All Mama could do was cluck her tongue and say, “See what I mean? I’m worried about that one.”
At three o’clock Saturday, Victor came to Anton’s bedside and said, “Get up. I have a plan.”
By the gazebo they met their neighbor Kostya, a pudgy, serious boy who had achieved the imposing age of nine and who would, one day, become Father Andrei. The plan was partly his.
“We’re going to set them loose,” said Victor.
“In the Silver Forest,” added Kostya. “I know the place.”
“What will the puppies eat in the Silver Forest, Victor?”
“Rabbits, I suppose,” said Victor.
“And foxes and rats and mice, too,” Kostya added.
Anton frowned. “They won’t eat mice, will they, Victor?”
“They’ll eat whatever they have to to stay alive,” said Victor. “Now, Anton, you will have to choose. Three will go to the forest. One will stay with us.”
“Then I choose Dina,” said Anton. “He’s the slowest. He would have the hardest time catching rabbits.”
The boys put Lena, Sergei and Yegor into an old apple crate and strapped it to Victor’s bicycle with the belt from Victor’s pants. Emma watched dumbly from under the gazebo. Dina sniffed at the ground and took a bite of dirt. Kostya mounted his bicycle while Anton climbed onto Victor’s handlebars. Victor swung his leg over the crate and put his weight down hard on the pedal. They were off.
They rode an hour and ten minutes along a packed dirt road until they reached a birch forest located along the railroad line. Sunlight shone down through the lime-green leaves, bathing the white bark in a shimmering light. It gave the place a magical atmosphere. The boys half-expected to see trolls and hairy-footed gnomes coming through the grass.
“The Silver Forest!” said Kostya.
The boys agreed it was a perfect spot.
They got the puppies out of the crate and played with them for about an hour. Then the boys got on their bicycles and left.
Anton rode behind his brother on the bicycle seat where the puppies had been, his arms around his brother’s waist. Victor looked back over his shoulder as they rounded a corner. The puppies were chasing each other in the grass.
Anton hugged Victor from behind. “Thank you,” he said.
When they got home, Anton told Mama that he had decided to keep Dina.
“The runt?” said Mama with disgust. “Lord! Why him?”
“Becausehe’s the runt, Mama.”
She shook her head at that. She went outside and came back a few minutes later. “Where are they?” she demanded.
“They ran away!” said Anton. “And I’m glad too!”
Mama bit her lip.
Two hours later, Kostya arrived at their dacha out of breath. “Come quick,” he cried. “Your mama’s down by the river. She has the puppies!”
The boys took off. They sprinted across the little community of dachas and plunged into the fields. They ran along the path past the boyar’s old orchard, past the few bricks still standing from the mansion’s foundation and then down the long hill to the river. There, where the raft ferry had once run, Mama was putting stones into a burlap sack. Victor halted a hundred feet away.
No!
Anton hit Yevgenia at a full run. The eight-year-old’s body bounced off his mother like an underinflated ball thrown against a wall. He hit the ground and lay there stunned. Mama was knocked backward and lost her grip on the bag. One of the puppies’ heads popped out of the bag. She pushed it back inside and then scooped up the bag. She tied a rope around the top and pulled it tight. She had just finished when Anton leaped onto her back.
The sack fell to the ground. The puppies squealed inside.
Victor charged to the point where his mother and twin brother were wrestling.
“Anton!” Victor cried. “Stop it! Get off Mama!”
Victor tried to pull Anton off his mother, but his brother was like a madman. He held tight with one arm and swung at his mother’s chest with the other. Finally, Victor got hold of Anton’s armpits and, with a mighty yank, dragged him free. They tumbled backward to the ground.
Yevgenia did not hesitate. She used the moment to pick up the sack and,one-two-three! she heaved it far out into the center of the stream. It splashed in the river, floated a moment downstream and then sank. Bubbles gurgled on the surface.
Victor stared in disbelief. He turned to his mother. She was panting from the struggle. She ran her hand through her disheveled hair and straightened her clothes.
From the river there came another splash. They both looked. Anton was swimming hard for the center.
“No!” cried Victor.
Anton reached the point where the sack had disappeared and then dove.
The water closed over him, and it was quiet again on the river. The water shooshed against brush that grew out from the banks. Far away, a crow cawed. Victor stared at the spot where his brother had gone down. He waited.
Anton did not come up.
“Mama!” cried Victor, but Yevgenia just stared at the river. She didn’t move. She seemed to be thinking.
“MAMA!”
Victor sprinted to the dock and dove for the cable. He caught it in flight and swung a moment. He climbed hand-over-hand to the center of the river. It took another thirty seconds. Anton had been down a full minute.
Hanging high above the river, Victor could see to the river bottom. Anton was a brown shadow far down under the muddy water. He didn’t drift with the current — that meant he was holding on to the bottom.
“I see him!” Victor cried out.
He let go of the cable, did a half-turn in midair and hit the water in a dive. He stayed underwater and swam to the point where he had seen his brother. Victor’s eyes were open, but he couldn’t find Anton in the murky water. The current dragged Victor downstream. He swam hard against it, but the current was strong. His lungs burned and cried out for air. And still there was no sign of Anton. The current carried him further downstream . . .
So what happened?” asked Oksana.
Victor and Oksana were in the kitchen now. Oksana stood over the stove heating water for tea.
“I found him, of course,” said Victor. “He had hold of the damn sack and was trying to untie Yevgenia’s knot. He couldn’t raise the heavy sack, so he was trying to free the puppies.”
“My god.”
“I pulled at his leg, but he would not let go. We fought. Then his whole body jerked, like a spasm, and I knew he had taken water into his lungs. He went limp, and I hauled him to the surface.”
“Anton wasn’t breathing when I got him to shore, about a quarter-mile downstream. All pioneers learn life-saving, and I was the troop leader, remember? I resuscitated him. Anton coughed and came back to life.”
Oksana shook her head in wonder. “What about Yevgenia?”
“She arrived on the bank just as Anton started breathing again. Her face was blank. I’ve never understood her inability to act that day. I think she just panicked.”
Oksana poured the tea and sat down.
Victor went on. “Until that day, Anton and I were more or less equals. Afterward, we assumed roles. It was understood that Anton would do any reckless thing that came into his head, and I would be there to look after him. And I was! Through all his pranks and radical politics I looked after him. Then came the day when I couldn’t take it anymore, and I just stopped.”
Oksana put her hand atop his. “Victor, you have to stop blaming yourself for that. I know all about your fight that day in the dormitory. Anton told me. After his arrest, he was tired of being your responsibility. He picked that fight with you. He was setting you free.”
Victor jerked his hand back. “I know what he was doing!” he snapped. “But don’t you see? I put him in this mess. The reason Anton could be so fanatical was that he knew he had his twin brother Victor the Survivor, to look out for him. What made me a survivor? Why was I able to carry on? Because I had Anton the Fearless, fighting my b
attles for me, that’s why! We were like Siamese twins, still joined. And the terrible thing is, I knew it! I knew it, but I was such a coward I let it go on rather than take the kind of risks he was taking. It’s so clear now: My whole life — my work, my privilege, my success — was built on Anton’s sacrifice. Then Anton found you, and he was ready to have a normal life. So he broke the bond we had forged that day by the river. Only by then, it was too late.”
Oksana sipped her tea. “So that’s what the dreams have been telling you? That you have to rescue your brother because it’s your fault? That doesn’t make sense. You would have gone after him anyway.”
Victor nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. That’s not what the dreams are about.”
“What then?”
Victor shrugged. “I wish I knew. There’s something else . . . something I’m just not seeing.”
22
Victor agreed to meet Koos van der Laan the next day at 4:30 P.M. in a North Moscow park, not far in fact from Rechnoy Vokzal. Victor knew the place. There was a natural spring there, which old Muscovites believed had healing powers. Baba Raya had often made the pilgrimage “to gather the waters of the spring of St. George,” which made it sound like a noble mission. The reality was somewhat less exalted — a muddy pipe spewing water of questionable quality from the side of a hill.
Koos’s instructions were succinct. If Victor believed he was free of surveillance, he was to fill a bottle from the spring and take it to a bench where the meeting would take place. If he was being followed, he would go directly to the bench and place the empty bottle beside him. Koos would be the bearded man carrying a green umbrella.
An empty Fanta bottle was already standing on Victor’s desk at the SAPO Institute when Alexander Kaminsky phoned. It was two o’clock. Alexander asked Victor to come to his office immediately.
“I have an appointment in a half-hour,” said Victor.
“This won’t take long.”
When Victor entered Alexander’s office, Oleg Ivanov and Petr Terolyov were already seated. Victor was not surprised to see Petr — as head of SAPO’s communists, Petr alone held the power to sway the decision for or against Victor. Petr was not a scientist, but he was a reasonable man as apparatchiks went. The institute was Petr’s family, and he guarded it like a patriarch.
Alexander told Victor to sit “anywhere,” but there was in fact only one seat, which was directly across the table from the three men. Victor sat down. He felt like an inmate at a parole board hearing.
“We have come up with a plan that should save you from expulsion,” Petr said. “We have been working on it ever since the committee meeting last night.”
Oleg said, “We’ve taken the liberty of writing a letter for you. It’s just a rough idea. Feel free to change it around as you see fit.”
Oleg spun a piece of paper on the table and pushed it toward Victor.
Victor read:
Dear editor of The New York Times,
A recent article in your newspaper misquoted me and, worse, drew wild conclusions from scant facts. I strongly disavow the opinion, given by Grayson Hines,that I had a “change of heart.” To the contrary, I stand behind my consistentstatements that Vladimir Ryzhkov improperly took credit for work done at theSAPO Institute. I repeat my position that I cannot accept the 1983 Hubble Prizeuntil the name Vladimir Ryzhkov is expunged. It is true that I gave severaltechnical notebooks to Mr. Hines, but these were for the Hubble Foundation toevaluate, a show of the SAPO Institute’s commitment to fair and honest play inthis matter, a matter into which politics should not be allowed to intrude. I regretthat Mr. Hines chose to use these notebooks for precisely such ends.
Sincerely,
Victor Borisovich Perov
Research Fellow, SAPO Institute
“I won’t sign this,” said Victor.
Oleg said, “As I told you, feel free to change — ”
“Burn it,” said Victor. He crumpled the paper and tossed it at Oleg’s chest. “This is beneath even you, Oleg.”
Oleg’s eyes opened wide. “How dare you — ”
Alexander jumped in. “Victor, we’re your friends. We’re trying to help you.”
“But this is laughable!” said Victor. “Everyone will see right through it.”
“I have to chair a Party meeting on Monday,” said Petr. “If I don’t give them some show of remorse on your part I can’t quiet the voices that would call for expulsion. I’ve been talking to them all day. They respect your work, and they want you to remain in the collective. But you’re making that very, very difficult.”
Victor sighed. Petr, like Yevgenia, was a believer. His genuine concern touched Victor, but it changed nothing.
“You want to help?” asked Victor. “Then let’s be a scientific institute first, and a collective second.”
Petr’s eyes widened. “I don’t believe you said that. The collective — it’s everything.”
Victor rose. “I have an appointment.”
“You’ll be voted out,” said Oleg.
“I’ll take that chance,” said Victor. He crossed the room. The three men’s eyes followed him as though he were an injured player being carried from the field.
“You’ll lose everything,” said Petr.
“I already have,” Victor said. He left the room, closing the door gently behind him.
Stelskogo Park was a sprawling patch of green bordered on the north by the Moscow Canal, which, thanks to Stalin, connected the two main water arteries of the Soviet capital: the Moscow and Oka Rivers. The park itself was popular with Muscovites for its grass beaches, paddle boats and enterprising vendors who somehow were always well-supplied with Pepsi-Cola, shish kebabs, and a heavy beer called “Moskvich.”
But in April, even the early bird sunbathers are still wrapped in winter coats, and the Moscow Canal carries only barges and ice water. So it was no surprise to Victor Perov that the beaches were deserted when he drove toward them shortly after four o’clock Tuesday. Victor parked beside a dirt path leading into a poplar forest. It was from here he would descend to the spring of St. George.
Koos van der Laan had chosen the meeting place well. Because of the back roads one navigated to reach the park, it would be impossible for a car to follow at a distance. And in the forest, the trees would make surveillance difficult.
As Victor walked, two women came toward him, bending under the weight of overflowing water bottles that sloshed and left a water trail back into the woods. He passed them. He followed the muddy trail for several minutes, until he reached a clearing where some steps descended a mud cliff. He went down. At the base of the hill, out of rock, water gushed from a pipe. A dozen people, containers in hand, stood waiting their turn at the pipe. Victor went to the end of the line.
Ten minutes later, he reached the spring. The cold water froze his hands as he held the narrow-necked bottle under the pipe. With the bottle filled he started back up the hill. He found the bench described by the Dutchman, and sat down to wait.
Koos van der Laan came up the trail, exactly on time, swinging a green umbrella. He was a short man with a full red-brown beard the color of copper ore. He strolled past Victor humming contentedly. A few minutes later, he returned from a different direction.
“Mind if I sit down?” he asked in Russian.
“Please do.”
He smiled and flashed a set of perfect teeth. Foreigners always had such perfect teeth.
Koos offered his hand. “You must be Victor Perov.”
They shook.
“Koos van der Laan,” he said. “May we speak English?”
“Certainly,” said Victor.
The Dutchman sat down and said, “Tell me about the wharf.”
Victor told him everything.
“Shot through the head, you say? We suspected, of course. This business of his being drunk . . . well, we suspected it was a coverup. I’ll pass the information along to Amsterdam. Bloody awful business. Pavel knew the risks, but still . .
. Poor bugger. The KGB has already interrogated the wife, from what we’ve been able to find out. She’s free now. I hope Pavel didn’t tell her too much.”
“You’ll pass my information along to her?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Doesn’t she have a right to know her husband wasn’t drunk?” asked Victor.
“Of course. But it’s not my place to tell her. You tell her.”
“Maybe I will.”
Koos shrugged. “What can I do for you?”
“I thought you knew,” said Victor, surprised. “I need your help to find my brother. He’s being held in a psychiatric hospital somewhere — ”
“Good heavens, I can’t help you with that,” said Koos, horrified. “I’m a commercial attaché at the embassy of the Netherlands.”
“But I thought you worked for Soviet Psychiatry Watch.”
Koos winced. “My affiliation with that particular organization is something I do because I feel it’s important, and because I was inspired by Pavel Danilov’s bravery. Most of my fellow Dutch diplomats don’t even know about it. Actually, I’m just a courier. The ambassador admires the SPW’s efforts, and we worked out a kind of unofficial arrangement to use diplomatic pouches to smuggle communiqués. He allows me to make contacts such as this one today on an infrequent basis. Other than that, we stay out of it.”
“But you could get a message to Amsterdam for me.”
“I could, but only if it related directly — and I repeat, directly — to the work of Soviet Psychiatry Watch. We’re not Western Union.”
“Westernwhat? ”
Koos grimaced. “Never mind.”
A chill wind blew, and both men tightened their jackets. “Let’s walk a bit,” said Koos. “Bloody cold, isn’t it?”
They walked along a mud path that led away from the spring. The forest was deserted.
Victor said, “Describe your system for communicating with Pavel.”
Koos shrugged. “We had a monthly handoff. He gave me a report that I sent by dip-pouch to the Dutch Foreign Ministry in The Hague. They checked it to make sure it was SPW work and then passed it along to the SPW officer in Amsterdam.”
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