Zugzwang

by Ronan Bennett

  ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘It’s Berek Medem.’

  Everyone in Russia knew the prison photograph of the Polish terrorist Berek Medem, murderer of innumerable Okhrana agents, policemen, tax collectors, collaborators and spies. Not a week passed without the newspapers reproducing it as they chronicled his exploits with all the ghoulish fascination and horror they typically devote to the activities of such baroque desperadoes. They reported with particular relish his escape from Pawiak prison in Warsaw, after which he went to the house of the woman who had betrayed him. He did not kill her but instead threw acid into her face, and in doing so inspired imitators all over the empire, from Finland to Kamchatka. Many of his sort – the organisers and inciters of terrorism – went to pieces on arrest and revealed themselves as cowards. But one had only to glance at the photograph to see that Berek Medem was possessed of a Robespierrist dedication to his cause. Here was someone who took life and when the time came he would give life. The career of the revolutionary was short, those fierce dark eyes said, and he accepted this without complaint.

  ‘When did you last communicate with Berek Medem?’ Lychev said.

  It took me a moment to realise he was serious. I laughed. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Lychev?’

  ‘Answer my question.’

  ‘The answer is I have never communicated with Berek Medem.’

  ‘Why then has Berek Medem been seen in your office building?’

  I laughed again in derision of him. Every day there were dozens of supposed sightings. He was seen on a railway platform in Port Arthur. An hour later he was on a boat on the lagoons of Odessa while simultaneously robbing a bank in Kiev.

  ‘Has your friend Kopelzon ever talked about King to you?’

  ‘Your conspiracy grows ever bigger and more fantastical, Lychev,’ I said. ‘First Berek Medem, now King.’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘No. Kopelzon has never mentioned King.’

  ‘Has Rozental mentioned him?’

  ‘Rozental?’ I said, amazed. ‘Rozental is probably the only person in Russia who hasn’t heard of King.’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘Are you really so indifferent to the security of the state, Spethmann? You profess loyalty yet you hold the work of the police in contempt. How do you reconcile these contradictions?’

  ‘Your games bore me, Lychev. I will answer no more questions.’

  ‘Of course you are above it all – you are the man who has no time for political affairs.’

  I froze. I felt sure Lychev would see my heart pounding under my shirt. He seemed to be studying my expression carefully. Was he aware of what he had just said? The man who has no time for political affairs. The only occasion on which I had made any such claim was when Tolya was ransacking my files and Kavi was holding his knife up in front of my face.

  I was gripped by a sudden fear for Catherine.

  ‘I want to see my daughter,’ I said. ‘I want to see her now.’

  ‘Your daughter was released last night,’ he said. ‘Gather your things.’

  I was confounded. I wanted to believe him and at the same time I was afraid to. Was it a trick to lower my guard?

  The old jailer appeared at the door. ‘If his honour would follow me,’ he said.

  ‘What is going on?’ I demanded. ‘Did Catherine give you a name?’

  Lychev’s look told me the answer was no.

  Still scarcely believing this sudden turn of events, I collected my books and few belongings and followed Lychev and the jailer down the dimly lit corridor. We passed through a barred gate into a large room with a low concave ceiling and pillars and arches of brick. From here, I was escorted up a flight of stone steps into a courtyard. The air was frigid, but it was the cold of early spring, not winter, and heartening for that. It stung my nostrils.

  We came to a broad, squat gatehouse.

  As the bolts were pulled back, Lychev said, ‘I need Yastrebov’s real name and I’m going to get it – one way or another.’

  He seemed slighter, more insubstantial than ever. I ignored him as one ignores a bore at a party, and stepped outside. The instant the gate closed behind me I had the sensation it had all been a dream.

  Ahead was a short bridge. I walked its length, passing a dozen armed guards who regarded me indifferently. Catherine emerged from the back of a waiting taxi and ran towards me.

  ‘You’re safe,’ she cried, throwing her arms about my neck.

  I looked at her in amazement. That fierce will. That it should defeat a doting father is hardly a surprise; that it should have exhausted a Russian policeman was nothing short of astonishing.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ I said, getting into the taxi.

  The driver turned around and said, ‘First there is someone who wants to talk to you.’

  I turned to Catherine: what was going on?

  ‘Gregory Petrov wants to see you,’ Catherine said.

  ‘I don’t want to see Petrov. I want to go home.’

  ‘He has something to tell you,’ Catherine said, ‘something important.’

  Eleven

  After a complicated and roundabout journey lasting almost an hour, the taxi arrived at the Hay Market. Gregory Petrov was waiting impatiently outside the Church of the Dormition dressed in a heavy overcoat, scarf and hat.

  ‘We weren’t followed, Comrade,’ the driver said as Petrov opened the door for me.

  ‘I know you want to go home, Spethmann,’ Petrov said brusquely, ‘but we need to talk.’ To the driver, he said, ‘Take Miss Spethmann to Furshtatskaya Street.’

  I was exhausted but also intrigued. What did Petrov want? I kissed Catherine and promised I would be home soon. The taxi moved off.

  We crossed the road to the meat market. It was not yet six o’clock and the butchers were still setting up for the day. White-aproned porters hefting carcasses of cattle, lamb and pig paid us no mind as we made our way along the aisles of the covered market. Every now and then Petrov glanced to the side, or backwards, to check if anyone was taking an unusual interest in us.

  ‘You seem well enough. You weren’t tortured?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You had a gentle introduction to the experience of prison. Next time, it will not be so pleasant.’

  I paid little heed to this, thinking Petrov boastful and patronising, the revolutionary showing the intellectual that he takes in his stride the repeating reality of prison; and I remember quite clearly thinking: For you, perhaps, there will be a next time, but not for me. I am not a man who goes to prison.

  ‘I was sixteen when I was first arrested,’ Petrov said, stopping to inspect some lamb cutlets. He bought six and made a present of them to me. ‘My brother, who was a year younger, was also arrested. We were both members of a Party cell among the metal workers at the Stieglitz plant. One of our comrades had been arrested and had betrayed the names of the entire cell. I denied everything, as we had been instructed to do. The police were not gentle. They beat me ferociously during the first three days. They beat us all. The strange thing was that I never felt I was going to break. The more they beat me, the stronger I felt. I thought to myself, if they want to break me they’re going to have to do a lot more than this. They kept us isolated from each other so I had no idea how my comrades were doing but I assumed they were handling the ordeal as I was. After a week or so the police came and said the cell’s leader had broken and written a confession. I didn’t believe them but they showed me the confession and I recognised the signature. They said, “You’re the only one who hasn’t confessed. You’re only making it worse for yourself. Come on, sign this.” I didn’t care what the others had signed. I wasn’t going to do it. Call it stubbornness, call it pride, I simply wasn’t going to let them win.’

  We had completed a circuit of the meat market and embarked on a second. There were more customers now, mostly servants come to buy their masters’ meat.

 
‘In the end, the police came up with a plan. No more beating – they’d tried that and it hadn’t worked. No, they came up with something psychological.’

  He gave me a sideways glance.

  ‘Most policemen are stupid,’ he continued, ‘even the detectives. But occasionally you get one who can think for himself. The officer in charge of my case came to me in the middle of the night, at about two or three in the morning, and said, “Your brother is very young. He only joined the cell to please you. We will release him now, this very minute, if you confess and sign.” It was a clever stratagem on their part, no?’

  I realised Lychev had tried the same thing with me and Catherine: an old interrogators’ trick, obviously.

  ‘Anyway,’ Petrov continued, ‘the officer said, “Your brother has lost his mind. If he goes to prison, he will kill himself. If you want your brother to live, you must confess.” I didn’t believe them. I thought they were trying to scare me into signing. The officer said, “Come with me.” He took me out of my cell and down a corridor to another cell. The jailer opened up and I remember it was almost pitch black. I couldn’t see a thing. They fetched a lamp and in the corner I saw my brother Ivan, naked, cowering like a whipped dog. His hair was matted and all over the place, his eyes were big and staring. He was filthy. The cell smelt of shit. The officer turned to me and said, “Now do you believe me?” What could I say? It was true – my brother had lost his mind. The officer said, “If you confess I will release him. Your father is waiting outside. He can take your brother home. If you don’t confess, I will charge him with membership of a subversive organisation and he will die in prison.” ’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I turned to the officer and said, “Charge him.” ’

  Petrov looked at me to check my reaction.

  ‘You think me ruthless and uncaring, don’t you, Spethmann?’

  ‘I don’t think you are as ruthless or uncaring as you pretend.’

  ‘Then you don’t know me.’

  We were nearing the end of our second circuit. The market had filled up so that we had to weave in and out of the crowds as we walked.

  ‘Did Lychev ask about me?’ Petrov asked.

  ‘No, although he worked out that Grischuk was a pseudonym.’

  ‘Do you think he guessed it was me?’

  ‘It’s hard to say with Lychev what he knows and what he pretends not to know.’

  Petrov stopped by a stall where pig carcasses had been piled up. He and the butcher exchanged a look. It was almost entirely expressionless and yet had something knowing about it.

  ‘Catherine said you had something you wanted to tell me.’

  ‘I’ve picked up some rumours about Lychev’s investigation,’ he said. ‘He’s an experienced detective with a reputation for thoroughness and success, but he is no nearer catching Yastrebov’s confederates now than he was a month ago. The Okhrana have decided to take over the case. Lychev will be allowed to continue his investigation but under the informal supervision of the secret police, who will have their own agents carrying out their own investigations.’

  He let this information sink in before continuing, ‘The Okhrana will be watching you. They will have your house and your office under surveillance. They will monitor your telephone and read your mail. Be very careful what you say and write.’

  ‘I have no secrets,’ I said. ‘I have nothing to hide.’

  ‘Everyone has something to hide,’ he said, putting out his hand.

  I shook it. He said, ‘Go home now. Be with your daughter. Eat, drink and rest.’

  I was still holding his hand. I said, ‘I wish you had told me the story about your brother earlier.’

  ‘I have a million such stories,’ he said with a self-mocking laugh. ‘Some of them are even true.’

  ‘Is this one true?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  With that, Petrov stepped past the low wall of pig flesh, past the butcher and through the stall, and disappeared from sight.

  Twelve

  The rest of the day was spent receiving visitors and telephone calls from friends and well-wishers. Bekhterev himself called to say he had personally written to Maklakov and Stcheglovitov, the minister for justice, to protest at the arrest of such an eminent member of the Psychoneurologic Institute. There were telegrams and letters from colleagues in London, New York and Vienna. I was desperate to talk properly to Catherine but there was no opportunity. I did, however, find time to telephone Minna, asking that she contact my patients to let them know I would see them again tomorrow.

  ‘Please make sure to contact Rozental,’ I said. ‘I am very concerned about him. He’s staying at the Astoria.’

  Minna in turn passed on a number of messages, among which was one from Anna asking me to telephone her. The last of our guests did not depart until well after midnight, and then only at Lidiya’s insistence.

  The next morning I woke early. I was in my own bed. Everything that had happened since Lychev first came to my office already seemed abstractedly contradictory: definite and imaginary, authentic and unreal – a violent and inexplicable irruption in an otherwise orderly existence.

  I washed and shaved and went to my study. Before I picked up the telephone I thought about Petrov’s warning. If he was right, someone would be listening. I ran through in my mind what I was going to say, and when I was satisfied that I would be committing no indiscretion, I picked it up.

  My first call was to Kopelzon. He had returned the day before from Paris and Warsaw, where he had given recitals, and was full of anger and indignation on my behalf. How was I? How was Catherine? What an outrage!

  ‘Reuven,’ I said, interrupting his impassioned flow, ‘Lychev asked me about you.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ he said, outrage turning to wariness.

  ‘He wanted to know why you were friends with Rozental.’ The silence at the other end lasted so long that I had to say, ‘Reuven, are you still there?’

  ‘Why should he be interested in Rozental?’ His voice was uncharacteristically reticent.

  ‘I think for no other reason than that you and he are Poles, and in the eyes of the police all Poles are potential terrorists. He even talked about Berek Medem.’

  Again there was a long, shocked silence. I understood his anxiety: to be mentioned in the same breath as Berek Medem was not something anyone wished for.

  ‘It was a general question,’ I added quickly in an effort to reassure him. ‘It felt as though Lychev was throwing out names because he had nothing else.’

  My reasoning seemed to ease him. I asked after Rozental.

  ‘I’m seeing him later this morning,’ he said. ‘If I’d known what was going to happen to you, I would never have left him alone in the city. The tournament is only a few days away. The last thing Avrom needs is to think the police are after him. He is paranoid enough as it is.’

  ‘How could you possibly know?’ I said. ‘Minna is arranging an appointment.’

  ‘Listen,’ he said, recovering himself, ‘let’s have dinner to celebrate your release – and of course my triumph in Paris. I’ll make a reservation at A l’Ours for tonight. Ten o’clock.’

  I tried to decline, pleading the need to catch up on my affairs.

  ‘It’s important, Otto,’ Kopelzon insisted, his tone changing from cheery back to serious all at once. ‘We have to talk about Rozental.’

  With some reluctance, I agreed.

  ‘Excellent!’ he said. ‘By the way, I received your postcard with your move. 35 Rg2. Unusual. My reply is 35 … Rxg2, if you’re still interested in continuing the game.’

  Whenever I thought of our game it brought back unpleasant memories of Kavi–not that this had prevented me from analysing the position while in my cell, such is the particular tyranny of the chess player’s obsession, even one whose game has been tainted by the unsolicited help of a knife-wielding murderer.

  ‘What makes you think I’m not interested?’ I asked.

&nbs
p; ‘It’s a draw. Why drag it out? Why don’t we just start a new game?’

  ‘I think I can win,’ I said.

  ‘Do you now?’ Kopelzon said, sounding amused and competitive.

  The only reply was 36 Kxg2, which is the move I then made.

  Kopelzon said, ‘I play 36 … Qc7.’

  Spethmann–Kopelzon

  After 36 … Qc7. The rooks are off and

  Spethmann has an extra pawn. But now what?

  I examined the position on the travelling set I kept in my study. I had never been in such a good position against Kopelzon. The clump of central pawns were White’s main advantage, while Black’s position was cut in two. I had a simple plan: keep him tied down to the defence of his weak pawns, look for a possible breakthrough with e5, and advance the king up the board. If I kept my nerve surely I would win.

  ‘37 Qf5 check,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t think I’m going to fall for a grubby little trick like that, do you, Otto?’ Kopelzon laughed.

  It was an obvious trap – if 37 … Kh4 Black would be mated after 38 Kf3 and 39 Qg4 – but sometimes such things are overlooked, even by players of Kopelzon’s ability.

  ‘37 … Kh6,’ he said.

  Although I had analysed this line in my cell, I did not trust myself to continue without further thought.

  ‘I will let you have my reply at dinner,’ I said.

  He said he looked forward to seeing me.

  Anna, like Kopelzon, was full of concern about what had happened. Once I assured her I was well, I asked how she had been.

  ‘The nightmares have been much worse since you were arrested,’ she said. ‘I cannot sleep. I feel sick with tiredness.’

  ‘I would like to see you,’ I said.

  ‘I want to see you too.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I have a lot of catching up to do with my patients today and tonight I have to see Kopelzon for dinner.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, sounding disappointed.