TIMUR TURNED TO THE DRIVER:
—How long till we’re there?
—Two, three hours—the mist is bad, three hours, I say.
The driver laughed, before adding:
—I never heard of anyone being in a hurry to get to a Gulag before.
Timur ignored the joke, channeling his impatient energy into reassessing his plans. Success required several elements to slot into place. Out of their control was Lazar’s cooperation. Timur had in his possession a letter written by Fraera, the contents of which had been read and reread, checking for a warning or some secret instruction. They’d found none. As an additional persuasive measure, unbeknownst to Fraera, Leo had insisted they bring a photo of a seven-year-old boy. The child in the photo wasn’t Lazar’s son, but he had no way of knowing that. The apparent sight of him might prove more powerful than the mere idea of him. Should this fail then Timur had in his possession a bottle of chloroform.
The truck slowed to a stop. Up ahead was a timber bridge, simple in design. It spanned a deep faultline, a crack in the landscape. The driver made a snaking movement with his hand:
—When the mountain snow melts, it flows fast…
Timur strained forward in his seat, peering at the rickety bridge, the far side of which disappeared into the mist. The driver frowned:
—That bridge was built by prisoners. You can’t trust it!
There was one other guard traveling with them, a man who up until this point had been asleep. Judging from the smell of his clothes, he’d been drunk last night, probably drunk every night of his life. The driver shook him:
—Wake up! Useless… lazy… wake up!
The guard opened his eyes, blinking at the bridge. He wiped his eyes, scrambled out of the cabin, jumping down to the ground. He belched loudly and began waving the truck forward. Timur shook his head:
—Wait.
He stepped out the cabin, climbing down to the ground and stretching his legs. Shutting the door, he walked to the beginning of the bridge. The driver was right to be concerned: the bridge wasn’t much wider than the truck. There was maybe thirty centimeters to spare on either side, nothing to stop the tires slipping off if the approach wasn’t exactly aligned. Glancing down, Timur saw the river some ten meters below. Tongues of smooth, dripping ice jutted out from either side of the bank. They’d begun to melt, rapid drips feeding a narrow undulating flow. In a matter of weeks, when the snows melted, there’d be a torrent.
The truck crept forward. The hungover guard lit a cigarette, content to shirk responsibility. Timur gestured for the driver to align the truck to the right: it was edging off course. He gestured again. Visibility was poor but he could see the driver, the driver must be able to see him. Timur called out:
—To the right!
Even though it hadn’t made the necessary adjustments the truck accelerated. At the same time, its headlights flared up, a bright sulfur yellow blinding him. The truck was coming straight toward him.
Timur dived out of the way, but too late: the steel bumper smashing into him while he was midair, crushing his body, before spitting him out over the ravine. Briefly suspended in the air, upturned toward the shimmering sky, then falling, his body spun, twisting toward the river, directly above one of the ice lips. He crashed facedown: bone and ice splintering simultaneously.
Timur lay with his ear flat to the ice, like a safecracker. He couldn’t move his fingers or his legs. He couldn’t move his neck. He felt no pain.
Up above, someone shouted down:
—Traitor! You’d spy on your own kind! We stick together! Us against them!
Timur couldn’t turn his neck to look up. But he recognized the voice as the driver’s:
—There will be no reports, no blame, and no guilt—not in Kolyma, maybe in Moscow, but not here. We did what we had to do! We did what we were told to do! Fuck Khrushchev’s speech! Fuck your report! Let’s see you write it from down there.
The hungover guard chuckled. The driver addressed him:
—Go down.
—Why?
—Otherwise everyone will see his body.
—Who will? There’s no one here.
—I don’t know, someone like him, if they send another.
—I don’t need to go down there. The ice will melt.
—In three weeks it will, who knows who’ll drive by in that time. Just go down there and push him in the river. Do this right.
—I can’t swim.
—He’s on the ice.
—But if the ice breaks?
—You’ll get your feet wet. Just get down! No mistakes.
Staring into the river, his breathing ragged and rasping, Timur listened as the reluctant executioner, whining like a lazy teenager, clambered down the steep bank—the clumsy sound of his approaching murderer.
For as long as he could remember Timur’s greatest fear had been a member of his family dying in the Gulags. He’d never worried about himself. He’d always been sure he could cope and that somehow, no matter what, he’d find a way home.
These were the last minutes of his life. He thought of his wife. He thought of his sons.
ANNOYED AT BEING BOSSED AROUND, his head pounding from a hangover, forced to slip and slide down the ravine wall, risking spraining his ankle, the guard finally reached the riverbank. His heavy boots touched the ice sheet tentatively, testing its strength. In an attempt to distribute his weight evenly, he lowered himself to his hands and knees, crawling to the body of the guy sent from Moscow. He tapped the traitor with the barrel of his gun. He didn’t move.
—He’s dead!
The driver called out:
—Check his pockets.
He pushed his hand into the man’s pockets, finding a letter, some money, and a knife—odds and ends.
—There’s nothing!
—What about his watch?
He unclipped it from the man’s wrist.
—It’s broken!
—Push the body into the water.
Sitting on the ice, using his boots, he kicked out, pushing the body toward the river. The man was heavy but his body slid across the smooth ice without too much trouble. On the edge of the ice lip, he saw the man’s eyes were open. They blinked—the man, the Moscow spy, was still alive.
—He’s alive!
—Not for long. Push him in. I’m getting cold.
He watched the man blink once more before kicking him off the edge of the ice into the river. There was a splash. The body rocked up and down before being taken away, downstream, into a wilderness where no one would ever see him again.
Still sitting on the ice, the guard studied the watch. Cheap and smashed, it was worthless. But something stopped him from tossing it into the water. Cracked glass or not, it seemed a shame to throw it away.
MOSCOW
SAME DAY
ELENA ASKED:
—When is Zoya coming home?
Raisa replied:
—Soon.
—When I get back from the shops?
—No, not that soon.
—How soon?
—When Leo returns, he’ll bring Zoya with him. I can’t say when that will be, exactly, but it will be soon.
—You promise?
—Leo’s doing everything he can. We have to be patient for a little longer. Can you do that for me?
—If you promise that Zoya’s okay.
It was a promise Raisa had no choice but to make:
—I promise.
Elena asked the same questions every day. On each occasion it was as if she’d never asked them before. She wasn’t necessarily seeking new information, rather that she was attuned to the tone of the response, listening for minute variations. Any hint of impatience or irritation, any suggestion of doubt, and she’d slip back into the catatonic despondency which had struck her down immediately after Zoya’s capture. She’d refused to leave her room, crying until she was unable to cry anymore. Leo had refused the doctor’s instructions that she be sedated, sit
ting with her every night, hour after hour. Only when Raisa had returned from hospital did Elena begin to improve. The most dramatic progress had occurred when Leo left Moscow, and not because she wanted him gone: it was the first concrete evidence that action was being taken to bring Zoya back. Her mind easily digested the concept that when Leo returned Zoya would return with him. Elena didn’t need to know where her sister was, or what she was doing, just that she was coming home, and coming home soon.
Leo’s parents were waiting by the front door. Still weak from her injuries, Raisa depended upon their help. They’d moved into the gated ministerial complex, cooking and cleaning, creating a sense of domestic normality. Ready to leave, Elena paused:
—Can’t you come with us? We’ll walk very slowly.
Raisa smiled:
—I’m not feeling strong enough. Give me a day or two, then we’ll go out together.
—With Zoya? We can go to the zoo. Zoya liked that. She pretended that she didn’t but I know she did. It was her secret. I’d like Leo to come too. And Anna, and Stepan.
—We’ll all go.
Elena smiled as she shut the door, the first smile that Raisa had seen from her in a long time.
Alone, Raisa lay down on Zoya’s bed. She’d moved into the girls’ room. Elena would fall asleep only when she was by her side. Security had been increased at the ministerial complex, as it had across the city. Agents, retired and active, were reviewing their living arrangements, putting additional locks on the door, bars on windows. Though the State had tried to stop the release of information, there had been too many murders for rumors not to circulate. Everyone who’d ever denounced their friend or colleague took additional precautions. The profiteers of fear were afraid exactly as Fraera had promised.
RAISA OPENED HER EYES, unsure how long she’d been asleep. Though she was facing the wall and unable to see behind her, she was certain that there was someone else in the room. Turning onto her back and lifting her head, she saw the outline of an officer in the doorway, an androgynous silhouette. There was a dreamlike quality to the experience. Raisa felt no fear or surprise. This was their first encounter and yet there was a peculiar familiarity between them, an immediate intimacy.
Fraera took off her cap, revealing cropped hair. She stepped into the room, remarking:
—You can scream. Or we can talk.
Raisa sat up:
—I’m not going to scream.
—No, I didn’t think so.
Raisa had heard that tone many times: as a man might patronize a woman, peculiar from the lips of another woman only a couple of years her elder. Fraera noticed her irritation:
—Don’t be offended. I had to be sure. It hasn’t been easy, getting in to see you. I’ve tried many times. It would be a shame to cut this visit short.
Fraera sat on the opposite bed, Elena’s bed—her back against the wall, her legs crossed, unbuttoning her uniform jacket. Raisa asked:
—Is Zoya safe?
—She’s safe.
—Unharmed?
—Yes.
Raisa had no reason to believe her. Yet she did.
Fraera picked up Elena’s pillow, squeezing it, in no particular rush:
—This is a nice room, filled with nice things for two nice girls, given to them by two nice parents. How many nice things does it take to compensate for a murdered mother and father? How soft do the sheets have to be for a child to forgive that crime?
—We’ve never tried to buy their affections.
—Hard to believe, looking around.
Raisa struggled to control her anger:
—Would we have been more of a family if we’d bought them nothing?
—But you’re not a family. Sure, if someone didn’t know the truth they might mistake you for a family. I wonder if that was what Leo had in mind: the illusion of normality. It wouldn’t be real, he’d know that, but he could enjoy it, reflected in other people’s eyes. Leo is good at believing in lies. That would make the girls little more than props, dressed up in pretty outfits, so he can play at being a father.
—The girls were in an orphanage. We offered them a choice.
—A choice between sickness, impoverishment, and malnutrition, or living with the man who murdered their parents… that’s not much of a choice.
Raisa paused, uncertain, unable to disagree:
—Neither Leo nor I were ever under the impression that the adoption would be straightforward.
—You didn’t correct me when I said the man who murdered their parents. I expected you to say: Leo didn’t shoot them. He tried to save them. He was a good man among bad. But you don’t believe that, do you?
—He was an MGB officer. He’s done terrible things.
—Yet you love him?
—I didn’t always.
—You love him now?
—He has changed.
Fraera leaned forward:
—Why can’t you answer? Do you love him?
—Yes.
—I want to hear you say it: I love him.
—I love him.
Fraera sat back, considering. Raisa added by way of explanation:
—He’s not the man who arrested you. He’s not the same.
—You are right. He is not. There is one crucial difference. In the past he was unloved. Today he is loved. You love him.
Fraera unbuttoned her shirt, restricted by the collar, revealing the top of her tattoos that unraveled across her body like the symbols of an ancient witchcraft:
—Raisa, how much do you know about him? How much do you know about his past?
—He infiltrated your husband’s church. He betrayed you, he betrayed your congregation, and he betrayed Lazar.
—And for those things alone, he deserves to die. However, did you know that before he revealed his betrayal, he proposed to me? Like a young lover under a full moon?
Raisa dropped her head and nodded:
—Yes, he asked you to leave Lazar. At the time I’m sure he believed you would want to become his wife. He was deluded. He has been deluded about many things, love included. Love, particularly.
Fraera seemed disappointed, wanting to pick open a secret. She continued, her enthusiasm notably diminished:
—He thought he was trying to save me. In fact, he was trying to save himself. Had I accepted his offer, he would’ve tricked himself into believing that he was, at heart, a decent man. I would not excuse his crimes so easily. I made him a promise. I swore that he would never be loved. I was sure that I was right because how could such a monster be loved? Who would love him?
Raisa felt flustered under Fraera’s stare:
—I will not defend the things he did.
—But you must. You love him. I’ve seen the two of you together. I’ve watched you, spied on you, as Leo once spied me. You make him happy. What’s worse, he makes you happy. Your love for him is everything. That is why I am placing it on trial. That is why I am here.I want to find out, how it is possible that you can live with him. Sleep with him. I thought at first you might be stupid: an officer’s trophy, beautiful and unquestioning. I thought you didn’t care about the crimes Leo has committed.
Fraera stood up, crossing the divide and sitting on the same bed as Raisa, positioned like two best friends sharing secrets in the middle of the night:
—Yet you exhibit no mindless loyalty to the State. There were even rumors of you being a dissident. Your love for Leo became an even greater mystery, one that I had to solve at all costs. I was forced to delve into your past. May I share my findings?
—You have my daughter. You may do as you please.
—Your family was killed during the war. You lived as a refugee.
Raisa was paralyzed as Fraera wielded information like a knife:
—During those years you were raped.
Raisa’s mouth opened, a fraction, enough to serve as confirmation. She didn’t try to deny it, sensing there was more to follow:
—How did you know?
&n
bsp; —Because I visited the orphanage where you abandoned your child.
Raisa felt something far more powerful than surprise. The most intimate secrets from her past, events that she’d carefully buried and laid to rest, were being dug up and brandished before her. Scrutinizing Raisa’s reaction, Fraera took hold of her hand:
—Leo doesn’t know?
Raisa held Fraera’s hopeful stare, answering:
—He knows.
Once again Fraera looked disappointed:
—I don’t believe you.
—It took many years for me to tell him but I did. He knows, Fraera: he knows it all. He knows I can’t have children, he knows why, he knows that the only child I will ever give birth to I gave away. He knows my shame. I know his.
Fraera touched Raisa’s face:
—That is why you married Leo? You sensed how desperate he was to be loved. He would gladly have accepted the opportunity to be father to your child. You saw him as an opportunity. You would bring your child back from the orphanage.
—No, I knew my child had died before I met Leo. I went to the orphanage as soon as I was strong enough, as soon as I’d found a home, as soon as I was able to be a mother again. They told me that my son had died of typhus.
—So why did you marry Leo? What reason was there for saying yes to him?
—Since I’d already given up my son in order to survive, in comparison it didn’t seem too much of a compromise to marry a man I feared rather than loved.
Fraera leaned forward and kissed Raisa. Pulling back, she said:
—I can taste your love for him. And your hatred of me…
—You have taken my child.
Fraera stood up, walking to the door, buttoning up her shirt:
—She is not yours. As long as you love Leo you leave me no choice. Your love for him is the reason he can live with himself. He has committed unspeakable crimes and yet, despite this, he is loved. He has murdered and he is loved. And by a woman any man would admire, by a woman I admire. Your love excuses him. It is his redemption.
LD02 - The Secret Speech Page 19
