Stalin raised an almost feminine hand and beckoned him to the desk. Abakumov bowed slightly as he handed over the notebook open at a certain page. Stalin read:
Meeting of the Politburo of the Romantic Central Committee
Agenda
Election of Council of Ministers
I, Nikolasha Blagov, First Secretary of the Fatal Romantics’ Politburo, seconded by Vlad Titorenko and George Satinov, propose that the following be appointed ministers in our new government . . .
Stalin put down the book in some surprise. ‘The Satinov children are involved?’
‘I am afraid so,’ said Abakumov sombrely. ‘It seems that we’ve uncovered a conspiracy to overthrow the government.’
21
THE CHILDREN WERE coming home; Tamara Satinova was so happy.
‘Is that you, Losha?’ she called out from the kitchen.
‘It is,’ replied Losha Babanava. ‘May I come in?’
‘Do. How are you?’
‘Sizzling.’ His smile was all sunburn, moustaches and white teeth. Losha had guarded Hercules Satinov since he was in Tbilisi as the First Secretary of the Transcaucasus. He had seen Hercules married in the 1920s; he had guarded him on grain-collecting expeditions into Ukraine during collectivization; he had been at his side on sunny, relaxed holidays with Stalin on the Black Sea when they ate al fresco and sang Georgian songs; he had witnessed Hercules widowed and lonesome, and then happily meeting and marrying Tamara; he remembered the Terror when Hercules’s friends were arrested and vanished; and in the darkest days of 1941, he had accompanied him to the front when the armies were being routed by the Nazis. So Tamara knew he was as anxious as anyone to see George come home.
‘Is there any news?’ he asked, looking at his watch.
‘No,’ Tamara said. ‘But surely it can’t be long now. It’s seven p.m. after all . . .’ Hercules was sure George would be home soon, and Hercules was always right about these things.
In the kitchen, Leka was making George’s favourite meal, beef Stroganoff, and Mariko was playing with her friend Raisa, the only other girl who enjoyed her game, the Moscow School for Bitches.
‘I’ve got to stay here, Losha, in case the phone rings,’ Tamara said. ‘Please could you pick up Mariko? She’s at the Bolshakovs. Just off Pushkin Square.’
‘Done,’ said Losha. Losha knew where everyone lived, where anything could be procured, all the secrets. He left, and Tamara looked at her watch for the umpteenth time.
On the other side of the Moskva River, in the House on the Embankment, Dashka Dorova was not watching the clock because Genrikh had told her that the MGB bureaucracy was always slower than you might expect, so the call would probably come first thing in the morning. She thought: one more night! For Minka a night might be an eternity. At least Demian was dependable – and she had her Senka.
‘Let me see how you look!’ said Dashka, clapping her hands. She had a way of throwing back her head when she laughed. ‘Turn around.’
Even in his pyjamas, Senka Dorov looked every inch a little professor. While other ten-year-olds sported pyjamas with pictures of bears or rabbits, Senka’s were dark blue with stripes and red piping, made of Chinese silk.
‘Do you like them, Senka?’
‘Yes I love them, Mamochka.’ He circled her, dancing round and round. ‘They’re so smart I think I could lecture in them, don’t you think, Mamochka?’
‘Oh, you’re so sweet, darling,’ cried Dashka, pulling him towards her and wrapping him in her arms. ‘If you give me your matinée-idol face I’ll have to kiss you.’
Senka focused his big brown eyes on to the distance and tilted his head a little, knowing very well that, to her at least, he was adorable.
Dashka showered his face in kisses. Then he raised his hands around her neck and pulled her down to kiss her cheeks. ‘I really love you so much, Mamochka!’
Dashka looked down at her youngest son, at his long eyelashes and the dimple in his chin. She buried her nose in his hair and inhaled the smell of him. Boys smelled stronger than girls. ‘You’re so handsome, my Little Professor. And so original. And such a charmer. One day a girl is going to be very lucky to be married to you.’
‘I don’t want to marry anyone but you!’ he said.
‘You won’t want to be with me when you’re a teenager and I’m a wrinkly old lady.’
‘Mama, you’ll always be the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world.’
‘Rubbish,’ she laughed. ‘I wish!’
Senka frowned. ‘Why are you so happy when Minka’s still away?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’ But she smiled.
‘Ohh,’ he cried out. ‘I understand – Minka’s coming home!’
‘Hush,’ said Dashka. ‘Never talk about such things.’ But she was certain Minka was coming home: the clues were all there. At dinner at the Aragvi the previous night, Longuinoz the maître d’ had taken her hands and said, ‘Dr Dorova, let me show you to your table.’ He had moved so close she could see his mascara. ‘Some of my favourite guests had colds in the last few days. Summer colds. But today, everyone is better and tomorrow, completely cured.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow. Here’s your table. Enjoy your meal.’
Ever since Minka’s arrest, Dashka had not enjoyed a moment’s ease. Even her surgery, which she loved, had barely distracted her. She worried every second: was Minka sleeping? Was there a lavatory in her cell? What was she eating? What if she got her period in there? Were they being kind to her? Oh please, let them be kind to her: I beg you, Comrade Beria or whoever is in charge of her, don’t crush her love of life. Dashka knew that Genrikh was in pain too even though he had lectured her about Bolshevik justice. In a flash of temper, she had shouted at him: ‘I want my daughter back, Genrikh! You can keep your Bolshevik justice!’ But now that Minka was coming home, she could enjoy her family, and this meant enjoying her Little Professor.
‘Mamochka?’ Senka was holding her face in his hands and shaking her a little. ‘Wake up at the back of the class!’
She had been dreaming of going to Lubianka to collect Minka. When would the call come? How would they celebrate? I will cook her pancakes with strawberry jam, her favourite, and she can have pancakes every day, she decided, forever!
‘Mamochka, did you know I caught Demian in my room the other day, looking through my things? He was plundering my room.’
She shook herself back to the present. ‘Plundering, was he?’
‘Or it could have been looting. Or a deed of opportunistic piracy?’
‘Good words, Little Professor. But Demian’s too old to play with your toys, darling. I’m sure he didn’t take anything.’
‘But it’s vexing.’
‘I’ll talk to him, I promise.’
‘Thank you, Mamochka.’ Another kiss. ‘Can I pop next door and borrow a book from Lulu Nosenko’s daddy? For homework.’
‘What book are you borrowing?’
‘Tchaikovsky’s Music and Librettos in Opera and Ballet.’
‘Well, that’s essential reading.’ Dashka smiled indulgently. ‘Put on the matching dressing gown, and off you go. Papa will be here any minute and then we’ll have supper. Hurry up!’
Dashka went into the kitchen. Demian was in his room. The maid Luda was stirring Genrikh’s favourite spicy borscht with extra chilli. A few minutes later, she heard the door shut on the latch. Genrikh was home.
He kissed her and as he did, she whispered, ‘Is the news still good?’ and he said, ‘So far. Luda, pour us both a glass of wine.’
Dizzy with excitement, Dashka kissed her husband, and even Genrikh had to smile.
Soon their supper was ready. ‘Demian! Senka!’ called Genrikh. Demian appeared and sat at the table. Dashka noticed the dirty hair and pimply skin of her teenage son. What a surly phase he was going through. He was the image of his father, not like the other children, who were all her.
‘Get Senka,’ she told him.
/> ‘He’s not in his room.’
‘No, he went next door to the Nosenkos. Will you fetch him?’
Demian left slightly sulkily but was back in a moment. ‘He collected the book ten minutes ago.’
Dashka looked at Genrikh – and in that moment, she felt as if her stomach was falling, falling for ever, through her body, the floor, the earth, eternity. Then she bolted out of the kitchen.
‘Senka! Senka!’ she shouted, going from room to room. She ran back into the dining room where Genrikh and Demian were still sitting at the table in silence. ‘But he was still in his pyjamas. Where could he be? Genrikh, what the hell is going on? Help me look for him for God’s sake! Senka!’
It had been a long and confusing day for George Satinov. As soon as he had revealed where he got the gun, he’d known he had done something terrible. Everyone in Lubianka was suddenly being kind to him and that made him even more worried.
After breakfast, he’d been taken to the interrogation where Mogilchuk chatted to him about football and Kobylov popped his head around the door as if to wish him luck. Back in his cell, he’d paced up and down. Perhaps I’m going home, he’d thought in a delirium of hope. The lunch was lamb cutlets and potatoes, a special feast, not the usual Lubianka fare.
But the hours passed, and nothing happened. And by the time it was supper, he was rattled. Then the food arrived: the thin gruel with a few knuckles of fat floating in the grease and the tiny square of bread and butter. No one came to fetch him, to collect his things and free him. Night fell. The light stayed on. He could not sleep but as he began to doze, the Judas port clicked. ‘Hands on top of the blanket. Wake up!’
The lock groaned open and he was marched down the corridor back to the interrogation room. ‘No talking – or the punishment cell!’ he was told. ‘Eyes straight ahead.’
He was in the same room but a new interrogator was waiting for him.
‘Sit down, Prisoner Satinov,’ said a man who had a sharp face, sheer, flat cheekbones and a mouth and jaw that protruded like the muzzle of a dog. Prisoner? The words ‘prisoner’ and ‘Satinov’ did not go together at all. Satinov was usually mentioned with ‘hero’ or ‘Comrade Stalin’s closest . . .’
‘Answer the questions directly and truthfully. Hide nothing from us.’
‘But I’ve told you all I know.’
‘Me? You haven’t told me anything. I am Colonel Likhachev and we’re starting again, boy. When did you plan to seize power, Prisoner Satinov?’
‘Please, I’m confused. I’m a schoolboy. I’m not even interested in politics. I leave that to the Party.’
‘Insolence is not tolerated here, prisoner.’ Likhachev slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. Stars flickered behind George’s eyes; his mouth stung.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Don’t footle with me,’ Likhachev said, ‘or I’ll reduce you to a puddle of fluid on the floor.’
George’s stomach seized up. He was suddenly very afraid.
‘You were a member of a conspiracy to overthrow the Soviet Government, kill members of the Politburo and install a new ministry,’ Likhachev stated.
‘I want to answer but I don’t understand. I am utterly loyal to Comrade Stalin and the Soviet Government. I’m a Komsomol.’
‘What was your role in Nikolasha Blagov’s provisional government?’
‘Oh my God, that was a joke.’
‘Be careful, prisoner. A conspiracy against the Soviet Government is not a joke.’
‘But it wasn’t a conspiracy. It was Nikolasha’s idiotic game.’
‘Do you recognize this?’
‘Yes. Yes, it’s Nikolasha’s Velvet Book.’
‘Let me read you something: Today I, First Romantic Secretary Nikolasha, will meet the members of the Central Romantic Committee to discuss the appointment of a new government. You read this and agreed with it, did you not?’
‘No!’
‘But you signed it. Look – there’s your signature.’
‘I didn’t take it seriously. I thought Nikolasha was mad and ridiculous. We all did!’
‘You’re in deep trouble, boy. This is treason.’
‘I’ll tell you anything, anything at all. Just ask!’
‘Why were you to be Minister of . . .’ Likhachev looked down the list of appointments. ‘. . . Sport?’
‘That shows I wasn’t serious. Sport’s not important. I said I’d do it because I’m more into football than literature.’
‘You could be shot for this, prisoner.’
‘I’m only eighteen. Please, I don’t understand any of this.’
‘Whose idea was it to form an anti-Communist government?’
‘It was Nikolasha’s idea. It was all him.’
Likhachev cleared his catarrh. ‘That’s convenient since he’s dead. Who was behind him? Forget your father. Forget your fancy friends. Forget the Aragvi. Now it is just you against the almighty power of the Soviet State.’
George was exhausted. He wiped his face, tried to focus. ‘Vlad Titorenko was his best friend but I don’t think Nikolasha even showed him the notebook.’
‘But reading his notebook, it is clear that one person had to approve his ideas, his conspiracy, his government. Who was it?’
The shock was making George feel leaden. His eyelids were heavy and he wanted to yawn. ‘Sorry, I’m so tired . . .’
‘Concentrate, prisoner. It is clear that someone else was the brains behind this treason. Let me read you this: NV has approved my ideas. Or here: NV must approve the government.’
‘It was not about politics. It never has been. It was about love.’
Likhachev punched George in the mouth, throwing him across the room.
‘We have the written evidence of his notebook. And it is quite clear that this “NV” is the grey cardinal of his conspiracy. Who is “NV”?’
‘Prisoner Minka Dorova, the punishment for conspiracy under Article 158 is death. Were you a party to a terroristic conspiracy?’ asked Colonel Komarov. Soft-spoken with the habit of running his hands through his light-brown curly hair, he focused on Minka sitting opposite him. His forehead, she decided, had the rumpled frown lines that marked the sincerity of the truly stupid.
‘No.’ Minka closed her eyes. She never thought she would miss Kobylov and Mogilchuk, but now, each question made her feel sicker. She fought waves of giddy panic and told herself: Keep your head!
‘Then why is your name in the government as Minister of Theatre?’
‘But that’s a joke. Surely you can see from the title of the ministry?’
‘We believe that you and Nikolasha Blagov and your other friends were pawns in this vile plot. Someone is behind it. Someone important.’
‘I don’t know whom you mean.’
‘Answer the question. Who is really behind this conspiracy to form a new government?’
‘No one.’ Minka was conscious of the tears running down her cheeks.
‘In his notebook, Nikolasha says that “NV” approves all his decisions. Who is this “NV”?’
Concentrate, Minka, she told herself, confess nothing, and you will get through this. She shook her head.
Komarov lit a cigarette. ‘Come with me, prisoner,’ he said and pressed a button on the desk.
Two warders entered and took her by the arms.
‘Where are you taking me? What are you going to do to me?’
‘We’re going to show you something to concentrate your mind.’
She was marched into a room with a glass wall through which she could see an empty interrogation room, just like the one she’d been in. Table, lamp, two chairs.
‘You can see in but no one can see out,’ said Komarov. ‘And no one can hear you.’
The door opened into the neighbouring room, and a small boy with tousled hair and large brown eyes walked in, wearing blue silk pyjamas with red piping.
‘Senka!’ she cried, throwing herself against the glass. ‘Senka!’
/> 22
ANDREI KURBSKY LAY in his cell. He now knew he would never escape the curse of his tainted biography; he’d always be the son of an Enemy. But there was one consolation: he felt closer to his father.
His father must surely have been through the same registration, the same cells, perhaps even this one. Andrei looked at the marks on the walls: drawings, words, scratches. He read out the names, dates, messages. Some must have died here; some must have been shot in the cellars and they wrote their names here to be read. He searched for his father’s name and dreamed that he too would be sent out to the Gulags – and that one day, in a snowy forest clearing, he would meet his father chopping logs . . .
The night was lonely. Someone was shouting; someone was coughing. Andrei was tired and so afraid. It was the uncertainty that was the hardest thing. Who else was in the cells here? What had they said? What was it safe to say?
The clip of boots outside. Locks turning. The door opened, and he was on his way to the interrogation rooms but this time he found a new officer was waiting for him. One look at Colonel Likhachev’s sunken, broiling eyes and little yellow teeth and Andrei knew that the case had taken another twist.
‘Prisoner Kurbsky, you were a party to an anti-Party conspiracy with Nikolasha Blagov.’ Likhachev took a book from a beige folder – a book Andrei recognized all too well – and began to read: ‘We in the Romantics’ Club are no longer interested in that nonsense of the progression of history, the dialectic, class struggle: the passion of the individual is supreme. How do you regard his views?’
‘They are un-Leninist, un-Marxist: I was profoundly disgusted. As a Communist I reject it. Nikolasha was a clown, but a dangerous one nonetheless.’ It was a relief, thought Andrei, to see the book, and know how he should respond to these questions.
‘But you did nothing about this?’
‘I did do something . . .’
‘Don’t lie. Let me continue. Serafima is appointed Minister of Love. NV must approve all appointments. Meet NV for instructions.’
One Night in Winter Page 17
