Zoya followed the young American boy offstage, applause still ringing in the Assembly Hall. Once in the corridor the students broke formation, hugging each other, thrilled with their success. Raisa was talking to the American school principal, both of them laughing in contrast to their cagey conversations during the dress rehearsal. Zoya was pleased for her mother. She deserved to be proud of her achievements and Zoya regretted being so cynical about the entire event, wishing that she’d been more supportive, just as Elena had been.
Glancing around the students, Zoya couldn’t see her sister. She’d only been positioned a few students away in the line-up yet was nowhere to be seen. She began looking for her, nudging through the crowd now mixed with members of the audience streaming out from the main auditorium. More and more people were pushing into the corridor, keen to congratulate them, men she didn’t recognize shaking her hand. She caught sight of Mikael Ivanov, the propaganda officer, cutting a path through the students, with apparently no interest in them despite the fact that they were being photographed.
Zoya followed him.
*
Flushed with success, Raisa eagerly tried to find her daughters. It was difficult to locate them since the corridors were so full. She stood on the spot, slowly turning around, searching the crowd. They were nowhere to be seen. A tingling anxiety rose up through her legs into her stomach; she paid no attention to the congratulations offered to her, ignored the very men and women she’d been sent here to impress. Pushing through the group she saw Zoya and felt relief. She hurried towards her.
– Where’s Elena?
Zoya looked at her, pale with worry.
– I don’t know.
Zoya raised her hand, pointing in front of her.
Raisa saw Mikael Ivanov with his back to her and the children, staring out of the large lobby windows at the street and the demonstration. Behind him photographers flashed their cameras at the children and yet he didn’t turn around, his attention concentrated on the events outside. She walked up to him, grabbing his arm and turning him around, staring into his handsome face with such determined ferocity that he recoiled but she did not let go of his arm:
– Where is Elena?
He was about to lie: she could see the process as clearly as if she were regarding the mechanics of a watch.
– Don’t lie to me or I swear I’ll start screaming in front of all these very important guests.
He said nothing. She glanced at the demonstration and whispered:
– If anything happens to her, I’ll kill you.
Manhattan Outside the United Nations Headquarters 1st Avenue amp; East 44th Street
Same Day
Elena left the United Nations Headquarters without being stopped. Preparations had been made, the route arranged, passage through security, a blind spot in the building leading to an exit where she escaped without being questioned. As she stepped out she’d been handed a dark red coat with a hood to conceal her face. Nothing had been left to chance. She’d been siphoned off from the main group as soon as the concert was finished. Mikael was not going with her. It was important he was not involved in the photo graph since the presence of a propaganda officer would undermine its authenticity. During the dress rehearsal the plans had changed. Mikael had explained it was impossible for a small group of students to join the demonstration: they could only manage to sneak Elena out. The American authorities had arranged for a coach to take the students doorstep to doorstep: straight from the United Nations to the hotel. FBI agents were going to drive it. Elena would have to go alone. The operation rested on her shoulders: a chance to redefine Communism in the eyes of the world, to create a modern progressive image that would be embodied in the photograph of a young Russian hand in hand with an older American, two nations, two generations bridged. The photograph would carry a powerful message of an inclusive ideology, reminding the world of the Soviet Union’s ability to embrace different races and cultures across a vast geographical space. Finally Elena would step out from the shadow of her sister, proving to Mikael that she was worthy of his trust and love.
The exit from the United Nations was located up the street, away from the main body of the demonstration. To reach Jesse she would have to walk past the police line. Hood up over her head, she hurried towards the protests, terrified of being intercepted. She kept her face down, her heart beating fast, glancing up to see Jesse on the crate. He was oblivious of her approach, engrossed in his speech. The easiest way to reach him would be to climb over the barricade but, fearful the police officers would swoop and arrest her, she joined the main body of the crowd. Surrounded by people, she breathed deeply, dropping her hood, feeling far safer than she did exposed on the street. Pushing forward, making slow progress, bustled by the protestors, she observed that this wasn’t a chaotic crowd but an attentive audience – they were facing the same way, listening to Jesse Austin, the tallest of the speakers and by far the most prominent, throwing his voice over the crowd. He had no microphone, no prepared notes in his hand. He was altogether a different person from the quiet, polite gentleman she’d met in his apartment. Addressing the crowd he was angry, powerful. Elena was captivated by his performance: the protest was elemental to him, as natural to him as taking a breath.
Compared to the stultified concert inside, the carefully selected and inoffensive songs washed clean of any provocation or genuine desire for change, this was noisy and raucous and the better for it. Elena had never been part of a demonstration before. She’d never seen one in Moscow and couldn’t imagine such a protest being allowed with the militia standing by idle. The New York police officers were concentrated in the street, not the sidewalk, seemingly having surrendered to the crowd, patrolling it, holding their distance, curiously disengaged. The substantial police presence didn’t seem to worry Austin. On tiptoes, Elena watched as his arms moved with the rhythm of each sentence, his hand punctuating each phrase. He was wearing a white shirt, his sleeves rolled up as if speaking was an act of intense physical labour. His communication transcended words – there was magic to it. Compared with the moody introspection of Leo, his cynicism, Jesse Austin was most intensely alive individual she’d ever seen.
Moving forward was like swimming against the current, her small frame shunted from side to side, jostled by an audience that didn’t want to part. No one wanted to lose position near Jesse. Elena didn’t have much time. The authorities would soon realize that she was missing and when they caught up with her she would be punished. It didn’t matter as long as she managed to pose with Jesse. From her pocket she pulled the Soviet flag. This was her opportunity to make a difference: her way of proving to Jesse how much his efforts were appreciated and how he would never be forgotten. She would embrace him, flag flapping behind them, achieving the photograph they desired – the two of them side by side. Abandoning good manners, Elena forced her way through, clawing the audience aside. Jesse saw her as she breached the front rank. He reached down and took her hand, pulling her up onto the crate. For a man his age he was remarkably strong. Elena saw his wife for the first time. Mrs Austin did something she hadn’t done earlier: she smiled.
At the sight of Elena on the crate, the crowd broke into a chorus of comments. Elena didn’t understand what they were saying but she knew exactly what she had to do. She released the flag, its full length spreading behind her. Jesse caught it. For a second there was fear in his eyes; he understood its provocation. Elena wondered if he might even fold it away. But he let go of the flag, allowing it hang behind them. The audience surged forward, like the crash of a wave against the crate. There were multiple flashes of cameras across the crowd, journalists asking questions, furious protestors and delighted supporters. Jesse cut his hand through the air, as if his arm were a scythe:
– I want to introduce you all to a friend of mine. She’s a young student from the Soviet Union!
He was forced to raise his voice as the audience roared, some in approval, some in disgust. The audience were scandalized
, unable to believe the scene before them. Elena couldn’t help but laugh. Austin lifted her hand, still gripping the flag, into the air.
– We could not be from more different backgrounds. Yet we are united in our desire for equality. We were born on different continents yet we believe n the same things! Fairness! Justice!
Cameras continued to flash. Elena was euphoric with her success. The moment was everything she’d hoped for.
The deafening noise brought Jesse Austin and the entire crowd to silence, a noise like a clap of thunder, so loud and sudden it was as if the entire island of Manhattan had split in two. The crate shook. Vibrations travelled through her leg. Stunned silence remained after the sound stopped and this was as shocking and strange as sunlight breaking through the night sky. The silence lasted no longer than a second, replaced by a painful ringing that seemed to grow louder and louder until her ears hurt. She smelt smoke. She smelt metal. Some of the demonstrators were standing dumbstruck, motionless and frozen. Others had their mouths wide open. Elena slowly lowered her arms – the Soviet flag was gone, it lay on the sidewalk, spread out like a picnic blanket. Austin was standing beside her with one hand on his chest as though the national anthem were playing. He moved nearer to Elena, closer, leaning into her, about to whisper some secret. But he didn’t say a word, falling, knocking into her, toppling like a tree, a giant ancient oak. They both fell to the sidewalk, pushed in different directions. Austin clattered into the steel barriers, while Elena fell into the protestors, her head against someone’s chest, grabbing on to clothes to slow her descent, before hitting the sidewalk.
Elena lay among the demonstrators’ feet, kicked as panic took hold and the crowd stampeded. She wrapped her arms around her head and watched through the feet and legs as Mrs Austin dropped to her husband. The crowd broke free of the confines, pouring onto the street, smashing down more of the barricades. A handmade banner landed on the ground near her. She stood up, only to be kicked down to her knees. She tried again, her ears still ringing, managed to get to her feet. From the opposite direction the police marched forward, batons raised, protestors smashing into them.
Elena limped forward before falling beside Jesse. His white shirt had turned red, the colour spreading at speed, conquering every visible patch of white. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard Mrs Austin cry out:
– Help us!
The police were forming a circle around the scene of the crime. Only a few demonstrators remained.
Someone took hold of Elena’s face, looking into her eyes.
– Elena! Are you hurt?
The woman was speaking Russian.
*
Checking her daughter, Raisa couldn’t see blood on Elena’s shirt or see any sign of injury. She pulled off the red coat she was wearing, a coat Raisa had never seen before. There was something heavy in the pocket. She reached in, taking hold of a cold metal handle. It was a gun.
She knew immediately, and without any doubt, that this was the gun that had shot Jesse Austin.
Manhattan Bellevue Hospital Center 462 1st Avenue
Same Day
Clutching the sides of the sink, Anna was certain that if she let go she’d fall to the floor. Each breath was snatched, not a natural rhythm, but ripped from the air, as she repeated the six words, unable to recone that they were true. Jesse is dead.
I am alive.
Tentatively lifting her right hand from the sink, she reached out and turned the tap, running cold water. She cupped her palm under the water – filling it and raising it to her face, water leaking through her fingers. By the time it reached her face her palm was empty save for a few cold drops that she pressed against her forehead. They ran down her face, collecting in her eyes, like tears, had she been able to cry.
She tried speaking the words aloud, wondering if that would make them real to her.
– Jesse is dead. I am alive.
It was impossible to imagine her life without him, impossible to imagine waking up tomorrow without him beside her, going to work and coming home to their empty apartment. They had survived adversities together and enjoyed success together. They’d travelled the entire country together and shared a cramped space in Harlem. No matter what they’d done, they’d done it together.
It had taken the authorities nearly fifty years but finally they’d got him. There might not have been a length of rope tied around his neck, they might not have killed in him on the edge of a forest, and though the killers couldn’t show their faces and proudly pat each other on the back, make no mistake, it was a lynching just the same, complete with photographs and audience. She would not cry, not yet. She would not mourn his death as a widow weeping by his graveside. Jesse had taught her better than that. Jesse deserved better than that.
Feeling her body come under some semblance of control, she straightened up, shutting off the cold water. She walked to the door of the restroom, opened it. In the corridor, in the distance, she saw the police officers waiting to interview her. She turned in the opposite direction, knowing exactly what she had to do.
Manhattan 17th Police Precinct 167 East 51st Street
Same Day
Raisa had foreseen the danger, spoken to Leo, heard his confirmation that the danger was real and then wished the threat away. For many years she’d trusted in nothing, doubted every promise, and presumed that all interactions were based around self-interest and deceit. It had proved an exhausting, corrosive existence but it had worked – she’d survived while the regime had murdered many thousands. However, it was not a state of mind, nor a way of life, that she’d wanted for her daughters. She’d not taught them to lie when asked their name by a stranger. She’d not drilled into them the need for caution and suspicion as a matter of routine. She’d not wanted them to second-guess every display of affection and interrogate every friendship. In so doing she’d failed as a mother and she’d failed as a teacher. Just because Leo had left his past behind did not mean those dark forces no longer existed. He’d changed. But she’d been wrong to believe that the world had changed too.
Watched over by a female police officer, Raisa refused to sit down, standing in the corner of the cell, her back against the wall, her arms crossed. She’d been given no news of Elena. They’d been taken into custody in separate cars, pulled apart in the chaotic aftermath of the murder. In the few seconds that Raisa had been able to hold her daughter, Elena had been a little girl again, the girl she’d adopted twelve years ago – lost and confused and seeking protection from a world she didn’t understand. She’d buried her face in Raisa’s shoulder, hands wet with Jesse Austin’s blood, and wept like a child. Raisa had wanted to say everything was going to be OK but it wasn’t, not this time, and she couldn’t manage even a comforting lie, too stunned at events to tell Elena that she loved her. It would be the first thing she said the moment they next met, even if it was for a second. Raisa didn’t know the details of the plot Elena had become embroiled in. Whatever it was, she could only have been seduced by the promise of a better world. With her quiet optimism, she was like Leo, a dreamer who’d ended up with blood on his hands. Raisa’s heart broke to think that her idealistic young girl would never be the same, no matter what she was told, or how she was reassured. Leo would help her. He had gone through the same process – he would know what to say. They just needed to get home.
The door opened and the agent from the hotel, Yates, stepped into the room. For a man who’d presided over a security disaster, he seemed peculiarly satisfied. There could only be one interpretation: he was involved somehow. An older woman stood beside him – she was not in uniform. She spoke first, in perfect Russian.
– You’re to come with us.
– Where is my daughter?
The woman translated to Yates. He said:
– She’s being questioned.
Raisa followed them out, saying in Russian:
– My daughter did not kill anyone.
The woman translated and Yates listened but offered no res
ponse, leading them into the main office – an open space with desks and chairs, and many people, mostly police officers, phones ringing, people shouting over each other, pushing past each other.
– Where am I being taken?
After hearing the translation, Yates said:
– You’re being moved.
– Is my daughter also being moved?
To this question she received no reply. Yates was busy talking to another man.
Waiting, disorientated and afraid, Raisa peered about the room, feeling dizzy. She was about to ask for a glass of water when, among the crowd, she glimpsed a woman – the only black woman in the room. She was wearing civilian clothes. There was a uniformed officer by her side. He was talking to her but she wasn’t paying him any attention. She was concentrated on them, staring towards them with startling intensity. Belatedly, Yates also saw the woman and reacted strongly, shouting orders. The uniformed officer grabbed the woman’s arm, trying to pull her away. She shook him free, raising her other arm. She was holding a gun.
Raisa had seen the woman before, by the body of Jesse Austin, screaming out to the sky for help when no help would come. She recognized love and pain in the woman’s expression, love turned to anger. As the gun flashed explosions of white light, she wished that the last thing she’dtold Elena was that she didn’t blame her for anything and that she loved her very much.
Harlem Bradhurst 8th Avenue amp; West 139th Street Nelson’s Restaurant
Next Day
None of the staff were working, none of the customers were eating, all were turned towards the radio, listening to the news broadcast. Nelson was standing, hand on the volume dial, turned up as loud as it could go. Several of the women were crying. Several of the men were crying. In contrast, the voice on the radio was clipped and without emotion.
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