by Child 44
—Raisa, this is city dissident talk. It’s not relevant to the real world. It would be insanity for them to help us.
—You have a short memory, Leo. How did we just escape? We told the inmates of that carriage the truth. They helped us, all of them, several hundred, probably about the number that live in this village. The prisoners in our carriage will almost certainly face some sort of collective punishment for not alerting the guards. What did they do it for? What did you offer them?
Leo remained silent. Raisa pressed her point:
—If you steal from these people, you’ll be their enemy when we are in fact their friends.
—So you want to walk into the center of the village, as if we were family, and greet them?
—That’s exactly what we’re going to do.
Side by side, they walked into the village as if they were returning from work, as if they had a right to be here. Men, women, and children gathered around them, surrounding them. Their houses were made of mud and wood. Their farm equipment was forty years out of date. All they had to do was turn them over to the State and they’d be richly rewarded. How could they refuse? These people had nothing.
Encircled by hostile faces, Raisa spoke up:
—We’re prisoners. We’ve escaped from the train transporting us to the Kolyma region where we would’ve died. We’re now being hunted. We need your help. We ask for this help not for ourselves. Eventually we’ll be caught and killed. We’ve accepted that. But before we die there is one task we have to perform. Please let us explain why we need your help. If you don’t like what we tell you, then you should have nothing to do with us.
A man in his mid-forties stepped forward, an air of self-importance about him:
—As chairman of this kolkhoz, it is my duty to point out that it would be in our best interests to turn them over.
Raisa glanced at the other villagers. Had she been wrong? Had the State already infiltrated these villages, planted their own spies and informers in the management system? A man’s voice called out:
—And what would you do with the reward? Hand that over to the State too?
There was laughter. The chairman went red, embarrassed. Relieved, Raisa realized this man was a comic figure, a puppet. He wasn’t the real authority. From the back of the crowd an elderly woman spoke out:
—Feed them.
As though an oracle had spoken, the debate was over.
They were led into the largest house. In the main room where food was prepared, they were seated and given cups of water. A fire was stoked. All the while their audience grew until the entire house was crowded. Children filled the spaces in between the adults’ legs, staring at Leo and Raisa as children might stare in a zoo. Fresh bread, still warm, was brought from another house. They ate with their wet clothes steaming in front of the fire. When a man apologized for not being able to offer them a new set of clothes, Leo merely nodded, disoriented by their generosity. He could offer them a story; that was it. Finishing his bread and water, he stood up.
Raisa watched the men, women, and children as they listened to Leo. He began with the murder of Arkady, the young boy in Moscow, a murder he’d been ordered to cover up. He spoke of his shame at having told the boy’s family that it was an accident. He went on to explain why he was expelled from the MGB, sent to Voualsk. He explained his amazement when he’d found another child had been murdered in almost exactly the same way. The audience gasped, as though he were performing some magic trick, when they were told that these murders were being committed across their entire country. Some parents ushered their children out of the house as Leo warned them of what he was about to describe.
Even before Leo had finished his story his audience had formed ideas as to who could’ve been responsible. None of them supposed these murders were the work of a man with a job, a man with a family. The men in the audience found it hard to believe that this killer couldn’t be immediately identified. All of them were certain they’d know he was a monster just by looking him in the eyes. Glancing around the room, Leo realized their perspective on the world had been shaken. He apologized for introducing them to the reality of this killer’s existence. In an effort to reassure them he outlined the murderer’s movements along the railways, through the major towns. He killed as part of his routine; a routine wouldn’t bring him into villages like this.
Even with these assurances, Raisa wondered whether or not these people would any longer be so trusting and welcoming. Would they feed a stranger? Or from now on would they fear that strangers were hiding some evil they couldn’t see? The price of this story was the audience’s innocence. It wasn’t that they hadn’t seen brutality and death. But they’d never imagined that the murder of a child could give pleasure.
It was dark outside and Leo had been speaking for some time, well over an hour. He was nearing the end of his story when a child ran into the house:
—I saw lights on the northern hills. There are trucks. They’re coming this way.
Everyone got to their feet. Reading the faces of those around him, Leo knew that there was no chance these trucks could be anything other than the State. He asked:
—How long do we have?
Asking that question, he’d already grouped himself with them, presumed a connection when in fact there was none. They could quite easily surrender them and claim their reward. Yet it appeared as if he was the only one in the room even contemplating such an idea. Even the chairman had surrendered to the collective decision to aid them.
Some of the adults hurried out of the house, perhaps to see for themselves. Those remaining quizzed the boy:
—Which hill?
—How many trucks?
—How long ago?
There were three trucks, three sets of headlights. The boy had seen them from the edge of his father’s farm. They were coming from the north, several miles away. They’d be here in minutes.
There was nowhere to hide in these houses. The villagers had no belongings, no furniture to speak of. And the search would be thorough, brutally so. If there was a hiding place it would be found. Leo knew how much pride was at stake for the guards. Raisa took hold of his arms:
—We can run. They’ll have to search the village first. If they pretend we were never here, we can get ahead, maybe hide in the countryside. It’s dark.
Leo shook his head. Feeling his stomach tense, his thoughts were thrown back to Anatoly Brodsky. This is what he must have felt when he’d turned around to see Leo on the crest of the hill, when he’d realized that the net had closed around him. Leo remembered how that man had paused, staring for a moment, unable to do anything other than contemplate that he’d been caught. On that day he’d run. But there was no way to outrun these guards. They were rested, equipped to hunt—long-range rifles, telescopic sights, flares to light up the sky, and dogs to pick up suspicious trails.
Leo turned to the young boy who’d seen the trucks.
—I need your help.
SAME DAY
NERVOUS, HIS HANDS SHAKING, the boy crouched in the middle of the road in almost complete darkness, a small bag of grain spilled before him. He could hear the trucks approaching, the tires kicking up dirt: they were only a couple of hundred meters away, coming fast. He closed his eyes, hoping they’d see him. Was it possible they were going too fast to stop in time? There was a screech of brakes. He opened his eyes, turning his head, caught in the beam of powerful headlights. He raised his arms. The trucks lurched to a stop, the metal bumper almost touching the boy’s face. The door to the front cabin opened. A soldier called out:
—What the fuck are you doing?
—My bag split.
—Get off the road!
—My father will kill me if I don’t collect it all.
—I’ll kill you if you don’t move.
The boy wasn’t sure what to do. He continued picking at the grains. He heard a metallic click: was that the sound of a gun? He’d never seen a gun: he had no idea what they sounded like. P
anicking, he continued picking at the grains, putting them in the bag. They wouldn’t shoot him: he was just a boy picking up his father’s grain. Then he remembered the stranger’s story: children were being killed all the time. Maybe these men were the same. He grabbed as much grain as he could, picked up the bag, and ran back toward the village. The trucks followed him, chasing him, beeping their horns, getting him to run faster. He could hear soldiers laughing. He’d never run so fast in his life.
Leo and Raisa were hiding in the only place they could hope the soldiers wouldn’t search—underneath their own trucks. While the boy was distracting the soldiers, Leo had snuck under the second truck, Raisa under the third. Since there was no way of telling how long they’d have to hold on for, perhaps for as long as an hour, Leo had wrapped both their hands in ripped shreds of shirt in an attempt to ease the pain.
As the trucks came to a stop, Leo wedged his feet around the axle shaft, his face close to the wood underside of the truck. The planks strained toward him as the soldiers walked across it, jumping off the back of the truck. Looking down over his toes, he saw one of the men crouch down to tie his bootlaces. All the man had to do was turn around and Leo would be seen and caught. The soldier stood up, hurrying toward one of the houses. Leo hadn’t been seen. He repositioned himself so he was able to get a view of the third truck.
Raisa was afraid but mostly she was angry. This plan was smart, that was true, and she hadn’t come up with anything better, but it depended entirely on their ability to cling on. She wasn’t a trained soldier: she hadn’t spent years crawling through ditches, climbing over walls. She didn’t have the upper-body strength needed to make this work. Already her arms were aching, not just aching—they were hurting. She couldn’t imagine how she was going to manage another minute, let alone an entire hour. But she refused to accept that she was going to be the one to get them caught just because she wasn’t strong enough, refused to accept the idea that they’d fail because she was weak.
Fighting the pain, silently crying with frustration, she could no longer hold on, she had to lower herself to the ground and rest her arms. However, even with a rest, she’d recover only enough to hold on for another minute or two. The length of time she’d be able to hold herself up would rapidly decrease until she couldn’t do it at all. She had to think around this problem. What was the solution that didn’t rely on strength? The strips of the shirt—if she couldn’t hold on, she’d tie herself on, tie her wrists to the axle shaft. That would be fine as long as the truck was stationary. All the same, she’d still have to lower herself to the ground for a couple of minutes while she bound herself. Once on the ground, even still under the truck, the chances of her being seen increased dramatically. She looked sideways, checking right and left, trying to get a sense of where the soldiers were. The driver had remained guarding the vehicle. She could see his boots and smell his cigarette smoke. Actually, his presence suited her just fine. It meant they were unlikely to suspect that anyone could’ve clambered underneath it. Slowly, carefully, Raisa lowered her legs to the ground, trying not to make a noise. Even the smallest of slips would alert that man to her presence. Unwinding the strips of shirt, she fastened her left wrist to the shaft before partially tying her right wrist. She had to finish the knot with her already bound-up hand. Done, secured, pleased with herself, she was about to lift up her feet when she heard a growl. Looking sideways, she found herself staring at a dog.
Leo could see the pack of dogs being held beside the third truck. The man with them wasn’t aware of Raisa, not yet. But the dogs were. He could hear the snarling: they were at the perfect eye level. Unable to do anything, he turned his head and saw the boy, the boy who’d helped them on the road. No doubt fascinated by events, he was watching from the inside of his house. Leo lowered himself to the ground, getting a better look. The soldier in charge was about to move off. But one of the dogs in particular was straining at the leash, almost certainly having seen Raisa. Leo turned to the little boy. He’d need his help again. He gestured at the dogs. The boy hurried out of the house. Leo watched, impressed at the boy’s cool head, as he moved toward the pack of dogs. Almost immediately all the dogs turned on the boy, barking at him. The soldier called out:
—Stay in your house.
The boy reached out, as though to stroke one of the dogs. The soldier laughed:
—It’ll bite your arm off.
The boy pulled back. The soldier led the dogs away, repeating his order that the boy return to his house. Leo pulled himself back up, pressing himself flat against the underside of the truck. They owed that boy their lives.
Raisa had no idea how long she’d been tied under the truck. It felt like an impossibly long time. She’d listened as the soldiers carried out their search: furniture was kicked over, pots upturned, objects smashed. She’d heard the dogs barking and seen the explosion of light as flares were fired. The soldiers were returning, moving back to the trucks. Orders were being shouted. The dogs were loaded into the back of her truck. They were about to leave.
Excited, she realized the plan had worked. Then the engine started. The axle shuddered. In a couple of seconds it would start spinning. She was still tied to it. She had to get free. But her wrists were bound and it was difficult to untie the knots, her hands were numb, her fingers unresponsive. She was struggling. The last of the soldiers were in the truck. The villagers were crowding around the trucks. Raisa still wasn’t free. The trucks were about to drive off. She leaned forward, using her teeth, tugging at the knot. It came undone and she dropped to the ground, landing with a thump on her back, a noise masked by the sound of the engines. The truck drove off. She was in the middle of the road. In the light of the village she’d be seen by the soldiers sitting at the back of the truck. There was nothing she could do.
The villagers moved forward, clustering. As the truck drove off, leaving Raisa on the road, they surrounded her. Looking back, the soldiers saw nothing unusual. Raisa was hidden among the villagers’ legs.
Raisa waited, still on the road, curled up. Finally a man offered his hand. She was safe. She stood up. Leo wasn’t there. He wouldn’t have risked letting go until the trucks were in the dark. She guessed he was worried about being seen by the driver of the third truck. Perhaps he’d wait until they were turning. But she wasn’t worried. He’d know what to do. All of them waited in silence. Raisa took the young boy’s hand, the boy who’d helped them. And before long they could hear a man running toward them.
MOSCOW
SAME DAY
DESPITE THE MANY HUNDREDS OF SOLDIERS and agents now searching for the fugitives, Vasili was convinced that none of them would succeed. Although the odds were heavily weighted in the State’s favor, they were chasing a man who’d been trained to avoid detection and survive in hostile territory. There was a belief in some quarters that Leo and Raisa must have had assistance either from treacherous guards or from people waiting at a designated location on the railway line who’d orchestrated the breakout. This had been contradicted by the confessions of the prisoners who’d been traveling in Leo’s carriage. They’d declared, under duress, that they’d escaped alone. That wasn’t what the guards wanted to hear—it embarrassed them. So far the search had focused on possible approach routes toward the Scandinavian border, the northern coastline, and the Baltic Sea. It was taken for granted that Leo would try to cross into another country, probably using a fishing boat. Once in the West he’d connect with senior government figures, who’d gladly aid and shelter him in exchange for information. For this reason his capture was considered a matter of the highest urgency. Leo had the potential to inflict untold damage on Soviet Russia.
Vasili dismissed the idea that Leo’s escape had been assisted. There was simply no way anyone could have known which train the prisoners would be on. The process of getting them on a Gulag transport had been hurried, improvised and last-minute. He’d pushed it through without the proper paperwork or procedure. The only person who could’ve helped them esca
pe was him. This meant that there was a chance, no matter how ridiculous the notion, that he’d be blamed. It seemed that Leo had the potential to ruin him after all.
So far none of the search groups had found any trace of them. Neither Leo nor Raisa had any family or friends in that area of the country—they should be alone, in rags, penniless. When he’d last spoken to Leo the man hadn’t even known his own name. Evidently he’d regained his wits. Vasili had to figure out where Leo was going: that was the best way to trap him rather than searching the countryside at random. Having failed to recapture his own denounced brother, he must succeed in capturing Leo. He wouldn’t survive another failure.
Vasili didn’t believe that Leo had any interest in fleeing to the West. Would he return to Moscow? His parents lived here. But his parents couldn’t help him and they’d lose their life if he turned up on their doorstep. They were now under armed surveillance. Perhaps he’d want revenge, perhaps he’d turn up to kill Vasili? He mulled over this idea briefly, flattered by it, before rejecting it. He’d never felt anything personal about Leo’s dislike of him. There was no way he’d risk his wife’s life for an act of revenge. Leo had an agenda and it was rooted in the pages of this captured case file.
Vasili studied the stack of documents accumulated over the past months by both Leo and the local militia officer whom he’d convinced to help him. There were photos of murdered children, witness statements. There were court documents about convicted suspects. During his interrogation Leo had denounced this work. Vasili knew that denunciation was a lie. Leo was a believer and he believed in this fanciful theory. But what exactly did they believe? A single killer was responsible for all these motiveless murders—murders spread over many hundreds of kilometers in over thirty different locations? Aside from the theory itself being bizarre, it meant they could be heading anywhere. Vasili could hardly pick one of these locations and wait. Frustrated, he reexamined the map marked with each alleged murder, numbered chronologically:
