‘You’ve been very honest with us, Vlad. You’ll be going home soon. To see your parents.’
‘Oh, thank you, colonel.’ Vlad’s eyes filled with tears.
‘We don’t have to talk about this bullshit any more. We can talk about anything. Sport. Or home. I’m bored of talking about school pranks.’ He paused. ‘Where will your parents be at the moment?’
‘I don’t know . . . They go to the dacha at weekends.’
‘Your father is a very capable man, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does he want you to do?’
‘He wants me to be an engineer like him. But I’m not doing very well at school. He’s disappointed in me.’
‘How can that be? I was just saying to Colonel Likhachev that you’ll make a perfect Soviet man. You can do anything you want, you’re a patriot.’
‘Me? Oh, thank you, colonel.’
‘So your father should appreciate you a little more. But perhaps he’s too busy with his top job.’
‘Yes, and my mother thinks he’ll soon be promoted.’
‘Really? And why hasn’t he been?’
‘Well, they think he should be. They think he’s been overlooked because everyone’s so busy.’
‘Who’s everyone?’
‘Well, the authorities.’
‘The Central Committee?’
‘Yes, Papa thinks they haven’t noticed him, or he’d have a bigger job by now. My father’s very clever and hard-working, you know, a good Communist.’
‘But he says the Central Committee is to blame? You’ve heard him say that?’
‘Yes, but only to my mother in their room when they’re talking at night.’
‘She’s proud of him?’
‘Of course. She says without his planes, we couldn’t have won the war.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He agreed.’
‘Have you ever seen the factory at Satinovgrad?’
‘Yes, Papa once took us just before the war.’
‘Did you hear there were many planes that crashed?’
‘Yes, but those weren’t the fault of my father.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He was worried about them but he said the problem was that the designs couldn’t be changed.’
‘Why not?’
‘That wasn’t his job.’
‘He talked about it with you?’
‘Well, yes . . .’
Komarov leaned forward, biting his shortened finger. ‘Whose job was it?’
‘Papa said it was Marshal Shako’s and he spoke to Shako about it, but they agreed they couldn’t change the designs.’
‘Did Papa say why?’
‘No. Just that the designs were approved at the top.’
‘The top of what?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You know Comrade Satinov, of course?’
‘Yes, he supervises my father’s ministry.’
‘Perhaps he blamed Comrade Satinov as the “top”. He’s in the Politburo and the State Defence Council.’
‘I think . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘I think Papa meant above Satinov.’
‘Who’s above Satinov?’
‘Well . . . Comrade Stalin.’
‘So your papa says it is the Head of the Soviet Government who approves planes that crash?’
‘Yes – well, no . . . yes . . . I’m not sure.’ Komarov raised his eyebrows but said nothing and sure enough Vlad filled the vacuum: ‘I think he meant that the top people don’t understand planes so they sign off designs that make planes crash.’
‘Who’re they? You mean the Head of the Soviet Government signs the plans?’
‘I think he signs everything.’
Vlad noticed that Komarov was writing fast. For a long time, he said nothing, just listened to the nib scratching paper.
‘You must sign this statement right now,’ Komarov said, pushing the paper over to him.
‘Will my parents come to collect me then?’ Vlad’s stomach clenched and cramped; he felt a burning hole in his chest and a rising fear in his gullet.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Komarov, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. ‘After everything you’ve shared with me, I’m just not sure.’
44
HERCULES SATINOV HAD arrived in Germany. The ZiS limousine that collected him from Tempelhof Airport raced and swerved through Berlin’s apocalyptic landscape. Lights flickered, illuminating momentary glimpses of figures eking out an existence: a woman carrying a jerrycan of water, packs of dogs, gangs of urchins running, running, a madman dancing around a fire.
Satinov peered out at the red and desperate eyes of humans and animals catching the lights of the convoy as they scurried amongst the burnt-out tank hulks, the mountains of rubble, the shattered shells of buildings. But each shadow, every ruin reminded him of Dashka, for here he’d held her, there they kissed, glimpses of beauty in a world on the other side of catastrophe.
Stalin, who had been at meetings with the American President and British Prime Minister all day, wore the new fawn uniform of a generalissimo with gold shoulderboards and just one medal. Satinov could tell the meetings of the Potsdam Conference had gone well. There was a breezy swagger about him and he had recovered some of his energy.
‘Gamajoba bicho, happy you could join us,’ said Stalin, speaking Georgian. ‘We’ve got the cook from Aragvi with us and I thought you’d enjoy a Georgian supra!’
‘Thank you, Josef Vissarionovich,’ replied Satinov, thinking that Berlin was a long way to fly for some lobio beans. He looked around him. Beria, Mikoyan and Genrikh Dorov were there too.
A new line-up, he thought, his experienced mind analysing what it conveyed. Genrikh Dorov was not a good sign: he never came to Stalin’s dinners, being more of a retainer than a leader. Stalin deployed him as an attack dog, his presence denoting a witchhunt or an investigation that would have tragic consequences. He thought of Dashka instantly – what must it be like being married to the Uncooked Chicken? He nodded at him in greeting, and Genrikh grinned back at him with menacing geniality. The Dorov children had been arrested too, Satinov thought, but that wasn’t why Genrikh was there. He was already slavishly devoted to Stalin, whether his children were in jail or not. No, he was there as a scarecrow. To frighten someone. To frighten me.
‘I hope the flight was easy. I hate flying myself. I prefer the train,’ said Stalin. ‘But I wanted to look at you in the eyes.’
Satinov’s six-year-old daughter Mariko was in prison with his eighteen-year-old son George, and Stalin wished to look him in the eyes to check that he was still loyal. It was a rite of passage, and he, Satinov, was not alone. President Kalinin’s wife was in prison; Poskrebyshev’s pretty young wife Bronka had vanished altogether, probably dead. Stalin was telling him that family was a privilege just as living was a privilege, and that both were at the mercy of the Party. And the Party was Stalin. It was an odd system but it was the Bolshevik way, and Satinov was accustomed to it.
They sat down to table, with Satinov on Stalin’s right and Beria on his left.
‘Have you seen the palace where we’re holding the conference?’ asked Stalin.
‘I have,’ replied Satinov, picturing Mariko, screaming, being prised off her mother by brutal warders.
‘It’s meagre compared with our palaces,’ mused Stalin. ‘The tsars really knew how to build.’
‘They did,’ agreed Satinov, hearing Tamriko screaming at him, ‘They’ve taken Mariko! She’s six, Hercules. Get her released!’ Satinov composed himself, knowing his face must reveal nothing but reverence and fondness for Stalin.
Yet the night seemed endless. He knew, at some point, there would be a clue for him about Mariko and George, providing Stalin was satisfied that he had learned his lesson and harboured no resentment. Soon enough too, he would find out why Genrikh Dorov was here. Such games had perhaps been necessary before the war, but, he
wondered, were they necessary now?
‘So is everything well in Moscow?’ asked Stalin.
‘Nothing can be decided without you, but Comrade Molotov and the rest of us are doing our best.’
‘You’ve got to decide things without me,’ said Stalin. ‘I’m tired.’
‘But we need you, Comrade Stalin!’ cried Beria.
‘The Soviet Union needs your genius, comrade generalissimo,’ added Dorov.
Stalin waved this away, and his yellow eyes returned to Satinov. ‘So Tamriko is well?’
‘Very well,’ answered Satinov. My wife is distraught, he thought. Our little Mariko is in prison, on your orders, and you look at me knowing this. ‘Everyone at home is so proud to see you here at Potsdam, the man who won the war, who led us to Berlin.’
‘Yet Tsar Alexander made it all the way to Paris in 1814,’ said Stalin. ‘Comrade Dorov and I have been discussing you.’
‘Me?’ Satinov swallowed. This was the warning.
Stalin let the silence draw out. Satinov thought of Tamriko and his children, he thought of Dashka, and he thought: Shoot me, but free my children. Leave Tamara alone.
At last Stalin gave him his satyr’s grin. ‘Don’t worry, Hercules! The Central Committee thinks you and Beria should be promoted to marshal.’
Satinov’s first and absurd concern was whether his new rank would impress Dashka. It shouldn’t impress her – but he knew it would. He flicked a glance at her husband, who looked away.
‘It’s an honour and of course I always obey the Party. But I’m not a soldier.’
‘Nor is Beria. Far from it!’ A disdainful look at Beria. ‘But, Hercules, you’re a colonel general already,’ replied Stalin.
‘But I don’t have anything like your military knowledge—’
‘Or your strategic genius!’ interjected Beria.
‘I’ve never commanded so much as a platoon,’ insisted Satinov. ‘The generals will resent it.’
‘That’s just the point,’ answered Stalin. ‘We’ve voted on it and it’s decided.’
‘I’m honoured by the Party’s trust in me,’ said Satinov. The promotion was not reassuring. Stalin often promoted people only to arrest them the next week; Satinov remembered how Kulik had been promoted to marshal two days after his pretty young wife had vanished, never to return. The promotion was to put the generals in their place – like the recent arrest of Marshal Shako. Yet accepting it also meant that he was accepting Mariko’s arrest and conversely, by the rules of their topsy-turvy customs, this would accelerate her release.
But as he said his goodbyes at the end of the evening, Genrikh Dorov offered his moist, limp hand. ‘Congratulations, comrade marshal.’ But his eyes said: Comrade Stalin once sacked me but now he needs me again. Comrade Stalin wants me to look into you.
Satinov pushed by Dorov but when he was in his car, Beria leaned right in through the window.
‘I’ve heard Mariko is fine,’ he whispered. ‘Silk gloves. Don’t worry.’
45
‘NO, MY FATHER would never ever discuss planes with us,’ George Satinov insisted.
It was long after midnight in the Lubianka yet the lights burned as always.
‘What about your mother?’ asked Likhachev.
‘I don’t know what they discussed.’
‘You never overheard?’
‘Never. They wouldn’t talk about politics or planes. She’s not interested in military matters – she says Papa can talk about that with the generals.’
‘Which generals?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did Shako ever come to the house?’
George noticed with alarm that Likhachev did not describe Shako as ‘comrade’. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Come on, George. The Shakos lived in your building. They never came to the house?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘Do your parents ever argue?’
‘Everyone argues.’
‘About politics?’
‘They don’t discuss politics.’
‘Is your mother a Communist?’
‘Yes, very much so.’
‘Did you know her father was a bourgeois who travelled frequently to Germany between 1918 and 1921?’
‘She never mentioned it.’
‘Is she happy with your apartment and the dacha?’
‘She never complains.’
‘What about your father?’
‘My father never complains about anything. He never says anything much at all.’
‘Andrei Kurbsky, when you were at the Satinovs’ apartment, which rooms did you see?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you enter the hall, for example?’
‘Yes.’
‘Describe it.’
‘Very grand. Parquet floor. I’ve never seen such a palace.’
‘Then?’
‘We went into the kitchen.’
‘Who was there?’
‘The whole family and the maid.’
‘Tell me about Comrade Satinov and his wife.’
‘There’s nothing to tell. They seemed close.’
‘The sons?’
‘They’re very respectful of him. Afraid of him.’
‘What did they talk about?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Your mother’s at home, but we can always arrest her, you know. Surely you remember something?’
‘I think the pilot brother was telling stories about dogfights and aeroplanes.’
‘To Comrade Satinov?’
‘No, to his mother and Mariko and George and me.’
‘Did he mention that the planes were crashing?’
‘No.’
‘After tea, where did you sit?’
‘Me and George went into his father’s study. We sat there for a bit, joking around.’
‘Were there papers on the desk?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘You didn’t look at them?’
‘No.’
‘But did you notice what they were?’
‘No.’
‘But they could have been Politburo protocols or aircraft designs?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on, Andrei, concentrate: didn’t you see “Top Secret” written on them?’
Andrei shivered. He was cold and tired. He thought about his mother, sitting alone in that paltry room, waiting for him to come home.
‘Maybe.’
‘Mariko Satinova, how old are you?’ asked Colonel Komarov.
‘I’m six.’
‘Did you see your mama this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re soon going home but since you’re here, I thought we could have a little chat.’
‘OK,’ said Mariko uncertainly. Komarov could see she was struggling to be brave.
‘Is that a little dog?’
‘Yes. I have twenty-five little dogs and they go to my school because they’re all girl dogs and they do lessons, study things like maths and Marxism, just like everyone does at school.’
‘What a fun game, Mariko. Do your mama and papa play?’
‘Not Papa. Papa’s very busy, but Mama plays.’
‘And your brothers?’
‘Yes. A bit but George is always out, Marlen is very serious about the Komsomol, and David is always flying planes.’
‘Does he tell you about the planes?’
‘Yes. They’re dangerous.’
‘Really? Dangerous because the Germans could shoot them down?’
‘Yes, and sometimes they crash.’
‘He told this to your papa?’
‘I can’t quite remember.’
‘What did your papa say about that?’
‘Say hello to the dog!’
‘Hello, dog. What did your papa say about that? Did he blame anyone?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did your mother and father talk about it?’
‘Is Ma
ma coming soon?’
‘You must have heard your mama talking with Papa? About planes? Crashes?’
‘I don’t know. They whisper sometimes.’
‘About what?’
‘Important things not for children.’
‘Do your dogs ever hear anything?’
Mariko hugged her dog Crumpet, and buried her face in its fur. ‘No, they’re far too busy studying Marxism in the Moscow School for Bitches.’
Senka Dorov had spent a few hours recovering from his panic attack in the warm comfort of the sanatorium.
‘Is it serious? Is he faking?’ Komarov had asked the doctors. ‘If he dies here, you’ll all pay for it! We need him fit and back here as soon as possible.’
The doctors had taken him to the sanatorium on a stretcher wearing an oxygen mask, and brought him lemonade, bread and jam, tea and sugar. The food had given his mind the fuel it needed, but the steel jaws of this vile trap were sinking deeper into his leg with every moment.
Mama or Papa? How could he destroy either? How had it come to this? It was all thanks to that moron Demian, that weasel!
He considered the choice. Papa was so stern, so humourless. This was Bolshevik justice. Wouldn’t Papa understand and say, ‘The Party is always right,’ and, ‘Better shoot a hundred innocents to catch one enemy’? Papa would say, ‘You did the right thing, Senka. If the Party decides I’m guilty then I am guilty – and I did say that!’
Did Papa even love him? He had never shown it. His mama, on the other hand, did so every day. Yet surely her Jewish comments were less serious, so if he chose her, she wouldn’t be arrested? His father’s comments criticized Stalin himself, and Papa could lose his head for that.
Choose Mama and both parents would be fine. That must be the right decision. But what if this was a mine in the hidden minefield? What if it was more serious than he realized? Then he would have destroyed his own mother, the person he adored more than anything in the whole wide world and in all human history!
One Night in Winter Page 30
