Surely there were explanations, simple, mundane explanations. Maybe he’d left the door open. Maybe his wife had gone to the bathroom, forgetting to shut the door on her return. As for Zoya pretending to be asleep: he’d misheard. In fact, why did she need to be asleep? It made sense that she was awake, she’d been woken by the telephone and she’d been lying in bed, trying to get back to sleep, justifiably annoyed. As for the knife… he didn’t know, he just couldn’t think, but there had to be an innocent reason, even if he had no idea of what that might be.
He stepped out of the car, shutting the door, moving toward his offices. Located in the Zamoskvareche district, south of the river, an area with a high concentration of factories, his homicide department had been designated space above a vast bakery. There was mockery in the location as well as the message that their work was to remain invisible. The offices had been marked as Button Factory 14, prompting Leo to wonder what went on in the other thirteen factories.
Entering the ramshackle reception area, the floor crisscrossed with flour footsteps, Leo climbed the stairs, running the events of the night over in his mind. He’d successfully dismissed two out of three occurrences, but the third — the knife — resisted attempts to explain it away. The matter would have to wait until the morning when he could talk to Raisa. Right now Nikolai’s unexpected phone call was a greater concern. Leo needed to focus on why a man he hadn’t spoken to in six years was calling drunk in the middle of the night, begging for a meeting. There was nothing between them, no bond or friendship, nothing except that year—1949—his first year as an MGB agent.
Nikolai was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, slouched in the doorway like a vagrant. Seeing Leo arrive he stood up. His winter coat was well tailored, perhaps even foreign made, but tatty with neglect. His shirt had come unbuttoned, his stomach overflowing. He’d gained weight, lost hair. He was old- and tired-looking, his face pinched with worry, scrunched up around the eyes. He stank of smoke and sweat and booze, which, combined with the ever-present smell of baking and dough, formed a rancid combination. Leo offered his hand. Nikolai pushed it aside, embracing him, clinging on as if he’d been rescued from a mountainside. There was something pitiful about the hug— this from a man who’d built a reputation on being pitiless.
Leo’s attention was suddenly snatched away as he remembered the notch in his wood floor. Why had he forgotten that detail? It was unimportant, that’s why. Any number of things could have caused it. It might have been there for some time, it wasn’t something he’d necessarily notice, a scratch caused by furniture being moved. Yet in his gut he knew the knife and the notch were connected.
Nikolai had begun talking, rambling, slurring his words. Leo was barely paying attention as he’d opened up the department, leading his guest through to his office. Seated opposite each other, Leo clenched his hands together, leaning his elbows on the table, watching Nikolai speak but hearing almost nothing, tuning in and out, catching occasional fragments — something about being sent photographs.
— Leo, they’re photographs of the men and women I arrested.
Leo’s mind had no space for the things that Nikolai was saying. A single, terrible realization was growing inside of him, shunting every other thought aside. The knife had been dropped, the tip cutting into the floor before ricocheting under the bed, dropped because whoever had been holding it had panicked, alarmed by a sudden noise, an unexpected telephone call. The person had fled the room, leaving the door open, in too much of a rush to close it behind her.
Her
Even now, with all the pieces in place, he struggled to articulate the only logical conclusion: the person holding the knife had been Zoya.
He stood up, walking to the window and throwing it open. Cold air rushed over his face. He wasn’t sure how long he remained in this position, staring out at the night sky, but hearing a noise behind him he remembered that he was not alone. He turned around, about to apologize. He swallowed his words. Nikolai, a man who’d taught him that cruelty was necessary and good, was crying.
— Leo? You’re not even listening.
Tears still on his cheeks, Nikolai started to laugh, a noise that took Leo back to their obligatory post-arrest drinking celebrations. Tonight Nikolai’s laughter was different. It was brittle. The swagger and confidence were gone.
— You want to forget? Don’t you, Leo? I don’t blame you. I would pay anything to forget it all. What a wonderful dream that would be…
— I’m sorry, Nikolai; my mind is elsewhere, a family matter.
— You took my advice… A family, that’s good. Families are important. A man is nothing without the love of his family.
— Can we talk tomorrow? When we’re less tired?
Nikolai nodded and stood up. At the door he paused, looking down at the floor:
— I am… ashamed.
— Think nothing of it. We all drink too much from time to time. We’ll talk tomorrow.
Nikolai stared at him. Leo thought he was going to laugh again, but this time he turned around, heading toward the stairs.
Leo was thankful to be alone and able to concentrate. He couldn’t pretend any longer. He was an ever-present reminder of Zoya’s terrible loss. He’d never spoken about what happened that day, when her parents had been shot. He’d tried to brush the past aside. The knife was a cry for help. He had to act to save his family. He could fix this. Talking to Zoya: that was the solution. He had to talk to her right now.
SAME DAY
NIKOLAI STEPPED OUTSIDE, HIS BOOTS sinking into the thin snow. Feeling the chill on his exposed stomach, he tucked his shirt into his trousers — his eyes barely able to focus, his body swaying as though he were on the deck of a boat. Why had he phoned Leo? What had he expected his former protégé to do? Perhaps he’d just come for companionship, not just any companionship such as a fellow drunk; he’d come for the company of a man who shared his shame, a man who couldn’t pass judgment without also passing that same judgment on himself.
I am ashamed.
Those were words that Leo should have understood better than anyone. Mutual shame should have brought them together and made them brothers. Leo should’ve put his arms around him and said: Me too. Had he forgotten their history so easily? No, they merely had different techniques for dealing with it. Leo had embarked on a new and noble career, scrubbing his bloody hands in a basin of warm, soapy respectability. Nikolai’s technique had been to drink until he blacked out, not for the thrill but as an attack on his memory.
Someone wouldn’t allow him to forget, sending him photographs of men and women taken against a white wall, cropped so that they were just a face. At first he hadn’t recognized the subjects although he’d realized that they were arrest photographs, the kind required by any prison bureaucracy. They arrived in batches, once a week, then once a day, every day, an envelope left at his home. Going through them he’d begun to remember names, conversations — tattered memories, a crude collage with one citizen’s arrest spliced with another’s interrogation and another’s execution. As the photographs accumulated, holding them heaped in his hands, he questioned if he’d arrested so many. In truth, he knew, he’d arrested far more.
Nikolai wanted to confess, to ask for forgiveness. But no demands were sent, no requests for an apology, no instructions on how to repent. The first envelope had been marked with his name. His wife had brought it to him. He’d opened it casually in front of her. When she’d asked what it contained he’d lied, hiding the photos. From then on, he’d been forced to open them in secret. Even after twenty years of marriage his wife didn’t know about his work. She knew he’d been a State Security officer. But she knew little more. Perhaps she was being willfully ignorant. He didn’t care whether it was willful or not, he cherished her ignorance — he depended upon it. When he looked into her eyes he saw unqualified love. If she knew, if she’d seen the faces of the people he’d arrested, if she’d seen their faces after two days of questioning, there would be fear in
her eyes. The same was true for his daughters. They laughed and joked with him. They loved him and he loved them. He was a good father, attentive and patient, never raising his voice, never drinking at home — a home where he remained a good man.
Someone wanted to steal this from him. Within the last couple of days the envelopes were no longer marked with his name. Anyone could have opened them: his wife, his daughters. Nikolai had become afraid to go out in case something should arrive in his absence. He’d made his family swear to bring to him any package or letter whether it was marked with a name or not. Yesterday he’d gone into his daughters’ room to find an unmarked letter on their bedside table. He’d lost his temper, wild with anger, furiously asking if the girls had opened it. They’d cried, confused by the sudden transformation, assuring him they’d put it on the table for safekeeping. He’d seen fear in their eyes. It had broken his heart. It had been the moment he’d decided to seek Leo’s help. The State must catch these criminals that were senselessly persecuting him. He’d given many years of service to his country. He was a patriot. He’d earned the right to live in peace. Leo could help: he had an investigative team at his disposal. It would be in their mutual interests to hunt down these counterrevolutionaries. It would be just like old times. Except Leo hadn’t wanted to know.
The early morning workers were already arriving at the bakery. They stopped, staring at Nikolai in the doorway. He snarled:
— What?
They said nothing, remaining huddled, some meters away, not passing him.
— You judge me?
Their faces were blank, men and women waiting to bake the city’s bread. He had to get home, to the one place, the only place where he was loved and where his past meant nothing.
Living nearby, he staggered through the deserted streets, hoping that in his absence another package of photographs hadn’t arrived. He stopped walking: his breathing was shallow and heavy, like an old, unhealthy dog. There was something else, another noise. He turned around, looking behind him. Footsteps — he was sure of it, the tap, tap of hard heels on stone pavements. He was being followed. He lurched toward the shadows, searching for outlines, straining his eyes. They were after him, his enemies, stalking him: hunting him as he had once hunted them.
He was running now, home, as fast as he could. He stumbled before regaining his balance, his coat flapping about his ankles. Changing tack, he spun around. He’d catch them at this game. He knew these tricks. They were his tricks. They were using his methods against him. Staring at the dark corners, the murky enclaves, the hiding places where he’d trained MGB recruits to move between in, he called out:
— I know you’re there.
His voice echoed down the seemingly empty street. Empty to a layman, but he was an expert in such matters. His defiance was brief, melting away:
— I have children, two daughters. They love me! They don’t deserve this. You hurt me and you hurt them.
His children had been born while he was an MGB officer. After arresting fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, every night he’d gone home and kissed his own family good night.
— What about the others? There are millions of others; if you killed us all, there’d be no one left. We were all involved!
People were appearing at the windows, drawn out by his shouting. He could point to any building, any house, and inside there’d be former officers and guards. The men and women in uniform were the obvious targets. There were also the train drivers who took the prisoners to the Gulags, the men and women who processed paperwork, stamped forms, the people who cooked and cleaned. The system required the consent of everyone, even if they consented by doing nothing. Nothing was enough. They’d depended upon a lack of resistance as much as they’d depended on volunteers. He would not be a scapegoat. This wasn’t his burden alone. Everyone carried a collective guilt. He was prepared to feel remorse from time to time, to spend a minute each day thinking over the terrible things he’d done. The people hounding him weren’t satisfied with that. They wanted more.
Fearful, Nikolai turned and ran, wildly this time, as fast as he could. Tangled up in his coat, he fell over, crashing down into the slushy snow, his clothes soaking up the filthy water. Slowly getting up, his knee throbbing, his trousers ripped, he ran again, water streaming from his coattails. It wasn’t long before he fell again. This time he began to cry, exhausted, awful sobs. Rolling onto his back, he pulled himself free from his coat, now impossibly heavy. He’d bought it many years ago from one of the restricted stores. He’d been proud of it. It was proof of his status. He didn’t need it anymore: he’d never go out again, he’d stay at home, lock the door, and pull the curtains shut.
Reaching his apartment block, he entered the hallway panting and sweating — dirty water dripping from his clothes. Soaking wet, pressed against the wall, leaving an impression of his body, he checked the street, waiting to catch a glimpse of his pursuers. Unable to see anyone — they were too sly — he climbed the stairs, his feet slipping, then scrambling up on all fours. The closer he got to home, the more he relaxed. They couldn’t reach him through these walls, his sanctuary. As if he’d swallowed a soothing tonic he began to think rationally. He was drunk. He’d overreacted, that was all. Of course he’d made enemies over the years, people with grudges, bitter at his success. If all they could do was send him a couple of photographs he didn’t need to worry. The majority — society — respected and valued him. He breathed deeply, reaching his landing and groping for his key.
Outside his front door was a package, roughly thirty centimeters long, twenty centimeters wide, and ten centimeters deep, wrapped in brown paper, neatly bound with string. There was no name, no label, just an ink drawing on the paper, a crucifix. Nikolai dropped to his knees. His hands trembled as he pulled the string free. Inside was a box. The top of the box was marked:
NOT FOR PRESS
He lifted the lid. There were no photographs. Instead, there was a stack of neatly printed pages, a substantial document, over a hundred pages long. On the top rested an accompanying letter. He picked it up, scanning the words. It wasn’t addressed to him: it was an official State letter declaring that this speech was to be distributed to every school, every factory, workers and youth group up and down the country. Confused, he put the letter down, taking up the speech. He read the first page carefully. He began shaking his head. This couldn’t be true. It was a lie, a malicious fabrication, intended to drive him insane. This could never have been published by the State: they would never distribute such a document. It was impossible.
INNOCENT
VICTIMS
TORTURE
These words couldn’t exist in black and white, printed, State-sanctioned, distributed to every school and factory. When he caught the perpetrator of this hoax, this well-informed hoax, he’d have them executed.
Involuntarily Nikolai scrunched up the page he was reading and tossed it aside. He began to tear at the next page, and the next, ripping them into shreds, tossing the scraps aside. He stopped, bending forward, curling into a ball, his head resting on the unread pages, muttering to himself:
— It can’t be true.
How could it be? But it was here, with a State-stamped letter, containing information only the State would know, with sources, quotes, references. The conspiracy of silence, which Nikolai had presumed would last forever, was over. It was no trick.
The speech was real.
Nikolai stood up, leaving the papers scattered. He unlocked the door and entered his apartment, abandoning the papers to the communal hallway. It didn’t matter if he locked the door behind him and pulled the curtains shut, his home was no longer a sanctuary. There were no sanctuaries any longer. Soon everyone would know, every schoolchild and every factory worker would read the speech. Not only would they know, they’d be allowed to talk openly, encouraged to discuss.
He pushed open the bedroom door, staring down at his wife, asleep, on her side, her hands under her head. She was beautiful. He adored h
er. They lived a perfect, privileged life. They had two wonderful, happy daughters. His wife had never known disgrace. She’d never known shame. She’d never known Nikolai in any other guise than that of a loving husband, a tender man who’d die for his family. He sat on the edge of the bed, running a finger along her pale arm. He couldn’t live with her knowing the truth, changing her opinion of him, pulling away, asking questions, or, worse still, remaining silent. Her silence would be unbearable. All her friends would ask questions. She’d be judged. How much did she know? Had she always known? Better that he should not live to see her shamed. Better that he should die now.
Except his death would change nothing. She would still find out. She would wake to find his body and she would cry and grieve. Then she would read the speech. Although she’d attend his funeral she would wonder at the things he’d done. She would rethink the moments they spent together, when he’d touched her, when he’d made love to her. Had he murdered someone hours before? Had her home been bought with blood? Perhaps, eventually, she would even come to believe that he deserved to die and that taking his life had been the right thing to do, not just for him but also for their daughters.
He picked up the pillow. His wife was strong and she would struggle, but even though he was out of shape, he was confident of his ability to overpower her. He positioned himself carefully and she moved accordingly, sensing his body, no doubt pleased he was home. She rolled onto her back, smiling. He couldn’t look at her face anymore. He had to act now before he lost his nerve. He lowered the pillow quickly, not wanting to catch sight of her opening her eyes. He pressed down as hard as he could. Quickly she grabbed at the pillow, at his wrists, scratching. It was no good, he wouldn’t let go — she couldn’t pull loose. Rather than trying to break his grip, she tried to wriggle out from underneath. He straddled her, locking his legs around her stomach, keeping her fixed in position and unable to move while he kept the pillow in place. She was pinned down, helpless, weakening. Her hands no longer scratched, they merely held his wrists until they went slack and fell by her side.
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