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— This man, Kuprin, did indeed find the body. His statement is in this report. He claims the body was found on the tracks, fully clothed. He’s quite clear about that. His words are here in black and white.

— Why did he tell us differently?

— Maybe he was confused. I don’t know. But I have this man’s signature on his statement and his statement is in the report. I doubt he would say anything differently if I asked him now.

— Have you seen the boy’s body?

Her question took Leo by surprise.

— I’m not investigating this incident: that is not my job. But even if it were, there’s nothing to investigate. This is a terrible accident. I’m here to speak to you, to make things clear when they’ve been unnecessarily confused. I can read you the entire report aloud if you like.

The elderly woman spoke again.

— That report is a lie.

Everyone tensed. Leo remained silent, struggling to stay calm. They had to realize that there was no compromise. They had to concede, they had to accept that their little boy died an unfortunate death. Leo was here for their benefit. He turned to Fyodor, waiting for him to correct this woman.

Fyodor stepped forward.

— Leo, we have new evidence, evidence which has come to light today. A woman who lives in an apartment looking out over the tracks saw Arkady with a man. We don’t know any more than that. This woman is not a friend of ours. We’ve never met her before. She heard about the murder—

— Fyodor…

— She heard about my son’s death. And if what we’ve been told is true, she can describe this man. She’d be able to recognize him.

— Where is this woman?

— We’re waiting for her now.

— She’s coming here? I’d be interested in hearing what she has to say.

Leo was offered a chair. He waved it away. He’d stand.

No one spoke, everyone waiting for the knock on the door. Leo regretted not taking that chair. Almost an hour passed, in silence, before a faint knock was heard. Fyodor opened the door, introducing himself and showing the woman in. She was perhaps thirty years old: a kind face, large, nervous eyes. Startled at all the people, Fyodor tried to comfort her.

— These are my friends and family. There’s no need to be alarmed.

But she wasn’t listening. She was staring at Leo.

— My name is Leo Stepanovich. I’m an MGB officer. I’m in charge. What is your name?

Leo took out his pad, finding a fresh page. The woman didn’t reply. He glanced up. She still hadn’t said anything. Leo was about to repeat the question when she finally spoke.

— Galina Shaporina.

Her voice was a whisper.

— And what did you see?

— I saw…

She looked about the room, then at the floor, then back at Leo, relapsing into silence. Fyodor prompted her, tension evident in his voice:

— You saw a man?

— Yes, a man.

Fyodor, standing right beside her, his eyes drilling into her, sighed with relief. She continued:

— A man, a worker perhaps, on the railway — I saw him through my window. It was very dark.

Leo tapped his pad with his pencil.

— You saw him with a young boy?

— No, there was no boy.

Fyodor’s mouth dropped, his words rushed out.

— But we were told you saw a man holding my little boy’s hand.

— No, no, no — there was no boy. He was holding a bag, I think — a bag full of tools. Yes, that was it. He was working on the tracks, repairing them perhaps. I didn’t see very much, a glimpse, that’s all. I shouldn’t really be here. I’m very sorry your son died.

Leo shut his pad.

— Thank you.

— Will there be any further questions?

Before Leo could answer, Fyodor took the woman by the arm.

— You saw a man.

The woman pulled her arm free. She looked about the room, at all the eyes on her. She turned to Leo.

— Will you need to visit me at a later date?

— No. You can go.

Galina dropped her face to the floor, hurrying to the front door. But before she reached it the elderly woman called out:

— You lose your nerve so easily?

Fyodor approached the elderly woman.

— Please, sit down.

She nodded, neither disgusted nor approving.

— Arkady was your son.

— Yes.

Leo couldn’t see Fyodor’s eyes. He wondered what silent communication was passing between these two people. Whatever it was, she took her seat. During all of this Galina had slipped away.

Leo was pleased Fyodor had intervened. He hoped that they’d reached a turning point. Scratching together gossip and rumour served no one. Fyodor returned to Leo’s side.

— Forgive my mother, she’s very upset.

— This is why I’m here. So we can talk this through within the confines of this room. What cannot happen is that once I leave this room, the conversation continues. If anyone asks you about your son you cannot say he was murdered. Not because I order you to but because it is not true.

— We understand.

— Fyodor, I want you to take tomorrow off. This has been authorized. If there’s anything more I can do for you…

— Thank you.

At the door to the apartment Fyodor shook Leo’s hand.

— We’re all very upset. Forgive us any outbursts.

— They’ll pass unrecorded. But, as I said, this ends here.

Fyodor’s face stiffened. He nodded. As though the words were bitter he forced them out:

— My son’s death was a terrible accident.

Leo walked down the stairs, breathing deeply. The atmosphere in that room had been suffocating. He was glad to be done, glad the matter had been resolved. Fyodor was a good man. Once he came to terms with his son’s death then the truth would be easier to accept.

He paused. There was the sound of someone behind him. He turned around. It was a boy, no more than seven or eight years old.

— Sir, I am Jora. I’m Arkady’s older brother. May I speak to you?

— Of course.

— It’s my fault.

— What was your fault?

— My brother’s death: I threw a snowball at him. I’d packed it with stones and dirt and grit. Arkady was hurt, it hit him in the head. He ran off. Maybe it made him dizzy, maybe that’s why he couldn’t see the train. The dirt they found in his mouth: that was my fault. I threw it at him.

— Your brother’s death was an accident. There’s no reason for you to feel any guilt. But you did well telling me the truth. Now go back to your parents.

— I haven’t told them about the snowball with dirt and the mud and the stones.

— Perhaps they don’t need to know.

— They’d be so angry. Because that was the last time I ever saw him. Sir, we played nicely most of the time. And we would’ve played nicely again, we would’ve made up, we would’ve been friends again, I’m sure of it. But now I can’t make it up to him, I can’t ever say sorry.

Leo was hearing this boy’s confession. The boy wanted forgiveness. He’d begun to cry. Embarrassed, Leo patted his head, muttering, as though they were the words of a lullaby:

— It was no one’s fault.

The Village of Kimov
One Hundred and Sixty Kilometres North of Moscow

Same Day


Anatoly Brodsky hadn’t slept in three days. He was so tired that even the most basic tasks required concentration. The barn door in front of him was locked. He knew he’d have to force it open. Even so the idea seemed far-fetched. He simply didn’t have the energy. Snow had begun to fall. He looked up at the night sky; his mind drifted and when he eventually remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing snow was settling on his face. He licked the flakes across his lips and realized that if he didn’t get inside he was going to die. Concentrating, he kicked the door. The hinges shook, the door remained shut. He kicked again. Timbers splintered. Encouraged by the sound he summoned the last sparks of energy and aimed a third kick at the lock. The wood cracked, the door swung back. He stood at the entrance, adjusting to the gloom. On one side of the barn there were two cows in an enclosure. On the other side there were tools, straw. He spread some of the coarse sacks on the frozen ground, buttoned his coat and lay down, crossing his arms and closing his eyes.


From his bedroom window, Mikhail Zinoviev could see that the barn door was open. It was swaying backwards and forwards in the wind and snow was swirling into his barn. He turned around. His wife was in bed, asleep. Deciding not to disturb her, he quietly put on his coat, his felt boots and went outside.

The wind had picked up, whipping loose snow off the ground and flinging it into Mikhail’s face. He raised his hand, sheltering his eyes. As he approached the barn, glancing through his fingers he could see the lock had been smashed, the door kicked open. He peered inside and after adjusting to the absence of moonlight he saw the outline of a man lying on the ground against the straw. Without any clear sense of what he was about to do, he entered the barn, took hold of a pitchfork, stepped up to the sleeping figure, raising the prongs above the man’s stomach, ready to jab down.

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