by Child 44
—My parents are good people. They’ve worked hard. They’ve done you no harm.
—But I’m going to hurt them all the same.
—What do you want from me?
—An apology.
—Vasili, I’m sorry.
—You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.
—I treated you badly. And I’m sorry.
—What are you sorry for? Be specific. Your parents are depending on you.
—I shouldn’t have hit you.
—You’re not trying hard enough. Convince me.
Desperate, Leo’s voice was trembling:
—I don’t understand what you want. You have everything. I have nothing.
—It’s simple. I want to hear you beg.
—I’m begging you, Vasili, listen to my voice. I am begging you. Leave my parents alone. Please . . .
Vasili had hung up.
VOUALSK
17 MARCH
HAVING WALKED ALL NIGHT—his feet blistered, his socks sodden with blood—Leo sat down on a park bench, put his head in his hands, and wept.
He hadn’t slept, he hadn’t eaten. Last night, when Raisa had tried to talk to him, he’d ignored her. When she’d brought him food from the restaurant he’d ignored that too. Unable to stay in their tiny, stinking room any longer he’d gone downstairs, elbowed his way through the crowd, making his way outside. He’d walked without any sense of direction, too frustrated, too angry to sit still and do nothing although he realized that was exactly the nature of his predicament—he could do nothing. Once again he was faced with an injustice, but this time he was no longer able to intervene. His parents wouldn’t be shot in the back in the head—that would be too swift, too much an approximation of mercy. Instead they’d be persecuted drip by drip. He could imagine the variety of options open to a methodical, sadistic, and petty mind. In their respective factories they’d be demoted, given the hardest, dirtiest jobs—jobs a young man or woman would struggle with. They’d be goaded with stories of Leo’s pitiful exile, his disgrace and humiliation. Perhaps they’d even be told that he was in a Gulag, sentenced to twenty years of katorga, hard labor. As for the family that his parents were forced to share an apartment with, there was no doubt that they’d be as disruptive and unpleasant as possible. The children would be promised chocolate if they made a lot of noise, the adults promised their own apartment if they stole food, argued, and, through whatever means available, made home life intolerable. He didn’t need to guess the details. Vasili would enjoy reporting them, knowing that Leo wouldn’t dare hang up the phone since he was afraid that whatever hardships his parents were experiencing would double as a result. Vasili would break him from afar, systematically applying pressure where he was vulnerable—his family. There was no defense. With a little work Leo could discover his parents’ address, but all he could do, if his letters weren’t intercepted and burnt, would be to reassure them he was safe. He’d built them a comfortable life only to have it ripped from under their feet at a time when they could least handle the change.
He stood up, shivering with cold. With some difficulty, and no idea what he was going to do next, he began to retrace his steps, back to his new home.
Raisa was downstairs sitting at a table. She’d been waiting for him all night. She knew, just as Vasili had predicted, that Leo now regretted his decision not to denounce her. The price was too high. But what was she supposed to do? Pretend that he’d risked everything for a perfect love? It wasn’t something she could just conjure on demand. Even if she’d wanted to pretend, she didn’t know how: she didn’t know what to say, what motions to go through. She could’ve been easier on him. In truth, some part of her must have relished his demotion. Not out of spite or vindictiveness but she wanted him to know:
This is how I feel every day.
Powerless, scared—she’d wanted him to feel it too. She’d wanted him to understand, to experience it for himself.
Exhausted, her eyes heavy with sleep, she looked up as Leo entered the restaurant. She stood, approaching her husband, noticing his bloodshot eyes. She’d never seen him cry before. He turned away and poured himself a drink from the nearest bottle. She put a hand on his shoulder. It happened in a fraction of a second: Leo spun around, grabbing her by the neck and squeezing:
—You did this.
Her veins constricted, her face flushed red—she couldn’t breathe, she was choking. Leo lifted her up: she was on the tips of her toes. Her hands fumbled at his grip. But he wouldn’t let go and she couldn’t break his hold.
She reached toward a tabletop, her fingers straining for a glass, her eyesight blurring. She managed to touch a glass, tipping it over. It fell within reach: she grabbed it, swinging and smashing it against the side of Leo’s face. The glass cracked in her hand, cutting her palms. As if a spell had been broken he released her. She fell back, coughing, holding her neck. They stared at each other, strangers, as though their entire history had been washed away in that fraction of a second. A shard of glass was embedded in Leo’s cheek. He touched it and pulled the splinter out, surveying it in the palm of his hand. Without turning her back, she edged to the stairs, hurrying up, leaving him.
Instead of following his wife Leo downed the drink he’d already poured and then poured another and then another, and by the time he heard Nesterov’s car outside he’d finished most of the bottle. Unsteady on his feet, unwashed and unshaven, drunk, brutish and senselessly violent—it had taken him less than a day to sink to the level expected of the militia.
During their car journey Nesterov didn’t mention the gash down Leo’s face. He spoke in short bursts about the town. Leo wasn’t listening, barely conscious of his surroundings, preoccupied with the question of what he’d just done. Had he tried to strangle his wife or was that some trick of his sleep-deprived brain? He touched the cut on his cheek, saw blood on his fingertip—it was true, he’d done it and he’d been capable of more. Another couple of seconds, a slight tightening of his grip, and she would’ve died. His provocation was that he’d given up everything: his parents, his career, all on a false pretext, the promise of a family, the notion that there was some tie between them. She’d tricked him, fixed the odds, skewering his decision. Only once she was safe and his parents were suffering did she admit the pregnancy was a lie. Then she went further, openly describing how she’d held him in contempt. She’d manipulated his sentimentality and then spat in his face. In exchange for his sacrifice, in exchange for overlooking incriminating evidence of her guilt, he’d gotten nothing.
But Leo didn’t believe it for a second. The time of self-justification had ended. What he had done was unforgivable. And she was right to hold him in contempt. How many brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers had he arrested? How different was he from the man he considered his moral opposite—Vasili Nikitin? Was the difference merely that Vasili was senselessly cruel while he’d been idealistically cruel? One was an empty, indifferent cruelty while the other was a principled, pretentious cruelty which thought of itself as reasonable and necessary. But in real terms, in destructive terms, there was little to separate the two men. Had Leo lacked the imagination to realize what he was involved in? Or was it worse than that—had he chosen not to imagine it? He’d shut down those thoughts, brushed them aside.
Out of the rubble of his moral certainties one fact remained. He’d laid down his life for Raisa only to try and kill her. That was insanity. At this rate he’d have nothing, not even the woman he’d married. He wanted to say the woman he loved. Did he love her? He’d married her, wasn’t that the same? No, not really—he’d married her because she was beautiful, intelligent, and he was proud to have her by his side, proud to make her his. It was another step toward the perfect Soviet life—work, family, and children. In many ways she was a cipher, a cog in the wheels of his ambitions, the necessary domestic background to his successful career, his status as a Model Citizen. Was Vasili right when he’d said she could be substituted for another? On the t
rain he’d asked her to declare her love for him, to soothe him, to reward him with a romantic fantasy in which he was the hero. It was pathetic. He let out an audible sigh, rubbing his forehead. He was being outplayed—and that’s exactly what this was to Vasili, a game, with the playing chips being denominations of misery. Instead of Vasili striking his wife, hurting her, Leo had done it for him, acting out every part of that man’s plan.
They’d arrived. The car had stopped. Nesterov was already out of the car and waiting for him. With no idea how long he’d been sitting there, Leo opened the car door, stepping out and following his superior officer into the militia headquarters to begin his first morning at work. Introduced to staff, shaking hands, nodding, agreeing but unable to take anything in; names, details—they washed over him—and it wasn’t until he was alone in the locker room with a uniform hanging before him that he began to refocus on the present. He took off his shoes, slowly peeling back the socks from his bloody toes and running his feet under cold water, watching as the water turned red. Since he had no new socks and couldn’t bring himself to ask for a new pair, he was forced to put the old socks back on, wincing in pain as he slid the material over his raw blisters. He stripped, leaving his civilian clothing in a heap at the bottom of a locker and buttoning up his new uniform, coarse trousers with red piping and a heavyset military jacket. He looked at himself in the mirror. There were black marks under his eyes, a weeping cut down his left cheek. He glanced at the insignia on his jacket. He was an uchastkovyy, he was nothing.
The walls of Nesterov’s office were decorated with framed certificates. Reading them from side to side, Leo discovered that his boss had won amateur wrestling competitions and rifle shooting tournaments and had received commendations as Officer of the Month on numerous occasions both here and at his former place of residence, Rostov. It was an ostentatious display, understandable considering that his position was held in such low esteem.
Nesterov studied his new recruit, unable to work him out. Why was this man, a former high-ranking MGB officer with a decorated war record, in such a bedraggled state—his fingernails filthy, his face bleeding, his hair unwashed, stinking of alcohol, and apparently indifferent to his demotion? Perhaps he was exactly as he’d been described: grossly incompetent and unworthy of responsibility. His appearance certainly fitted the bill. But Nesterov wasn’t convinced: maybe this disheveled appearance was a trick. He’d been uneasy from the moment he heard about the transfer. This man had the potential to do untold damage to him and his men. One damning report, that was all it would take. Nesterov had decided the best course of action would be to observe this man, test him, and keep him close. Leo would eventually reveal his hand.
Nesterov presented Leo with a file. Leo stared at it for a moment, trying to work out what was expected of him. Why was he being given this? Whatever it was, he didn’t care. He sighed, forcing himself to study the file. Inside there were black-and-white photographs of a young girl. She was lying on her back, surrounded by black snow. Black snow . . . black because it was soaked in blood. It seemed as though the girl was screaming. On closer inspection there was something inside her mouth. Nesterov explained:
—Her mouth was stuffed with soil. So she couldn’t scream for help.
Leo’s fingers tightened on the photo, all his thoughts about Raisa, his parents, about himself evaporated as his eyes focused on this girl’s mouth. It was wide open, stuffed with dirt. He glanced at the next photo. The girl was naked: her skin, where it was undamaged, was as white as the snow. Her midriff had been savaged, torn open. He flicked to the next photo and the next and the next, not seeing a girl but instead Fyodor’s little boy, a boy who hadn’t been stripped naked, or had his stomach cut open, a boy whose mouth hadn’t been stuffed with dirt—a boy who hadn’t been murdered. Leo put the photos down on the table. He said nothing, staring at the certificates hanging on the wall.
SAME DAY
THE TWO INCIDENTS had nothing to do with each other—the death of Fyodor’s young boy and the murder of this young girl—it was impossible. They’d taken place hundreds of kilometers apart. This was a vicious irony, nothing more. But Leo had been wrong to dismiss Fyodor’s allegations. Here was a child murdered as Fyodor had described. Such a thing was possible. There was now no way of knowing what had really happened to Fyodor’s son, Arkady, because Leo had never bothered to examine the boy’s body for himself. Perhaps that death had been an accident. Or perhaps the matter had been hushed up. If the latter was true, then Leo had been instrumental in orchestrating a cover-up. He’d done so unquestioningly—ridiculing, bullying, and finally threatening a grieving family.
General Nesterov was frank about the details of this murder, calling it by no other name—murder—and giving no indication of wanting to portray it as anything other than a brutal and horrific crime. His frankness worried Leo. How could he be so cool? The yearly statistics for his department were supposed to conform to predetermined patterns: decreasing crime rates, increasing social harmony. Although the town had undergone a vast increase in population, an influx of eighty thousand uprooted workers, crime should have declined since the theory dictated that there was more work, more fairness, less exploitation.
The victim’s name was Larisa Petrova, she’d been found four days ago, in the forest, not far from the train station. The details regarding the discovery of the body were vague and when Leo had pressed the issue Nesterov had seemed eager to brush the point aside. All Leo could gather was that the body had been discovered by a couple who’d drunk too much and had retreated into the forests to fornicate. They’d stumbled across the little girl who’d been lying in the snow for several months, her body perfectly preserved in the freezing cold. She was a schoolchild, fourteen years old. The militia knew her. She had a reputation for having a disorderly sex life not just with boys of her own age but with older men; she could be bought for a liter bottle of vodka. Larisa had argued with her mother on the day she went missing. Her absence had been dismissed; she’d threatened to run away and it seemed she’d followed through on her word. No one had looked for her. According to Nesterov her parents were respected members of the community. Her father was an accountant at the assembly plant. They were ashamed of their daughter and wanted nothing to do with the investigation, which was to be kept secret, not covered up, but not publicized either. The parents agreed not to have a funeral for their child and were prepared to pretend that she was merely missing. There was no need for the community at large to know. Only a handful of people outside the militia were aware of the murder. Those people, including the couple who’d found the body, had been made clear about the consequences of talking. The matter would be concluded swiftly because they already had a man in custody.
Leo was aware that the militia could only investigate after a criminal case had been opened and that a criminal case was only opened if it was certain it would be concluded successfully. Failure to convict a suspect was unacceptable and the consequences severe. Bringing a case to court was supposed to mean one thing: that the suspect was guilty. If a case was difficult, complex, ambiguous, it simply wouldn’t be opened. For Nesterov and his subordinates to be this calm could only mean that they were convinced they had their man. Their job was done. The brainwork of investigations, the presentation of evidence, interrogations and ultimately the prosecution itself, were the duties of the State’s investigative team, the procurator’s office and their team of sledovatyel, lawyers. Leo wasn’t being asked to assist: he was being given a tour, expected to marvel at their efficiency.
The cell was small, with none of the ingenious modifications typical of those in the Lubyanka. There were concrete walls, a concrete floor. The suspect was seated, his hands cuffed behind his back. He was young, perhaps no more than sixteen or seventeen, with an adult’s muscular frame but a child’s face. His eyes seemed to roam with no particular sense of purpose. He didn’t seem afraid. He was calm although not in an intelligent way and showed no signs of physical abuse. Of cour
se there were ways of inflicting injuries so the marks didn’t show, but Leo’s gut reaction was that the boy hadn’t been harmed. Nesterov pointed at the suspect:
—This is Varlam Babinich.
At the sound of his name, the young man stared at Nesterov as a dog might stare at its owner. Nesterov continued:
—We found him in possession of a lock of Larisa’s hair. He has a history of stalking Larisa—lingering outside her house, propositioning her in the street. Larisa’s mother remembers seeing him on numerous occasions. She remembers her daughter complaining about him. He used to try and touch her hair.
Nesterov turned to the suspect, speaking slowly:
—Varlam, tell us what happened, tell us how you had a lock of her hair in your possession.
—I cut her. It was my fault.
—Tell this officer why you killed her.
—I liked her hair. I wanted it. I have a yellow book, a yellow shirt, a yellow tin, and some yellow hair. This is why I cut her. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. When can I have the blanket?
—Let’s talk about that later.
Leo interrupted:
—What blanket?
—Two days ago he kidnapped a baby. It was wrapped in a yellow blanket. He has an obsession with the color yellow. Fortunately the baby was unhurt. However, he has no sense of right or wrong. He does whatever he feels like without regard for consequence.
