Child 44 - Страница 29

They’d sat in their apartment, expecting the MGB to come at any minute. Neither of them had bothered to cook; neither of them had been hungry even though the sensible thing to do would’ve been to eat as much as possible in preparation for what might lay ahead. They hadn’t got undressed for bed, they hadn’t moved from the kitchen table. They’d sat in silence — waiting. Considering they might never see each other again Leo had felt an urge to talk to his wife: to say things that needed to be said. But he’d been unable to formulate what they might be. As the hours passed he’d realized this was the most time they’d spent together, face to face, uninterrupted, for as long as he could remember. Neither of them had known what to do with it.

The knock on the door hadn’t come that night. Four in the morning had passed, there’d been no arrest. As it had approached midday the following day, Leo made breakfast, wondering why they were taking so long. When the first knock on the door finally came, he and Raisa had stood up, breathing fast, expecting this to be the end, the arrival of officers collecting them, splitting them apart and taking them to their separate interrogations. Instead it was some trivial matter: a changing of the guards, an officer using their bathroom, questions about buying food. Perhaps they couldn’t find any evidence, perhaps they’d be cleared and the case against them would collapse. Leo had only flirted with these thoughts briefly: accusations never collapsed through lack of proof. All the same, a day became two days, two days became four days.

A week into their confinement, a guard had entered the apartment, ashen-faced. Seeing him, Leo had been certain their time had finally come, only to listen as the guard announced, in a voice trembling with emotion, that their Leader, Stalin, was dead. Only at this moment did Leo allow himself to contemplate whether or not they might just have a chance of surviving.

Able to gather the vaguest details of their Leader’s demise — the newspapers had been hysterical, the guards hysterical — all Leo could piece together was that Stalin had died peacefully in his bed. His last words had purportedly been about their great country and their great country’s future. Leo didn’t believe it for a second, too schooled in paranoia and plot not to see the cracks in the story. He knew from his work that Stalin had recently arrested the country’s foremost doctors, doctors who had spent their entire working lives keeping him well, as part of a purge of prominent Jewish figures. It struck him as no coincidence that Stalin had died of apparently natural causes at a time when there were no expert medical professionals to identify the source of his sudden illness. Morality aside, the great Leader’s purge had been a tactical error. It had left him exposed. Leo had no idea whether Stalin had been murdered or not. With the doctors locked up that certainly gave any would-be assassins a free hand to do as they pleased, which was to sit back and watch him die, safe in the knowledge that the very men and women who could stop them were behind bars. Having said that, it was just as possible that Stalin had fallen ill and no one dared contradict his orders and release the doctors. If Stalin had recovered they might have been executed for disobedience.

This skulduggery was of little importance to Leo. What was important was that the man was dead. Everyone’s sense of order and certainty had dissolved. Who would take over? How would they run the country? What decisions would they make? Which officers would be in favour and which would be out of favour? What was acceptable under Stalin might be unacceptable under new rule. The absence of a leader would mean temporary paralysis. No one wanted to make a decision unless they knew their decision would be approved. For decades no one had taken action according to what they believed was right or wrong but by what they thought would please their leader. People had lived or died depending on his annotations on a list: a line against a name saved a person, no mark meant they were left to die. That was the judicial system — line or no line. Closing his eyes, Leo had been able to imagine the muted panic within the corridors of the Lubyanka. Their moral compass had been neglected for so long it spun out of control: north was south and east was west. As for questions of what was right and wrong — they had no idea. They’d forgotten how to decide. In times like these the safest course of action was to do as little as possible.

In these circumstances the case of Leo Demidov and his wife, Raisa Demidova, which had no doubt proved divisive, inflammatory and problematic, was best shunted to the margins. That’s why there’d been the delay. No one had wanted to touch it: everyone was too busy repositioning with the new power groups in the Kremlin. To complicate matters further, Lavrenti Beria, Stalin’s closest aide — and if anyone had poisoned Stalin, Leo suspected it was him — had already assumed the mantle of Leader and dismissed the notion that there was a plot, ordering the doctors to be released. Suspects released because they were innocent — who’d heard of such a thing? Certainly Leo couldn’t remember any precedent. In these circumstances, prosecuting a decorated war hero, a man who’d made the front page of Pravda, without any evidence might be deemed risky. So, on the sixth of March, instead of a knock on the door bringing news of their fate, Leo and Raisa had been granted permission to attend the State funeral of their great Leader.

Still technically under house arrest, Leo and Raisa and their two guards had dutifully joined the crowds, all of them making their way towards Red Square. Many had been crying, some uncontrollably — men and women and children — and Leo had wondered if there was a person in sight, out of all the hundreds of thousands gathered in their collective grief, who hadn’t lost some family or friend to the man they were apparently mourning. The atmosphere, fraught, charged with an overwhelming sense of sadness, perhaps had something to do with an idolization of this dead man. Leo had heard many people, even in the most brutal of interrogations, cry out that if only Stalin knew about the excesses of the MGB he would intervene. Whatever the real reason behind the sadness, the funeral had offered a legitimate outlet for years of pent-up misery, an opportunity to cry, to hug your neighbour, to express a sadness that had never previously been allowed to show itself because it implied some criticism of the State.

The main streets around the State Duma had been packed so tight with people it was hard to breathe, moving forward with as little control as a rock caught in a rockslide. Leo had never let go of Raisa’s hand and although shoulders pressed into him from all sides he’d made sure they weren’t pulled apart. They’d quickly been separated from their guards. As they’d neared the Square the crowd contracted further. Feeling the squeeze, the mounting hysteria, Leo had decided enough. By chance, they’d been pushed to the edge of the crowd and he’d stepped into a doorway, helping Raisa out of the crowd. They’d sheltered there, watching as the streams of people continued past. It had been the right decision. Up ahead, people had been crushed to death.

In the chaos they could’ve attempted escape. They’d considered it, debated it, whispering to each other in that doorway. The guards accompanying them had been lost. Raisa had wanted to run. But running would’ve given the MGB all the reason they needed to execute them. And from a practical point of view they had no money, no friends and no place to hide. If they’d decided to run Leo’s parents would’ve been executed. They’d been lucky so far. Leo had staked their lives on braving it out.

The last of the passengers had finished boarding. The station master, seeing the uniforms clustered on the platform by the engine, was holding the departure for them. The train driver leant out of his cabin, trying to figure out what the problem was. Curious passengers were stealing glances out of windows at this young couple in some sort of trouble.

Leo could see a uniformed officer walking towards them. It was Vasili. Leo had been expecting him. He’d hardly miss the opportunity to gloat. Leo felt a flicker of anger but it was imperative he kept his emotions under control. There was, perhaps, a trap still to be set.

Raisa had never seen Vasili before but she’d heard Leo’s description of him.

A hero’s face, a henchman’s heart.

Even at a glance she could tell there was something not quite right about him. He was handsome, certainly, but he was smiling as though a smile had been invented to express nothing other than ill will. When he finally reached them she noticed his pleasure at Leo’s humiliation and his disappointment that it wasn’t greater.

Vasili widened his smile.

— I insisted that they wait, so I could say goodbye. And explain what has been decided for you. I wanted to do it personally, you understand?

He was enjoying himself. As much as this man appalled Leo it was stupid to risk angering him when they’d survived so much. In a voice barely audible he muttered:

— I appreciate that.

— You’ve been reassigned. It was impossible to keep you in the MGB with so many unanswered questions over your head. You’re going to join the militia. Not as a syshchik, not as a detective, but as the lowest entry position, an uchastkovyy. You’ll be the man who cleans the holding cells, the man who takes notes — the man who does as he’s told. You need to get used to taking orders if you’re to survive.