Archangel

by Robert Harris

  ‘Nothing. Are you all right?’

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ she repeated. She threw back her head and blew smoke at the roof. ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘I’ll tell him to hurry up.’

  Outside, O’Brian was sitting in the front seat of a four-wheel drive Toyota Land Crusier, snapping a new battery on to the back of a tiny video camera. At the sight of the Toyota, Kelso felt a fresh sweat of anxiety.

  ‘You don’t drive a BMW?’

  ‘A BMW? I’m not a businessman. Why should I?’

  The field was deserted. The old man who had been digging had gone.

  ‘Zinaida thought we were followed from the airport by a BMW. Seven series.’

  ‘Seven series? That’s a mafia car.’ O’Brian got out of the Toyota and put the camera to his eye. ‘I wouldn’t pay any attention to Zinaida. She’s crazy.’ The pig emerged from its sty and trotted over for a look at them, hopeful of some food. ‘Here, piggy piggy.’ He began filming it. ‘Remember what the man said? “A dog looks up to you, a cat looks down on you, but a pig looks you straight in the eye”?’ He swung round and pointed the camera at Kelso’s face. ‘Smile, professor. I’m going to make you famous.’

  Kelso put his hand over the lens. ‘Listen, Mr O’Brian –’

  ‘R. J.’

  ‘And what does that stand for?’

  ‘Everybody calls me R. J.’

  ‘All right, R.J. I’m going to do this. I’ll let you film me. If you insist. But on three conditions.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘One, you stop calling me bloody professor. Two, you keep her name out of it. And three, none of this is shown – not a second, you hear? – until this notebook, or whatever it is, has been forensically verified.’

  ‘Agreed.’ O’Brian slipped the camera into his pocket. ‘Actually, it may surprise you to hear this, but I’ve got a reputation of my own to consider. And from what I hear, doctor, it’s one hell of a sight better than yours.’

  He pointed a remote key at the Toyota. It bleeped and locked. Kelso took a last look around and followed him into the garage.

  O’BRIAN made Kelso put the toolbox back in its hiding place and drag it out again. He made him do this twice, filming him once from the front and then from the side. Zinaida watched them closely but was careful to keep out of shot. She smoked incessantly, one arm clasped defensively across her stomach. When O’Brian had what he needed, Kelso carried the box over to the workbench and brought the lamp up close to it. There wasn’t a lock. There were two spring-loaded catches at either end of the lid. They had been cleaned up recently, and oiled. One was broken. The other opened.

  Here we go, boy.

  ‘What I want you to do,’ said O’Brian, ‘is describe what you see. Talk us through it.’

  Kelso contemplated the box.

  ‘D’you have any gloves?’

  ‘Gloves?’

  ‘If what’s inside is genuine, Stalin’s fingerprints should be on it. And Beria’s. I don’t want to contaminate the evidence.’

  ‘Stalin’s fingerprints?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t you know about Stalin’s fingers? The Bolshevik poet, Demyan Bedny, once complained that he didn’t like lending his books to Stalin because they always came back with such greasy finger marks on them. Osip Mandelstam – a much greater poet – got to hear about this, and put the image into a poem about Stalin: “His fingers are fat as grubs”.’

  ‘What did Stalin think of that?’

  ‘Mandelstam died in a labour camp.’

  ‘Right. I guess I should have figured that out.’ O’Brian dug around in his pockets. ‘Okay: gloves. There you go.’

  Kelso pulled them on. They were dark blue leather, slightly too big, but they would do. He flexed his fingers – a surgeon before a transplant, a pianist before a concert. The thought made him smile. He glanced at Zinaida. Her face was clenched. O’Brian’s expression was hidden by the camera.

  ‘Okay. I’m running. In your own time.’

  ‘Right. I’m opening the lid, which is … stiff, as you’d … expect.’ Kelso winced with the effort. The top wrenched up a crack, just wide enough for him to jam his fingers into the gap, and then it took all his strength to break the two edges apart. It came open suddenly, like a broken jaw, with a scream of oxidised metal. ‘There’s only one object inside … a bag of some kind … leather, by the look of it … badly moulded.’

  The satchel had grown a shroud of fungus – of different fungi – pale blues and greens and greys, vegetative filaments and white patches mottled black. It stank of decay. He lifted it clear of the box and turned it round in the light. He rubbed at the surface with his thumb. Very faintly, the ghost of an image began to appear. ‘It’s embossed here with the hammer and sickle … That suggests it’s an official document pouch of some kind … Oil here on the buckle … Some of the rust has been cleaned off …’ He imagined Rapava’s nail-less fingers, fumbling to discover what had cost him so much of his life.

  The strap unthreaded through the pitted metal, leaving a floury residue. The satchel opened. The hyphae had spread inside, feeding off the dank skin, and as he lifted out the contents he knew, whatever else it was, that this was genuine, that no forger would have done all this, would have allowed so much damage to be inflicted on his work: it went against nature. What had once been a packet of papers had fused together, swollen, and was covered in the same destructive cancer of spores as the leather. The pages of the notebook had also warped, but less badly, protected as they were by a smooth outer layer of black oilskin.

  The cover opened, the binding split.

  On the first page: nothing.

  On the second: a photograph, neatly cut out of a magazine, glued down in the centre of the page. A group of young women, in their late teens, dressed as athletes – shorts, singlets, sashes – marching in step, eyes right, carrying a picture of Stalin. Parading in Red Square by the look of it. Caption: Komsomol Unit No. 2 from Archangel oblast display their paces! Front row, l. to r. I. Primakova, A. Safanova, D. Merkulova, K. Til, M. Arsenyeva … Against the youthful face of A. Safanova there was a tiny red cross.

  He picked up the notebook and blew, to separate the second page from the third. His hands were sweating inside the gloves. He felt absurdly clumsy, as if he were trying to thread a needle while wearing gauntlets.

  On the third page: writing, in faint pencil.

  O’Brian touched his shoulder, prompting him to say something.

  ‘It’s not Stalin’s writing, I’m sure of that … It reads more like someone writing about Stalin …’ He held it closer to the lamp. ‘“He stands apart from the others, high on the roof of Lenin’s tomb. His hand is raised in greeting. He smiles. We pass beneath him. His glance falls across us like the rays of the sun. He looks directly into my eyes. I am pierced by his power. All around us, the crowd breaks into stormy applause.” The next part is smudged. And then it’s written, “Great Stalin lived! Great Stalin lives! Great Stalin will live for ever! …”’

  Chapter Fourteen

  … Great Stalin lived!

  Great Stalin lives!

  Great Stalin will live for ever!

  12.5.51 OUR PICTURE is in Ogonyok! Maria runs in at the end of the first class to show me. I am displeased with my appearance and M. chides me for my vanity. (She always says I think too much of being pretty: it is not fitting for a candidate-member of the Party. Fine for her to say, who always looks like a tank!) All morning comrades hurry up to us to offer their congratulations. The usual trouble of this time is forgotten for once. We are so happy …

  5.6.51 The day is hot and sunny. The Dvina is gold. I return home from the Institute. Papa is there, much earlier than usual, looking grave. Mama is strong, as ever. With them is a stranger, a comrade from the organs of the Central Committee in Moscow! I am not afraid of him. I know I have done nothing wrong. And the stranger is smiling. A little man – I like him. Despite the heat he is carrying a hat and wears a leather coat. T
his stranger is named, I think, Mekhlis. He explains that after a thorough investigation, I have been selected for special tasks relating to the high Party leadership. He cannot say more for reasons of security. If I accept, I must travel to Moscow and stay for one year, perhaps for two. Then I may return to Archangel and resume my studies. He offers to come back the next morning for my answer, but I give it now, with all my heart: Yes! But because I am nineteen, he needs the permission of my parents. Oh, please papa! Please, please! Papa is deeply moved by the scene. He goes with Comrade Mekhlis into the garden, and when he returns his face is solemn. If it is my wish, and if it is the will of the Party, he will not prevent me. Mama is so proud.

  To Moscow, then, for the second time in my life!

  I know His hand is behind this.

  I am so happy, I could die …

  10.6.51 Mama brings me to the station. Papa stays behind. I kiss her dear cheeks. Farewell to her, farewell to childhood. The carriages are crowded. The train moves off. Others run along the platform, but mama stays still and is quickly lost. We cross the river. I am alone. Poor Anna! And this is the worst of days to travel. But I have my clothes, some food, a book or two, and this journal, in which I shall record my thoughts – this will be my friend. We plunge south through the forest, the tundra. A great red sunset blazes like a fire through the trees. Isakogorka. Obozerskiy. And now I have written down everything that has happened until this time and I can no longer see to write.

  11.6.51 Monday morning. The town of Vozhega appears with the dawn. Passengers alight to stretch their legs, but I stay where I am. From the corridor comes a smell of smoke. A man watches me write from the opposite seat, pretending to be asleep. He is curious about me. If only he knew! And still there are eleven hours to Moscow. How can one man rule such a nation? How could such a nation exist without such a man to rule it?

  Konosha. Kharovsk. Names on a map become real to me.

  Vologda. Danilov. Yaroslavl.

  A fear has come upon me. I am so far from home. Last time there were twenty of us, silly laughing girls. O, papa!

  Alexandrov.

  And now we reach the outskirts of Moscow. A tremor of excitement runs through the train. The blocks and factories stretch as far and wide as the tundra. A hot haze of metal and smoke. The June sun is much warmer than at home. I am excited again.

  4.30! Yaroslavskaya station! And now what?

  LATER. The train halts, the man opposite, who had been watching me all journey, leans forward. ‘Anna Mikhailovna Safanova?’ For a moment I am too amazed to speak. Yes? ‘Welcome to Moscow. Come with me, please.’ He wears a leather coat, like Comrade Mekhlis. He carries my case along the platform to the station entrance on Komsomolskaya Square. A car is waiting, with a driver. We drive for a long while. An hour at least. I don’t know where. Right across the city it seems to me, and out again. Along a highway that leads to a birch forest. There is a high fence and soldiers who check our papers. We drive some more. Another fence. And then a house, in a large garden.

  (And Mama, yes, it is a modest house! Two storeys only. Your good Bolshevik heart would rejoice at its simplicity!)

  I am taken around the side of the house to the back. A servants’ wing, connected to the main quarters by a long passageway. Here in the kitchen a woman is waiting. She is grey-haired, almost old. And kindly. She calls me ‘child’. Her name is Valechka Istomina. A simple meal has been prepared – cold meat and bread, pickled herring, kvas. She watches me. (Everyone here watches everyone else: it is strange to look up and find a pair of eyes regarding you.) From time to time, guards come by to take a look at me. They don’t talk much but when they do they sound like Georgians. One asks, ‘Well, now, Valechka, and what was the Boss’s humour this morning?’ but Valechka hushes him and nods to me.

  I am not such a young fool as to ask any questions. Not yet.

  Valechka says: ‘Tomorrow we shall talk. Now rest.’

  I have a room to myself. The girl who had it before has gone away. Two plain black blouses and skirts have been left behind for me.

  I have a view of a corner of the lawn, a tiny summer house, the woods. The birds sing in the early summer evening. It seems so peaceful. Yet every couple of minutes a guard goes past the window.

  I lie on my little bed in the heat and try to sleep. I think of Archangel in the winter: the coloured lanterns strung out across the frozen river, skating on the Dvina, the sound of ice cracking at night, hunting for mushrooms in the forest. I wish I was at home. But these are foolish thoughts.

  I must sleep.

  Why did that man watch me on the train for all that time?

  LATER: In the darkness, the sound of cars.

  He is home.

  12.6.51 This is a day! I can hardly set it down. My hand shakes so. (It did not at the time but now it does!) At seven I go to the kitchen. Valechka is already up, sorting through a great mess of broken crockery, glass, spilled food, which lies in a heap in the centre of a big tablecloth. She explains how the table is cleared every night: two guards each take two corners of the cloth and carry everything out! So our first task every morning is to rescue all that isn’t broken, and wash it. As we work, Valechka explains the routine of the house. He rises quite late and sometimes likes to work in the garden. Then he goes to the Kremlin and his quarters are cleaned. He never returns before nine or ten in the evening, and then there is a dinner. At two or three He goes to bed. This happens seven days a week. The rules: when one approaches Him, do so openly, He hates it when people creep up on Him. If a door has to be knocked on, knock upon it loudly. Don’t stand around. Don’t speak unless you are spoken to. And if you do have to speak, always look Him in the eyes.

  She prepares a simple breakfast of coffee, bread and meat, and takes it out. Later, she asks me to collect the tray. Before I go, she makes me tie up my hair and turn around while she examines me. I will do, she says. She says He is working at a table at the edge of the lawn on the south side of the house. Or was. He moves restlessly, from place to place. It is His way. The guards will know where to look.

  What can I write of this moment? I am calm. You would have been proud of me. I remember what to do. I walk around the edge of the lawn and approach Him in plain view. He’s sitting on a bench, alone, bent over some papers. The tray is on a table beside Him. He glances up at my approach, then returns to His work. But as I walk away across the grass – then, I swear, I feel His eyes upon my back, all the way, until I’m out of sight. Valechka laughs at my white face.

  I don’t see Him again after that.

  Just now (it is after ten): the sound of cars.

  14.6.51 Last night. Late. I’m in the kitchen with Valechka when Lozgachev (a guard) comes rushing in, all steamed up, to say the Boss is out of Ararat. Valechka fetches a bottle, but instead of giving it to Lozgachev, she gives it to me: ‘Let Anna take it in.’ She wants to help me – dear Valechka! So Lozgachev takes me down the passage to the main part of the house. I can hear male voices. Laughter. He knocks hard on the door and stands aside. I go in. The room is hot, stuffy. Seven or eight men around a table – familiar faces, all of them. One – Comrade Khrushchev, I think – is on his feet, proposing a toast. His face is flushed, sweating. He stops. There is food all over the place, as if they have been throwing it. All look at me. Comrade Stalin is at the head of the table. I set the brandy next to him. His voice is soft and kindly. He says, ‘And what is your name, young comrade?’ ‘Anna Safanova, Comrade Stalin.’ I remember to look into his eyes. They are very deep. The man next to him says, ‘She’s from Archangel, Boss.’ And Comrade Khrushchev says, ‘Trust Lavrenty to know where she’s from!’ More laughter. ‘Ignore these rough fellows,’ says Comrade Stalin. ‘Thank you, Anna Safanova.’ As I close the door, their talk resumes. Valechka is waiting for me at the end of the passage. She puts her arm around me and we go back in to the kitchen. I am shaking, it must be with joy.

  16.6.51 Comrade Stalin has said that from now on I am to bring him breakfast.
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  21.6.51 He is in the garden as usual this morning. How I wish the people could see him here! He likes to listen to the birdsong, to prune the flowers. But his hands shake. As I am setting down the tray, I hear him curse. He has cut himself. I pick up the napkin and take it over to him. At first, he looks at me suspiciously. Then he holds out his hand. I wrap it in the white linen. Bright spots of blood soak through. ‘You are not afraid of Comrade Stalin, Anna Safanova?’ ‘Why should I be afraid of you, Comrade Stalin?’ ‘The doctors are afraid of Comrade Stalin. When they come to change a dressing on Comrade Stalin, their hands shake so much, he has to do it himself. Ah, but if their hands didn’t shake – well then, what would that mean? Thank you, Anna Safanova.’

  O, mama and papa, he is so lonely! Your hearts would go out to him. He is only flesh and blood, after all, like us. And close-up he is old. Much older than he appears in his pictures. His moustache is grey, the underside stained yellow by his pipe smoke. His teeth are almost all gone. His chest rattles when he breathes. I fear for him. For all of us.

  30.6.51 Three a.m. A knock at my door. Valechka is outside, in her nightdress, with a pocket torch. He has been in the garden, pruning by moonlight, and he has cut himself again! He is calling for me! I dress quickly and follow her along the passage. The night is warm. We pass through the dining room and in to his private quarters. He has three rooms and he moves between them, one night in this one, one night in another. Nobody is ever sure where. He sleeps beneath a blanket on a couch. Valechka leaves us. He is sitting on the couch, his hand outstretched. It is only a graze. It takes me half a minute to bind it with my handkerchief. ‘The fearless Anna Safanova …’

  I sense he wants me to stay. He asks me about my home and parents, my Party work, my plans for the future. I tell him of my interest in the law. He snorts: he doesn’t think much of lawyers! He wants to know of life in Archangel in the winter. Have I seen the lights of the Northern Aurora? (Of course!) When do the first snows come? At the end of September, I tell him, and by the end of October, the city is snowbound and only the trains can get through. He is hungry for details. How the Dvina freezes and wooden tracks are laid across it and there is light for only four hours a day. How the temperature drops to 35 below and people go into the forests for ice-fishing …