Child 44 - Страница 23

Leo nodded, adding.

— This country has many enemies. Our Revolution is hated around the world. We must protect it. Unfortunately even from ourselves.

He paused. He hadn’t come here to repeat State rhetoric. His parents stopped working, turning to face their son, their fingers sticky with oils from the mince.

— Yesterday I was asked to denounce Raisa. My superior officers believe she’s a traitor. They believe she’s a spy working for a foreign agency. I’ve been ordered to investigate.

A single drop of oil dripped from Stepan’s finger onto the floor. He stared at the drop of grease and then asked:

— Is she a traitor?

— Father, she’s a schoolteacher. She works. She comes home. She works. She comes home.

— Then tell them that. Is there any evidence? Why do they even think such a thing?

— There’s the confession of an executed spy. He named her. He claimed he’d worked with her. But I know that confession is a lie. I know that the spy was in reality nothing more than a vet. We made a mistake in arresting him. I believe his confession to be the fabrication of another officer trying to implicate me. I know my wife is innocent. The whole thing is an act of revenge.

Stepan wiped his hands clean on Anna’s apron.

— Tell them the truth. Make them listen. Expose this officer. You are in a position of authority.

— This confession, whether fabricated or not, has been accepted as the truth. It’s an official document and her name is on it. If I defend Raisa I’m contesting the validity of a State document. If they admit one is flawed then they admit all of them are. They cannot go back. The repercussions would be enormous. It would mean all confessions were up for question.

— Can you not say that this spy — this vet — was mistaken?

— Yes. That is what I intend to do. But if I make a case and they don’t believe me then not only will they arrest her they will arrest me too. If she is guilty and I’ve claimed she’s innocent then I am guilty too. That isn’t all. I know how these matters play out. There’s a very strong chance that they will arrest both of you. Part of the judicial code targets any family members of a convicted criminal. We’re guilty by association.

— And if you denounce her?

— I don’t know.

— Yes you do.

— We’ll survive. She won’t.

The water was still bubbling on the stove. At last Stepan spoke.

— You’re here because you’re unsure what to do. You’re here because you’re a good man and you want us to tell you to do the right thing, the decent thing. You want us to give you the right advice. Which would be to tell them that they’re wrong, to tell them that Raisa is innocent. And to brave the consequences that come from that.

— Yes.

Stepan nodded, looking at Anna. After a moment he added:

— But I can’t give you that advice. And I’m not sure you believed I would give you that advice. How can I? The truth is I want my wife to live. I want my son to live. And I want to live. I would do whatever it takes to ensure that. As I understand the situation, it is one life for three. I’m sorry. I know that you expected more of me. But we’re old, Leo. We wouldn’t survive the Gulags. We’d be separated. We’d die alone.

— And if you were young what your advice be then?

Stepan nodded.

— You’re right. My advice would be the same. But don’t be angry with me. What did you expect when you came here? Did you expect us to say, fine, we don’t mind dying? And what purpose would our deaths serve? Would your wife be saved? Would you live happily together? If that had been the case I would gladly have given up my life for the two of you. But that isn’t what would happen. All that would happen is that we’d die — all of us, all four of us — but you’d die knowing that you’d done the right thing.

Leo looked at his mother. Her face was as pale as the lank cabbage leaves she held in her hand. She was quite calm. She didn’t contradict Stepan, asking instead:

— When do you have to decide?

— I have two days to gather evidence. Then I must report back.

His parents continued with the preparation of dinner, wrapping mince in the cabbage leaves, laying them side by side in a baking tray like a row of thick, dismembered thumbs. No one spoke until the tray was full. Stepan asked:

— You’ll eat with us?

Following his mother into the living room, Leo saw that there were already three place settings.

— You’re expecting a guest?

— We’re expecting Raisa.

— My wife?

— She’s coming for dinner. When you knocked on the door we thought you were her.

Anna laid a fourth plate on the table, explaining.

— She comes almost every week. She didn’t want you to know how lonely she finds it, eating with only the radio for company. We’ve become very fond of her.

It was true that Leo was never home from work at seven. A culture of long working days had been fostered by Stalin, an insomniac, who would take no more than four hours of sleep a night. Leo had heard that no one in the Politburo was permitted to leave until the lights of Stalin’s study were turned off, normally some time past midnight. Though this rule didn’t apply exactly to the Lubyanka, similar levels of dedication were expected. Few officers worked anything less than ten-hour days, even if several of those hours were spent doing nothing at all.

There was a knock. Stepan opened the door, allowing Raisa into the hallway. She was as surprised as his parents to see Leo. Stepan explained:

— He was working nearby. For once we can eat together as a family.

She undid her jacket, which Stepan took from her. She stepped forward, close to Leo, looking him up and down.

— Whose clothes are these?

Leo glanced at the trousers, the shirt — these dead men’s clothes.

— I borrowed them — from work.

Raisa leaned closer, whispering in Leo’s ear.

— The shirt smells.

Leo moved towards the bathroom. At the door, he glanced back, watching as Raisa helped his parents with the table.

Leo had grown up without running hot water. His parents had shared their old apartment with his father’s uncle and his family. There had been only two bedrooms, one bedroom for each family. The apartment had no inside toilet or bathroom, the occupants of the building had to use outdoor facilities which were without hot water. In the morning the queues were long and in the winter, snow would fall on them while they waited. A private sink full of hot water would’ve been an impossible luxury, a dream. Leo stripped off the shirt, washing himself. Finished, he opened the door, asking his father if he could borrow a shirt. Though his father’s body was work-worn — stooped and shaped by the assembly line as surely as the tank shells that had been shaped by him — he was of a roughly similar frame to his son, a strong build with broad, muscular shoulders. The shirt was a close enough fit.

Changed, Leo sat down to eat. While the golubsty finished baking in the oven, they had zakuski, plates of pickles, mushroom salad and for each of them, a thin slice of veal tongue cooked with marjoram, left to cool in gelatine and served with horseradish. It was an exceptionally generous spread. Leo couldn’t help but stare at it, calculating the cost of each dish. Whose death had paid for that marjoram? Had that slice of tongue been bought with Anatoly Brodsky’s life? Feeling sick, he remarked:

— I can see why you come here every week.

Raisa smiled.

— Yes. They spoil me. I tell them kasha would be fine but—

Stepan interjected:

— It’s an excuse to spoil ourselves.

Trying to sound casual, Leo asked his wife:

— You come here straight after work?

— That’s right.

That was a lie. She’d gone somewhere with Ivan first. But before Leo could consider it further, Raisa corrected herself.

— That’s not true. Normally I come here straight after work. But tonight I had an appointment, which is why I’m a little late.

— An appointment?

— With the doctor.

Raisa began to smile.

— I’d meant to tell you when we were on our own but since it has come up…

— Tell me what?

Anna stood up.

— Would you like us to leave?

Leo gestured for his mother to be seated.

— Please. We’re family. No secrets.

— I’m pregnant.

20 February

Leo couldn’t sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the slow breathing of his wife, her back pressed against his side not out of any deliberate expression of intimacy but through chance movements. She was an unsettled sleeper. Was that enough reason to denounce her? He knew it was. He knew how it could be written up:

Unable to rest easy, troubled by her dreams: my wife is clearly tormented by some secret.

He could pass responsibility for the investigation to another person. He could kid himself that he was deferring judgement. He was too close, too involved. But any such investigation would only come to one conclusion. The case had been opened. No one else would position against a presumption of guilt.