by William Ryan
It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. He didn’t feel any better about it when she stared up at him, her eyes bright with hope.
“Sasha was loyal to the Party, to the State, Comrade,” she said. “He sweated blood to make sure the factory met its targets. Azarov accused Sasha of questioning the Party line and undermining confidence in the State, which was nonsense. What evidence did he have to tell the Chekists my husband was a Trotskyist saboteur? I’ll tell you. Sasha mentioned to him that the factory would struggle to meet its obligations if supply issues weren’t resolved soon. That the supply situation was bad. That was all he said. There’s nothing disloyal in it—it was a fact. It was a fact he was straining every muscle to make not a fact, but there it was—still a fact.”
Korolev nodded unhappily, thinking that now he’d have to ask Dubinkin to look into it—otherwise he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.
“I don’t know what he said or otherwise, Comrade, but I’ll do what I can.”
Menchikova nodded, reaching forward with her hands to take his.
“And I know why he did it. I know why Azarov lied. I know why he told the Chekists my husband was a saboteur.”
“Why?”
“He wanted our apartment—his application was with the Building Manager before the Chekists even put my husband in the back of their car. In the end they gave it to the Weisses, but that’s what he was after. It’s how he came by the apartment he’s in now.”
“When you say the Weisses—you mean Dr. Weiss?” Korolev asked.
“A good man—one of the few who still acknowledges me. If it had to go to anyone, I’m glad it went to him.”
“And how did he get a hold of it?”
“I don’t know—someone must have helped him—someone with more influence than whoever helps Azarov. Isn’t that how these things work?”
There was no bitterness in her voice, it was just a statement of fact. It contained no expectation that Korolev might want to comment on her description of how these things were arranged, so he didn’t. After all, wasn’t that how he’d got his own room? He’d still be sleeping on his cousin’s floor if Popov hadn’t intervened on his behalf with the Housing Committee. Korolev cleared his throat.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me? About his death?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“That’s as may be, but I’ll need to know where you were on the morning of the professor’s murder.”
“I have a job at the Burevestnik shoe factory over in Sokolniki—as a bookkeeper. I work the late shifts, or across shifts. I’m lucky to have the job—I know it. On Tuesday I was working until noon. I’d started at midnight. When I came back there were policemen already outside, blocking the entrance. The factory can tell you—I didn’t leave once during the night. We clock in and out—and there’s a timekeeper to ensure we do.”
“That sounds like a good alibi, Citizen. If it stands up, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
He did his best to detach his hand but she wouldn’t let go of it. He was stretched now between the door handle and her grip and beginning to feel awkward.
“Everything will be fine, don’t worry,” he said.
“I am worried.”
“Don’t be. Worry never made things better—things are what they are.” He listened to that again and shook his head. “I meant, things aren’t bad for you, Citizen Menchikova. You couldn’t have killed the professor and that’s that.”
“Thank you, Comrade Captain. Thank you.”
She let his hand go. She’d been gripping it so hard, he could feel where her nails had dug into his flesh.
“You say he did the same thing with the apartment he’s in now?” he asked.
“Yes—Bramson. That was his name anyway. The wife—well—they weren’t married. She kept her given name but I don’t remember it. They’d a son but I don’t know what happened to him either, except that he disappeared, the same as them. Azarov said they were spies. That’s all I know. You can never ask, you see, when something like that happens. You’re just told and that’s it. You never speak of them again.”
“I understand, Citizen. Believe me, I understand.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Korolev made his way back down the many flights of stairs, still a little shaken, but feeling better with each downward step he took. It occurred to him he’d never been on top of a building this high before and, if it were up to him, he never would be again.
“Comrade Captain.” Belinsky was climbing the stairs toward him, and seemed slightly out of breath. “Nothing much to report as yet, I’m afraid.”
“Keep at it,” Korolev said and then, as he was there, asked Belinsky to check up on Menchikova’s alibi.
“Of course, Comrade Captain. Consider it done. One other thing, Lieutenant Dubinkin had to leave. He said he’d see you at one o’clock.”
By which Dubinkin meant that they’d meet again at Dr. Chestnova’s place of business for the results of the autopsies. Unfortunately, it left him without a car. He looked at his watch—eleven-thirty.
“Could you do me a favor?”
“With pleasure.”
“I’m on my way down to see the professor’s widow and I need to get across town afterward. Can you call Petrovka and ask them to send a driver to pick me up in half an hour?”
Which would give him twenty minutes or so to stop off at his apartment and see if there was any sign of Yuri.
* * *
Korolev knocked twice on the Azarovs’ door and didn’t have long to wait till Galina Matkina peered out at him. He smiled but she took one look at his face and then concentrated instead on his shoes.
“An accident,” he said wearily. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Comrade Captain,” she said, or rather the top of her head did, but before she got round to saying anything else a voice came from the sitting room.
“Show the captain in, Galina.”
Galina stood back, making way for him, lifting her eyes now to gaze at him with an intensity that was almost disturbing, as if she could see something in him that was important. He shrugged his shoulders, wondering not for the first time about the strange behavior of young people.
“Comrade Azarova?” he asked when he found himself face to face with the voice’s owner. She was sitting on a soft chair, a book open on her lap, wearing a black blouse and skirt to match her black hair. She was even wearing black gloves. Was this some kind of mourning garb? Her skin, pale despite the season, seemed drawn tight by grief, and her gloved hands slowly twisted and gripped one to the other in a constant movement he doubted she was aware of. She looked brittle to him, as if barely maintaining even this show of calm.
“Before you ask,” he said, “I apologize for my appearance. An accident—nothing serious, I assure you.”
She looked at him blankly and it seemed here at least was one person who couldn’t care less if he’d been beaten half to death. It was a relief, if the truth were told. He took a seat across from her.
“Comrade Azarova?” he asked once again and there was a moment of silence, which he allowed to reach its natural conclusion, looking around the room as he waited. As in Shtange’s apartment, the bookshelves had been stripped of their contents.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes finally focusing on him. With difficulty it seemed.
“I’m sorry about your husband,” Korolev said, “but I have to ask some questions.”
At first he thought she hadn’t heard him but then she spoke in a low voice, barely more than a whisper.
“You’re the detective who was here the other day, aren’t you?”
“Korolev, Comrade Azarova. I’ve been reassigned to the matter—although now I’m reporting to State Security rather than Petrovka. Would you like to see my authorization?”
“The other ones took all our books.” Her mouth twisted, as if she were trying not to cry. “All of them.”
“When did this happen
?”
“The day after—I was…” She paused, her brow furrowing as if the memory was somehow confusing. “I was indisposed on the day of his death. The Militia—you—wouldn’t allow me to see him, you see. I had to spend some time in the apartment of an acquaintance. I slept for a long time.”
“I remember—Dr Weiss, wasn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Do you mind me asking what time on Tuesday they came for the books?”
She looked puzzled, as if trying to work out why he might want that particular piece of information.
“I’m just curious,” he added. “No particular reason.”
“In the afternoon; they came at about four o’clock. It took them hours—they had to list each book for the receipt and some of the men could barely read and write. They took a book on birds. What could that have to do with his work? They took novels, dictionaries—even a book of recipes. Everything.”
Korolev was equally puzzled—the only reason he could think of for stripping the shelves would be because the books might be confidential. But shouldn’t they have sent specialists in that case? What was the point in taking useless material? Unless, of course, it had all been organized in a great rush.
“I presume they took his papers as well?”
“Yes,” she said. “As I told you—everything.”
“I’d like to look around in a moment, if that’s all right.”
“Of course, do whatever you want. Ask whatever you want.”
“If we could go through the events of the morning of his death to start with. That would be very helpful to me.”
She looked away, out the window at the blue sky, and when she spoke he had to lean forward to hear her.
“We rose at six, as we always do.” She hesitated, and her mouth twisted once again. “Did. The whistle from the Red October chocolate factory woke us. It always—did. We performed our callisthenics. To the radio. And then we washed and dressed.”
There was a program every morning that took citizens through a series of physical exercises. Sometimes Korolev listened to it himself.
“And so you breakfasted,” Korolev continued for her, when it began to feel as if she’d forgotten he was there.
“Yes,” she said, and sighed. “My husband went to the institute earlier than usual, at around seven. That was the last time I saw him. I left the apartment at eight.”
He hoped she didn’t cry—it was always awkward when citizens cried. Perhaps he should have asked Slivka to talk to her.
“How was the professor? I mean, what was his mood?”
“He was concerned about some developments at the institute, I think, but he didn’t say what. That was why he wanted to go into work early. He said he wanted to check something.”
“And by concerned you mean worried?”
“Perhaps.”
Korolev made a quick note.
“I understand you’re also a doctor.”
“A psychologist,” she said, but the correction was half-hearted.
“At an orphanage, I believe.”
“Yes, I assist the staff with the children’s development.”
Korolev took a moment to consider his next question. The fact was that all morning he’d been wondering what the connection was between the professor and Goldstein’s orphanage. After all, if Rodinov was to be believed, merely talking to Goldstein had been enough to have him picked up by the Twelfth Department’s people. And if he hadn’t spoken to Goldstein, then likely as not Yuri wouldn’t be missing. He took a deep breath.
“I heard the professor also worked with children—with orphans, in fact.”
It was a shot in the dark but when she looked up he felt he had her full attention for the first time.
“I’ve been instructed not to discuss my husband’s research in any way.” She spoke sharply.
“Which orphanage is it you work with, Comrade?” Korolev asked, and the question hit the mark. “It’s the Vitsin Street orphanage, isn’t it?” he said, and she nodded reluctantly. “What is it you do there, exactly?”
She examined him for a moment and Korolev was sure she was going to tell him nothing, but in the end she merely shrugged.
“You have to understand the type of children we’re dealing with. First there are the besprizorniki—the street children—who may have had no education at all, let alone a socialist one. Then there are the children of the enemies of the people, who may have been educated incorrectly. While the street children have little concept of their duties to the State and the Party, the children of enemies can be even more resistant. I assist the staff, using scientific techniques, naturally, to educate the children in proper socialist values. And, in the case of the children of enemies, to reeducate them.”
Azarova spoke in a monotone, almost as if she were reading from a prepared speech. Korolev wondered if this was how she taught at the orphanage—if so, he could understand why the besprizorniki fought tooth and nail to stay well clear of such places.
“Scientific techniques?” Korolev asked. “Such as?”
“What has this to do with the death of my husband?” Azarova asked wearily. Korolev did his best to smile reassuringly.
“You’ll have to forgive me, Comrade Azarova. My job is to gather together all available information, whether it seems directly relevant or not. An investigation is like a puzzle—sometimes the insignificant pieces are the ones that show the way to the solution.”
“If you say so.” Azarova looked doubtful.
“So,” Korolev said, returning to the attack, “what kind of techniques?”
“There are various techniques that can help make children, as well as adults, more receptive to correct mental processes. Mostly, we just encourage good behavior and right thinking with rewards, and then we discourage bad behavior and incorrect thinking with…” She paused. “Other methods.”
Korolev wished she’d just said “punishment.” “Other methods” sounded worse somehow.
“To speak in the most general terms, we indoctrinate the children. We teach them the truth of Marxist–Leninist theory—in an accessible way—and use this as a framework for their future development into right-thinking socialist citizens.”
The look she gave him contained a challenge and Korolev realized he wouldn’t get any more from Azarova on this topic without a fight—and he’d other matters he wanted to discuss with her before it got to that. All the same, he made a note to find out more about these so-called techniques—and this orphanage. He’d an idea it wouldn’t be time wasted.
“So, you spent the whole morning at this orphanage?”
“Until not long after eleven. And then I came back and—well.” She put a hand to her mouth.
“It must have been a terrible shock—my sympathies again.”
She nodded and then looked away.
“I must ask about your relationship with your husband, I’m afraid,” Korolev said.
A solitary tear rolled down her cheek but then she seemed to gather herself.
“We were each other’s support in our struggle for the great aims of the Revolution and Soviet science—what more is there to say?”
“Not much, I’m sure,” Korolev said, thinking it sounded like a strange sort of marriage. But, then again, perhaps that’s why he was divorced.
“Did you ever argue?” he asked.
“Argue? We’d no time for arguments. Our union was intended to strengthen our ability to serve the Party, not to undermine it. Did we argue? That question implies a catalog of concepts that were alien to our marriage and our commitment to the Revolution. No, we didn’t argue and, no, I’d nothing to do with his murder.”
Korolev raised an eyebrow. He didn’t doubt that she was sincere—there was no emotion in what she’d said, just a bald statement of fact. But still. He decided to change direction.
“Were you aware your husband met with Dr. Shtange on the morning of his murder?”
“Met with Shtange?” She repeated his words
as if surprised by them.
“They didn’t get on, did they? Dr. Shtange was unhappy with the way things were done at the institute, wasn’t he?”
“Who told you that?” she asked indignantly. “Was it Shtange? My husband was the director of the institute and Shtange was his deputy, so Shtange had no right to be unhappy with anything and certainly no right to attempt to alter the way things were done. In my husband’s opinion he was a saboteur and a wrecker.”
“I see,” Korolev said, a little taken aback by her passion. “Had they worked together for long?”
“Three months,” she replied, calmer now. “It wasn’t my husband’s decision—he was barely consulted. If the decision had been left to him, the man would still be in Leningrad working with his monkeys.”
“His monkeys?” Korolev asked.
“And his dogs,” she said, her eyes sparkling with disdain.
“And dogs as well, you say?”
Did she think he’d worked in a zoo of some kind?
“Dogs. My husband believed it was impossible to make real scientific progress in the study of the human brain using animals. At best they provide indications—but if you want to drink water, you have to go to the river. Shtange’s experience was therefore entirely useless for the work he was assigned to.”
“I suppose,” Korolev said, sensing an opportunity, “Deputy Director Shtange must have found it difficult to adapt to working with humans. Was that where some of the conflict arose?”
“That is exactly where the conflict arose—not only did the fool not understand the processes my husband was developing, he stated that he considered my husband’s work to be unscientific. Even unethical. Shtange, the monkey man, considered my husband unethical.”
“Which particular aspects did he consider to be unethical?” Korolev asked, innocently. Azarova opened her mouth to answer and then stopped herself.
“I’ve told you I can’t discuss the details of my husband’s work, not that he told me about it in any detail. His research was highly secret. But he believed Shtange’s supposed concerns were in fact attempts to sabotage its success.”
“I see, did your husband perhaps take some action against Comrade Shtange? Inform State Security as to his concerns, perhaps?”
