, no friends and no place to hide. If they’d decided to run Leo’s parents would’ve been executed. They’d been lucky so far. Leo had staked their lives on braving it out.
The last of the passengers had finished boarding. The station master, seeing the uniforms clustered on the platform by the engine, was holding the departure for them. The train driver leant out of his cabin, trying to figure out what the problem was. Curious passengers were stealing glances out of windows at this young couple in some sort of trouble.
Leo could see a uniformed officer walking towards them. It was Vasili. Leo had been expecting him. He’d hardly miss the opportunity to gloat. Leo felt a flicker of anger but it was imperative he kept his emotions under control. There was, perhaps, a trap still to be set.
Raisa had never seen Vasili before but she’d heard Leo’s description of him.
A hero’s face, a henchman’s heart.
Even at a glance she could tell there was something not quite right about him. He was handsome, certainly, but he was smiling as though a smile had been invented to express nothing other than ill will. When he finally reached them she noticed his pleasure at Leo’s humiliation and his disappointment that it wasn’t greater.
Vasili widened his smile.
— I insisted that they wait, so I could say goodbye. And explain what has been decided for you. I wanted to do it personally, you understand?
He was enjoying himself. As much as this man appalled Leo it was stupid to risk angering him when they’d survived so much. In a voice barely audible he muttered:
— I appreciate that.
— You’ve been reassigned. It was impossible to keep you in the MGB with so many unanswered questions over your head. You’re going to join the militia. Not as a syshchik, not as a detective, but as the lowest entry position, an uchastkovyy. You’ll be the man who cleans the holding cells, the man who takes notes — the man who does as he’s told. You need to get used to taking orders if you’re to survive.
Leo understood Vasili’s disappointment. This punishment — employed exile in the local police force — was light. Considering the severity of the allegations they could’ve faced twenty-five-year terms mining gold in Kolyma, where temperatures were fifty below freezing and prisoners’ hands were deformed by frostbite and where the life expectancy was three months. They’d escaped not only with their lives but with their freedom. Leo didn’t imagine that Major Kuzmin had done it out of sentimentality. The truth was that he would’ve embarrassed himself by prosecuting his protégé. In a time of political instability it was far better, far shrewder to simply send him away under the guise of a relocation. Kuzmin didn’t want his judgement scrutinized; after all if Leo was a spy why had Kuzmin favoured him with promotions? No, those questions were awkward. It was easier and safer just to brush him under the corner of some rug. Understanding that any sign of relief would aggravate Vasili, Leo did his best to look crestfallen.
— I’ll do my duty wherever I’m needed.
Vasili stepped forward, pressing the tickets and paperwork into Leo’s hands. Leo took the documents and moved towards the train.
Raisa stepped up onto the carriage. As she did, Vasili called out.
— It must have been difficult to hear that your husband had followed you. And not just once, I’m sure he’d told you about that. He followed you twice. On the other occasion it wasn’t State business. He didn’t think you were a spy. He thought you were a slut. You must forgive him that. Everyone has their doubts. And you are pretty. Personally, I don’t think you’re worth giving up everything for. I suspect when your husband comes to realize what a shithole we’ve sent him to he’ll grow to hate you. Me, I would’ve kept the apartment and had you shot as a traitor. All I can suppose is that you must be some great fuck.
Raisa wondered at this man’s obsession with her husband. But she remained silent: a retort might cost them their lives. She took her suitcase and opened the carriage door.
Leo followed her, carefully not to turn around. There was a chance, if he saw Vasili’s smirk, that he might not be able to control himself.
Raisa stared out of the window. The train departed the station. There were no seats available and they were forced to stand, cramped together. Neither of them spoke for some time, watching the city roll past. Finally, Leo said:
— I’m sorry.
— I’m sure he was lying. He would’ve said anything to get under your skin.
— He was telling the truth. I had you followed. And it had nothing to do with my work. I thought…
— That I was sleeping with someone else?
— There was a time when you wouldn’t talk to me. You wouldn’t touch me. You wouldn’t sleep with me. We were strangers. And I couldn’t understand why.
— You can’t marry an MGB officer and not expect to be followed. But tell me, Leo, how could I be unfaithful? I’d be risking my life. We wouldn’t have argued about it. You’d just have me arrested.
— Is that what you think would happen?
— You remember my friend Zoya, you met her once, I think?
— Perhaps, I don’t know.
— Yes, that’s right — you never remember anyone’s name, do you? I wonder why? Is that how you’re able to sleep at night, by blanking events from your mind?
Raisa spoke quickly, calmly and with an intensity Leo hadn’t heard before. She continued:
— You did meet Zoya. Perhaps she didn’t register, but then she wasn’t very important in Party terms. She was given a twenty-year sentence. They arrested her as she stepped out of a church, accusing her of anti-Stalinist prayers. Prayers, Leo — they convicted her on the basis of prayers they hadn’t even heard. They arrested her on the basis of the thoughts in her head.
— Why didn’t you tell me? I might’ve helped.
Raisa shook her head. Leo asked:
— You think I denounced her?
— Would you even know? You can’t even remember who she is.
Leo was taken aback: he and his wife had never spoken like this before, never spoken about anything other than the household chores, polite conversation — they’d never raised their voices, never had an argument.
— Even if you didn’t denounce her, Leo, how could you have helped? When the men who arrested her were men like you — dedicated, devoted servants of the State? That night you didn’t come home. And I realized you were probably arresting someone else’s best friend, someone else’s parents, someone else’s children. Tell me, exactly how many people have you arrested? Do you have any idea? Say a number — fifty, two hundred, a thousand?
— I refused to give them you.
— They weren’t after me. They were after you. Arresting strangers, you were able to fool yourself that they might just be guilty. You could believe that what you were doing served some purpose. But that wasn’t enough for them. They wanted you to prove that you’d do whatever they asked even if you knew it in your heart to be wrong, even if you knew it to be meaningless. They wanted you to prove your blind obedience. I imagine wives are a useful test for that.
— Maybe you’re right, but we’re free of that now. Do you understand how lucky we are to even get this second chance? I want us to start a new life, as a family.
— Leo, it’s not as simple as that.
Raisa paused, studying her husband carefully, as though they were meeting for the first time.
— The night we ate dinner at your parents’ apartment I heard you talking through the front door. I was in the hallway. I heard the discussion about whether or not you should denounce me as a spy. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to die. So I went back down to the street and walked for a while, trying to collect my thoughts. I wondered — will he do it? Will he give me up? Your father made a convincing case.
— My father was scared.
— Three lives weighed against one? It’s hard to argue with those numbers. But what about three lives against two?
— You’re not pregnant?
— Would you have vouched for me if I wasn’t?
— And you waited until now before telling me?
— I was afraid you might change your mind.
This was their relationship: stripped bare. Leo felt unsteady. The train he was standing on, the people near him, the cases, his clothes, the city outside — none of it felt right now. He could trust none of it, not even the things he could see and touch and feel. Everything he’d believed in was a lie.
— Raisa, have you ever loved me?
A moment passed in silence, the question lingering like a bad smell, the two of them rocking with the motion of the train. Finally, instead of answering, Raisa knelt down and tied her shoelace.
15 March
Varlam Babinich was sitting cross-legged on a filthy concrete floor in the corner of an overcrowded dormitory, his back to the door, using his body to shield from view the objects arranged in front of him. He didn’t want the other boys to interfere as they had a tendency to if something caught their interest. He glanced around. The thirty or so boys in the room weren’t paying him any attention; most of them lay side by side on the eight piss-sodden beds they were forced to share. He watched two of them scratching the bug bites swelling up across each other’s backs. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to be pestered, he returned to the objects arranged in front of him, objects he’d collected over the years, all of them precious to him, including his most recent addition, stolen this morning — a four-month-old baby.
Varlam was dimly aware that by taking the baby he’d done something wrong and that if he was caught he’d be in trouble, more trouble than he’d ever been in before. He was also aware that the baby wasn’t happy. It was crying. He wasn’t particularly worried about the noise since no one was going to notice another screaming child. As it happened he was less interested in the baby itself than in the yellow blanket it was wrapped in. Proud of his new possession, he positioned the baby at the centrepiece of his collection, among a yellow tin, an old yellow shirt, a yellow-painted brick, a ripped portion of a poster with a yellow background, a yellow pencil and a book with a soft yellow paper cover. In the summer he added to this collection wild yellow flowers, which he picked from the forest. The flowers never lasted long and nothing made him sadder than watching their shades of yellow fade, the petals becoming lank and brown. He used to wonder:
Where does the yellow go?
He had no idea. But he hoped he’d go there too some day, maybe when he died. The colour yellow was more important to him than anything or anybody. Yellow was the reason he’d ended up here, in Voualsk’s internat, a State-run facility for children with mental deficiencies.
As a small boy he’d chased after the sun, certain that if he ran far enough he’d eventually catch up with it, snatch it from the sky and carry it home. He’d run for almost five hours before being caught and brought back, screaming in anger at his quest being cut short. His parents, who’d beaten him in the hope that it would straighten out his peculiarities, finally accepted that their methods weren’t working and handed him over to the State, which had adopted more or less the same methods. For his first two years in the internat he’d been chained to a bed frame, like a farm dog chained to a tree. However, he was a strong child, with broad shoulders and a stubborn determination. Over several months he’d managed to break the bed frame, pulling the chain loose and escaping. He’d ended up on the edge of town, chasing a yellow carriage of a moving train. Eventually he’d been returned to the internat suffering from exhaustion and dehydration. This time he’d been locked in a cupboard. But all that was a long time ago — the staff trusted him now he was seventeen years old and smart enough to understand that he couldn’t run far enough to reach the sun or indeed climb high enough to pick it out of the sky. Instead, he concentrated on finding yellow closer to home, such as this baby, which he’d stolen by reaching in through an open window. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry he might have tried to unwrap the blanket and leave the baby behind. But he’d panicked, afraid that he was going to get caught, and so he’d taken them both. Now, staring down at the screaming infant he noticed that the blanket made the baby’s skin appear faintly yellow. And he was glad that he’d stolen them both after all.
Outside two cars pulled up and six armed members of the Voualsk militia stepped out, led by General Nesterov, a middle-aged man with the broad, stocky build of a kolkhoz labourer. He gestured for his team to surround the premises while he and his deputy, a lieutenant, approached the entrance. Although the militia were not normally armed, today Nesterov had instructed his men to carry guns. They were to shoot to kill.
The administrative office was open: a radio playing on a low volume, a game of cards abandoned on the table, a reek of alcohol hanging in the air. There were no members of staff to be seen. Nesterov and his lieutenant moved forward, entering a corridor. The smell of alcohol gave way to the smell of faeces and sulphur. Sulphur was used to keep away bed bugs. The smell of faeces needed no explanation. There was shit on the floor and on the walls. The dormitories they passed were overrun with young children, maybe forty to a room, wearing nothing more than a dirty shirt or a pair of dirty shorts but never, it seemed, both. They were sprawled on their beds, three or four layered across a thin, filthy mattress. Many weren’t moving — staring up at the ceiling. Nesterov wondered if some of them were dead. It was difficult to tell. The children on their feet ran forward, trying to grab the guns, touching their uniforms, starved of adult interaction. The men were quickly encircled by clambering hands. Even though Nesterov had braced himself for terrible conditions he found it difficult to comprehend how things could have got this bad. He intended to bring it up with the director of the establishment. However, that was for another time.
Having searched the ground floor, Nesterov made his way upstairs while his lieutenant tried to keep the pack of children from following, communicating with stern looks and gestures which only caused them to laugh as though this were a game. When he gently pushed the children back they immediately rushed forward, wanting to be pushed back again. Impatient, Nesterov remarked:
— Leave them, let them be.
They had no choice but to allow them to trail behind.
The children in the rooms upstairs were older. Nesterov guessed that the dormitories were loosely arranged according to age. Their suspect was seventeen years old — the age limit at this institution, after which they were sent out into the most back-breaking, unappealing jobs available, jobs no sane man or woman would want, jobs where the life expectancy was thirty years. They were coming to the end of the corridor. There was only one dormitory left to search.
With his back to the door, Varlam was preoccupied with stroking the baby’s blanket, wondering why the child wasn’t crying any more. He prodded it with a dirty finger. Suddenly a voice cut across the room, causing his back to stiffen.
— Varlam: stand up and turn around, very slowly.
Varlam held his breath and closed his eyes as though this might make the voice disappear. It didn’t work.
— I’m not going to tell you again. Stand up and turn around.
Nesterov stepped forward, approaching Varlam’s position. He couldn’t see what the boy was sheltering. He couldn’t hear the sound of a baby crying. All the other boys in the dormitory were sitting upright, staring, fascinated. Without warning Varlam sprang to life, scooping something up in his arms, standing and turning round. He was holding the baby. It started crying. Nesterov was relieved: the child was alive at least. But not out of danger. Varlam was holding it tight against his chest, his arms wrapped around the baby’s fragile neck.
Nesterov checked behind him. His deputy had remained by the door with the other curious children clustered around. He took aim at Varlam’s head, cocking his gun, ready to kill, waiting for the order. He had a clear line. But at best he was an average shot. At the sight of his gun some of the children began screaming, others laughing and banging the mattresses. The situation was getting out of control. Varlam was beginning to panic. Nesterov holstered his weapon, raising his hands in an attempt to pacify Varlam, speaking over the din.
— Give me the child.
— I’m in so much trouble.
— No, you’re not. I can see the baby’s OK. I’m pleased with you. You’ve done a good job. You’ve looked after him. I’m here to congratulate you.
— I did a good job?
— Yes, you did.
— Can I keep it?
— I need to check that the baby’s OK, just to be sure. Then we’ll talk. Can I check on the child?
Varlam knew they were angry and they were going to take the baby from him and lock him in a yellow-less room. He pulled the baby closer, tighter, squeezing it so that the yellow blanket pressed up against his mouth. He stepped back towards the window, looking out at the militia cars parked in the street and the armed men surrounding the building.
— I’m in so much trouble.
Nesterov edged forward. There was no way he could extricate the baby from Varlam’s grip by force — it could be crushed in the struggle. He glanced at his lieutenant who nodded, indicating that he’d lined up a shot: he was ready. Nesterov shook his head. The baby was too close to Varlam’s face. The risk of an accident was too great. There had to be another way.
— Varlam, no one is going to hit you or hurt you. Give me the child and we’ll talk. No one will be angry. You have my word. I promise.
Nesterov took another step closer, blocking his lieutenant’s shot. Nesterov glanced down at the collection of yellow items on the floor. He’d encountered Varlam in a previous incident, when a yellow dress had been stolen from a clothes line. It had not slipped his attention that the baby was wrapped in a yellow blanket.
— If you give me the child, I’ll ask the mother if you can have the yellow blanket. I’m sure she’ll say yes. All I want is the baby.
Hearing what seemed like a fair deal, Varlam relaxed. He stretched out his arms, offering the child. Nesterov sprang forward, snatching the child from his hands. He checked that the child seemed to be unharmed before passing it to his deputy.
— Take it to the hospital.
The lieutenant hurried out.
As though nothing had happened, Varlam sat down with his back to the door, rearranging the items in his collection to fill the space created by the absent baby. The other children in the dormitory were quiet again. Nesterov knelt down beside him. Varlam asked:
— When can I have the blanket?
— You have to come with me first.
Varlam continued rearranging his collection. Nesterov glanced at the yellow book. It was a military manual, a confidential document.
— How did you get that?
— I found it.
— I’m going to have a look. Will you stay calm if I have a look?
— Are your fingers clean?
Nesterov noticed that Varlam’s fingers were filthy.
— My fingers are clean.
Nesterov picked it up, casually flicking through. There was something in the middle, pressed between the pages. He turned the book upside down and shook it. A thick lock of blonde hair fell to the floor. He picked it up, rubbing it between his fingers. Varlam blushed.
— I’m in so much trouble.
16 March
Asked whether or not she loved him, Raisa had refused to answer. She’d just admitted to lying about being pregnant so even if she’d said—Yes, I love you, I’ve always loved you—Leo wouldn’t have believed her. She certainly wasn’t about to stare into his eyes and spell out some fanciful description. What was the point of the question anyway? It was as though he’d had some kind of epiphany, a revelation that their marriage wasn’t built on love and affection. If she’d answered truthfully—No, I’ve never loved you—all of a sudden he would’ve been the victim, the implication being that their marriage had been a trick played on him by her. She was the con-artist who’d toyed with his gullible heart. Out of nowhere, he was a romantic. Perhaps it was the shock of losing his job. But since when had love been part of the arrangement? He’d never asked her about it before. He’d never said:
I love you.
She hadn’t expected him to. He’d asked her to marry him, true. She’d said yes. He’d wanted a marriage, he’d wanted a wife, he’d wanted her and he’d got what he wanted. Now that wasn’t enough. Having lost his authority, having lost the power to arrest whoever he wanted, he was choked with sentimentalism. And why was it her pragmatic deceit, rather than his profound mistrust, that had brought this illusion of marital contentment crashing down around them? Why couldn’t she demand that he had to convince her of his love? After all, he’d presumed incorrectly that she’d been unfaithful, he’d set up an entire surveillance team, a process which could easily have resulted in her arrest. He’d broken trust between them long before she’d been forced to. Her motivation for doing so had been survival. His had been a pathetic male anxiety.
Ever since they’d entered their names as man and wife into the ledger, even before that, ever since they started seeing each other, she’d been conscious that if she displeased him he could have her killed. It had become a blunt reality of her life. She had to keep him happy. When Zoya had been arrested, the very sight of him — his uniform, his talk about the State — made her so angry she found it impossible to utter more than a couple of words to him. In the end the question was very simple. Did she want to live? She was a survivor and the fact of her survival, the fact that she was the only remaining member of her family, defined her. Indignation at Zoya’s arrest was a luxury. It achieved nothing. And so she’d got into his bed and slept beside him, slept with him. She’d cooked him dinner — hating the sound of him eating. She’d washed his clothes — hating his smell.
For the past few weeks she’d sat idle in their apartment, knowing full well he’d been weighing up whether he’d made the right decision. Should he have spared her life? Was she worth the risk? Was she pretty enough, nice enough, good enough? Unless every gesture and glance pleased him she’d be in mortal danger. Well, that time was over. She was sick of the powerlessness, the dependency upon his good will. Yet now he seemed to be under the impression that she was in his debt. He’d stated the obvious: she wasn’t an international spy, she was a secondary-school teacher. In repayment he wanted a declaration of her love. It was insulting. He was no longer in a position to demand anything. He had no leverage over her just as she had none over him. They were both in the same dire straits: their life’s possessions reduced to one suitcase each, exiled to some far-flung town. They were equals as they had never been equal before. If he wanted to hear about love, the first verse was his to sing.
Leo brooded over Raisa’s remarks. It seemed that she’d granted herself the right to judge him, to hold him in contempt while pretending that her hands were clean. But she’d married him knowing what he did for a living, she’d enjoyed the perks of his position, she’d eaten the rare foods he’d been able to bring home, she’d bought clothes from the well-stocked spetztorgi, stores restricted to state officials. If she was so appalled by his work, why hadn’t she rejected his advances? Everyone understood that it was necessary, in order to survive, to compromise. He’d done things that were distasteful — morally objectionable. A clear conscience was, for most people, an impossible luxury and one Raisa could hardly lay claim to. Had she taught her classes according to her genuine beliefs? Evidently not, considering her indignation at the State Security apparatus — but at school she must have expressed her support for it, explained to her students how their State operated, applauded it, indoctrinated them to agree with it and even encouraged them to denounce one another. If she hadn’t she would’ve almost certainly been denounced by one of her own students. Her job was not only to toe the line but to shut down her pupils’ questioning faculties. And it would be her job to do it again in their new town. As far Leo was concerned, he and his wife were spokes in the same wheel.
The train stopped at Mutava for an hour. Raisa broke the day-long silence between them.
— We should eat something.
By which she meant that they should stick to practical arrangements: it had been the foundation for their relationship this far. Surviving whatever challenges they had coming, that was the glue between them, not love. They got out of the carriage. A woman was pacing the platform with a wicker basket. They bought hardboiled eggs, a paper pouch of salt, chunks of tough rye bread. Sitting side by side on a bench they peeled their eggs, collecting the shell in their laps, sharing the salt and saying nothing at all to each other.
The train’s speed dropped as it climbed towards the mountains, passing through black pine forests. In the distance, over the tree tops, the mountains could be seen jutting upwards like the uneven teeth in a bottom jaw.
The tracks opened out into a clearing — sprawled before them was a vast assembly plant, tall chimneys, interconnected warehouse-like buildings suddenly appearing in the middle of a wilderness. It was as though God had sat on the Ural Mountains, smashed his fist down on the landscape before him, sending trees flying, and demanded that this newly created space be filled with chimneys and steel presses. This was the first glimpse of their new home.
Leo’s knowledge of this town came from propaganda and paperwork. Previously little more than timber mills and a collection of timber huts for the people who worked in them, the once modest settlement of twenty thousand inhabitants had caught Stalin’s eye. Upon closer examination of its natural and man-made resources he’d declared it insufficiently productive. The river Ufa ran nearby, there were the steel- and iron-processing plants in Sverdlovsk only a hundred and sixty kilometres east and ore mines in the mountains, and it had the benefit of the Trans-Siberian railway — vast locomotives passed through this town each day and nothing more was added to them than planks of wood. He’d decided that this would be the ideal location to assemble an automobile, the GAZ-20, a car intended to rival the vehicles produced in the West, built according to the highest specifications. It’s successor, currently under design — the Volga GAZ-21–was being upheld as the pinnacle of Soviet engineering, designed to survive the harsh climate with high ground clearance, enviable suspension, a bullet-proof engine and rust-proofing on a scale unheard of in the United States of America. Whether that was true or not, Leo had no way of knowing. He knew it was a car only a tiny per cent of Soviet citizens could afford, far beyond the financial reach of the men and women employed in its assembly.
Construction on the factory began some time after the war and eighteen months later the Volga assembly plant stood in the middle of the pine forests. He couldn’t remember the number of prisoners reported to have died in its construction. Not that the numbers were reliable anyway. Leo had only become actively involved after the factory had been completed. Thousands of free workers had been vetted and transferred by compulsory writ from cities across the country to fill the newly created labour gap: the population rising fivefold over the space of five years. Leo had done background checks on some of the Moscow workers transferred here. If they’d passed the checks, they were packed up and moved out within the week. If they failed, they were arrested. He’d been one of the gatekeepers to this town. He was sure that this was one of the reasons that Vasili had picked this place. The irony must have amused him.
Raisa missed this first glimpse of their new home. She was asleep, wrapped up in her coat, her head resting against the window, rocking slightly with the motion of the train. Moving to the seat beside his wife and facing in the direction they were travelling, he could see how the main town was latched onto the side of the vast assembly plant as though it was a tic sucking on the neck of a dog. First and foremost this was a place of industrial production, a distant second, a place to live. The lights of apartment blocks glowed dim orange against a grey sky. Leo nudged Raisa. She woke, looking at Leo, then out of the window.
— We’re here.
The train pulled into the station. They collected their cases, stepping down onto the platform. It was colder than Moscow — the temperature had dropped by at least a couple of degrees. They stood like two evacuee children arriving in the country for the first time, staring at their unfamiliar surroundings. They’d been given no instructions. They knew no one. They didn’t even have a number to call. No one was waiting for them.
The station building was empty except for a man seated at the ticket booth. He was young, not much more than twenty. He watched them intently as they entered the building. Raisa approached him.
— Good evening. We need to get to the headquarters of the militia.
— You’re from Moscow?
— That’s right.
The man opened the door of his ticket booth, stepping out onto the concourse. He pointed out of the glass doors towards the street outside.
— They’re waiting for you.
One hundred paces from the station entrance was a militia car.
Passing a snow-capped stone carving of Stalin’s profile, chiselled into a slab of rock like a fossilized impression, Raisa and Leo moved towards the car, a GAZ-20, no doubt one of the cars produced by this town. As they got closer they could see two men sitting in the front. The door opened, one of the men stepped out, a middle-aged man with broad shoulders.
— Leo Demidov?
— Yes.
— I’m General Nesterov, head of Voualsk’s militia.
Leo wondered why he’d bothered to meet them. Surely Vasili had given instructions to make the experience as unpleasant as possible? But it didn’t matter what Vasili had said — the arrival of a former MGB agent from Moscow was going to put the militia on their guard. They wouldn’t believe that he was merely here to join their ranks. They almost certainly suspected an ulterior agenda and presumed that, for whatever reason, he’d be reporting back to Moscow. The more Vasili had tried to convince them otherwise, the more suspicious they would’ve become. Why would an agent travel hundreds of kilometres to join a small-scale militia operation? It didn’t make sense — in a classless society the militia were near the bottom of the heap.
Every schoolchild was taught that murder, theft and rape were symptoms of a capitalist society, and the role of the militia had been ranked accordingly. There was no need to steal and no violence between citizens because there was equality. There was no need for a police force in a Communist state. It was for this reason that the militia were nothing more than a lowly subsection of the Ministry of the Interior: poorly paid, poorly respected — a force comprised of secondary-school dropouts, farm workers kicked off the kolkhoz, discharged army personnel and men whose judgement could be bought with a half bottle of vodka. Officially the USSR’s crime rates were close to zero. The newspapers frequently pointed out the vast sums of money the United States of America was forced to waste on crime prevention with its need for gleaming police cars and police officers in crisp, clean uniforms visible on every street corner, without which its society would crumble. The West employed many of their bravest men and women fighting crime, citizens who could’ve better spent their time building something. None of that manpower was squandered here: all that was needed was a ragtag group of strong but otherwise useless men who were good for nothing more than breaking up drunken brawls. That was the theory. Leo had no idea what the real crime statistics were. He had no desire to find out since those who knew were probably liquidated on a regular basis. Factory production figures filled Pravda’s front page, the middle pages and the back pages too. Good news was the only news worth printing — high birth rates, mountain-top train lines and new canals.
Taking this into account, Leo’s arrival was a striking anomaly. A post in the MGB held more blat, respect, more influence, more material benefit than almost any other job. An officer wouldn’t voluntarily step down. And if he was disgraced, why hadn’t he simply been arrested? Even disavowed from the MGB, he still carried its shadow — potentially a valuable asset.
Nesterov carried their cases to the car as effortlessly as if they’d been empty. He loaded them into the boot, before opening the back door for them. Inside, Leo watched his new superior officer as he climbed into the front passenger seat. He was too large, even for this impressive vehicle. His knees came up near his chin. There was a young officer seated behind the wheel. Nesterov didn’t bother to introduce him. In similar fashion to the MGB there were drivers responsible for each vehicle. Officers weren’t given their own car and didn’t drive themselves. The driver put the car into gear, pulling out into an empty road. There wasn’t another car in sight.
Nesterov waited a while, no doubt not wanting to seem like he was interrogating his new recruit, before glancing at Leo in the rear-view mirror and asking:
— We were told three days ago that you were coming here. It’s an unusual transfer.
— We must go where we’re needed.
— No one has been transferred here for some time. I certainly made no request for any additional men.
— The output of the factory is considered a high priority. You can never have too many men working to ensure the security of this town.
Raisa turned towards her husband, guessing that his enigmatic answers were deliberate. Even demoted, even tossed out of the MGB, he was still making use of the fear it instilled. In their precarious circumstances it seemed a sensible thing to do. Nesterov asked:
— Tell me: are you to be a syshchik, a detective? We were confused about the orders. They said no. They said you were to be an uchastkovyy, which is a significant demotion in responsibility for a man of your status.
— My orders are to report to you. I leave my rank in your hands.
There was silence. Raisa supposed the general didn’t like having the question pushed back at him. Uncomfortable with the situation he gruffly added:
— For the moment you’ll stay in guest accommodation. Once an apartment has been found it will be assigned to you. I should warn you that there’s a very long waiting list. And there’s nothing I can do about that. There are no advantages to being a militsioner.
The car stopped outside what appeared to be a restaurant. Nesterov opened the boot, picking up the cases and depositing them on the pavement. Leo and Raisa stood, awaiting instructions. Addressing Leo, Nesterov said:
— Once you’ve taken your cases to your room please come back to the car. Your wife doesn’t need to come.
Raisa suppressed her irritation at being spoken about as if she wasn’t present. She watched as Leo, mimicking Nesterov, picked up both their cases. She marvelled at this bravado but decided against embarrassing him. He could struggle with her case if he wanted to. Walking just in front she pushed open the door, entering the restaurant.
Inside it was dark, the shutters were closed and the air stank of stale smoke. Last night’s dirty glasses cluttered the table. Leo put the cases down and knocked on one of the greasy tabletops. The silhouette of a man appeared at the door.
— We’re not open.
— My name is Leo Demidov. This is my wife, Raisa. We’ve just arrived from Moscow.
— Danil Basarov.
— I’ve been told by General Nesterov you have accommodation for us.
— You mean the room upstairs?
— I don’t know, yes, I suppose.
Basarov scratched the rolls of his stomach.
— Let me show you to your room.
The room was small. Two single beds had been pushed together. There was a gap down the middle. Both mattresses dipped. The wallpaper was bubbled like adolescent skin, lined with some kind of grease, sticky to touch. Leo figured it must be cooking oil, since the bedroom was directly over the kitchen, which could be seen through cracks in the floorboards, cracks which ventilated the room with the smell of whatever had been or was cooking below — boiled offal, gristle and animal fat.
Basarov was put out by Nesterov’s request. These beds, and this room, had been used by his staff, which is to say the women who worked his customers. However, he’d been unable to decline the request. He didn’t own the building. And he required the goodwill of the militia in order to function as a business. They knew he was making a profit and they were fine with it as long as they got a share. It was undeclared, unofficial — a closed system. If the truth was told he was a little nervous of his guests, having heard they were MGB. It stopped him being as rude as he would naturally have been. He pointed down the hall towards a door which was partly ajar.
— There’s the bathroom. We’ve got one indoors.
Raisa tried to open the window. It had been nailed shut. She stared at the view. Ramshackle housing, dirty snow: this was home.
Leo felt tired. He’d been able to handle his humiliation while it had remained a concept but now that it had a physical form — this room — he just wanted to sleep, to close his eyes and shut out the world. Obliged to go back outside, he put his case on the bed, unable to look at Raisa, not out of anger, but out of shame. He walked out without saying a word.
Driven to the town’s telephone exchange, Leo was led inside. There was a queue of several hundred people waiting for their allotted time, a couple of minutes. Since most of them had been forced to leave behind their families in order to work here, Leo could appreciate that these minutes were extremely precious. Nesterov had no need to queue, heading into a cubicle.
Once he’d set up the call, which involved a conversation Leo couldn’t hear, he handed the receiver to him. Leo put the receiver to his ear. He waited.
— How’s the accommodation?
It was Vasili. He continued:
— You want to hang up, don’t you? But you can’t. You can’t even do that.
— What is it you want?
— To stay in touch so you can tell me about life over there and I can tell you about life here. Before I forget, the pleasant apartment you’d arranged for your parents, it’s been taken back. We’ve found them somewhere more suitable to their status. It’s a little cold and crowded, perhaps. Dirty, certainly. They’re sharing with a family of seven, I think, including five young children. By the way, I didn’t know your father suffered from terrible back pain. Shame that he has to return to the assembly line floor only a year from retirement: one year can be made to feel like ten when you’re not enjoying your job. But you’ll soon know all about that.
— My parents are good people. They’ve worked hard. They’ve done you no harm.
— But I’m going to hurt them all the same.
— What do you want from me?
— An apology.
— Vasili, I’m sorry.
— You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.
— I treated you badly. And I’m sorry.
— What are you sorry for? Be specific. Your parents are depending on you.
— I shouldn’t have hit you.
— You’re not trying hard enough. Convince me.
Desperate, Leo’s voice was trembling.
— I don’t understand what you want. You have everything. I have nothing.
— It’s simple. I want to hear you beg.
— I’m begging you, Vasili, listen to my voice. I am begging you. Leave my parents alone. Please…
Vasili had hung up.
17 March
Having walked all night — his feet blistered, his socks sodden with blood — Leo sat down on a park bench, put his head in his hands and wept.
He hadn’t slept, he hadn’t eaten. Last night, when Raisa had tried to talk to him, he’d ignored her. When she’d brought him food from the restaurant he’d ignored that too. Unable to stay in their tiny stinking room any longer he’d gone downstairs, elbowed his way through the crowd, making his way outside. He’d walked without any sense of direction, too frustrated, too angry to sit still and do nothing although he realized that was exactly the nature of his predicament — he could do nothing. Once again he was faced with an injustice, but this time he was no longer able to intervene. His parents wouldn’t be shot in the back in the head — that would be too swift, too much an approximation of mercy. Instead they’d be persecuted drip by drip. He could imagine the variety of options open to a methodical, sadistic and petty mind. In their respective factories they’d be demoted, given the hardest, dirtiest jobs — jobs a young man or woman would struggle with. They’d be goaded with stories of Leo’s pitiful exile, his disgrace and humiliation. Perhaps they’d even be told that he was in a Gulag, sentenced to twenty years of katorga, hard labour. As for the family that his parents were forced to share an apartment with, there was no doubt that they’d be as disruptive and unpleasant as possible. The children would be promised chocolate if they made a lot of noise, the adults promised their own apartment if they stole food, argued and, through whatever means available, made home life intolerable. He didn’t need to guess the details. Vasili would enjoy reporting them, knowing that Leo wouldn’t dare hang up the phone since he was afraid that whatever hardships his parents were experiencing would double as a result. Vasili would break him from afar, systematically applying pressure where he was vulnerable — his family. There was no defence. With a little work Leo could discover his parents’ address but all he could do, if his letters weren’t intercepted and burnt, would be to reassure them he was safe. He’d built them a comfortable life only to have it ripped from under their feet at a time when they could least handle the change.
He stood up, shivering with cold. With some difficulty, and no idea what he was going to do next, he began to retrace his steps, back to his new home.
Raisa was downstairs sitting at a table. She’d been waiting for him all night. She knew, just as Vasili had predicted, that Leo now regretted his decision not to denounce her. The price was too high. But what was she supposed to do? Pretend that he’d risked everything for a perfect love? It wasn’t something she could just conjure on demand. Even if she’d wanted to pretend she didn’t know how: she didn’t know what to say, what motions to go through. She could’ve been easier on him. In truth, some part of her must have relished his demotion. Not out of spite or vindictiveness but because she wanted him to know:
This is how I feel every day.
Powerless, scared — she’d wanted him to feel it too. She’d wanted him to understand, to experience it for himself.
Exhausted, her eyes heavy with sleep, she looked up as Leo entered the restaurant. She stood, approaching her husband, noticing his bloodshot eyes. She’d never seen him cry before. He turned away and poured himself a drink from the nearest bottle. She put a hand on his shoulder. It happened in a fraction of second: Leo spun around, grabbing her by the neck and squeezing.
— You did this.
Her veins constricted, her face flushed red — she couldn’t breathe, she was choking. Leo lifted her up: she was on the tips of her toes. Her hands fumbled at his grip. But he wouldn’t let go and she couldn’t break his hold.
She reached towards a tabletop, her fingers straining for a glass, her eyesight blurring. She managed to touch a glass, tipping it over. It fell within reach: she grabbed it, swinging and smashing it against the side of Leo’s face. The glass cracked in her hand, cutting her palms. As if a spell had been broken he released her. She fell back, coughing, holding her neck. They stared at each other, strangers, as though their entire history had been washed away in that fraction of a second. A shard of glass was embedded in Leo’s cheek. He touched it and pulled the splinter out, surveying it in the palm of his hand. Without turning her back, she edged to the stairs, hurrying up, leaving him.
Instead of following his wife, Leo downed the drink he’d already poured and then poured another and then another and by the time he heard Nesterov’s car outside he’d finished most of the bottle. Unsteady on his feet, unwashed and unshaven, drunk, brutish and senselessly violent — it had taken him less than a day to sink to the level expected of the militia.
During their car journey, Nesterov didn’t mention the gash down Leo’s face. He spoke in short bursts about the town. Leo wasn’t listening, barely conscious of his surroundings, preoccupied with the question of what he’d just done. Had he tried to strangle his wife or was that some trick of his sleep-deprived brain? He touched the cut on his cheek, saw blood on his fingertip — it was true, he’d done it and he’d been capable of more. Another couple of seconds, a slight tightening of his grip, and she would’ve died. His provocation was that he’d given up everything — his parents, his career — all on a false pretext, the promise of a family, the notion that there was some tie between them. She’d tricked him, fixed the odds, skewering his decision. Only once she was safe and his parents were suffering did she admit the pregnancy was a lie. Then she went further, openly describing how she’d held him in contempt. She’d manipulated his sentimentality and then spat in his face. In exchange for his sacrifice, in exchange for overlooking incriminating evidence of her guilt, he’d gotten nothing.
But Leo didn’t believe it for a second. The time of self-justification had ended. What he had done was unforgivable. And she was right to hold him in contempt. How many brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers had he arrested? How different was he from the man he considered his moral opposite, Vasili Nikitin? Was the difference merely that Vasili was senselessly cruel while he’d been idealistically cruel? One was an empty, indifferent cruelty while the other was a principled, pretentious cruelty which thought of itself as reasonable and necessary. But in real terms, in destructive terms, there was little to separate the two men. Had Leo lacked the imagination to realize what he was involved in? Or was it worse than that — had he chosen not to imagine it? He’d shut down those thoughts, brushed them aside.
Out of the rubble of his moral certainties one fact remained. He’d laid down his life for Raisa only to try and kill her. That was insanity. At this rate he’d have nothing, not even the woman he’d married. He wanted to say, the woman he loved. Did he love her? He’d married her, wasn’t that the same? No, not really — he’d married her because she was beautiful, intelligent and he was proud to have her by his side, proud to make her his. It was another step towards the perfect Soviet life — work, family and children. In many ways she was a cipher, a cog in the wheels of his ambitions, the necessary domestic background to his successful career, his status as a Model Citizen. Was Vasili right when he’d said she could be substituted for another? On the train he’d asked her to declare her love for him, to soothe him, to reward him with a romantic fantasy in which he was the hero. It was pathetic. Leo let out an audible sigh, rubbing his forehead. He was being outplayed — and that’s exactly what this was to Vasili, a game, with the playing chips being denominations of misery. Instead of Vasili striking his wife, hurting her, Leo had done it for him, acting out every part of his plan.
They’d arrived. The car had stopped. Nesterov was already out of the car and waiting for him. With no idea how long he’d been sitting there, Leo opened the car door, stepping out and following his superior officer into the militia headquarters to begin his first morning at work. Introduced to staff, shaking hands, nodding, agreeing but unable to take anything in; names, details — they washed over him — and it wasn’t until he was alone in the locker room with a uniform hanging before him that he began to refocus on the present. He took off his shoes, slowly peeling back the socks from his bloody toes and running his feet under cold water, watching as the water turned red. Since he had no new socks and couldn’t bring himself to ask for a new pair, he was forced to put the old socks back on, wincing in pain as he slid the material over his raw blisters. He stripped, leaving his civilian clothing in a heap at the bottom of a locker and buttoning up his new uniform, coarse trousers with red piping and a heavy military jacket. He looked at himself in the mirror. There were black marks under his eyes, a weeping cut down his left cheek. He glanced at the insignia on his jacket. He was an uchastkovyy, he was nothing.
The walls of Nesterov’s office were decorated with framed certificates. Reading them, Leo discovered that his boss had won amateur wrestling competitions and rifle-shooting tournaments, and had received commendations as Officer of the Month on numerous occasions both here and at his former place of residence, Rostov. It was an ostentatious display, understandable considering that his position was held in such low esteem.
Nesterov studied his new recruit, unable to work him out. Why was this man, a former high-ranking MGB officer with a decorated war record, in such a bedraggled state — his fingernails filthy, his face bleeding, his hair unwashed, stinking of alcohol and apparently indifferent to his demotion? Perhaps he was exactly as he’d been described: grossly incompetent and unworthy of responsibility. His appearance certainly fitted the bill. But Nesterov wasn’t convinced: maybe this dishevelled appearance was a trick. He’d been uneasy from the moment he’d heard about the transfer. This man had the potential to do untold damage to him and his men. One damning report, that was all it would take. Nesterov had decided the best course of action would be to observe this man, test him and keep him close. Leo would eventually reveal his hand.
Nesterov presented Leo with a file. Leo stared at it for a moment, trying to work out what was expected of him. Why was he being given this? Whatever it was, he didn’t care. He sighed, forcing himself to study the file. Inside there were black-and-white photographs of a young girl. She was lying on her back, surrounded by black snow. Black snow…black because it was soaked in blood. It seemed as though the girl was screaming. On closer inspection there was something inside her mouth. Nesterov explained:
— Her mouth was stuffed with soil. So she couldn’t scream for help.
Leo’s fingers tightened on the photo, all his thoughts about Raisa, his parents, about himself — evaporated as his eyes focused on this girl’s mouth. It was wide open, stuffed with dirt. He glanced at the next photo. The girl was naked: her skin, where it was undamaged, was as white as the snow. Her midriff had been savaged, torn open. He flicked to the next photo and the next and the next, not seeing a girl but instead Fyodor’s little boy, a boy who hadn’t been stripped naked, or had his stomach cut open, a boy whose mouth hadn’t been stuffed with dirt — a boy who hadn’t been murdered. Leo put the photos down on the table. He said nothing, staring at the certificates hanging on the wall.
Same Day
The two incidents had nothing to do with each other, the death of Fyodor’s young boy and the murder of this young girl — it was impossible. They’d taken place hundreds of kilometres apart. This was a vicious irony, nothing more. But Leo had been wrong to dismiss Fyodor’s allegations. Here was a child murdered as Fyodor had described. Such a thing was possible. There was now no way of knowing what had really happened to Fyodor’s son, Arkady, because Leo had never bothered to examine the boy’s body for himself. Perhaps that death had been an accident. Or perhaps the matter had been hushed up. If the latter was true then Leo had been instrumental in orchestrating a cover-up. He’d done so unquestioningly — ridiculing, bullying and finally threatening a grieving family.
General Nesterov was frank about the details of this murder, calling it by no other name—murder—and giving no indication of wanting to portray it as anything other than a brutal and horrific crime. His frankness worried Leo. How could he be so cool? The yearly statistics for his department were supposed to conform to predetermined patterns: decreasing crime rates, increasing social harmony. Although the town had undergone a vast increase in population, an influx of eighty thousand uprooted workers, crime should have declined since the theory dictated that there was more work, more fairness, less exploitation.
The victim’s name was Larisa Petrova; she’d been found four days ago, in the forest, not far from the train station. The details regarding the discovery of the body were vague and when Leo had pressed the issue Nesterov had seemed eager to brush the point aside. All Leo could gather was that the body had been discovered by a couple who’d drunk too much and had retreated into the forest to fornicate. They’d stumbled across the little girl, who’d been lying in the snow for several months, her body perfectly preserved in the freezing cold. She was a schoolchild, fourteen years old. The militia knew her. She had a reputation for having a disorderly sex life not just with boys of her own age but with older men; she could be bought for a litre bottle of vodka. Larisa had argued with her mother on the day she went missing. Larisa’s absence had been dismissed; she’d threatened to run away and it seemed she’d followed through on her word. No one had looked for her. According to Nesterov her parents were respected members of the community. Her father was an accountant at the assembly plant. They were ashamed of their daughter and wanted nothing to do with the investigation, which was to be kept secret; not covered up, but not publicized either. The parents agreed not to have a funeral for their child and were prepared to pretend that she was merely missing. There was no need for the community at large to know. Only a handful of people outside the militia were aware of the murder. Those people, including the couple who’d found the body, had been made clear of the consequences of talking. The matter would be concluded swiftly because they already had a man in custody.
Leo was aware that the militia could only investigate after a criminal case had been opened and that a criminal case was only opened if it was certain it would be concluded successfully. Failure to convict a suspect was unacceptable and the consequences severe. Bringing a case to court was supposed to mean one thing: that the suspect was guilty. If a case was difficult, complex, ambiguous, it simply wouldn’t be opened. For Nesterov and his subordinates to be this calm could only mean that they were convinced they had their man. Their job was done. The brainwork of investigations, the presentation of evidence, interrogations and ultimately the prosecution itself were the duties of the State’s investigative team, the procurator’s office and their team of sledovatyel, lawyers. Leo wasn’t being asked to assist: he was being given a tour, expected to marvel at their efficiency.
The cell was small with none of the ingenious modifications typical of those in the Lubyanka. There were concrete walls, a concrete floor. The suspect was seated, his hands cuffed behind his back. He was young, perhaps no more than sixteen or seventeen, with an adult’s muscular frame but a child’s face. His eyes seemed to roam with no particular sense of purpose. He didn’t seem afraid. He was calm although not in an intelligent way and showed no signs of physical abuse. Of course there were ways of inflicting injuries so the marks didn’t show but Leo’s gut reaction was that the boy hadn’t been harmed. Nesterov pointed at the suspect.
— This is Varlam Babinich.
At the sound of his name, the young man stared at Nesterov as a dog might stare at its owner. Nesterov continued:
— We found him in possession of a lock of Larisa’s hair. He has a history of stalking Larisa — lingering outside her house, propositioning her in the street. Larisa’s mother remembers seeing him on numerous occasions. She remembers her daughter complaining about him. He used to try and touch her hair.
Nesterov turned to the suspect, speaking slowly.
— Varlam, tell us what happened, tell us how you had a lock of her hair in your possession.
— I cut her. It was my fault.
— Tell this officer why you killed her.
— I liked her hair. I wanted it. I have a yellow book, a yellow shirt, a yellow tin and some yellow hair. This is why I cut her. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. When can I have the blanket?
— Let’s talk about that later.
Leo interrupted:
— What blanket?
— Two days ago he kidnapped a baby. It was wrapped in a yellow blanket. He has an obsession with the colour yellow. Fortunately the baby was unhurt. However, he has no sense of right or wrong. He does whatever he feels like without regard for consequence.
Nesterov moved closer to the suspect.
— When I found Larisa’s hair in your book, why did you think you’d be in trouble? Tell this man what you told me.
— She never liked me, she kept telling me to go away but I wanted her hair. I wanted it so bad. And when I cut her hair she didn’t say anything at all.
Nesterov turned to Leo, offering the questioning to him.
— Do you have any questions?
What was expected of him? Leo thought for a moment before asking:
— Why did you stuff her mouth with soil?
Varlam didn’t answer immediately. He seemed confused.
— Yes, there was something in her mouth. I remember that now. Don’t hit me.
Nesterov answered:
— No one is going to hit you, answer the question.
— I don’t know. I forget things. There was dirt in her mouth, yes.
Leo continued:
— Explain what happened when you killed her.
— I cut her.
— You cut her or you cut her hair?
— I’m sorry, I cut her.
— Listen to me carefully. Did you cut her body or did you cut her hair?
— I found her and I cut her. I should have said to somebody but I was worried. I didn’t want to get in trouble.
Varlam began to cry.
— I’m in so much trouble. I’m sorry. I just wanted her hair.
Nesterov stepped forward.
— That’s enough for the moment.
With those words of reassurance, Varlam stopped crying. He was calm again. It was impossible to tell from his face that this was a man in the frame for murder.
Leo and Nesterov stepped outside. Nesterov shut the door to the cell:
— We have evidence that he was at the crime scene. Snow prints match his boots exactly. You understand that he’s from the internat? He’s a simpleton.
Leo now understood Nesterov’s bravery in addressing this murder head on. They had a suspect who suffered from a mental disorder. Varlam was outside Soviet society, outside Communism, politics — he was explainable. His actions didn’t reflect on the Party, they didn’t alter the truism about crime because the suspect was not a real Soviet. He was an anomaly. Nesterov added:
— That shouldn’t lull you into thinking he’s incapable of violence. He’s admitted killing her. He has a motive, an irrational one, but a motive. He wanted something he couldn’t have — her blonde hair. He has a history of committing crimes when he can’t get what he wants: theft, kidnapping. Now he’s turned to murder. To him, killing Larissa was no different from stealing a baby. His morality is undeveloped. It’s sad. He should have been locked up a long time ago. This is a matter for the sledovatyel now.
Leo understood. The investigation was over. This young man was going to die.
Same Day
The bedroom was empty. Leo dropped to his knees, putting his head to the floorboards. Her case was missing. He stood up, ran out of the room, down the stairs and into the restaurant kitchen. Basarov was cutting fatty strips off an unidentifiable joint of yellow meat.
— Where’s my wife?
— Pay for the bottle and I’ll tell you.
He pointed to an empty bottle, the bottle of cheap vodka Leo had finished in the early hours of the morning, adding:
— I don’t care if it was you or your wife who drank it.
— Please, just tell me where she is.
— Pay for the bottle.
Leo didn’t have any money. He was still wearing his militia uniform. He’d left everything in the locker room.
— I’ll pay you later. However much you want.
— Later, sure, later you’ll pay me a million roubles.
Basarov continued cutting the meat, signalling his refusal to budge.
Leo ran back upstairs, rifling through his case, throwing everything out. In the back of the Book of Propagandists he had twenty-five-rouble notes, four of them, an emergency stash. He got to his feet, ran out, back down the stairs to the restaurant, pushing one of the notes into the man’s hand, considerably more than a single bottle was worth.
— Where is she?
— She left a couple of hours ago. She was carrying her case.
— Where was she going?
— She didn’t speak to me. I didn’t speak to her.
— How long ago, exactly how long ago?
— Two or three hours…
Three hours — that meant she was gone, not just out of the restaurant but quite possibly out of the town. Leo couldn’t guess where she might be heading or which direction she’d be travelling.
Feeling generous after his substantial reward, Basarov volunteered a little extra information.
— It’s unlikely she made it in time for the late afternoon train. As far as I remember there isn’t another train till right about now.
— What time?
— Seven thirty…
Leo had ten minutes.
Ignoring his tiredness, he ran as fast as he could. But desperation choked him. Short of breath, he had only the roughest idea where the station was. He was running blindly, trying to recall the route the car had driven. His uniform was soaked with spray from the icy slush on the street, the cheap material getting heavier and heavier. His blisters rubbed and burst, his toes were bleeding again, his shoes filling with blood. Each step sent a searing pain through his legs.
He turned the corner only to be confronted by a dead end — a line of wooden houses. He was lost. It was too late. His wife was gone; there was nothing he could do. Hunched over, trying to catch his breath, he remembered these ramshackle timber houses, the stench of human effluent. He was close to the station; he was sure of it. Rather than retrace his steps he ran forward, entering the back of one of the huts, stepping into a family seated on the floor, in the middle of a meal. Huddled around a stove, they stared up at him, silent, afraid at the sight of his uniform. Without saying a word he stepped over the children and ran out, entering onto the main street; the street they’d driven down on their arrival. The station was within sight. He tried to run faster but he was slowing. Adrenaline could no longer compensate for exhaustion. He had nothing in reserve.
He barged into the station doors, knocking them open with his shoulder. The clock showed it was seven forty-five. He was fifteen minutes too late. The realization that she was gone, probably forever, began to crash across his mind. Leo clung to the groundless hope that somehow she’d be on the platform, somehow she hadn’t got on the train. He stepped out: looking right and left. He couldn’t see his wife, he couldn’t see the train. He felt weak. He leant forward, his hands on his knees, sweat running down the side of his face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man sitting on a bench. Why would a man still be on the platform? Was he waiting for a train? Leo straightened up.
Raisa was at the far end of the platform, hidden in the gloom. It took an enormous effort not to run and grab her hands. Catching his breath, he was trying to think of what to say. He glanced at himself — he was a mess, sweating, filthy. But she wasn’t even looking at him: she was looking over his shoulder. Leo turned around. Thick bursts of smoke were rising over the tree tops. The delayed train was approaching.
Leo had imagined taking time over his apology, finding the correct words, being eloquent. However, right now he had a matter of seconds to convince her. His words stumbled out.
— I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I grabbed you but that wasn’t me — or it wasn’t the person I want to be.
Hopeless — he had to do better. Slow down, concentrate — he’d get one shot at this.
— Raisa, you want to leave me. You’re right to want to leave me. I could tell you how difficult it would be on your own. How you might get stopped, questioned, arrested. How you don’t have the right paperwork. You’d be a vagrant. But that’s not a reason to stay with me. I know that you’d rather take your chances.
— Paperwork can be faked, Leo. I’d rather fake that than this marriage.
There it was. The marriage was a sham. All Leo’s words dried up. The train came to a halt alongside them. Raisa’s face was impassive. Leo stepped out of her way. She moved towards the carriage. Could he let her go? Over the sound of grinding brakes, Leo raised his voice:
— The reason I didn’t denounce you wasn’t because I believed you were pregnant and it had nothing to do with me being a good person. I did it because my family is the only part of my life that I’m not ashamed of.
To Leo’s surprise Raisa turned around.
— Where does it come from, this overnight enlightenment? It feels cheap. Having been stripped of your uniform, your office, your power, you now have to make do with me. Is that it? Something which was never very important to you before — us — becomes important because you find yourself with nothing else?
— You don’t love me, I know that. But there was a reason we got married, there was something between us, some connection. We’ve lost that. I’ve lost that. We can find it again.
Carriage doors were opening, a handful of passengers were disembarking. Time was running out. Raisa looked at the carriage, weighing up her choices. They were pitiful. She had no friends to run to, no family who could shelter her, no money and no means of supporting herself. She didn’t even have a ticket. Leo was right in his analysis. If she left, she’d probably get picked up by the authorities. She felt exhausted at the thought of it. She looked at her husband. They had nothing except each other, whether they liked each other or not.
She put down her case. Leo smiled, obviously believing them to be reconciled. Annoyed with this idiotic interpretation, she raised her hand, cutting short his smile.
— I married you because I was scared, scared that if I rejected your advances I’d be arrested, maybe not immediately but at some point, on some pretext. I was young, Leo, and you were powerful. That is the reason we got married. That story you tell about me pretending that my name was Lena? You find that story funny, romantic? I gave you a false name because I was worried you’d track me down. What you took for seduction, I took for surveillance. Our relationship was built out of fear. Maybe not from your point of view — you have no reason to fear me, what power did I have? What power have I ever had? You asked me to marry you and I acquiesced because that’s what people do. They put up with things; they tolerate in order to survive. You never hit me or shouted at me, you were never drunk. So, on balance, I reckoned that I was luckier than most. When you grabbed my neck, Leo, you removed the only reason I had for staying with you.
The train pulled out. Leo watched it go, trying to digest what she’d said. But she gave him no pause, speaking as though these words had been forming in her head over many years. Now, tapped, they were flowing freely.
— The problem with becoming powerless, as you are now, is that people start telling you the truth. You’re not used to it, you’ve lived in a world protected by the fear you inspire. But if we’re going to stay together, let’s cut the deluded romanticism. Circumstance is the glue between us. I have you. You have me. We don’t have very much else. And if we’re going to stay together, from now on I tell you the truth, no comfortable lies — we’re equal as we have never been equal before. You can take it or I can wait for the next train.
Leo had no reply. He was unprepared, outgunned, outspoken. In the past he’d used his position to get better accommodation, better food. He hadn’t imagined he’d used it to get a wife too. Her voice softened a little.
— There are so many things to be afraid of. You can’t be one of them.
— I never will again.
— I’m cold, Leo. I’ve been standing on this platform for three hours. I’m going back to our room. Are you coming?
No, he didn’t feel like walking back, side by side, a chasm between them.
— I’m going to stay here for a bit. I’ll see you back there.
Carrying her case, Raisa returned to the station building. Leo sat on the bench, staring into the forest. He shuffled through the memories of their relationship, re-examining each one, adjusting his understanding, rewriting his past.
He’d been sitting there for he didn’t know how long when he became aware of someone standing to the side of him. He looked up. It was the man from the ticket office, a youngish man, the man they’d met on their arrival.
— Sir, there are no more trains tonight.
— Do you have a cigarette?
— I don’t smoke. I could get you one from our apartment. It’s just upstairs.
— No, that’s OK. Thank you anyway.
— I’m Aleksandr.
— Leo. Do you mind if I stay here for a bit?
— Not at all, let me get you that cigarette.
Before Leo could answer, the young man had hurried off.
Leo sat back and waited. He saw a wooden hut set back from the tracks. That was the place where the girl’s body had been found. He could make out the edge of the forest, the crime scene — snow trampled down by detectives, photographers, investigative lawyers — all studying that dead girl, her mouth open, stuffed with soil.
Struck by a thought Leo stood up, hurried forward, lowering himself off the platform, crossing the tracks and heading towards the trees. Behind him a voice called out:
— What are you doing?
He turned around and saw Aleksandr standing on the edge of the platform, holding a cigarette. He gestured for him to follow.
Leo reached the area where the snow had been trodden down. There were criss-crossing boot tracks in all directions. He entered the forest, walking for a couple of minutes, arriving at roughly the area where he supposed the body must have laid. He crouched down. Aleksandr caught up with him. Leo looked up.
— You know what happened here?
— I was the one who saw Ilinaya running to the station. She was badly beaten up, shaking — she couldn’t speak for a while. I called the militia.
— Ilinaya?
— She found the body, stumbled across it. Her and the man she was with.
The couple in the forest — Leo had known there was something wrong.
— Why was she beaten up?
Aleksandr looked nervous.
— She’s a prostitute. The man she was with that night is an important Party official. Please, don’t ask me any more.
Leo understood. This official wanted his name kept out of all the paperwork. But could he be a suspect in the murder of the young girl? Leo nodded at the young man, trying to reassure him.
— I won’t mention you, I promise.
Leo’s hand pushed through the thin sheet of snow.
— The girl’s mouth was filled with soil, loose soil. Imagine I was struggling with you, right here, and I reached out to grab something to stuff into your mouth because I’m afraid you’re going to scream, I’m afraid someone’s going to hear you.
Leo’s fingers hit the ground. It was hard, like the surface of a stone. He tried another place, then another and another. There was no loose soil. The ground was frozen solid.
18 March
Standing outside Hospital 379, Leo reread the autopsy report, the main points of which he’d copied longhand from the original:
Multiple stab wounds
Blade indeterminate length
Extensive damage to the torso and internal organs
Raped either before or after death
Mouth was full of soil but she did not suffocate, her nasal passage
was clear. The soil was to some other purpose — to silence her?
Leo had circled the last point. Since the ground was frozen the killer must have brought the soil with him. He must have planned the murder. There was intention, preparation. But why bring soil at all? It was a cumbersome means to silence someone, a rag, or cloth or even a hand would have been far easier. With no answers Leo had decided to belatedly take Fyodor’s advice. He was going to see the body for himself.
When he’d asked where her body was being kept he’d been told to go to Hospital 379. Leo hadn’t expected forensic laboratories, pathologists or a dedicated morgue. He knew there was no specialized apparatus for dealing with wrongful death. How could there be when there was no wrongful death? In the hospital the militia were forced to canvass for a doctor’s spare moment, such as a meal break or ten minutes before surgery. These doctors, with no training beyond their own medical qualifications, would take an educated guess at what might have happened to the victim. The autopsy report Leo had read was based on notes taken during one of these snatched sessions with a doctor. The notes would have been typed up several days later by a different person altogether. There could be little doubt that much of the truth had been lost along the way.
379 was one of the most famous hospitals in the country and reportedly one of the finest free-to-all hospitals in the world. Situated at the end of Chkalova Street, the hospital was spread over several hectares with landscaped grounds stretching into the forest. Leo was impressed. This was no mere propaganda project. Plenty of money had been invested in these facilities and he could understand why dignitaries reportedly travelled many kilometres to recuperate in the picturesque surroundings. He presumed that the lavish funding was primarily intended to ensure that the Volga’s workforce was kept healthy and productive.
At reception he asked if he could speak to a doctor, explaining that he needed help with the examination of a murder victim, a young girl they had in their morgue. The receptionist seemed uncomfortable with the request, asking if it was urgent and wondering if he couldn’t come back at a less busy time. Leo understood: this man wanted nothing to do with the case.
— It’s urgent.
The man reluctantly moved off to see who was available.
Leo’s fingers tapped against the front desk. He was uneasy, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance. His visit was unauthorized, independent. What did he hope to achieve? His job was to find evidence confirming a suspect’s guilt, not question the guilt itself. Though he’d been exiled from the prestigious world of political crime to the dirty secret of conventional crime, the process was much the same. He’d dismissed the death of Fyodor’s little boy as an accident not because of any evidence but because the Party line necessitated a dismissal. He’d made arrests based upon a list of names given to him, names drawn up behind closed doors. That had been his method. Leo wasn’t naive enough to think that he could change the direction of the investigation. He had no authority. Even if he’d been the top-ranking officer he couldn’t reverse the proceedings. A course had been set, a suspect chosen. It was inevitable that Babinich was going to be found guilty and inevitable that he was going to die. The system didn’t allow for deviation or admissions of fallibility. Apparent efficiency was far more important than the truth.
And what did it have to do with him, anyway? This wasn’t his town. These weren’t his people. He hadn’t pledged to the girl’s parents that he’d find the killer. He hadn’t known the girl or been touched by the story of her life. What’s more, the suspect was a danger to society — he’d taken a baby. These were excellent reasons for doing nothing and there was one more reason besides:
What difference can I make?
The receptionist returned with a man in his early forties, Dr Tyapkin, who agreed to show Leo down to the morgue as long as it didn’t involve any paperwork and on the condition that his name didn’t show up on any documents.
As they walked the doctor expressed doubts as to whether the girl’s body was still there.
— We don’t keep them for long unless we’re asked to. We were under the impression the militia had all the information they required.
— Did you carry out the initial examination?
— No. But I’ve heard about the murder. I thought you’d already caught the man responsible.
— Yes, it’s possible.
— I hope you don’t mind me asking but I haven’t seen you before.
— I arrived recently.
— Where are you from?
— Moscow.
— Transferred here?
— Yes.
— I was sent here three years ago, also from Moscow. No doubt you’re disappointed to be here?
Leo remained silent.
— Yes, don’t answer. At the time I was disappointed. I had a reputation, acquaintances, family. I was good friends with Professor Vovsi. I felt coming here was a demotion. Of course, it turned out to be a blessing.
Leo recognized the name — Professor Vovsi was one of many leading Jewish doctors arrested. His arrest and the arrest of his colleagues had marked the acceleration of a Jewish purge driven by Stalin. Plans had been drawn up. Leo had seen the papers. The removal of key Jewish figures within influential spheres was to be followed by wider purge, targeting any Jewish citizens whether they were prominent or not, plans cut short by Stalin’s death.
Unaware of his companion’s train of thought, Tyapkin blithely continued.
— I was worried I was being sent to some rural health clinic. But 379 has become the envy of the region. If anything it’s a little too successful. Many of the mill-workers prefer a night in our clean beds with inside toilets and running water to their own homes. We got wise to the fact that not everyone was as ill as they claimed. Some of them went as far as cutting off part of a finger in order to guarantee a week in here. The only solution was to have MGB officers police the wards. It wasn’t that we didn’t sympathize with the mill-workers. We’ve all seen their homes. But if overall productivity fell due to illness then we’d be accused of neglect. Keeping people healthy has become a matter of life and death not just for the patients but for us doctors as well.
— I understand.
— Were you a member of the Moscow militia?
Should Leo admit to being a member of the MGB or lie and pretend he was merely a member of the militia? A lie would be easier. He didn’t want to ruin the doctor’s talkative mood.
— Yes, I was.
The morgue was in the basement, built deep into ground that was frozen throughout the long winter. As a result the corridors were naturally cold. Tyapkin led Leo to a large room with a tiled floor and a low ceiling. On one side there was a rectangular vat, shaped like a small swimming pool. On the far side of the room there was a steel door which led through to the morgue itself.
— Unless relatives can make arrangements we incinerate bodies within twelve hours. The TB victims are incinerated within an hour. We don’t have much need for storage. Wait here, I’ll be back.
The doctor unlocked the steel door and entered the morgue. Waiting, Leo approached the vat, peering over the edge. It was filled with a dark, gelatinous liquid. He was unable to see anything except his own reflection. The surface was still, black, although from the stains on the concrete sides he could see it was in fact dark orange. On the side there was a hook, a long metal pole with a barbed prong on the end. He picked it up, tentatively prodding the surface. Like syrup, it broke and then re-formed, becoming smooth once again. Leo sunk the hook deeper, this time feeling something move — something heavy. He pushed down harder. A naked body rose to the surface, slowly rotating one hundred and eighty degrees, before sinking again. Tyapkin emerged from the morgue pushing a gurney.
— Those bodies are going to be packed in ice and shipped to Sverdlovsk for dissection. They have a medical college there. I’ve found your girl.
Larisa Petrova lay on her back. Her skin was pale, criss-crossed with blue veins as thin as spider’s web. Her hair was blonde. A large part of the fringe had been unevenly cut off: the part Varlam had taken. Her mouth was no longer stuffed with soil — that had been removed — but her jaw was still open, locked in the same position. Her teeth and tongue were dirty, stained brown with the remnants of earth that had been forced in.
— There was soil in her mouth.
— Was there? I’m sorry, this is the first time I’ve seen her body.
— Her mouth was stuffed with soil.
— Perhaps the doctor washed it out in order to examine her throat.
— It hasn’t been kept?
— I would think it very unlikely.
The girl’s eyes were open. They were blue. Perhaps her mother had been transferred from a town near the Finnish border, from one of the Baltic regions. Recalling the superstition that the face of a murderer was captured on the surface of a victim’s eye Leo leaned closer, studying the pale blue eyes. Suddenly embarrassed, he stood up straight. Tyapkin smiled.
— We all check — doctors and detectives alike. It doesn’t matter if our brains tell us that there’ll be nothing there, we all want to make sure. Of course it would make your job a whole lot easier if it was true.
— If it was true then murderers would always cut out their victims’ eyes.
Having never studied a dead body before, at least with any forensic interest, Leo was unsure how to proceed. To his mind the mutilation was so frenzied it could only be the work of someone insane. Her torso had been ripped apart. He’d seen enough. Varlam Babinich fitted the bill. He must have brought the soil for his own incomprehensible reasons.
Leo was ready to leave but Tyapkin, having come all the way down to the basement, seemed to be in no hurry. He leaned closer, staring at what appeared to be nothing more than a savaged mess of flesh and tissue. Using the tip of his pen he probed into the mangled midriff, examining the wounds.
— Can you tell me what the report said?
Leo took out his notes and read them aloud. Tyapkin continued his examination.
— That fails to mention her stomach is missing. It’s been cut out, severed from the oesophagus.
— How precise, I mean in terms of…
— You mean did a doctor do this?
The doctor smiled, remarking:
— Possibly but the cuts are ragged, not surgical. Not skilled. Although I would be surprised if this was the first time they’d handled a knife, at least to cut flesh. The cuts aren’t skilful but they are confident. They’re targeted, not random.
— This might not be the first child that he’s killed?
— I’d be surprised.
Leo touched his forehead and found that despite the cold he was sweating. How could the two deaths — Fyodor’s little boy and this girl — have anything to do with each other?
— How large would her stomach have been?
Above the girl’s torso Tyapkin indicated a rough outline of a stomach’s shape with his pen tip. He asked:
— Was it not found nearby?
— No.
It was either missed in the search which seemed unlikely or it had been taken away by the killer.
Leo remained silent for a moment then asked:
— Was she raped?
Tyapkin examined the girl’s vagina.
— She wasn’t a virgin.
— But that doesn’t mean she was raped.
— She’d had previous sexual encounters?
— That’s what I’m told.
— There’s no trauma to her genitals. No bruising, no incisions. Also notice that the injuries weren’t targeted at her sexual organs. There are no cuts to the breasts or to her face. The man who did this was interested in a narrow band below her ribcage and above her vagina, her guts — her digestive organs. It looks savage but actually it’s quite controlled.
Leo had rushed to the conclusion that this was a frenzied attack. The blood and mutilation represented chaos to his mind. But it was no such thing. It was ordered, precise, planned.
— Do you label the bodies when you bring them in — for identification purposes?
— Not that I’m aware.
— What is that?
Around the girl’s ankle was a loop of string. It had been tied in a tight noose and a small length drooped down off the gurney. It looked like a pauper’s anklet. There were burn marks where the string had rubbed against the skin.
Tyapkin saw him first. General Nesterov was standing at the door. It was impossible to say how long he’d been there, watching them. Leo stepped away from the body.
— I came here to familiarize myself with procedure.
Nesterov addressed Tyapkin.
— Would you excuse us?
— Yes, of course.
Tyapkin glanced at Leo, as though wishing him luck, before moving away. Nesterov approached. As a crude way of deflecting attention, Leo began summarizing the recent observations.
— The original report doesn’t mention that her stomach has been removed. We have a specific question to put to Varlam: why did he cut out her stomach and what did he do with it afterwards?
— What are you doing in Voualsk?
Nesterov was now standing opposite Leo. The girl’s body was in between them.
— I was transferred here.
— Why?
— I can’t say.
— I think you’re still MGB.
Leo remained silent. Nesterov continued.
— That doesn’t explain why you’d be so interested in this murder. We released Mikoyan without charge, as we were instructed to.
Leo had no idea who Mikoyan was.
— Yes, I know.
— He had nothing to do with this girl’s murder.
Mikoyan must be the name of the Party official. He’d been protected. But was a man who beat a prostitute the same man who murdered this young girl? Leo didn’t think it likely. Nesterov continued.
— I haven’t arrested Varlam because he said the wrong thing, or forgot to attend a march in Red Square. I arrested him because he killed that girl, because he’s dangerous and because this town is safer with him in custody.
— He didn’t do it.
Nesterov scratched the side of his face.
— Whatever it is that you’ve been sent here to do, remember that you’re not in Moscow anymore. Here, we have an arrangement. My men are safe. None of them have ever or will ever be arrested. If you do anything to endanger my team, if you report anything which undermines my authority, if you disobey an order, if you derail a prosecution, if you portray my officers as incompetent, if you make any denouncements regarding my men: if you do any of these things, I’ll kill you.
20 March
Raisa touched the window frame. The nails that had been hammered in to keep the bedroom window shut had all been prised out. She turned around, moving to the door and opening it. In the hallway she could hear noise from the restaurant downstairs but there was no sign of Basarov. It was late in the evening, his busiest time. Shutting the door and locking it, Raisa returned to the window, opening it and glancing down. Directly below was a sloping roof, part of the kitchen. The snow had been disturbed where Leo had climbed down. She was furious. Having survived by the thinnest of margins, he was now gambling with both their lives.
Today had been Raisa’s second day at Secondary School 151. The school’s director, Vitali Kozlovich Kapler, a man in his late forties, had been more than happy with Raisa joining his staff since she’d be taking over many of his lessons enabling him, he’d claimed, to catch up with his paperwork. Whether her arrival was actually freeing him up to do other work or just allowing him to do less work, Raisa couldn’t say for sure. On the basis of first impressions he seemed like a man who preferred bookwork to teaching. But she’d been more than happy to start work immediately. From the handful of classes she’d taught so far she’d found the children less politically savvy than students in Moscow. They didn’t break into applause at the mention of key Party figures, they weren’t fiercely competitive about proving their loyalty to the Party and generally they seemed much more like children. They were made up of a patchwork of different backgrounds, families plucked from all corners of the country — their collective experiences wildly contrasting. The same was true of the staff. Almost all of the teachers had been transferred to Voualsk from different regions. Having experienced a similar upheaval to the one she’d just gone through they treated her nicely enough. They were suspicious of her, of course. Who was she? Why was she here? Was she all that she seemed? But she didn’t mind, these were questions everyone asked of each other. For the first time since arriving in this town Raisa could imagine creating a life here.
She’d lingered at the school until late in the evening, reading, preparing for her lessons. School 151 was considerably more comfortable than a noisy room above a stinking restaurant. The shabby conditions had been intended as a punishment and while they bothered Leo they were an ineffective weapon against her. Above all else she was supremely adaptable. She had no attachment to buildings or cities or belongings. These sentiments had been taken from her, stripped out the day she’d witnessed the destruction of her childhood home. During the first years of the war, seventeen years old, she’d been foraging in the forest, mushrooms in one pocket, berries in the other, when shells had begun to fall. They’d landed not near her but in the distance. Climbing the tallest tree, feeling the vibrations through the trunk, she’d perched on a high branch, like a bird, watching as several kilometres away her home town had been transformed into brick dust and smoke, a town literally flung up into the sky. The horizon had disappeared beneath a man-made fog, beaten up from the ground. The destruction was too swift, too widespread, too complete for her to have felt even the slightest hope for her family. After the shelling had finished she’d climbed down from the tree and walked back through the forest in a state of shock, her right pocket dripping juice from the crushed berries. Her eyes had streamed: not tears of sadness, for she hadn’t cried then or since, but a reaction to the dust. Coughing on an acrid cloud, all that remained of her home and family, she’d realized that the shells hadn’t been fired from the German line, they’d whistled overhead, direct from the Russian front line. Later, as a refugee, she’d heard confirmation that their country’s army had instructions to destroy any towns and villages which might fall into German hands. The complete annihilation of her childhood home had been a:
Precautionary measure.
With those words any deaths could be justified. Better to destroy your own people than there be a chance a German soldier might find a loaf of bread. There were no qualms, no apologies and no questions allowed. To object to the killings was treason. And the lessons her parents had taught her about love and affection, the lessons a child learns from watching and listening and living around two people in love, were pushed to the back of her mind. That behaviour belonged to a different time. Having a home — a sense of place: only children held onto such dreams.
Stepping back from the window, Raisa was struggling to remain calm. Leo had begged her to stay with him, detailing the risks in leaving. She had agreed for no other reason than this was her best bet, not much of one, but the best all the same. And now he was jeopardizing their second chance. If they were to survive in this new town they had to remain inconspicuous, do nothing out of the ordinary — say nothing and provoke no one. They were almost certainly under observation. Basarov was almost certainly an informer. Vasili would most probably have agents in the town spying on them, just waiting for a reason to go the extra distance, to upgrade their punishment from exile to internment to execution.
Raisa turned the light off. In the dark she stood, staring out of the window. She could see no one outside. If there were agents working surveillance they’d almost certainly be downstairs. Maybe that’s why the window had been secured. She would have to make sure Leo brought back the nails so they could be replaced. Basarov might check them when they were at work. She put on her gloves and coat and climbed out of the window, lowering herself onto the icy roof, trying not to make a sound. She closed the window behind her and clambered down to the ground. She had made Leo swear to one condition — they were to be equals as they’d never been equals before. Yet he’d already gone back on his word. If he thought that she would silently stand by him — the obedient, supportive wife — while he endangered her life for his own personal reasons, he was mistaken.
Same Day
An area with a radius of roughly five hundred metres from the point where Larisa’s body had been found had been searched as part of the official investigation. Even without any experience in murder investigations that area seemed small to Leo. Nothing had been discovered except the girl’s clothes, discarded some forty or so paces from the body deeper into the forest. Why were her clothes — her shirt, skirt, hat, jacket and gloves — located in a neat pile so far from her body? The clothes showed no trace of blood, they bore no knife marks, no slashes or cuts. Larisa Petrova had either been undressed or she’d undressed herself. Perhaps she’d tried to run away, towards the edge of the forest, only to be caught just before the clearing. If that was true she’d been running naked. The killer must have persuaded her to accompany him, maybe offering money for sex. Once hidden in the relative depths of the forest, once she’d taken her clothes off, he’d attacked. But Leo was finding it difficult to apply logic to this crime. The incomprehensible details — the soil, the removal of the stomach, the string — were alien to him and yet at the same time he couldn’t stop thinking about them.
There was little chance of finding anything new regarding Larisa’s death, even allowing for incompetence and oversight. Therefore Leo was in the conflicted position of needing to find a second body. During the winter these forests would be deserted, a body could lie here for months, preserved as Larisa’s body had been preserved. Leo had reason to believe she wasn’t the first victim. The doctor had suggested the killer knew what he was doing, that he had a competence and assuredness that came from practice. The method suggested a routine, a routine suggested a sequence. And then, of course, there was the death of Arkady — a fact that Leo held in abeyance at this time.
Searching by a combination of moonlight and discreet use of his flashlight, Leo’s life depended on being undetected. He believed the general’s death threat absolutely. However, his need for secrecy had received a setback when the man working in the train station, Aleksandr, had seen him walking into the woods. He had called out and Leo, unable to think of a plausible lie, was forced to tell the truth, saying that he was collecting evidence regarding the young girl’s murder. He’d then asked Aleksandr not to mention this to anyone, claiming that it would compromise the investigation. Aleksandr had agreed and wished him luck, remarking that he’d always presumed the killer had been on a train journey. Why else was the body so near the station? Someone who lived in the town would know far more secluded areas of forest. Leo had agreed that the location was suggestive, making a mental note to himself to check up on this man. Though he seemed nice enough the appearance of innocence counted for little. Although, Leo mused, innocence didn’t count for much either.
Using a map stolen from the militia’s office, Leo had divided the forests surrounding the railway station into four areas. He found nothing in the first area, which was where the victim’s body had been found. Much of the ground had been trampled under hundreds of boots. Not even the bloody snow remained, removed no doubt as part of the effort to erase all trace of this crime. As far as Leo could tell, the remaining three areas hadn’t been searched: the snow was untouched. It had taken him an hour or so to cover the second grid, by which time his fingers were numb with cold. However, the advantage of the snow was that he could move relatively quickly, scanning large sweeps of ground for footprints, using his own tracks to mark sections that he’d covered.
Having almost finished the third area he paused. He could hear footsteps — the crunch of snow. Turning the flashlight off, he moved behind a tree, crouching down. But he couldn’t hide — they seemed to be following his tracks. Should he run? That was his only chance.
— Leo?
He stood up, turning on his flashlight. It was Raisa.
Leo lowered the beam out of her face.
— Were you followed?
— No.
— Why are you here?
— I’m here to ask you that question.
— I told you. A little girl was murdered, they have a suspect but I don’t think—
Raisa interrupted, impatient, abrupt.
— You don’t think he’s guilty?
— No.
— And since when has that mattered to you?
— Raisa, I’m just trying—
— Leo, stop, because I don’t think I can stomach you telling me you’re here doing the right thing, motivated by the principles of justice, or honour. Let’s be blunt. This is going to end badly and when it ends badly for you, it ends badly for me.
— You want me to do nothing?
Raisa became angry.
— I’m supposed to bow down to this personal investigation of yours? There are innocent people suffering all across this country and there’s nothing I can do about it except try and not be one of them.
— You believe that keeping our heads down, doing nothing wrong, that protects us? You did nothing wrong before, they wanted to execute you as a traitor. Doing nothing is no guarantee we won’t be arrested anyway — I’ve learnt that lesson.
— But you’re like a child with a new fact. Everyone knows there are no guarantees. It’s about risk. And this is an unacceptable one. You think if you can catch one genuinely guilty person all those innocent men and women you’ve arrested will just fade away? This isn’t about any little girl, it’s about you.
— You hate me when I toe the line. You hate me when I do the right thing.
Leo turned the flashlight off. He didn’t want her to see him upset. Of course, she was correct, everything she said was true. Their fates were stitched together; he had no right to embark on this investigation without her approval. And he was in no position to argue morality.
— Raisa, I don’t believe they’ll ever leave us alone. At a guess they’ll wait a couple of months, maybe a year, between my arrival here and my arrest.
— You don’t know that.
— They don’t leave people alone. Perhaps they need to construct a case against me. Perhaps they just want me to rot in obscurity before finishing me off. But I don’t have long. And this is how I want to spend that time, trying to find the man who did this. He needs to be caught. I appreciate that doesn’t help you. However, there’s a way for you to survive. Just before I’m arrested they’ll double the surveillance. At this point, you should go to them, feed them some story about me, make a show of betraying me.
— What am I supposed to do until then? Sit in that room and wait? Lie for you? Cover for you?
— I’m sorry.
Raisa shook her head, turned around and walked back towards town. Alone, Leo switched the flashlight on. His energy was sapped, his movements sluggish — his thoughts were no longer on the case. Was this nothing but a selfish, futile enterprise? He hadn’t gone far when he once more heard the sound of footsteps in the snow. Raisa had returned.
— You’re sure this man’s killed before?
— Yes. And if we find another victim the case reopens. The evidence against Varlam Babinich is specific to this girl. If there’s a second murder, the case against him falls apart.
— You said this boy Varlam had learning difficulties. Sounds like a perfect person to blame for any crime. They might just blame him for both murders.
— You’re right. That is a risk. But a second body is the only chance I have of reopening this case.
— So, if we find another body, you have an investigation. If we don’t, if we find nothing, you promise to let this drop.
— Yes.
— All right, then. You lead.
Awkward, uncertain, they set off, deeper into the forest.
After almost thirty minutes, walking alongside each other, Raisa pointed ahead. Crossing their path were two sets of tracks, an adult’s and a child’s, side by side. There was no sign of any disturbance. The child hadn’t been pulled along. The adult’s boot prints were enormous and deep. He was a tall, heavy man. The child’s footsteps were faint. The child was small, young.
Raisa turned to Leo.
— These might continue all the way to some rural village.
— They might.
She understood. Leo was going to follow them to their end.
They’d been walking for some time, following the tracks, with no sign of anything being amiss. Leo had begun to wonder if Raisa was right. Maybe there was an innocent explanation. Suddenly he stopped walking. Up ahead an area of snow had been flattened, as though someone had lain down. Leo moved forward. The footprints became confused, as if there’d been a struggle. The adult had walked away from the disturbance while the child’s tracks went off in the opposite direction, their footsteps unevenly spaced, ragged — the child had been running. From the impressions in the snow it was clear that the child had fallen over, there was a single hand print. But the child had got up and continued to run before falling again. Again the child had struggled on the ground although it was impossible to work out with whom or what they’d been struggling. There were no other footsteps. Whatever had happened here, the child had managed to get up, running once more. Desperation could be read on the snow. However, the adult’s footsteps were still nowhere to be seen. Then, several metres up ahead, they reappeared. Deep boot prints emerged out of the trees. Yet something was odd — the adult was running in zigzags, this way and that, inaccurately converging on the child’s position. None of it made any sense. Having walked away from the child the man had changed his mind and run erratically back towards him. Judging from the angles of the footprints he had caught up at some point past the next tree.
Raisa stopped, staring ahead at the point where the tracks would meet. Leo touched her on the shoulder.
— Stay here.
Leo moved forward, stepping around the tree. He saw the bloody snow first, then the bare legs, the mutilated torso. It was a young boy, maybe no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. He was small, slight. Just as the girl had been on her back, so was he, staring up at the sky. There was something in his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye Leo caught sight of movement. He turned to see Raisa standing behind him, staring down at the boy’s body.
— Are you OK?
Slowly, Raisa raised her hand to her mouth. She gave Leo the smallest of nods.
Leo knelt down beside the boy. Tied around his ankle was string. The string had been cut: only a short length trailed in the snow. The boy’s skin was red where the string had rubbed, cutting into his flesh. Steeling himself, Leo turned to look at the boy’s face. His mouth had been stuffed with soil. It gave him the appearance of screaming. Unlike Larisa there was no layer of snow over his body. He’d been killed after her, maybe within the last couple of weeks. Leo leant over, reaching towards the boy’s mouth and taking a pinch of the dark soil. He rubbed it between his finger and thumb. It was coarse and dry. The texture wasn’t like earth. There were large, uneven chunks. Under the pressure of his fingers the fragments broke apart. It wasn’t soil at all. It was bark from the trunk of a tree.
22 March
Some thirty-six hours after he and Raisa had found the boy’s body, Leo still hadn’t reported the discovery. Raisa was right. Instead of throwing the case open the second murder could be blamed on Varlam Babinich. The boy had no sense of self-preservation, he was open to suggestion — whisper something in his ear and he was likely to go along with it. He offered a convenient and swift solution to two horrific murders. Why look for a second suspect when there was one already in custody? It was unlikely Babinich would have an alibi, given that staff working at the internat wouldn’t remember his movements or be prepared to vouch for him. The charges would almost certainly jump from one count of murder to two.
Leo couldn’t simply announce the discovery of the young boy’s body. First he had to establish that Varlam Babinich knew nothing about it. That was the only way to save him: to collapse the proceedings against the militia’s prime suspect — their only suspect. However, this was exactly what Nesterov had warned Leo against doing. It would mean that a criminal case would be opened without any suspect: a criminal case against persons unknown. The problem was exacerbated by the fact that Babinich had already confessed. Local MGB operatives would almost certainly become involved if they heard that a confession had been discredited by the militia. Confessions were the bedrock of the judicial system and their sanctity needed to be protected at all costs. If anyone else found out about the second murder before Leo could establish Babinich’s ignorance, they might decide that it was far easier, simpler and safer for everyone involved to amend the confession and spoon-feed the suspect the necessary details — thirteen-year-old boy stabbed in the woods, on the opposite side of the tracks, several weeks ago. This solution was neat, efficient and upset no one, not even Babinich himself since he probably wouldn’t understand what was going on. There was only one way to guarantee that news of the second body didn’t filter through and that had been for Leo to remain silent. On returning to the train station he hadn’t raised the alarm or called his superior officers. He hadn’t reported the murder or set up a crime scene. He’d done nothing. To Raisa’s bewilderment he’d asked her not to say anything, explaining that he couldn’t get access to Babinich until the following morning, which meant leaving the body out in the woods for the night. If the boy was to have a chance at justice then he couldn’t see that there was any other option.
Babinich was no longer in the militia’s care — he’d been handed over to the lawyers from procurator’s office. A team of sledovatyel had already obtained a confession to the murder of Larisa Petrova. Leo had read the document. There were differences between the confession obtained by the militia and the one obtained by the sledovatyel but this hardly mattered: they were broadly the same — he was guilty. In any case, the militia’s document wasn’t official and wouldn’t be referred to in court: their job had only been to point out the most likely suspect. By the time Leo had made his request to speak to the prisoner the investigation had all but been completed. They were ready to go to trial.
Leo had been forced to argue that the suspect might have killed more girls and that before he was taken to trial the militia and sledovatyel should jointly question him in order to establish if there were any more victims. Nesterov had cautiously agreed: it was something they should’ve done already. He had insisted upon joining the interrogation, which had suited Leo fine; the more witnesses the better. With two sledovatyel and two militia officers present Babinich had denied knowing anything about any other victims. Afterwards the team had agreed that it was unlikely the accused had killed anyone else. As far as they were aware, there were no other missing girls with blonde hair, which was the motive in this case. Having achieved mutual agreement that Babinich was unlikely to have killed anyone else, Leo had feigned uncertainty, claiming they should search the forests just in case, widening the search to include any part of the forests within a thirty-minute walk of the town’s perimeter. Sensing that Leo had an agenda, Nesterov’s uneasiness had grown. In ordinary circumstances, had Leo not been connected to the MGB, his request would’ve been dismissed. The idea that the militia’s resources should be spent actively looking for a crime was ridiculous. But as much as Nesterov mistrusted Leo he’d seemed afraid to oppose the suggestion, afraid that to do so would be dangerous since the order might be coming from Moscow. The search had been arranged to take place today: thirty-six hours after Leo and Raisa had found the boy’s body.
During these past hours the memory of the boy lying in the snow had dominated Leo’s thoughts. He’d suffered nightmares where a boy in the middle of the forest, naked, disembowelled, had asked why they’d abandoned him.
Why did you leave me?
The boy in the nightmare was Arkady — Fyodor’s son.
Raisa had told Leo that she found it hard concentrating at school knowing there was a dead child in the woods and pretending nothing was wrong. She felt an overwhelming urge to warn the children, somehow alert the town — the parents knew nothing of the danger. None of them had reported a child missing. The school records showed no unexplained absences. Who was the boy in the woods? She wanted to name him, find his family. All Leo could do was to ask her to wait. Despite her unease she’d deferred to Leo’s judgement that this was the only way to free an innocent young man and initiate a hunt for the person responsible. The ludicrousness of the reasoning made it sound entirely plausible.
Having recruited workers from the lumber mills to make up the search teams, Nesterov split the men and women into seven groups of ten. Leo was assigned to a group searching the forests beside State Hospital 379, on the opposite side of town from where the body was located. This was ideal since it would be better if he didn’t make the discovery. There was also a possibility that there were more bodies to be found. He was convinced that these victims weren’t the first.
The ten members of Leo’s team broke down into two groups of three and one group of four. Leo was working with Nesterov’s deputy, a man instructed, no doubt, to keep an eye on him. They were joined by a woman, a mill worker. It took them the entire day to complete their portion of the search, several square kilometres through difficult snow drifts which needed to be prodded with sticks to make sure there was nothing underneath them. They found no body. Reassembling back at the hospital, none of the other two teams had found anything either. These forests were empty. Leo was impatient to know what was happening on the other side of town.
Nesterov was standing by the edge of the forest, near the railway maintenance cabin which had been commandeered and turned into a temporary headquarters. Leo approached, trying to seem unhurried and indifferent. Nesterov asked:
— What have you found?
— Nothing.
And after a calculated pause Leo added:
— What about here?
— No, nothing, nothing at all.
Leo’s poise of cool indifference fell away from him. Aware that his reaction was being watched, he turned away trying to work out what could have gone wrong. How had they missed the body? Was it still there? The tracks were clearly visible. It was possible that the search perimeter hadn’t stretched as far as the body but it must have stretched as far as the tracks. Was it that the team hadn’t followed them to their end? If they were unmotivated, then they might have given up once the tracks continued past the edge of their designated search area. Most of the teams were returning: there wasn’t much time before the entire operation would be concluded with the boy’s body still in the woods.
Leo began questioning the returning men. Two militia officers, neither of them much older than eighteen, had been part of the team searching the area of the forests closest to where the body lay. They admitted there’d been tracks but they’d appeared to be innocent since they were four sets of prints rather than two: they’d presumed that they were nothing more than a family on an expedition. Leo had neglected to take into consideration that he and Raisa had made an additional set of tracks running parallel to those of the victim and the murderer. Fighting back his exasperation he forgot that he no longer had any authority and ordered the two men back into the woods to follow the tracks to their conclusion. The officers weren’t convinced. The tracks might go on for kilometres. And more to the point: who was Leo to give orders?
Leo had no option but to go to Nesterov, illustrating with the use of a map that there were no nearby villages in that direction, arguing that the tracks were suspicious. But Nesterov agreed with the two young officers. The fact there were four sets of prints made it an unlikely trail and not worth following. Unable to contain his frustration, Leo said:
— I’ll go alone, then.
Nesterov stared at him.
— We’ll both go.
Leo was following his own footsteps deeper and deeper into the forests, accompanied only by Nesterov. Belatedly he realized that he was in danger, unarmed and alone with this man who wanted him dead. If he was going to be killed this was a good place. Nesterov seemed calm. He was smoking.
— Tell me, Leo, what are we going to find at the end of these tracks?
— I have no idea.
— But these are your footprints.
Nesterov pointed to the tracks in front of them and then at the tracks Leo had just made. They were identical.
— We’re going to find the body of a dead child.
— Which you’ve already discovered?
— Two days ago.
— But you didn’t report it?
— I wanted to establish that Varlam Babinich knew nothing about this murder.
— You were worried we’d blame him for the murder?
— I’m still worried.
Was Nesterov going to draw his gun? Leo waited. Nesterov finished his cigarette and continued walking. They said nothing more until they reached the body. The boy lay exactly as Leo remembered, on his back, naked, his mouth full of bark, his torso a savaged mess. Leo stood back, watching as Nesterov made an examination. He took his time. Leo could see that his superior officer was outraged by the crime. That was of some comfort.
Finally, Nesterov approached Leo:
— I want you to go back, call the procurator’s officer. I’m going to stay here with the body.
Remembering Leo’s concerns, Nesterov added:
— It’s obvious that Varlam Babinich had nothing to do with this murder.
— I agree.
— These are two separate cases.
Leo stared blankly, bewildered by the assertion.
— But these children were murdered by the same man.
— A girl has been sexually assaulted and murdered. A boy has been sexually assaulted and murdered. These are different crimes. These are different depravities.
— We don’t know the boy was sexually assaulted.
— Look at him!
— I don’t believe, nor does the doctor I spoke to, that the girl was sexually assaulted.
— She was naked.
— But they both had bark, tree bark, ground-up tree bark stuffed into their mouths.
— Larisa’s mouth was stuffed with soil.
— That’s wrong.
— Varlam Babinich has admitted stuffing her mouth with soil.
— Which is why he can’t have killed her — the ground is frozen. If it was soil where did he get it from? Her mouth was stuffed with bark just as this boy’s mouth was stuffed with bark. The bark was prepared in advance, I don’t know why.
— Babinich has confessed.
— He’d admit anything if you asked him enough times.
— Why are you so sure this is the same killer? One child was murdered close to the station: careless, reckless, barely out of sight. The screams could have been heard by the passengers. It was an idiot’s crime and an idiot has confessed. But this child has been led almost an hour’s walk into the forest. Care has been taken, so that no one could interrupt him. This is a different man.
— Who knows what happened with the girl, maybe he wanted to walk further into the woods and she changed her mind so he had to kill her there. Why do they both have string around their ankles?
— This is a different crime.
— Tell me you’re not so desperate to prosecute that you’ll say and believe anything.
— You tell me what kind of person rapes a girl, kills her, and then rapes a boy and kills him? Who is this person? I’ve worked in the militia for twenty years. I’ve never encountered such a person. I’ve never heard of such a person. Can you give me one example?
— The girl wasn’t raped.
— You’re right. There was a reason the girl was killed — she was killed for her blonde hair. She was killed by a sick man. There was a reason this boy was killed. He was killed by a different man, with a different sickness.
23 March
Aleksandr closed the ticket office, lowering the blind and sitting back in his chair. Although the office was small, no more than a couple of square metres, he liked the fact that it was his. He didn’t share it with anyone nor did he have anyone overseeing his work. He had a kind of freedom, unburdened by quotas or productivity reviews. There was just one downside to having this job. Everyone who knew him presumed that he must be disappointed with how life had turned out.
Five years ago Aleksandr had been the fastest sprinter at Secondary School 151. People had believed he was destined for success on a national level, perhaps even an international one if the Soviet Union were to compete in the Olympics. Instead, he’d ended up in a sedentary job manning a ticket office, watching other people embark on journeys while he went nowhere. He’d spent years following a punishing exercise regime, winning regional competitions. And to what end? Timetables and tickets: work which could be done by anyone. He remembered the exact moment the dream came to nothing. He and his father had taken a train to Moscow, attending the selection process at the Central Army Sports Club, the CSKA — part of the Ministry of Defence. The CSKA was renowned for selecting the best athletes from all over the country and pushing them to become exceptional. Ninety per cent of applicants were rejected. Aleksandr had raced until he was sick by the side of the track. He’d run faster than he’d ever run before, beating his personal best. He hadn’t made the cut. On the return trip home his father had tried to put a positive slant on the rejection. It would motivate them to train harder, he’d make the cut next year for certain and he’d be the stronger for having been made to fight for his dream. But Aleksandr had given everything and it hadn’t been enough. There’d be no next year. Though his father had continued to press, Aleksandr’s heart wasn’t in it and soon his father’s heart wasn’t in it either. Aleksandr had left school, begun work, settling into an easy routine.
It was eight in the evening by the time he finished. He left the ticket office, locking it behind him. He didn’t have far to walk as he and his parents lived in an annexe built above the station. Technically speaking, his father was in charge of the station. However, his father wasn’t well. No one at the hospital could say what was wrong with him except that he was overweight and drank too much. His mother was in good health and, her husband’s illness aside, generally cheerful. She had reason to be — they were a fortunate family. The pay for working on the State railway was modest, the amount of blat, influence, relatively small. But the real advantage was the accommodation. Instead of having to share with another family they had sole use of an apartment with plumbing, hot water and insulation — as new as the station itself. In exchange they were expected to be on call twenty-four hours a day. There was a bell which could be rung from the station wired directly to the apartment. If there was a night train or an early morning train they had to be on hand. But these were small inconveniences which, shared across the family, were more than offset by the relative comforts they enjoyed. They had an apartment easily big enough for two families. Aleksandr’s sister had married a cleaner who worked at the car assembly plant, where she also worked, and they’d moved into a new apartment in a good district. They were expecting their first child. This meant that Aleksandr, at twenty-two years old, had nothing to worry about. One day he’d take over the running of the station and the annexe would be his.
In his bedroom he changed out of his uniform, put on casual clothes and sat down to eat with his parents: pea-haddock soup followed by fried kasha. His father was eating a small portion of cow’s liver. Though expensive and extraordinarily difficult to come by, liver had been recommended by the doctors. Aleksandr’s father was on a strict diet, including no alcohol, which he was convinced was making him worse. They didn’t speak over dinner. His father appeared to be in some discomfort. He hardly ate. After washing the plates Aleksandr excused himself: he was going to the cinema. By this stage his father was lying down. Aleksandr kissed him goodnight, telling him not to worry, he’d get up to deal with the arrival of the first train.
There was only one cinema in Voualsk. Until three years ago there’d been none. A church had been transformed into a six-hundred-seat auditorium where a backlog of State-sponsored films were shown, many of which had been missed by the town’s population. These included The Fighters, Guilty Without Guilt, Secrets of Counter-Espionage and Meeting on the Elbe, some of the most successful movies of the last ten years, all of which Aleksandr had seen several times. Since the cinema’s opening it had quickly become his favourite pastime. Because of his running he’d never developed an interest in drink and he wasn’t particularly social. Arriving at the foyer he saw that Nezabyaemy God was showing. Aleksandr had seen the movie only a couple of nights ago and numerous occasions before that. He’d found it fascinating, not the film itself particularly, but the idea of an actor playing Stalin. He wondered whether Stalin had been involved in the casting. He wondered what it must be like watching another man pretend to be you, instructing them what they were doing right and what they were doing wrong. Aleksandr walked past the foyer. He didn’t join the queue, heading instead towards the park.
At the centre of Victory Park there was a statue of three bronze soldiers, fists clenched to the sky, rifles slung over their shoulders. Officially the park was closed at night. But there was no fence and the rule was never enforced. Aleksandr knew the route to take: a path away from the streets and largely out of view, hidden by the trees and the bushes. He could feel his heartbeat quicken in anticipation, as it always did, as he took a slow lap around the perimeter. It seemed that he was alone tonight and after the second lap he considered going home.
There was a man up ahead. Aleksandr stopped. The man turned to face him. A nervous pause communicated that they were both here for the same reason. Aleksandr continued forward and the man remained where he was, waiting for him to catch up. Side by side both of them glanced around, making sure they were alone, before looking at each other. The man was younger than Aleksandr, perhaps only nineteen or twenty. He appeared uncertain and at a guess Aleksandr supposed that this was his first time. Aleksandr broke the silence.
— I know somewhere we can go.
The young man looked around once more and then nodded, saying nothing. Aleksandr continued:
— Follow me, keep at a distance.
They walked separately. Aleksandr took the lead, getting a couple of hundred paces ahead. He checked. The other man was still following.
Arriving back at the train station, he checked his parents weren’t at the window of their apartment. Unseen, he entered the main station building, as though he were about to catch a train. Without turning on the lights he unlocked the ticket office, going inside and leaving the door open. He pushed the chair aside. There wasn’t much space but there was enough. He waited, checking his watch, wondering why the man was taking so long, before remembering that he walked fast. Finally, he heard someone enter the station. The door to the ticket booth was pushed opened. The man stepped inside and the two of them looked at each other properly for the first time. Aleksandr stepped forward to shut the door. The sound of the lock excited him. It meant they were safe. They were almost touching and yet not quite, neither of them sure who should make the first move. Aleksandr liked this moment and he waited for as long as he could bear it before leaning forward to kiss him.
Someone was hammering on the door. Aleksandr’s first thought was that it must be his father — he must have seen, he must have known all along. But then he realized it wasn’t coming from outside. It was this man, hammering on the door, calling out. Had he changed his mind? Who was he speaking to? Aleksandr was confused. He could hear voices outside the office. The man was no longer meek and nervous. A transformation had occurred. He was angry, disgusted. He spat in Aleksandr’s face. The glob of phlegm hung on his cheek. Aleksandr wiped it away. Without thinking, without understanding what was happening, he punched the man, knocking him to the floor.
The door handle rattled. Outside a voice called:
— Aleksandr, this is General Nesterov, the man you’re with is a militia officer. I’m ordering you to open the door. Either you obey or I call your parents and bring them down here to watch as I arrest you. Your father’s ill, isn’t he? It would kill him to discover your crime.
He was right — it would kill his father. Hurrying, Aleksandr tried to open the door but the office was so small that the man’s slumped body was blocking the way. He had to drag him to the side before he could unlock and open the door. As soon as the door was open hands reached in, grabbing him, pulling him out of the office onto the concourse.
Leo looked at Aleksandr, the first person he’d encountered after getting off the train from Moscow, the man who’d fetched him a cigarette, the man who’d helped search the woods. There was nothing he could to do to help him.
Nesterov peered into the ticket office, staring down at his officer, still dazed on the floor, embarrassed by the fact that he’d been overpowered.
— Get him out of there.
Two officers went in and helped the injured officer to a car outside. Seeing what he’d done to one of his men, Nesterov’s deputy cracked a blow across Aleksandr’s face. Before he could hit him again Nesterov intervened.
— That’s enough.
He circled the suspect, weighing up his words.
— I’m disappointed to catch you doing this. I would never have thought it of you.
Aleksandr spat blood on the floor but he didn’t reply. Nesterov continued.
— Tell me why.
— Why? I don’t know why.
— You’ve committed a very serious crime. A judge would give you five years minimum and he wouldn’t care how many times you said you were sorry.
— I haven’t said sorry.
— Brave, Aleksandr, but would you be so brave if everyone found out? You’d be humiliated, disgraced. Even after serving your five years in prison you wouldn’t be able to live or work here. You’d lose everything.
Leo stepped forward.
— Just ask him.
— There is a way to avoid this shame. We need a list of every man in this town who has sex with other men, men who have sex with younger men, men who have sex with boys. You will help us create this list.
— I don’t know any others. This is my first time…
— If you choose not to help us we’ll arrest you, put you on trial and invite your parents to court. Are they getting ready for bed right now? I could send one of my men to find out, bring them down.
— No.
— Work for us and maybe we won’t need to mention anything to your parents. Work for us and maybe you won’t need to go to trial. Maybe this disgrace can stay a secret.
— What is this about?
— The murder of a young boy. You’ll be doing a public service and making amends for your crime. Will you make this list?
Aleksandr touched the blood running out of his mouth.
— What will happen to the men on the list?
29 March
Leo sat on the edge of his bed contemplating how his attempt to re-launch an investigation had instead precipitated a city-wide pogrom. Over the past week the militia had rounded up one hundred and fifty homosexuals. Today alone Leo had arrested six men, bringing his count to twenty. Some had been taken from their place of work, escorted out in handcuffs while their colleagues watched. Others had been taken from their homes, their apartments, taken from their families — their wives pleading, convinced that there must be some mistake, unable to comprehend the charges.
Nesterov had reason to be pleased. Quite by chance he’d found a second undesirable: a suspect he could call murderer without upsetting the social theory. Murder was an aberration. These men were an aberration. It was a perfect fit. He’d been able to announce that they were now instigating the largest murder hunt ever launched by the Voualsk militia, a claim that would’ve cost him his career if he hadn’t been targeting such an unacceptable subgroup. Short of space, offices had been converted into makeshift holding cells and interrogation rooms. Even with these improvised measures it had been necessary to lock several men in each cell with guards given clear instructions that the men needed to be watched at all times. The cause for concern had been the possibility of spontaneous incidents of sexual deviancy. No one quite knew what they were dealing with. But they were certain that were such sexual activities to take place within the militia headquarters they would undermine the establishment. It would be an affront to the principles of justice. In addition to this high level of scrutiny every officer had been timetabled to work twelve-hour shifts, with suspects questioned constantly, twenty-four hours a day. Leo had been obliged to ask the same questions again and again, picking through answers for even the smallest variation. He’d carried out this task like a dull automaton, convinced even before they’d made a single arrest that these men were innocent.
Aleksandr’s list had been trawled through name by name. On producing the list he’d explained that he could create it not because he’d been promiscuous, at least not to the extent of having sexual encounters with a hundred or so men. In fact, many of the names on the list were people he’d never even met. His information came from conversations with the ten or so that he’d had sex with. Each man recounted liaisons with different men so that, added together, it was possible to draw a sexual constellation with each man knowing his place in relation to each other. Leo had listened to this explanation, a hidden world opening up, a hermetically sealed existence constructed within society at large. The integrity of the seals was critical. Aleksandr had described how men on the list met by chance in routine situations, standing in a food line buying bread, eating at the same table in a factory canteen. In these everyday surroundings casual conversation was forbidden, a glance was the most that was allowed and even that needed to be disguised. These were rules that had come about not by agreement or decree, no one needed to be told them, they arose out of self-preservation.
As soon as the first wave of arrests had begun, news of a purge must have spread throughout their ranks. The secret meeting places — no longer a secret — were abandoned. But this desperate counter-measure had been to no avail. There was the list. The seals around the world had broken. Nesterov didn’t need to catch anyone in a sexually compromising act. Seeing their names in print, one after the after, and realizing that their ranks had been broken, most of the men succumbed to the pressure of this betrayal. Like U-boats which had for so long remained unseen under the water’s surface, suddenly they found all their positions had been given away. As they were forced to the surface they were presented with a choice, not much of a choice but a choice all the same: they could reject the charges of sodomy and face public prosecution, certain conviction, imprisonment, etc. Or they could identify the homosexual among them responsible for this terrible crime, the murder of a young boy.
As far as Leo could ascertain, Nesterov seemed to believe that all these men suffered from a sickness of some kind. While some were sick in the mildest sense, plagued by feelings for other men as a normal person might be racked by persistent headaches, others were dangerously ill, symptoms which expressed themselves in the need for young boys. This was homosexuality in its most extreme form. The murderer was one such man.
When Leo had shown photos of the crime scene, photos of the young boy with his guts cut open, all the suspects had reacted in exactly the same way — they were horrified — or at least they appeared to be. Who could’ve done such a thing? It wasn’t one of them, it wasn’t anyone they knew. None of them had any interest in boys. Many of them had children of their own and so on the answers had gone. Every man was resolute: they knew of no killer amongst them and they wouldn’t protect him if they did. Nesterov had expected a prime suspect within a week. After a week they had nothing to show for their work except a longer list. More names were added, some merely out of spite. The list had become a brutally effective weapon. Members of the militia were adding the names of their enemies onto it, claiming the person had been mentioned in confession. Once a name was on the list it was impossible to claim innocence. So the number in custody had grown from a hundred to nearly one hundred and fifty men.
Frustrated with the lack of progress, the local MGB had suggested they take over the interrogations, shorthand for the use of torture. To Leo’s dismay Nesterov had agreed. Despite floors flecked with blood there’d been no breakthrough. Nesterov had been left with little choice but to initiate prosecutions against all one hundred and fifty men, hoping this would make one of them speak. It wasn’t enough that they were humiliated and disgraced and tortured: they needed to understand that they would lose their lives. They would, if the judge was so instructed, receive twenty-five years for political subversion rather than a mere five years for sodomy. Their sexuality was considered a crime against the very fabric of the nation. Faced with this prospect three men had cracked and begun pointing the finger. However, none of them had picked the same person. Refusing to accept that his line of investigation was flawed, Nesterov considered himself up against a kind of perverse, criminal solidarity — honour amongst deviants.
Exasperated, Leo had approached his superior officer.
— These men are innocent.
Nesterov had stared at him, puzzled.
— All these men are guilty. The question is which one is also guilty of murder.
Raisa watched as Leo kicked the heels of his boots together. Dirty chunks of snow fell to the floor. He stared down, unaware that she was in the room. She found his disappointment impossible to bear. He’d believed, sincerely believed, that his investigation stood a chance. He’d pinned his hopes on a fanciful dream of redemption: a final act of justice. It was an idea she’d mocked that night in the forest. But it had been mocked far more cruelly by the turn of events. In the pursuit of justice he’d unleashed terror. In the pursuit of a killer, one hundred and fifty men would lose their lives, if not literally, then on every other level — they’d lose their families, their homes. And she realized, seeing her husband’s hunched shoulders and drawn face, that he never did anything without believing in it. There was nothing cynical or calculating about him. If this was true then he must also have believed in their marriage: he must have believed it was built on love. Steadily all the fantasies he’d created — about the State, about their relationship — had been shattered. Raisa was envious of him. Even now, even after everything that had happened, he was still able to hope. He still wanted to believe in something. She stepped forward, sitting beside him on the bed. Tentatively, she took his hand. Surprised, he looked at her but said nothing, accepting the gesture. And together they watched as the snow began to melt.
30 March
Orphanage 80 was a five-storey brick building with faded white lettering painted on the side: WORK HARD LIVE LONG. On the roof there was a long line of chimney stacks. The orphanage had once been a small factory. Dirty rags hung across the barred windows, making it impossible to see inside. Leo knocked on the door. No response; he tried the handle. It was locked. Moving to the windows he tapped on the glass. The rags were jerked back. The face of a young girl appeared for little more than a second, an apparition of filth, before the rags fell back into place. Leo was accompanied by Moiseyev, a militia officer who Leo had pegged as little more than a uniformed thug. After a long wait the main door opened. An elderly man with a fist full of brass keys stared at the two officers. Seeing their uniforms his expression changed from irritation to deference. He dropped his head slightly.
— What can I do for you?
— We’re here about the murdered boy.
The main hall of the orphanage had once been the factory floor. All the machinery had been cleared and it had been converted into a dining room, not by the addition of tables and chairs, for there were none, but by the fact that the entire floor was covered with children sitting cross-legged, pressed up against each other and trying to eat. Every child clutched a wooden bowl filled with what appeared to be a watery cabbage soup. However, it seemed only the eldest children had spoons. The rest either sat waiting for a spoon or drank straight from the bowl. Once a child had finished, they licked the spoon from top to bottom before passing it onto the next child.
This was Leo’s first experience of a State orphanage. He stepped closer, surveying the room. It was difficult to guess how many children there were — two hundred, three hundred, aged from four to fourteen. None of the children paid Leo any attention: they were too busy eating or watching their neighbours, waiting for a spoon. No one spoke. All that could be heard was the scraping of bowls and slurping. Leo turned to the elderly man.
— Are you the director of this institution?
The director’s office was on the first floor, looking out over a factory floor covered with children as though they were being mass-produced. In the office were several teenage boys, older than the children downstairs. They were playing cards on the director’s desk. The director clapped his hands.
— Continue this in your room, please.
The boys stared at Leo and Moiseyev. Leo could only suppose that their irritation came from being told what to do. They had intelligent eyes, experience beyond their years. Without a word they moved together, like a pack of wild dogs, collecting up their cards, their matches — used as chips — and filed out.
Once they’d left, the director poured himself a drink and gestured for Leo and Moiseyev to take a seat. Moiseyev sat down. Leo remained standing, studying the room. There was a single metal filing cabinet. The bottom drawer had been dented by a kick. The top drawer was partially open and crumpled documents jutted out at all angles.
— There was a young boy murdered in the forest. You’ve heard about this?
— Some other officers were here showing me photos of the boy, asking if I knew who he was. I’m afraid I don’t.
— But you couldn’t say for sure if you were missing any children?
The director scratched his ear.
— There are four of us looking after three hundred or so children. The children come and go. New ones arrive all the time. You must forgive our failings regarding the paperwork.
— Do any of the children in this facility resort to prostitution?
— The older ones do whatever they want. I can’t keep tabs on them. Do they get drunk? Yes. Do they prostitute themselves? Quite possibly, although I don’t sanction it, I’m not involved in it and I certainly don’t profit from it. My job is to make sure they have something to eat and somewhere to sleep. And considering my resources I do that very well. Not that I expect any praise.
The director showed them upstairs towards the sleeping areas. As they passed a shower room he commented:
— You think that I’m indifferent to the children’s welfare? I’m not, I do my best. I make sure they wash once a week, I make sure they’re shaved and deloused once a month. I boil all their clothes. I will not have lice in my orphanage. You go to any other orphanage and the children’s hair will be alive with them, their eyebrows thick with them. It’s disgusting. Not here. Not that they thank me for it.
— Would it be possible to speak to the children on our own? They might be intimidated by your presence.
The director smiled.
— They won’t be intimidated by me. But by all means…
He gestured to the flight of stairs.
— The older ones live on the top floor. It’s very much their fiefdom up there.
The upstairs bedrooms, tucked under the roof, contained no bed frames, just the occasional thin mattress on the floor. The older children evidently took their lunch at a time which suited them; no doubt they’d already eaten and taken the best of the food.
Leo stepped into the first room on the landing. He caught sight of a girl hiding behind the door and saw a glint of metal. She was armed with a knife. Seeing his uniform she slipped the knife away, the blade disappearing into the folds of her dress.
— We thought you were the boys. They’re not allowed in here.
Some twenty girls, at a guess aged between fourteen and sixteen, stared at Leo with hardened faces. Leo’s mind was thrown back to his promise to Anatoly Brodsky that the two daughters were safe in the care of a Moscow orphanage. It had been an empty, ignorant assurance. Leo understood that now. Brodsky had been right. Those two girls would’ve been better on their own, looking after each other.
— Where do the boys sleep?
The older boys, some of whom had been in the director’s office, were huddled at the back of their room, waiting, expecting them. Leo entered the room and knelt down, placing an album of photographs on the floor in front of them.
— I’d like you to look through these photos, tell me if any of these men have ever approached you, offered you money in return for sexual favours.
None of the boys moved or gave any indication that his supposition was correct.
— You haven’t done anything wrong. We need your help.
Leo opened the album, slowly turning the pages of photographs. He reached the end. The audience of teenagers had stared at the photos but given no reaction. He turned back through the pages. There was still no reaction from the boys. He was about to shut the album when a boy from the back of the group reached out and touched one of the photos.
— This man propositioned you?
— Pay me.
— He paid you?
— No, you pay me and I’ll tell you.
Leo and Moiseyev clubbed together, offering the boy three roubles. The boy flicked through the album, stopping at a page and pointing to one of the photos.
— The man looked like that man.
— So it wasn’t this man?
— No, but similar.
— Do you know his name?
— No.
— Can you tell us anything about him?
— Pay me.
Moiseyev shook his head, refusing to pay any more.
— We could arrest you for profiteering.
Cutting the threat short, Leo took out the last of his money, giving it to the boy.
— That’s all I have.
— He works at the hospital.
Same Day
Leo drew his gun. They were on the top floor of Apartment Building 7: apartment 14 was at the end of the corridor. They’d been given the address by staff at the hospital. The suspect was off sick and had been for the past week, a length of time which would have meant, if all the MGB officers hadn’t been busy with their interrogations, that he would’ve almost certainly been questioned. It turned out that the beginning of his sickness corresponded with the first wave of arrests against the town’s homosexual population.
Leo knocked on the door. There was no response. He called out, stating their name and rank. There was no reply. Moiseyev lifted his boot, ready to kick at the lock. The door opened.
Seeing the guns pointed at him, Dr Tyapkin raised his hands and stepped back. Leo barely recognized him. This was the same man who’d helped him with the examination of the girl’s body, the prestigious doctor transferred from Moscow. His hair and eyes were wild. He’d lost weight. His clothes were rumpled. Leo had seen men broken by worry; he’d seen how their muscles lost shape and strength, as if they’d been eaten up by fear.
Leo pushed the door open with his foot, surveying the apartment.
— Are you alone?
— My youngest son’s here. But he’s asleep.
— How old is he?
— Four months.
Moiseyev stepped in, smashing the metal butt of his gun against Tyapkin’s nose. Tyapkin dropped to his knees, blood running into his cupped hands. Moiseyev ordered Leo.
— Search him.
Moiseyev began searching the apartment. Leo crouched down, helping Tyapkin to his feet, bringing him into the kitchen, where he sat him down on a chair.
— Where’s your wife?
— Buying food…she’ll be back soon.
— The hospital said you were sick.
— That’s true, in a way. I heard about the arrests. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came to me.
— Tell me what happened.
— I was mad, there’s no other explanation for it. I didn’t know his age. He was young. Maybe fifteen or sixteen, I didn’t want someone who’d talk to me or someone who’d tell anyone else about me. I didn’t want to have to meet them again. Or see them. Or speak to them. I wanted anonymity. I reasoned no one would ever listen to an orphan. His word would count for nothing. I could give him a little money and that would be the end. I wanted someone invisible — can you understand?
Having completed a cursory search, Moiseyev re-entered the room and holstered his gun. He grabbed Tyapkin’s broken nose, twisting the fractured bone right and left, causing him to scream in pain. A baby awoke in a nearby room and began to cry.
— You fuck these boys then kill them?
Moiseyev let go of Tyapkin’s nose. The doctor dropped to the floor, curling up into a ball. It was some time before he could manage to speak.
— I didn’t have sex with him. I didn’t go through with it. I couldn’t go through with it. I asked him, I paid him, but I couldn’t do it. I walked away.
— Get to your feet. We’re leaving.
— We have to wait till my wife comes back — we can’t leave my son alone.
— The kid will survive. Get to your feet.
— At least let me stop the bleeding.
Moiseyev nodded.
— Leave the bathroom door open.
Tyapkin left the kitchen and lurched to the bathroom, leaving a bloody hand print on the door, which remained open as instructed. Moiseyev surveyed the apartment. Leo could tell he was jealous. The doctor had a pleasant home. Tyapkin ran the water in the sink, pressing a towel against his nose and speaking, his back turned to them.
— I’m very sorry for what I did. But I never killed anyone. You must believe me. Not because I think my reputation can be salvaged. I know I’m ruined. But someone else murdered that boy, someone who must be caught.
Moiseyev was becoming impatient.
— Come on.
— I wish you the best of luck.
Hearing those words Leo ran into the room, spinning Tyapkin round. Embedded in his arm was a syringe. Tyapkin’s legs went slack. He fell. Leo caught him, laying him down on the floor, pulling the syringe out of his arm. He checked his pulse. Tyapkin was dead. Moiseyev stared down at the body.
— That makes our job easier.
Leo looked up. Tyapkin’s wife had returned. She was standing at the entrance to the apartment, holding her family’s groceries.
1 April
Aleksandr closed the ticket office. As far as he was aware Nesterov had been true to his word. The secret of his sexual activities had been contained. None of the customers glanced at him oddly. None of them whispered about him. His family hadn’t shunned him. His mother still loved him. His father still thanked him for his hard work. They were both still proud of him. The price for this status quo had been the names of over one hundred men, men who’d been rounded up while Aleksandr continued selling tickets, answering passenger queries and dealing with the day-today running of a station. His life had returned to normal. His routine was almost identical. He ate dinner with his parents, took his father to hospital. He cleaned the station, read the papers. However, he no longer went to the movies. In fact, he no longer went into the centre of town at all. He was fearful of who he might meet; perhaps a militia officer who would smirk knowingly at him. His world had shrunk. But it had shrunk when he’d given up his dream of being an athlete and he told himself he’d adjust just as he’d adjusted before.
The truth is that he spent every moment wondering if the men had guessed he’d betrayed them. Maybe they’d been told. The sheer number of arrests meant that they were probably forced into cells with each other. What else would they have spent their time doing except speculate on who’d written the list? It was the first time in their life they no longer had anything to hide. And as he thought about those men he’d found himself wishing that he could swap his freedom for the public humiliation of one those cells. However, he wouldn’t be welcome there. He had nowhere, neither this world, nor their world.
He shut the door to the ticket office, locking it behind him and checking the clock which hung over the concourse. He put the keys into his pocket and walked onto the platform. A couple were waiting for the train. He recognized them by sight although not by name. They waved to him and he waved back, walking to the end of the platform, watching as the train approached. This train was on time. Aleksandr stepped off the platform and positioned himself across one of the tracks, staring up at the night sky.
He hoped his parents would believe the note he’d left behind. In the note he’d explained that he’d never been able to recover from the disappointment of failing to become a long-distance runner. And he’d never forgiven himself for letting his father down.
Same Day
Nesterov had spent the last four years promising his family a better place to live, a promise that until recently he used to repeat regularly. He no longer believed that they would be designated a better residence; no longer believed if he worked hard, if his wife worked hard, their labour would be translated into material benefit. They lived on Kropotkinsky Street, on the outskirts of town, close to the lumber mills. The houses on this street had been built haphazardly; all of them were different shapes and sizes. Nesterov spent much of his free time making home improvements. He was a competent carpenter and had replaced the window frames, the doors. But over the years the foundations had sunk and the front of the house was now tilting forward, slanting at an angle so that the door could only open so far before it became wedged into the ground. Some years ago he’d built a small extension which he used as a workshop. He and his wife, Inessa, crafted tables and chairs and fixed up the house, making whatever they needed. They did this not just for their own family but for any of the families on the street. All a person had to do was bring them the raw materials and perhaps, as a gesture, some item of food or drink.
Yet in the end no amount of tinkering could compensate for the property’s shortcomings. There was no running water — the nearest well was a ten-minute walk. There was no plumbing — there was a pit toilet at the back of the house. When they’d moved in the pit toilet was filthy and falling apart. It had been far too shallow and it was impossible to go in without gagging at the smell. Nesterov had constructed a new one, in a separate location, working through the night to finish. It had decent walls and a much deeper hole with a barrel of sawdust to throw in afterwards. Even so, he was aware that his family lived cut off from the advancements in comfort and hygiene, with no promise of a better future. He was forty years old. His pay was less than many of the twenty-something workers at the car assembly plant. His aspiration — to provide a decent home — had come to nothing.
There was a knock on the front door. It was late. Nesterov, still wearing his uniform, could hear Inessa answer the door. A moment later she appeared in the kitchen.
— It’s someone for you. He’s from your work. I don’t recognize him.
Nesterov walked into the hallway. Leo was standing outside. Nesterov turned to his wife.
— I’ll deal with this.
— Will he be coming inside?
— No, this won’t take long.
Inessa glanced at Leo and then left. Nesterov stepped outside, shutting the door.
Leo had run all the way here. The news of Aleksandr’s death had wiped out any sense of discretion. He no longer felt the disappointment and melancholy that had wracked him all week. He felt unhinged, part of a horrific, absurd charade, a player in a grotesque farce — the naive dreamer, striving for justice but leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. His aspiration — that a killer be caught — had been answered with bloodshed. Raisa had known all along, she’d known in the forest, she’d known two nights ago, she’d tried to warn him and yet he’d pressed on, like a child on an adventure.
What could one man achieve?
He had his reply: the ruin of two hundred lives, the suicide of a young man and the death of a doctor. A young man’s body cut in two by a train: this was the fruit of his labour. This was what he’d risked his life for; this was what he’d risked Raisa’s life for. This was his redemption.
— Aleksandr is dead. He killed himself, threw himself under a train.
Nesterov dropped his head.
— I’m sorry to hear that. We gave him a chance to sort himself out. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was too sick.
— We’re responsible for his death.
— No, he was ill.
— He was twenty-two years old. He had a mother and a father and he liked going to the cinema. And now he’s dead. But the good thing is if we find another dead child we can just blame it on Aleksandr, solve the case in record time.
— That’s enough.
— What are you doing this for? Because you’re not doing it for the money or the perks!
Leo stared at Nesterov’s lopsided house. Nesterov replied:
— Tyapkin killed himself because he was guilty.
— As soon as we started arresting those men he knew we’d question those children, he knew we’d track him down.
— He had the surgical skill necessary to cut out a child’s stomach. He gave a false testimony to you regarding the girl’s murder to confuse us. He was devious, cunning.
— He told me the truth. That little girl’s stomach was cut out. Her mouth was stuffed with bark just as the boy’s stomach was cut out and his mouth was stuffed with bark. She had string tied around her ankle and so did the boy. They were killed by the same man. And it wasn’t Dr Tyapkin and it wasn’t that teenager Varlam Babinich.
— Go home.
— There was a body in Moscow. A young boy, called Arkady, not even five years old. I didn’t see his body but I was told that he was found naked, his stomach cut open, his mouth stuffed with dirt. I suspect his mouth was stuffed with bark.
— Suddenly there’s a murdered child in Moscow? That’s very convenient, Leo. I don’t believe it.
— I didn’t believe it either. I had the grieving family in front of me, telling me their son had been murdered, and I didn’t believe it. I told them it wasn’t true. How many other incidents have been covered up? We have no way of knowing, no way of finding out. Our system is perfectly arranged to allow this man to kill as many times as he likes. And he’s going to kill again and again, and we’re going to keep arresting the wrong people, innocent people, people we don’t like, or people we don’t approve of, and he’s going to kill again and again.
Nesterov didn’t trust this man. He’d never trusted him and he certainly wasn’t going to be drawn into making criticisms about the State. He turned his back on Leo, reaching for the front door.
Leo grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him so they were face to face again. The intention had been to make another point, to drive home his argument with reasoning and logic but instead, stumped for words, Leo punched him. It was a good punch, solid. Nesterov’s head cracked to the side. He remained in that position, head to one side. Then, slowly, he turned to face his junior officer. Leo tried to keep his voice steady.
— We’ve solved nothing.
Nesterov’s punch lifted Leo off his feet. He landed on the ground, on his back. It didn’t hurt, not yet. Nesterov stared down at him, touching his own jaw.
— Go home.
Leo got to his feet.
— We’ve solved nothing.
He threw a punch. Nesterov blocked, throwing one back. Leo ducked. He was a good fighter: trained, skilled. But Nesterov was larger and quick despite his size. Punched in the stomach, Leo doubled up. Nesterov brought a second blow down across the exposed side of his face, dropping him to his knees and splitting open the skin on his cheek. With his vision blurred Leo toppled forward, falling. He rolled onto his back, gasping. Nesterov stood over him.
— Go home.
In reply Leo kicked him squarely in the groin. He scuttled back, hunched over. Leo staggered to his feet.
— We’ve solved—
Before he could finish Nesterov ran forward, crashing into Leo, knocking him to the ground, landing on top of him. He punched him in the stomach, the face, the stomach, the face. Leo lay there, taking blow after blow, unable to get free. Nesterov’s knuckles were bloody. Catching his breath, he stopped. Leo wasn’t moving. His eyes were closed — a pool of blood collecting in his right eye, fed by a cut to his brow. Nesterov got to his feet, shaking his head at the sight. He moved towards the front door, wiping the blood on his trousers. As he reached for the handle he heard a sound behind him.
Wincing in pain, Leo pulled himself up. Unsteady on his feet, he raised his hands, as though ready to fight. He rocked from side to side, as if standing on a boat out at sea. He had only a vague idea where Nesterov was. His voice was a whisper.
— We’ve…solved…nothing.
Nesterov watched as Leo swayed. He walked towards him, fists clenched, ready to knock him down. Leo swung a hopeless, pitiful punch — Nesterov sidestepped and caught Leo under the arm just as his legs gave way.
Leo sat at the kitchen table. Inessa had warmed some water on the fire. She poured it into a bowl. Nesterov dropped a cloth in the water and Leo was left to clean his face. His lip had been split. His eyebrow was bleeding. The pain in his stomach had subsided. Pressing a finger over his chest and ribs, nothing felt broken. His right eye was swollen. He couldn’t open it. None the less, it was a relatively cheap price for getting Nesterov’s attention. Leo wondered if his case would sound any more convincing inside than outside and if Nesterov could be so dismissive in front of his wife, with their children sleeping in the room next door.
— How many children do you have?
Inessa replied:
— We have two boys.
— Do they walk through the woods on their way to school?
— They used to walk that way.
— Not any more?
— We make them walk through the town. It takes longer and they complain. I have to walk with them to make sure they don’t slip into the forest. On the way back there’s nothing we can do but trust them. We’re both at work.
— Will they be walking through the forests tomorrow? Now the killer has been caught?
Nesterov stood up, pouring tea and putting a glass down in front of Leo.
— Would you like something stronger?
— If you have it.
Nesterov took out a half-empty bottle of vodka, pouring three glasses, one for himself, one for his wife and one for Leo.
The alcohol stung the gash on the inside of Leo’s mouth. Perhaps that would do it good. Nesterov sat down, refilling Leo’s glass.
— Why are you in Voualsk?
Leo dropped the bloody cloth into the bowl of water, rinsing it and placing it against his eye.
— I’m here to investigate the murder of these children.
— That’s a lie.
Leo had to win this man’s trust. Without his help, there was nothing else he could do.
— You’re right. But there was a murder in Moscow. I wasn’t ordered to investigate it. I was ordered to sweep the matter aside. I did my duty in that respect. Where I failed was in refusing to denounce my wife as a spy. I was considered compromised. As a punishment I was sent here.
— So you really are a disgraced officer?
— Yes.
— Then why are you doing this?
— Because three children have been murdered.
— You don’t believe Varlam killed Larisa because you’re sure that Larisa wasn’t this killer’s first victim. Am I right?
— Larisa wasn’t the first victim. She couldn’t have been. He’d done it before. There’s a chance the boy in Moscow wasn’t the first victim either.
— Larisa is the first murdered child we’ve had in this town. That’s the truth, I swear it.
— The killer doesn’t live in Voualsk. The murders were by the train station. He travels.
— He travels? He murders children? What kind of man is this?
— I don’t know. But there’s a woman in Moscow who’s seen him. She saw him with the victim. An eyewitness can describe this man to us. But we need the murder records from every major town from Sverdlovsk to Leningrad.
— There are no centralized records.
— That’s why you have to visit each town and collect their case files one by one. You’re going to have to persuade them and if they refuse, you’re going to have to talk to the people living there. Find out from them.
The idea was outlandish. Nesterov should’ve laughed. He should’ve arrested Leo. Instead, he asked:
— Why would I do that for you?
— Not for me. You’ve seen what he does to these children. Do it for the people we live with. Our neighbours, the people we sit next to on the train, do it for the children we don’t know and will never meet. I don’t have the authority to request those files. I don’t know anyone in the militia. You do: you know these men — they trust you. You can get those files. You’ll be looking for incidents of murdered children: the cases can be solved or unsolved. There’ll be a pattern: their mouths stuffed with bark and their stomachs missing. Their bodies will probably have been found in public spaces: the woods, or rivers, maybe near train stations. They’ll have string tied around their ankles.
— What if I find nothing?
— If there are three, which I’ve stumbled across by chance, there will be more.
— I’d be taking a great risk.
— Yes, you would. And you’d have to lie. You couldn’t tell anyone the real reason. You couldn’t tell any of your officers. You can trust no one. And in return for your bravery, your family might end up in the Gulag. And you might end up dead. That is my offer.
Leo stretched out his hand across the table.
— Will you help me?
Nesterov moved to the window, standing beside his wife. She didn’t look at him, swirling the vodka at the bottom of her glass. Would he risk his family, his home, everything he’d worked for?
— No.
2 April
Petya was awake before dawn. Sitting on the cold stone steps of their farmhouse, he waited impatiently for sunrise so that he might ask his parents’ permission to walk into town. After months of saving he had enough to buy another stamp which would bring him to the last page of his album. On his fifth birthday he’d been given his first set of stamps by his father. He hadn’t asked for them but he’d taken to the hobby, cautiously at first and then more and more doggedly until it had become an obsession. Over the past two years he’d collected stamps from other families working on the kolkhoz—Collective Farm 12, the farm his parents had been assigned. He’d even struck up casual acquaintances in Gukovo, the nearest town, in the hope of obtaining their stamps. As his collection had grown he’d bought a cheap paper album in which he stuck the stamps, gluing them in neat rows. He kept this album inside a wooden box which his father had built for him with the express purpose of protecting it from mishap. Such a box had been necessary since Petya had been unable to sleep at night, constantly checking that water wasn’t leaking in through the roof or that rats hadn’t eaten the precious pages. And of all the stamps he’d collected he loved the first four that his father had given him the most.
Every now and then his parents gave him the occasional kopek—not a spare kopek, since he was old enough to realize there was no money to spare. In exchange he always made sure he did a little extra work around the farm. It took so long to save up that months went by and all he could do was contemplate which stamps to buy next. Last night he’d been given another kopek, the timing of which his mother had considered unwise, not because she was opposed to him buying stamps, but because she knew it meant that there was no chance he’d sleep that night. She’d been right.
As the sun began to rise Petya hurried inside. His mother insisted that he eat a bowl of oatmeal before going anywhere. He ate it as fast as he could, ignoring her concerns that he’d get a stomach ache. Finished, he ran out of the house, reaching the track that snaked through the fields on its way towards town. He slowed to a brisk pace. The shops wouldn’t be open yet. He might as well enjoy the anticipation.
In Gukovo the kiosk which sold stamps and newspapers was still closed. Petya didn’t have a watch. He didn’t know when it would open exactly but he didn’t mind waiting. It was exciting being in town knowing that he had enough money for a new stamp and he wandered the streets without any particular destination. He stopped by the elektrichka station, knowing that there was a clock inside. The time was seven fifty. A train was due to leave and he decided to watch it, walking onto the platform and sitting down. He’d travelled on the elektrichka before. It was a slow train which stopped at every destination on the way to the city of Rostov. Though he’d only ever been as far as Rostov with his parents, he and some of his school friends occasionally boarded the train for no reason other than they knew they could do so for free. Tickets were rarely checked.
He was almost ready to return to the kiosk and buy his stamp when a man sat down beside him. The man was smartly dressed and had a black case, which he put on the ground between his legs as though he was afraid someone might run off with it. Petya looked up at his face. He had thick square glasses, neat black hair. He was wearing a suit. Petya couldn’t tell how old the man was. He wasn’t properly old, with grey hair. But then again he wasn’t properly young either. He seemed unaware of Petya’s presence. Petya was about to stand and leave when, quite suddenly, the man turned and smiled.
— Where are you travelling to today?
— I’m not going anywhere, sir. Not on a train, I mean. I’m just sitting here.
Petya had been taught to be polite and respectful towards elders.
— It’s an odd place to be sitting for no reason.
— I’m waiting to buy some stamps but the kiosk isn’t open yet. Although it might be open now, I should go and check.
Upon hearing this, the man turned his whole body towards Petya.
— You collect stamps?
— Yes, sir.
— I used to be a stamp collector when I was your age.
Petya sat back, relaxing — he didn’t know anyone else who collected stamps.
— Did you collect new stamps or used stamps? I collect both.
— All of mine were new. I bought them from a kiosk. Just like you.
— I wish all mine were new. But they’re mostly used. I cut them off old envelopes.
Petya reached into his pocket, pulling out his handful of copper kopeks and showing them to the man.
— I had to save for three months.
The man glanced at the small heap of coins.
— Such a long time for not very much.
Petya looked down at his coins. The man was right. He didn’t have very much. And he realized that he’d never have very much. His excitement was tainted. He’d never have a great collection. Other people would always have more than him: it didn’t matter how hard he worked, he could never catch up. His spirits dampened, he wanted to leave and was about to stand when the man asked:
— Are you a tidy boy?
— Yes, sir.
— Do you look after your stamps?
— I take good care of them. I put them in an album. And my dad has made me a wooden box. That’s to keep the album safe. Our roof leaks sometimes. And there are rats sometimes too.
— That’s sensible to put your album somewhere safe. I did a similar thing when I was your age. I kept mine in a drawer.
The man seemed to weigh something up in his mind.
— Listen, I have children of my own. Two young daughters and neither of them are interested in stamps. They’re messy children. As for me, I no longer have time for stamps — I’m busy with my work. You can understand that? I’m sure your parents are also busy.
— All the time, sir, they work very hard.
— They don’t have time to collect stamps, do they?
— No, sir.
— I’m in the same situation as them. Here’s my idea: I would like my collection to go to a person who’d appreciate it, a person who’d take care of it, a person just like you.
Petya considered the prospect of an entire book filled with new stamps. They would date back for as long as this man had been collecting. It would be the collection he’d always dreamed of. He said nothing, unable to believe his luck.
— Well? Would that interest you?
— Yes, sir, I could put it in my wooden box and it would be safe.
The man didn’t seem so sure, shaking his head.
— But my book is so full of stamps it might be too big for your little box.
— Then my father will make me another one. He’s clever like that. And he wouldn’t mind at all. He likes making things. He’s skilful.
— And you’re sure you’d look after the stamps?
— Yes, sir.
— Promise me.
— I promise, sir.
The man smiled.
— You’ve convinced me. You can have it. I only live three stops away. Come on, I’ll buy you a ticket.
Petya was about to say that a ticket was unnecessary but he swallowed the words. He didn’t want to admit to breaking the rules. Until he got the stamps he needed to maintain this man’s good opinion.
Sitting on the wooden seats of the elektrichka, staring out the window at the forests, Petya swung his legs backwards and forwards, his shoes almost touching the floor. There was now the question of whether he should spend his kopeks on a new stamp. It seemed unnecessary considering all the stamps he was about to acquire and he decided that he’d return the money to his parents. It would be nice if they could share in his good fortune. The man interrupted his thoughts by tapping him lightly on the shoulder.
— We’re here.
The elektrichka had stopped at a station in the middle of the woods, long before the town of Shakhty. Petya was confused. This was a leisure stop for people wanting to get away from the towns. There were paths through the undergrowth, trodden down by walkers. But this wasn’t a good time for walking. The snows had only recently melted. The woods were bleak and unwelcoming. Petya turned to his companion, looking at his smart shoes and black case.
— You live here?
The man shook his head.
— My dacha is here. I can’t keep my stamps at home. I’m too worried that my children will find them and touch them with their dirty fingers. But I’m going to have to sell this dacha, you see. So I have nowhere to keep this collection any more.
He got off the train. Petya followed, stepping down onto the platform. No one else had disembarked.
The man walked into the woods, Petya just behind. Having a dacha made a kind of sense. Petya didn’t know anyone rich enough to have a summer home, but he knew they were often situated in woods or by lakes or by the sea. While walking the man continued to talk.
— Of course it would have been nice if my children took an interest in stamps but they just don’t care for them.
Petya considered telling this man that perhaps his children needed a little time. It had taken him time to become a careful collector. But he was canny enough to understand that it was in his advantage that this man’s children were uninterested in stamps. And so he said nothing.
The man stepped off the path, walking through the undergrowth with quite some speed. Petya struggled to keep up. The man took long strides. Petya almost had to run.
— Sir, what’s your name? I’d like to be able tell my parents the name of the man who gave me the stamps in case they don’t believe me.
— Don’t worry about your parents. I’ll write them a note explaining exactly how you came into possession of the album. I’ll even give them my address in case they want to check.
— Thank you very much, sir.
— Call me Andrei.
After some time the man stopped walking and bent down, opening his case. Petya also stopped, looking around for some sign of this dacha. He couldn’t see one. Maybe they had a bit further to go. Catching his breath, he stared up at the leafless branches of the tall trees that criss-crossed the grey sky.
Andrei stared down at the boy’s body. Blood ran down the boy’s head, across the side of his face. Andrei knelt, placing a finger on the boy’s neck, feeling for a pulse. He was alive. That was good. He rolled the boy onto his back and began undressing him as though he were a doll. He took off the boy’s coat, his shirt, then his shoes and his socks. Finally he took his trousers and underwear. He gathered the clothes in a bundle, picked up his case, walking away from the child. After about twenty paces he stopped beside a fallen tree. He dropped the clothes, a small pile of cheap garments. He put his case on the ground, opened it and pulled out a long piece of coarse string. He returned to the boy, tying one end of the string around his ankle. He made a tight knot, testing it by pulling the boy’s leg. It held fast. Walking backwards, he carefully unwound the string as though laying the fuse to a stack of dynamite. He reached the fallen tree, hid behind it and lay down on the ground.
He’d chosen a good spot. The position of the tree meant that when the boy awoke he’d be out of sight. His eyes followed the line of string from his hand, across the ground all the way to the boy’s ankle. There was still plenty of string left in his hand, plenty of slack, at least another fifteen or so paces’ worth. Set up, ready, he was so excited he wanted to pee. Afraid he might miss the moment the boy woke up, he rolled onto his side, unbuttoned his flies and still lying on the ground emptied himself. Done, he shuffled away from the damp soil, adjusting his position slightly. The boy was still unconscious. Time for the last of the preparations. Andrei took off his glasses, putting them in his glasses case and slipping them into his jacket pocket. Now, looking back, the child was just a blur. Squinting hard, all Andrei could see was an outline, an indistinct splash of pink skin contrasting with the ground. Andrei reached out, snapped a twig off a nearby tree and began to chew the bark, his teeth turning coarse and brown.
Petya opened his eyes, focusing on the grey sky and the branches of leafless trees. His head was sticky with blood. He touched it and looked at his fingers, beginning to cry. He was cold. He was naked. What had happened? Confused, he didn’t dare sit up for fear of seeing that man beside him. He was certain the man was close. Right now all he could see was the sky. But he couldn’t stay here, naked on the ground. He wanted to be at home with his parents. He loved his parents so much and he was sure they loved him. His lips trembling, his whole body trembling, he sat up — looking right and left, hardly daring to breathe. He couldn’t see the man anywhere. He looked behind him, to the side. The man was gone. Petya raised himself into a crouching position, staring into the forests. He was alone, abandoned. He breathed deeply, relieved. He didn’t understand. But he didn’t want to understand.
He peered around for his clothes. They were gone. They weren’t important. He jumped and began to run, running as fast as he could, his feet crunching across fallen branches, the soil wet from rain and snow melt. His bare feet, when they weren’t crunching branches, made a slapping noise. He wasn’t sure if he was running in the right direction. All he knew was that he had to get away.
Suddenly his right foot was pulled back as though a hand had grabbed his ankle. Unable to keep his balance he toppled forward, falling to the ground. Without waiting to catch his breath he rolled onto his back, looking behind him. He couldn’t see anyone. He must have tripped and he was about to stand again when he caught sight of the string tied around his right ankle. His eyes followed its trail into the forests where he could see it stretching across the ground like a fishing line. The string continued all the way to a fallen tree some forty paces away.
He grabbed the string, trying to pull it down over his ankle and off his foot. But it was so tight it dug into his skin. The string was pulled again, harder this time. Petya was wrenched across the ground, his back covered with mud, before coming to a stop. He looked up. There he was, that man, standing up behind the tree, reeling him in. Petya clutched branches, handfuls of soil. But it was no good: he was being pulled closer and closer. He concentrated on the knot. He couldn’t undo it. He couldn’t break the string. He had no choice but to tug it down, scraping the skin around his ankle. The string was pulled again, this time sinking into his flesh. He gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. He grabbed a handful of wet mud, lubricating the string. Just as the man pulled again, Petya freed himself from the noose. He leapt to his feet and ran.
The string was slack in Andrei’s hands. There was nothing at the end of it. He tugged again, feeling his face flush red. He squinted but the distance was too far, he couldn’t see anything, he’d always relied on the string. Should he put his glasses on? No, he’d never had that option as a child.
He’d been stuck like this — nearly blind, alone, stumbling through the forests.
He’s leaving you behind.
Andrei jumped up, climbing over the fallen tree. With his nose close to the ground he followed the string.
Petya ran as fast as he’d ever run before. He’d reach the station — the train would be there. He’d get on. And it would move off before the man arrived. He’d survive.
I can do it.
He turned around. The man was behind him, running, but with his head close to the ground, as though looking for something he’d dropped. What’s more, he was going in the wrong direction. The distance between them was growing. Petya was going to make it, he was going to escape.
Reaching the end of the string, the noose, his heart beating fast — Andrei stopped and stared all around, squinting hard. He felt tears forming; he couldn’t see him. The boy was gone. Andrei was alone, abandoned. Then, there, to the right, movement — a light colour, the colour of skin, a boy.
Petya checked behind him, hopeful that the distance between them had grown even more. This time he saw the man running very fast and heading in his direction. He was taking long strides, his jacket flapping about his sides. He was smiling wildly. Petya could see that his teeth were for some reason completely brown and he stopped, understanding that there was no escape. Feeling weak, all the blood had left his legs. He raised his arms to his head, as if this could protect him, and closed his eyes, imagining himself back in his parents’ arms.
Andrei collided with the boy at such speed that they both fell to the ground. Andrei was on top, the boy wriggling underneath; scratching and biting his jacket. Keeping himself flat on the boy to stop him escaping Andrei muttered:
— It’s still alive!
He pulled out the long hunting knife attached to his belt. Closing his eyes, he jabbed the blade underneath him, cautious jabs at first, stabbing only with the tip, small stabs, listening to its screams. He waited, savouring this moment, feeling the vibrations of the struggle in his stomach. What a feeling! Excited, the blade went in further and faster, further and faster until finally the blade went in all the way up to the hilt. At this point the child was no longer moving.