“I can tell you’re escapees,” said Karkaus to Anna and Gregori. “I could turn you over to the secret police and earn a reward. But I despise the bastards. The least you can do is buy me a drink!”
“I’ll do more than that,” Anna replied. She paid his bill.
Before Maikov had driven south, she had shown him a piece of paper and had asked, “Do you know this address? What landmarks should we look for?”
“The road will split. Go to the right toward the lake.”
“And the other way?”
“Stay clear of that road. It leads to the political offices and police station.”
As she crunched through the snow to Karkaus’s vehicle, resembling a hermit crab, she told Gregori what Maikov had said. The motor wheezed and coughed before falling into a regular rhythm. Huddled in the back of the “Russian Ford,” loaded with boxes of tea from Georgia and Ceylon, she and Gregori shivered. Even though heavily loaded, the vehicle lacked traction. The two riders leaped out and pushed, freeing the hostage tires from the icy tracks. Once on the road, she murmured, “I don’t trust this man, Karkaus. Did you hear what he said about turning us in to the police? He’ll betray us and collect the reward—and then give the cops a few crates of tea.”
“We can always resort to the Solovki solution.”
Anna grinned. “Exactly!” How good it felt to have her son enter the orbit of her world.
This time of year did not allow for much light, but Anna made it a point to lift a corner of the tarpaulin behind the cab to watch the highway and street signs. She nearly missed the split in the road that Maikov had mentioned because it was unmarked. Expecting a major junction, she took a few seconds to realize that the divide they’d just passed was the landmark—the forked roads. Karkaus had taken the left one. She immediately lifted the tarpaulin and banged on the cab. Karkaus slowed the truck and lowered his window.
“Why all the banging?”
“Gregori is ill. Stop for a minute so he can relieve himself.”
Karkaus parked the truck next to a stand of birch trees. Fifty yards down the road stood a line of buildings, their lights winked in the dark. With electricity in short supply, offices were often lit with kerosene, or white gas, or coal oil lamps. Anna sighed with relief that they had stopped before reaching the buildings. Both mother and son armed themselves with their chisels. Then Gregori hopped out of the truck and disappeared into the trees, while Anna climbed into the cab to wait with Karkaus. Several minutes passed. Karkaus began to complain. Anna told him that it was better that Gregori vomited in the forest than in the truck. After five minutes, Karkaus insisted that she check on her son.
“I’ll wait here,” he said.
But she knew not to leave the truck, lest he drive off without them and contact the police, who would undoubtedly initiate a search. “Let’s go together. Maybe a wolf or a bear attacked him.”
Karkaus muttered that he’d been a fool to take them along, but when he saw that Anna, pleading fear, refused to move without him, he grabbed a tire iron and leaped out of the cab. Following Gregori’s footprints, they entered the woods. With Karkaus leading the way, Anna followed. She heard the snap of branches before she saw Gregori coming toward them, with chisel in hand. Karkaus spun around and saw that Anna also held a chisel.
“What is this, some kind of trap?”
A second later, Anna moved forward and pointed her chisel at Karkaus’s neck. “You missed the turnoff back there. You were going to denounce us to the secret police and collect the reward, you swine. Now just drop the tire iron.”
Karkaus did, and pulled at his mustache. To the surprise of both his captors, he replied, “Yes, I was going to betray you.”
“Didn’t we pay you enough?” asked Gregori.
“Are you so poor that you need to collect twice?” Anna added.
“I spit on money,” said Karkaus, removing the rubles Anna had paid him and throwing them in the snow. “Money can’t free a man’s soul. It can’t buy independence. I use the money to bribe border guards, customs agents, and local police so that I can travel where I want and sell what I want. Take your money. I agree that I intended to act like a scoundrel. My returning the money will make us even. But killing me will do you no good. I overheard you in the back of the truck. You want to cross into Finland. Karkaus can lead you. Do you know what my name means? It’s Finnish. My parents were Finnish. I speak Finnish. It means ‘Mr. Escape.’ My family has always had a knack for wriggling out of tight spots. I can lead you across the border. By yourself, you’re bound to get caught.”
Anna mulled over Karkaus’s words. He had a point. She had done business with scoundrels before. They were usually more imaginative than they were saintly. And to escape required not decency but deception. If this man could take her family across the border on the wings of a lie or a hoax, she had no objections to their making common cause. But she knew that obsessed with his own independence, he wouldn’t hesitate to act in his own interest. He would therefore need to be watched.
“We’ll use your truck,” she said. “My intention is to work our way to the border by selling, to soldiers at the front, tea and anything else we can get our hands on.”
“I suggest biscuits and beef, which are always in demand, as well as cigarettes and vodka.” He smiled at her crookedly. “You realize we’re talking about stealing from government stores.”
“A fool, Comrade Karkaus, I am not.”
Karkaus shook his head with obvious satisfaction. He loved nothing more than to travel in the company of rascals. On more than one occasion, he had given rides to pilgrims and priests. Those pious types drove him to drink with their talk about heaven and hell, piety and prayer. He liked a juicy adventure, one he could repeat over herring, cucumbers, and strong “Moscow water.” Travel through the Karelian peninsula would certainly have its risks, particularly since profiteers, even on a small scale, were easy game for the Bolshevik faithful. But soldiers with their mouths and their bellies pinched by hunger were unlikely to object.
“Back in the truck!” she ordered, and picked up the tire iron. “You know the city. We need a place to stay long enough to round up some goods and to allow me some time for a personal errand.”
The worst part of town was home to brothels. In one of them, the madame rented her old friend and customer Karkaus a back room, which she immediately furnished with three cots. The flaming red hair of the woman, Mrs. Pestova, had come right out of a bottle of peroxide and contrasted with her plastered ivory makeup and purple lipstick. But even all the paint could not hide her wrinkles and turkey neck. She had a smoker’s throaty voice, a persistent rumbling cough, and the yellowed eyes of a drunk whose liver was already exhibiting the effects of alcoholic poisoning.
For a few extra rubles, she allowed the locked shed in the back to house Karkaus’s vehicle and possessions, whether obtained legally or illegally, and she made available a tarpaulin to protect them from the leaking roof. Their meals they took on the next street, at a greasy kitchen. If they wanted to bathe or wash their clothes, they could do so in the brothel, for an extra charge. She reminded the party that they were lucky to find a place as comfortable as hers, now that the city was overrun with refugees fleeing the war.
“All the better,” said Karkaus. “The more people milling about, the harder for the government to find us.”
Once Lake Onega froze and boats could no longer dock with their supplies, trains became the principal supply route for materiel. Anna asked Karkaus whether it was safer to pilfer from a dock or a railroad siding. He moved his cheeks from side to side as if gargling and replied that each had their strengths and weaknesses. The docks were unfenced, not so the railroad stockyard. But the docks were in plain sight, and the railroad mostly hidden from view. What they needed was a good pair of wire cutters and a moonless night. For both, they had to wait a few days. In the meantime, Anna, needing to find Yelena and Razan in Petrozavodsk, inquired about the address of the local educational mi
nistry, and paid them a visit to ask which school Yelena Boujinskia was attending. She knew to act discreetly lest her questions invite suspicion. When she talked her way past the first desk, she arrived at the office of the registrar, a Comrade Brik. A large picture of Stalin looked down from one wall.
“When my sister died last year of septicemia,” said Anna, “working in a military hospital, her husband volunteered for the war against the Fascist Finns and sent the child to live here in this city with an uncle. Now my brother-in-law is missing in action.” She paused to let the implications sink in. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Boujinskia?” you said.
She spelled it for him, sniffled, and dabbed her eyes with a small handkerchief.
“Ah, yes, State School Number Four.”
“And the head of the school?”
She listened intently. Comrade Kuznetsova. Minora Kuznetsova. The last words died on Brik’s tongue: “Students are encouraged to follow in the footsteps of our Soviet heroes.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Anna saluting. “We’ve had enough of the old-school values. It’s time for the new.”
The registrar smiled and accompanied her to the door.
Standing outside State School Number Four, she waited until the bell sounded and the children poured into the street. Even from a distance, she had no trouble identifying Yelena as she skipped down the steps. Anna followed her undetected for three blocks, until Yelena parted from her friends and proceeded alone.
“Ye-lay-na,” Anna cooed, as she had a thousand times in the past.
The child pivoted, stared, and hurtled down the sidewalk. They clung together and only, after a long spell, reluctantly disengaged. “Papa said you might never return!”
“I was lucky,” Anna said, “and I have a surprise for you.” The child looked at her expectantly. “No, it’s not a toy. It’s something better. I have come to Petrozavodsk with my son Gregori, the one I told you about, who lived in Leningrad and was then transferred to the east. Now you have only one more to meet, Pavel, since you already know Dimitri.”
“And Natasha?” the child expectantly asked.
“She’ll be joining us soon.”
“Promise?”
“Well, my dearest one, I will almost promise. Remember: There’s a war. Travel is difficult. She is coming with Dima.”
The child pressed her cheek against Anna’s stomach and gripped her mother’s sides tightly. “Don’t go away again. I want us all to be together.”
“Where is your father? Surely,” she said in mock horror, “he has not abandoned you!”
She took Anna’s hand. “Follow me.”
The two of them walked several blocks, with Anna carefully noting the neighborhood and how to find it again. When they arrived at the apartment blocks, Anna told herself that the brothel had more charm than these Stalinist slabs. The inside of the apartment building was even worse than the outside. Offensive smells assaulted her nose, among them the odor of offal. Apparently, the plumbing had frozen, and the sewers had backed up. Yelena said that they were waiting for a workman to repair the system. Anna knew what that meant: The system would be down for quite a while. All the more reason to act quickly and pilfer the wares that would sell. Then they could make good their escape across the Karelian peninsula.
Razan was not at the apartment. He had gone to a nearby shop to buy a newspaper. He avidly followed the reports about the war and the evacuation of Solovki. Admittedly, the news about the prison camp was scant, but by reading between the lines and speaking to refugees from the northeastern front, he was able to learn that the camp had been virtually abandoned and the prisoners moved. He was determined to wait at least a month for Anna, even though the weather was worsening and Petrozavodsk was being evacuated. Before taking Yelena out of school and putting his transit visa to the test, he swore to keep vigil for his absent wife. Unlike Anna, who had set her heart on crossing into Finland, he had come to the conclusion that the attempt would be perilous and, even if successful, costly.
As he unlocked the door to the apartment, he heard Yelena and Yuri talking. He smelled pea soup. The child was asking whether Yuri would join them. Join them in what? Escape?
“Not without your uncle Dimitri,” said Yuri, stirring the soup.
Had Yuri just heard from Dimitri? Razan quickened his step. On seeing Anna, he slumped to his knees, covered his head with his hands, and cried like a puling infant into the tattered rug. She gently raised him to his feet. They hugged fervidly, as if to keep each other from disappearing. This scene was so affecting that Yelena began to cry, and then Yuri. Only Anna remained dry eyed.
“You Russians are all the same,” she said teasingly. “You cry on any occasion.”
“Any occasion!” said a tear-faced Razan. “I am witnessing a miracle: someone who has survived Solovki.”
She smiled appreciatively and added, “Gregori, too.” Razan’s incredulous look invited explanation. “We are staying a distance from here, at an unsavory place, but a safe one. So don’t ask me to move in with you. I am with Gregori and another man . . .”
A disconsolate Razan murmured, “Another man?”
“Let us just say a Finnish business associate who knows Karelia. I will explain later. For now, it is important I get back to Gregori and Karkaus—that’s his name—they are expecting me. I’ll be gone for a few days. If I don’t return, inquire at Mrs. Pestova’s house on Ulitsa Dzerzhinsky number twelve. But if you go, you’ll be shocked.”
Yuri knew the address because the street housed not only heterosexual brothels but also a homosexual one. He looked away and smiled at the thought that the founder of the secret police had his name on a street of whorehouses.
“You won’t even stay for dinner?” asked a disappointed Razan.
“There will be many dinners in our future, but not tonight. I have work to do.”
Yuri’s interest was now piqued. What did “work to do” mean? Not as a prostitute! “Mrs. Shtuba,” he began, intending to ask her if she was employed by Mrs. Pestova, but then thought better of it. Instead, he simply said, “I hope Mrs. Pestova treats you well.”
Anna, quick to detect the nuance, replied, “My son and I, as well as our Finnish guide, live in a back room with three cots. It makes for a good place to hide. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Yuri had to admire the way Anna had deduced his meaning. “Yes, I think it’s a splendid place. Better than here.”
“My point exactly,” she said, and kissed Yelena and Razan goodbye, hugging Yuri, to whom she whispered, “Thank you for all that you’ve done. I shall never forget.”
“But,” exclaimed Razan, “I have so much to tell you! All of it important . . . strange but true . . . I think.”
Anna took his face in her hands. “We will have the rest of our lives to talk. And the first thing you must tell me is why you look as worn as a Solovki zek. You’re not yourself.”
“That is part of the story.”
She reached for the door. “When we are alone . . .”
He retreated to the sitting room and collapsed on the couch from emotional exhaustion. Yelena put a pillow under his head. He thanked her and, once again, wondered if he had actually killed the Supreme Leader? Perhaps Anna had done him a favor by saying they had the rest of their lives to talk. He was still not convinced—absolutely convinced—that recent events had occurred as he thought. That is, he believed that he had killed a man he considered the real Stalin. But had he, in his poisoned state, truly killed Koba, someone else, or a chimera? Did the scene that he’d witnessed from the cinema booth actually take place, and if so, had he overheard a live conversation or one that he dreamed? What constituted proof in a world where lies and stratagems formed the basis of government and survival?
The man on the radio had said, “We should give thanks to the Politburo for steering the country into a triumphant future.” Did “steering the country” mean that the Politburo would now be the governing power, and that S
talin was dead?
Anna had said he was not himself. She was more right than she knew. His stomach had atrophied; his hands shook (when he had tried to give Yuri a haircut, he lost control of the scissors, and wouldn’t dare try to singe ear hairs); his sleep was tortured by dreams of death and dying; his powers of concentration were slipping, making it difficult to sustain his attention long enough to read a novel, resorting now only to poetry; his feet shuffled; his sight, which had always been acute, was now dimmed, though he had not yet ventured out to buy new spectacles; and he worried, frankly, that his sexual health had been diminished or even lost, since he no longer had nighttime erections. Given his state, Anna would find it hard to believe that he had slit the neck of the Vozhd, and yet he felt the need to relate what he thought to be true.
At the core of all human beings are certain stories. Whether they issue from fact or fancy, they make us, in large part, what we are. Even in old age, people still talk about their youth. Soldiers retell war stories. Fire and phosphorus burn in their brains. Our memories, which constitute a life, mark us indelibly. Razan was convinced that he had slit a man’s throat. But convincing Anna might take some doing. Although no man or woman ought to live burdened with a story that cries to be told, he feared that his would be dismissed as the phantasm of a sick mind. He therefore decided to wait until Finland to speak, since preventing the death of his family in the forest came first.
That same night, Anna and her two companions surveyed the supply depot at the railroad, where military goods were stored before being trucked to a base outside the city. Karkaus then drove them to what looked like an abandoned house. Entering through a cellar door, they were stopped by a burly fellow. Karkaus whispered some code or password, and the sentinel admitted them to a lighted room that was a beehive of black-market activity. At long wooden tables, made from sawhorses and planks, thieves displayed merchandise of every kind and haggled over each sale. Karkaus bought three black woolen masks, a filtered flashlight, a sharp knife, and a chain cutter strong enough to make short work of the railroad fence.
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