by William Ryan
A reaction moved through the crowd as he said this – a squaring of shoulders, a step forward, a scowl – at least some of them would like to stop him taking Shishkin anywhere. He looked at the elders for an answer, wondering what was going through their minds. They’d carved out a little bit of independence for themselves in this hovel of a hostel, it was true, but even they must know that they’d have to give him up sooner or later.
‘I give you my word: if the fingerprints don’t match then he’ll be coming back. But this is murder, Comrades. He has to come with me.’
The bearded man shook his head slowly. ‘I can’t believe Vanya would do something like this.’
The bible reader with the hooked nose stepped forward. He spoke quietly, but it was clear he had some authority in the hostel and the bearded elder looked relieved by his interruption.
‘Vanya, tell us what you remember from last night, and where you were.’
‘I was here, all night.’
‘You weren’t, Vanya. You didn’t come home until after the third shift. Did you visit Tolya?’
The youth’s face seemed to crumple in on itself.
‘Yes, I was there,’ the boy sobbed.
‘And you drank.’
‘I did, the Lord forgive me, I did. But I don’t remember what happened. I couldn’t have killed him, I couldn’t have.’
Shishkin’s hands rubbed at his face, making it difficult to hear what he was saying, but Korolev had heard enough. He put his hand on Shishkin’s shoulder and spoke softly.
‘Stand up now, Shishkin. Walk with us to the car.’
Shishkin did as he was told and Korolev, his hand moving to the man’s elbow, guided him. One or two of the workers looked as though they wanted to prevent them leaving but the bible reader shook his head, and they backed away.
Outside the cold was like a slap in the face and it seemed to unnerve Shishkin, who turned as if to make his way back in, but the bible reader took his other arm and walked with them. Men and women spilt out of the hostel behind them and followed in silence, ignoring the drifting snowflakes. The only sounds were the wail of a far-off factory whistle and the crunch of feet as they made their way towards the waiting car. Shishkin’s head was bowed and Korolev could feel the sobs that spasmed through him.
‘What will happen to me, holy father?’ he whispered to the bible reader, who looked at Korolev for his reaction. Korolev was careful to give none.
‘Put yourself into the hands of the Lord, Vanya. Pray to him and the Virgin and the saints. Pray for forgiveness and I will pray for you as well. We all will.’ His voice was very quiet, and Korolev hoped the uniforms couldn’t hear.
When they reached the car, the uniforms put Shishkin onto the back seat and sat on either side of him – the boy looked small between them. Korolev turned to the priest, maintaining a neutral expression.
‘Thank you, Comrade. Your assistance was most useful. We’ll commend your actions to the director.’
The bible reader took Korolev’s offered hand, perhaps wondering how Korolev could do that if he didn’t have his name. But Korolev didn’t want to know the priest’s name – he just wanted to go home and put this day behind him.
Chapter Two
MAYBE THE pot-holes the car had bounced over on the way had shaken the youngster’s brain awake, but by the time they brought Shishkin back to Petrovka Street, his memory had returned to him. He’d cursed himself, sobbed, banged his head with his hands, and Korolev had taken the confession that tumbled out of the boy, stopping him every now and then to clarify a point. It was a depressing tale and when it was finished the boy rubbed at his blood-crusted sleeves and asked himself the question Korolev wanted to put to him: ‘Why?’ And the answer eluded them both. Yes, he’d wanted a job at the rubber factory, but not enough to kill his own brother. But he remembered killing him all right, and so Korolev wrote it all down and then handed the confession to him to sign. And Shishkin signed it – tears blurring the ink. Korolev patted the youth’s shoulder and then had the uniforms take him down to the cells.
It hadn’t been a difficult case, but Korolev felt satisfaction that they’d resolved it so quickly as he began to put the file in order for the procurator’s office. But the sense of pleasure at a job well done disappeared when the page he was holding started to rustle loudly. He quickly placed it on the surface of his desk, holding it flat and pushing down, staring at his whitening knuckles, knowing that this was the only way he could stop his hands shaking. It was just that everything was on top of him all of a sudden, he reassured himself, that was all. It had been a long winter, and the Lord knew even the bravest got low during the winter months. And when had he last breathed easily? He remembered a time long before, a summer’s day, lying beside a river, his arm around Zhenia, and Yuri sleeping beside them in the shade of the tree. When had that been? The divorce had come through more than two years ago, and they hadn’t been happy like that for a good time before it. And his son had been small, very small, and his hair still baby soft. Three years ago, maybe?
‘Damn,’ he breathed, realizing it had been five years at least, and Yasimov looked up in surprise from the report he was writing. Korolev made himself smile, feeling it stretch his mouth taut. Yasimov returned it, giving him a small nod of appreciation.
‘For a moment there, Lyoshka, I was wondering how they’d break the news to the family. You handled it well.’ Yasimov stretched back, releasing a contented sigh. ‘I tell you what, though – a scrape that close makes the air smell sweet.’
‘Yes,’ Korolev agreed, thinking that the air would smell even sweeter if he could get a good night’s sleep. It had got to the stage recently when he’d wondered whether there was any point in taking off his clothes at night, so little time did he spend in his bed. But tonight he’d get eight hours, do some washing, eat some hot food.
‘To kill your own brother,’ Yasimov said, shaking his head.
‘Alcohol has no family,’ Korolev replied, reaching for another file he was working on.
‘Still, nothing is all bad, you know,’ Yasimov said, looking as though he was contemplating stopping off somewhere on the way home.
‘I can’t disagree with that,’ Korolev said. ‘The world wasn’t made in black and white.’
Not at all, he thought to himself; it was mainly grey, the grey of twilight, the grey of the night’s beginning.
§
Korolev’s nerves had settled by the time he walked down the wide steps of 38 Petrovka Street and began to make his way home through the still-busy streets of Moscow. He took the longer way, heading towards the Kremlin and through Red Square, passing the recently installed red star that topped the Spassky Tower and glowed like a bright beacon of hope against the black sky above it. It reassured him for a moment, and he felt a surge of pride that he was fortunate enough to be a Soviet citizen, living in the capital of a country that was leading the world by example. But then he remembered the fear throughout the city, particularly amongst Party members. The works meetings in Petrovka Street were no longer the calm affairs of six months before, but instead had become steadily more and more hysterical. Activists denounced each other for lack of vigilance, for concealing class origins, for having been former Mensheviks or, even worse, supporters of the exiled Trotsky. And every now and then one of his colleagues would disappear.
Korolev kept his head low, sat at the back and was grateful that he’d never joined the Party. But even non-Party members weren’t safe – the State expected complete loyalty from all of its citizens and, while he’d fought with the Red Army during the Civil War and had supported the Revolution for twenty years now, Korolev still had allegiances to individuals and beliefs that would put him at risk if they ever came to light.
As it had turned out, however, that icon business he’d been involved with the previous year, the most blatant example of his divided allegiances, had ended up working in his favour in unexpected ways. The matter remained top secret, which was probably ju
st as well from Korolev’s point of view, but the injuries he’d suffered in the course of the investigation pointed to it having been a dangerous matter, on top of which Korolev now wore on his chest a mysterious Order of the Red Star that he was forbidden to discuss. According to Yasimov, most people thought he’d uncovered a counter-revolutionary plot and had personally assisted the NKVD, or the Chekists as they were commonly known after an older acronym, in the violent suppression of the conspiracy. It was almost true, after a fashion, but no one in Petrovka Street except for his boss knew the real story, and even Popov didn’t know all of it.
Still, for the moment at least, the dark red enamelled star that General Popov had ordered he wear on his chest while on duty, whether in uniform or not, had created a bubble around Korolev, and even around Yasimov. Korolev wasn’t complacent, though, far from it. After all, if some of his actions during the icon affair ever became public, they’d result in his immediate reacquaintance with the interior of a Lubianka cell. So for the foreseeable future he wanted to keep well clear of anything connected with the Chekists until they forgot he’d ever existed. And, until he was confident they had, he’d carry on keeping a small packed suitcase in his bedroom wardrobe just in case they came for him one night with a one-way ticket for Siberia.
Korolev found himself at the door of the building he lived in on Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky and began to kick the snow from his boots before opening the heavy front door, light spilling out into the lane as he did so; and as if to remind him that his concerns weren’t just groundless paranoia, he caught sight of the red seal that had been applied to Kotov’s apartment door by State Security only the previous week and which swung gently in the resulting draught. Poor Kotov had been an administrator with a government ministry until his arrest, but he’d had the nervous stoop and grey pallor of a condemned man for the best part of a month before it. Now he and his wife had disappeared and the only trace of their passing was that damned red seal that would swing there till the apartment was cleared and reallocated. Korolev reminded himself that he was alive, climbing the stairs to an apartment which he shared with the beautiful Valentina Nikolaevna, and by anyone’s standards he was a lucky man. He had to remember that. Tomorrow would look after itself.
He could hear Natasha’s laugh as he turned the key in the lock, but by the time he entered their shared room Valentina’s daughter was sitting grave-faced at the table – her eyes focused on the exercise book in which she was writing. She didn’t even look up at him. Valentina Nikolaevna, on the other hand, stood from the battered Chesterfield, putting aside the book she was reading. Every time he saw her he felt his mood lift – a man could dive into those sea-blue eyes of hers and swim to the horizon.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
They’d come to an arrangement over the last few months – she’d often cook for him, or leave something out for him if he was late and, in exchange, he shared his food parcel with her. It was a domestic arrangement and he was sure there was fondness on her part. For a while, he’d dared to hope a closer relationship might develop, but he wasn’t the kind of man she needed. A battered, middle-aged Ment with a job that kept him busy most of his waking hours? She could do better, that was for sure. No, a beautiful woman like her deserved a man who could look after her properly, and who she could be proud of. She’d find someone soon enough, he suspected – and then he’d probably be back to cooking for himself.
‘We had to arrest a fellow on the outskirts,’ Korolev said, aware that he’d been looking at her in silence for a moment longer than was polite, and cursing himself. ‘A murder. It took a while to get the paperwork in order. Anyway, I picked up the parcel from the canteen. Shall we see what we’ve got?’
He put the package on the table in the small cooking area, feeling that his mouth was not entirely within his control. What was it about her that made him babble like a fourteen-year-old? Sometimes he wished he’d never met the woman, but that was a feeling that never lasted for long. What sort of life would it be if he hadn’t?
§
Korolev wasn’t asleep when the knock at the door came. Thinking about it afterwards, he wondered if the car pulling up outside had woken him. It wasn’t inconceivable: his bedroom window faced the alleyway and the ZIS would have made a rattle against the snow-swaddled silence of the Moscow night. And, of course, at that time of the morning the streets belonged to the black cars of State Security, and the sound of an engine coming to a halt would have a whole street fearing the worst.
So Korolev was awake, but if it was the car that woke him he’d no memory of it. Instead he was only conscious that he’d been dreaming of that time by the river, only this time it had been Valentina Nikolaevna his arm encircled, and Natasha who’d been sleeping beside them. The memory of the dream was still strong enough for him to feel the weight of the sun on his face and joy rolling up him like a wave. For those two or three moments before the knock came he could have floated up to the ceiling with happiness if his body’s weight hadn’t kept him fixed to the bed.
Three knocks. One. Two. Three. Not much noise, after all, but enough to shatter that moment as if it had been a glass hurled against a wall.
Ever since he’d seen poor Kotov being marched away in his pyjamas, Korolev had slept ready for an immediate departure and he was pulling on his trousers and boots before he’d even worked out what was happening. The mysterious knuckles battered the door again, louder this time, and more insistent, but Korolev took the time to put on an extra vest, take his warmest jumper and his winter coat and pick up the small bag he’d packed for just such an event, before walking through the shared room. He stopped for a moment and looked around and it occurred to him he might never see this place again. Well, if that was what the Lord intended, then there wasn’t much point dwelling on it.
There was another knocking, more insistent now, and Valentina Nikolaevna’s outline appeared in the doorway, Natasha’s sleepy voice coming from behind her, asking a question that he couldn’t quite hear. He shook his head sharply, waving her back in to her daughter, but she didn’t move, waiting until he came closer before putting a hand on his chest. He leant forward, unable to stop himself, and breathed in the scent of her newly washed hair but at the same time remembered himself enough to gently push her back into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. There was no time to say anything or even to consider what her action might have meant before he turned, inhaling deeply, and opened the door to the hallway.
Korolev blinked, dazzled for a moment by the light on the landing, before managing to focus on the man in front of him. There was only one of them, which was odd, and Korolev leant forward slightly to see if there were others hiding in the corridor. The young Chekist smiled at his reaction and that irritated Korolev – if he was to be arrested he’d like to be treated with respect.
‘Going somewhere?’ the lad asked. No more than twenty-five, he’d guess. His deep-set eyes were obscured by shadow, but Korolev had the impression the pup was laughing at him.
‘You tell me,’ Korolev answered, sneaking another look to see where the rest of them were waiting.
‘Yes, we have a short trip to make. To the Lubianka.’
Again that teasing little smile – it was making Korolev’s fist itch.
‘Well, I’m ready.’
‘Good. We must always be prepared. At any time of day or night.’
Now the fellow was quoting Party slogans at him. Korolev could feel his confusion creasing his forehead into a frown.
‘Look, Comrade, it’s half past two in the morning,’ Korolev began before he ran out of words. Am I to be arrested? was what he wanted to ask, but he didn’t dare voice the thought.
‘And you have your bag packed ready for a trip – that’s good.’ The youngster was grinning now, nodding at the case Korolev had placed beside the door.
Korolev swallowed, feeling his mouth dry as paper, and found he’d taken a great dislike to this unimpressive representative of State Securit
y. But then he had a sudden surge of hope – the fellow wasn’t here to arrest him. The rascal was making fun of him because he wasn’t here to arrest him.
‘Look, Comrade,’ Korolev said, confidence returning to his voice, ‘either tell me what your business is, or let me go back to my bed.’
The Chekist seemed to relent. ‘You don’t need the suitcase, Comrade. Colonel Rodinov wants a few minutes of your time – that’s all. The phone system is down so we couldn’t call. I’ve a car outside. My name is Todorov.’
Korolev didn’t shake the Chekist’s hand, or respond to his introduction. Instead he picked up his overcoat and nodded towards the stairs to indicate he’d follow the fellow. He thought for a moment of going in to reassure Valentina Nikolaevna, but decided against it. He wasn’t out of the woods yet.
§
Korolev had been waiting in a narrow room, so narrow and so long it was almost a corridor, for the best part of an hour. A stern-looking Dzerzhinsky, the original People’s Commissar of State Security, looked down from a poster beside the far door warning him to ‘Be on your Guard!’, which Korolev thought was sensible advice, tired though he was.
He was about to look in his pocket for a cigarette when there was a bang that sounded like a door slamming shut and the click of approaching footsteps. Then the young Chekist who’d picked him up at Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky entered, the uniform he’d changed into crisp against the drab blue walls.
‘He’s ready, Comrade. He had some matters to attend to.’
§
Rodinov had changed in the short time since they’d last met. His skin was pale and flabby, whereas before it had been pink and taut, and his round, hairless head no longer seemed to shine with brutal vigour. The eyes that looked up from the file on the table were bloodshot and tired and the greeting he gave Korolev was nothing more than a grunt and a nod of his head towards the single chair in front of the desk at which he sat.
