by Child 44
—Let me see your bags.
Leo and Raisa opened their small bags. They carried nothing more than a change of clothes and some basic essentials. The officer was becoming bored. He shrugged. In reply they nodded reverentially at him, moving toward the exit, trying not to walk too fast.
SAME DAY
HAVING QUASHED FYODOR’S own investigation into the murder of his son, cajoled and bullied him into silence, Leo was about to ask for his help with the same subject. He needed Fyodor to take him to Galina Shaporina’s apartment since he’d been unable to find the address. Indeed, it was possible that he couldn’t even remember her name correctly. He hadn’t been paying much attention at the time and so much had happened since then. Without Fyodor there was little hope of finding this witness.
Leo was prepared for humiliation, the loss of face; he was braced for scorn and contempt, just as long as he secured that eyewitness account. Although Fyodor was an MGB agent, Leo was banking on the fact that his loyalty would be to the memory of his son. No matter how much hatred Fyodor felt toward Leo, surely his desire for justice would force them into an alliance? With that said, Leo’s assessment of the situation four months ago had been correct. An unauthorized investigation into the death of his son would put his entire family at risk. Perhaps Fyodor had come to terms with that assessment. Better to protect the living, better to turn Leo over to the State; that way he benefited from both safety and revenge. What would he decide? Leo had no choice except to knock on the door and find out.
Apartment Block 18, fourth floor, an elderly woman opened the door—the woman who’d stood up to him, the woman who’d dared to call a murder by its name:
—My name is Leo, this is my wife, Raisa.
The old woman stared at Leo, remembering him, hating him. She glanced at Raisa:
—What do you want?
Raisa answered, her voice low:
—We’re here about the murder of Arkady.
There was a long silence, the old woman studying both their faces before replying:
—You’ve come to the wrong address. No boy was murdered here.
As she went to close the door Leo put his foot forward.
—You were right.
Leo expected anger. But instead the elderly woman began to cry.
FYODOR, HIS WIFE, and the elderly woman, Fyodor’s mother, stood together, a civilian troika—a citizen’s tribunal—watching as Leo took off his coat, dropping it on the chair. He pulled off his jumper and began unbuttoning his shirt. Underneath, taped to his body, were the details of the murders—photos, descriptions, statements, maps showing the geographical spread of the crimes—the most important pieces of evidence that they’d accumulated:
—I had to take certain precautions in carrying this material around. These are the details of over forty murders, children, both boys and girls, murdered across the western half of our country. They’ve each been killed in almost exactly the same way, the same way as I now believe your son was killed.
Leo pulled the papers free from his chest: the ones closest to his skin were damp with sweat. Fyodor took hold of them, glancing through. His wife stepped forward, as did his mother. Soon all three were reading the documents, passing them between each other. Fyodor’s wife spoke first:
—And if you catch him, what will you do?
Remarkably, it was the first time Leo had been asked that question. Up until now they’d been concentrated on whether it was even possible to catch him.
—I’ll kill him.
Once Leo had explained the nature of his personal investigation, Fyodor wasted no time with insults or recriminations. It evidently didn’t cross his mind to refuse them assistance or doubt their sincerity or worry about the repercussions. Nor did those thoughts occur to Fyodor’s wife or his mother, at least not in any significant way. Fyodor would take them to Galina’s apartment immediately.
The shortest route there involved crossing the railway tracks, where Arkady had been found. There were several tracks running parallel, a wide space, lined with ragged shrubs and trees. With the fading evening light, Leo appreciated the appeal of this secluded no-man’s land. In the heart of the city it felt eerily empty. Had the boy run across these sleepers, chased by that man? Had he fallen to the ground, desperate to get away? In the dark, had a train raced past, indifferent? Leo was glad to get off the tracks.
Nearing the apartment, Fyodor argued that Leo should remain outside. Galina had been terrified by him before: they couldn’t risk him scaring her into silence again. Leo agreed. It would just be Raisa and Fyodor.
Raisa followed Fyodor up the stairs, reaching the apartment door and knocking. She could hear the sound of children playing inside. She was pleased. Of course she didn’t believe a woman had to be a mother to appreciate the gravity of this case, but the fact that Galina’s own children were in danger should make her easy to enlist.
The door was opened by a woman in her early thirties. She was wrapped up as though it were the middle of winter. She appeared ill. Her eyes were nervous, taking in every detail of Raisa’s and Fyodor’s appearance. Fyodor seemed to recognize her:
—Galina, you remember me? I’m Fyodor, father of Arkady, the little boy who was murdered. This is my friend Raisa. She lives in Voualsk, a town near the Urals. Galina, the reason we’re here is because the man who murdered my son is murdering other children in other towns. That is why Raisa has traveled to Moscow, so that we can work together. We need your help.
Galina’s voice was soft, barely a whisper:
—How can I help? I don’t know anything.
Expecting such a reply, Raisa pointed out:
—Fyodor isn’t here as an officer of the MGB. We’re a group made of fathers and mothers, any citizens outraged at these crimes. Your name won’t appear in any documents, there are no documents. You’ll never see or hear from us again. All we need to know is what he looks like. How old is he? Is he tall? What color is his hair? Were his clothes expensive or cheap?
—But the man I saw wasn’t with a child. I told you that.
Fyodor answered:
—Please, Galina, let us in for a second. Let’s talk out of the hallway.
She shook her head:
—I can’t help you. I don’t know anything.
Fyodor was becoming agitated. Raisa touched his arm, silencing him. They had to remain calm, they couldn’t bully her. Patience was the key:
—Okay, that’s okay, Galina. You didn’t see a man with a child. Fyodor explained that you saw a man with a tool bag, is that right?
She nodded.
—Can you describe him for us?
—But he didn’t have a child with him.
—We understand. He didn’t have a child with him. You’ve been clear about that. He just had a tool bag. But what did he look like?
Galina considered. Raisa held her breath, sensing she was about to break. They didn’t need the information written down. They didn’t need a signed testimony. They just needed a description, thrown away, deniable. Thirty seconds, that was all it would take.
Suddenly Fyodor cut through the silence, saying:
—There’s no harm in telling us what a man with a tool bag looked like. No one can get in trouble for describing a railway worker.
Raisa stared at Fyodor. He’d made a mistake. People could get in trouble for describing a railway worker. They could get in trouble for much less. The safest course of action was always to do nothing. Galina shook her head, stepping back from them.
—I’m sorry, it was dark. I didn’t see him. He had a bag, that’s all I remember.
Fyodor put his hand on the door.
—No, Galina, please . . .
Galina shook her head:
—Leave.
—Please, please . . .
Like a panicked animal, her voice became shrill with worry:
—Leave!
There was silence. The noise of the children playing stopped. Galina’s husband appeared.
�
��What’s going on?
In the corridor apartment doors opened, people were staring, observing, pointing: alarming Galina further. Sensing that they were losing control of the situation, that they were about to lose their eyewitness, Raisa moved forward, hugging Galina, as if saying good-bye:
—What did he look like? Tell me, whisper in my ear.
Galina’s husband tried to separate them:
—That’s enough!
Galina was struggling. But Raisa held on, clutching this stranger’s arm—pleading, repeating:
—What did he look like?
Cheek to cheek, Raisa waited, closing her eyes, hoping. She could feel Galina’s breath. But Galina did not reply.
ROSTOV-ON-DON
SAME DAY
THE CAT PERCHED on the window ledge, its tail flicking from side to side, its cool green eyes following Nadya around the room as if it were considering pouncing on her, as if she were nothing more than an oversized rat. The cat was older than her. She was six years old; the cat was eight or nine. That fact might go some way to explain why it had such a superior attitude to her. According to her father the area they lived in had a problem with rats and therefore cats were essential. Well, that was partly true: Nadya had seen plenty of rats, big rats and bold too. But she’d never seen this cat do anything useful about them. It was a lazy cat, spoiled rotten by her father. How could a cat think itself more important than her? It never allowed her to touch it. Once, as it had happened to pass by, she’d stroked its back, to which it had replied by twisting around, hissing, before bolting to the corner with its fur stuck out as though she’d committed some sort of crime. At that point she’d given up trying to befriend it. If that cat wanted to hate her, she’d hate it back twice as much.
Unable to remain in the house any longer with the cat staring at her, Nadya set off, even though it was late and the rest of her family were in the kitchen, preparing uzhin. Knowing that she’d be refused permission to go for a walk, she didn’t bother asking, slipping on her shoes and sneaking out the front door.
They lived on a bank of the river Don, her younger sister, her mother and father, in a neighborhood on the outskirts, cratered streets and brick hut houses. The city’s sewage and factory waste fed into the river just upstream and Nadya would sometimes sit and watch the patterns of oils, filth, and chemicals on the water’s surface. There was a well-trodden path along the riverbank which ran in both directions. Nadya turned downstream, out toward the countryside. Even though there was very little light she was confident of the route. She had a good sense of direction and as far as she could remember she’d never been lost, not once. She wondered what kind of jobs a girl with a good sense of direction might get when she grew up. Maybe she’d become a fighter pilot. There was no point becoming a train driver since they never had to think about where they were going: a train could hardly get lost. Her father had told her stories about female bomber pilots during the war. That sounded good to her, she wanted to be one of them, her face on the front of a newspaper, awarded the Order of Lenin. That would get her father’s attention; that would make him proud of her. That would distract him from his stupid cat.
She’d been walking for a little while, humming to herself, pleased to be out of the house and away from that cat, when suddenly she came to a stop. Up ahead she could see the outline of a man walking toward her. He was a tall man but in the gloom she couldn’t tell much else about him. He was carrying some kind of case. Normally the sight of a stranger wouldn’t have bothered her in the least. Why would it? But her mother had recently done a peculiar thing: she’d sat Nadya and her sister down and warned them not to talk to any strangers. She’d even gone as far as telling them it would be better to be impolite than to obey a stranger’s request. Nadya looked back toward her house. She wasn’t all that far from home; if she ran she could get back in less than ten minutes. The thing was, she really wanted to walk to her favorite tree farther downstream. She liked to climb up and sit in it and dream. Until she’d done that, until she’d reached that tree, she didn’t feel like the walk had been a success. She imagined that this was her military mission: to reach the tree and she couldn’t fail. Making a snap decision, she decided she wouldn’t talk to this man: she’d just walk straight past him, and if he spoke to her, she’d say good evening but not stop walking.
She continued along the path with the man getting nearer. Was he walking faster? He seemed to be. It was too dark to see his face. He was wearing some sort of hat. She moved up the edge of the path, giving him plenty of room to pass by. They were only a couple of meters apart. Nadya felt afraid, an inexplicable urge to hurry past him. She didn’t understand why. She blamed her mother. Bomber pilots were never afraid. She broke into a run. Concerned this would insult the gentleman, she called out:
—Good evening.
With his free arm Andrei grabbed her around the waist, lifting her small frame clear off the ground, bringing her face close to his, staring into her eyes. She was terrified, holding her breath, her little body rigid with tension.
And then Nadya began to laugh. Recovering from her surprise, she put her arms around her father’s neck and hugged him:
—You scared me.
—Why are you out so late?
—I wanted to walk.
—Does your mother know you’re outside?
—Yes.
—You’re lying.
—No I’m not. Why are you coming from this direction? You never come from this direction. Where have you been?
—I’ve been working. I had some business in one of the villages just outside the city. There was no way to get back except to walk. It was only a couple of hours.
—You must be tired.
—Yes I am.
—Can I carry your case?
—But I’m carrying you, so even if I gave you my case I’d still be carrying its weight.
—I could walk by myself and carry your case.
—I think I can manage.
—Father, I’m glad you’re home.
Still carrying his daughter, he used the base of his case to push open their door. He stepped into the kitchen. There was affection from his youngest daughter, who ran over to greet him. He watched his family’s pleasure at his return. They took it for granted that when he went away, he’d come back.
Nadya had her eye on the cat. Evidently jealous of the attention she was getting from her father, the cat jumped down from the window, joining the family reunion, rubbing itself against her father’s leg. As Andrei lowered her to the floor she accidentally dropped her foot onto the cat’s paw, causing it to screech and dart away. Before she could enjoy any small sense of satisfaction her father took hold of her wrist, crouched down, staring at her through his thick square glasses, his face trembling with anger:
—Don’t ever touch her.
Nadya wanted to cry. She bit her lip instead. She’d already learned that crying made no impression on her father.
Andrei let go of his daughter’s wrist, standing up straight. He felt flustered and hot. He looked at his wife. She hadn’t moved forward, but she smiled at him:
—Have you eaten?
—I have to put my things away. I don’t want anything to eat.
His wife didn’t attempt to hug or kiss him, not in front of the children. He was strict about these things. She understood.
—Was your work successful?
—They want me to go away again in a couple of days. I’m not sure for how long.
Without waiting for a reply—he was already feeling claustrophobic—he moved to the door that led to the basement. The cat followed him, its tail up high, excited.
He locked the door behind him, descending the stairs, immediately feeling better now that he was on his own. An elderly couple had previously occupied this downstairs space but the woman had died and the man had moved into his son’s apartment. The housing bureau hadn’t sent another couple to replace them. It wasn’t a nice room: a basement sunk into the riverbank.
The bricks were always wet. In the winter the room was freezing cold. There was a burzhuika, a wood-fired stove, which the elderly couple had been forced to keep running for eight months of the year. Despite the basement’s many disadvantages it had one advantage. It was his space. He had a chair in one corner and a slender bed which had belonged to the elderly couple. He occasionally slept down here when the conditions were tolerable. He lit the gas lamp, and before long another cat had entered through the space in the wall where the pipes from the burzhuika ran outside.
He opened his case. Among his papers and the remains of his lunch there was a glass jar with a screw-top lid. He unscrewed the lid. Inside the jar, wrapped in an old issue of Pravda, sodden with blood, was the stomach of the girl he’d murdered some hours ago. He peeled the paper away, carefully making sure no paper was stuck to the flesh. He put the stomach on a tin plate, slicing it into strips, then again into cubes. Once he’d finished he fired up the stove. By the time it was hot enough to cook the meat there were six cats circling him. He fried the meat, waiting till it had turned brown before tipping it back onto the tin plate. Andrei stood watching the cats around his feet, enjoying the spectacle of their hunger, holding the food, teasing them, watching them yelp. They were desperately hungry, frenzied by the smell of cooked meat.
After he’d had his full of teasing them he put the food down. The cats squeezed together in a circle around the plate and began to eat, purring with delight.
UPSTAIRS NADYA STARED at the basement door wondering what kind of father preferred cats to children. He was only going to be home for two days. No, she was wrong to be angry with her father. She refused to blame him; the cats were to blame. A thought came into her mind. It wouldn’t be all that difficult to kill a cat. The hard part would be getting away with it.
SAME DAY
ON VOROVSKI STREET Leo and Raisa joined the back of the grocery store queue. The queue would take several hours before it reached inside, where each person would place their order before being made to wait in a second queue to pay for the item. After those two queues there was a third queue to collect the item. They could easily remain in these various lines for anything up to four hours, waiting inconspicuously for Ivan to come home.