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’d 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 that she’d 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 gotten 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 goodwill. 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 sat, brooding 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. 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 as Leo was concerned, he and his wife were spokes in the same wheel.
The train stopped at Mutava for an hour. Raisa broke the daylong 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 hard-boiled 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 toward the mountains, passing through black pine forests. In the distance, over the treetops, 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 warehouselike buildings suddenly appearing in the middle of a wilderness. It was as though a 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 kilometers east, 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. Its 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 bulletproof engine, and rustproofing 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 percentage 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 labor 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 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 traveling, he could see how the main town was latched onto the side of the vast assembly plant as though it were a tick 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 gray sky. Leo nudged Raisa. She woke, looking at Leo, then out 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’d been watching them intently as they’d 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 toward the street outside.
—They’re waiting for you.
One hundred paces from the station entrance was a militia car.
Passing a snowcapped stone carving of Stalin’s profile, chiseled into a slab of rock, like a fossilized impression, Raisa and Leo moved toward 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 miles 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 Interior: poorly paid, poorly respected—a force comprised of secondary school dropouts, farmworkers kicked off the kolkhoz, discharged army personnel, and men whose judgment could be bought with half a bottle of vodka. Officially the USSR’s crime rate was 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 their need for gleaming police cars and police officers in crisp, clean uniforms visible on every street corner, without which their 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, middle pages, and the back pages too. Good news was the only news worth printing—high birthrates, mountaintop 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 rearview 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 toward 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 at a 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 trunk, 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 weren’t present. She watched as Leo, mimicking Nesterov, picked up both their cases. She marveled 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 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 the 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 that 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 toward 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 these people 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.
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