The Secret Speech ld-2

by Tom Rob Smith

  — Khrushchev rose up under Stalin.

  Panin smiled:

  — We are all guilty, yes? And he feels it. He’s confessing, selectively. In many ways, it’s an old-fashioned denunciation. Stalin is bad: I’m good. I’m right: they’re wrong.

  — Nikolai, myself, we are the people he’s telling everyone to hate. He is making monsters of us.

  — Or showing the world the monsters we really are. I include myself in that, Leo. It is true for everyone who was involved, everyone who made the system tick. We’re not talking about a list of five names. We’re talking about millions of people, all of them either actively involved or complicit. Have you considered the possibility the guilty might outnumber the innocent? That the innocent might be a minority?

  Leo glanced at the KGB officers examining the two daughters.

  — The people who sent this speech to Nikolai must be caught.

  — What leads do you have?

  Leo opened his notepad, taking out the folded sheet of paper retrieved from Moskvin’s printing press.

  Under torture, Eikhe

  Panin examined it while Leo retrieved a page from Nikolai’s copy of the speech. He pointed at a line:

  Under torture, Eikhe was forced to sign a protocol of his confession prepared in advance by the investigative judges.

  Spotting the duplication of the three words, Panin asked:

  — Where did the first sheet come from?

  — From a printing press, run by a man called Suren Moskvin, retired from the MGB. I’m sure the speech was delivered to him. His sons claim that he had an official contract with the State to print ten thousand copies. But I can find no evidence of that contract. I don’t believe it existed: it was a lie. He was told it was a State contract and then he was given the speech. He worked through the night, typesetting it; by the time he got to these words, he’d decided to kill himself. They gave him the speech knowing the effect it would have, just as they gave it to Nikolai, just as they gave it to me. Yesterday, Nikolai said he was being sent photographs of the people that he’d arrested. Moskvin was also harassed with photographs of the people he’d come into contact with.

  Leo took out the modified volume of Lenin’s text, holding up the arrest photo glued into the front instead of Lenin.

  — I’m sure one person connects all three of us — Suren, Nikolai, and myself — someone recently released from imprisonment, a relative of a…

  Leo paused before adding the word:

  — … A victim.

  Timur asked:

  — How many people did you arrest as an MGB officer?

  Leo considered. On occasions, he arrested entire families — six people in one night.

  — Over three years… many hundreds.

  Timur couldn’t hide his surprise. The number was high. Panin remarked:

  — And you think the perpetrator would send a photograph?

  — They’re not afraid of us, not anymore. We’re afraid of them.

  Panin clapped his hands, calling together the various officers:

  — Search this apartment. We’re looking for a batch of photographs.

  Leo added:

  — Nikolai would’ve hidden them carefully. It was essential that his family never find them. He was an agent so he was good at hiding things and good at knowing where people might look.

  Systematically searching every room, the luxurious apartment Nikolai had spent years furnishing and decorating took two hours to dismantle. In order to search under the beds and rip up the floorboards, the bodies of his murdered children and wife were heaped in the center of the living room, wrapped in bedlinens. Around them, wardrobes were smashed, mattresses torn open. No photos were found.

  Frustrated, Leo stared at Nikolai in the bath of bloody water. Struck by a thought, he stepped up to the bath and without taking off his shirt sank his arm into the water. He felt Nikolai’s hand. His fingers were locked around a thick envelope. He’d been clutching it when he died. The paper had become soft and broke apart as soon as Leo touched it, the contents floating to the surface. Timur and Panin joined him, watching as one by one the faces of men and women rose up from the bloody bottom of the bath. Soon a film of photographs, hundreds of overlapping faces, bobbed up and down. Leo’s eyes darted from old women to young men, the mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. He recognized none of them. Then one face caught his eye. He picked it out of the water. Timur asked:

  — You know this man?

  Yes, Leo knew him. His name was Lazar.

  SAME DAY

  ACRUCIFIX HAD BEEN DRAWN on the outside of the envelope, a careful ink drawing of the Orthodox cross. The drawing was small, roughly the size of his palm. Someone had taken time over it: the proportions were correct, the inkwork competent. Was it supposed to engender fear, as if he were a ghoul or a demon? More likely it was intended ironically, as a commentary on his faith. If so, it was misjudged — amateurish in its psychology.

  Krasikov broke the seal, emptying the envelope’s contents onto his desk. More photographs… he was tempted to toss them in the fire as he’d done the others but curiosity stopped him. He put on his glasses, straining his eyes, studying this new batch of faces. At a glance they meant nothing. He was about to put them aside when one of the faces caught his attention. He concentrated, trying to remember the name of this man with intense eyes:

  Lazar

  These were the priests that he’d denounced.

  He counted them. Thirty faces, had he really betrayed so many? Not all of them had been arrested while he’d been Patriarch of Moscow and All Russia, the leading religious authority in the country. The denunciations had predated that appointment, spread over many years. He was seventy-five years old. For a lifetime, thirty denunciations were not so many. His calculated obedience to the State had saved the Church from immeasurable harm — an unholy alliance, perhaps, yet these thirty priests had been necessary sacrifices. It was remiss of him not to be able to remember each of their names. He should pray for them every night. Instead, he’d let them slip from his mind like rain running off glass. He found forgetfulness easier than asking for forgiveness.

  Even with their photographs in his hands he felt no regret. This wasn’t bravado. He suffered no nightmares, experienced no anguish. His soul was light. Yes, he’d read Khrushchev’s speech, sent to him by the same people that had sent these photos. He’d read the criticisms of Stalin’s murderous regime, a regime he’d supported by ordering his priests to praise Stalin in their sermons. Undoubtedly there’d been the cult of dictator and he’d been a loyal worshipper. What of it? If this speech pointed to a future of pointless introspection then so be it — but it wouldn’t be his future. Was he responsible for the Church’s persecution through the early decades of Communism? Of course not, he’d merely reacted to the circumstances in which he found himself and his beloved Church. His hand had been forced. The decision to surrender some of his colleagues was unpleasant although not difficult. There were individuals who believed they could say and do as they pleased simply because it was the work of God. They were naïve and he’d found them tiresome, eager to be martyrs. In that sense, he’d merely given them what they wanted, the opportunity to die for their faith.

  Religion, like everything else, had to compromise. The pomestny sobor, the council of bishops, had shrewdly put him forward as patriarch. They’d needed someone who could be political, flexible, shrewd, which was why his nomination had been State-approved and why the State had allowed elections in the first place, elections duly rigged in his favor. There had been those who had argued that his election was a violation of Apostolic canon law; church hierarchy was not supposed to be consecrated by secular authorities. To his mind, that was an obscure academic argument at a time when the number of churches had shrunk from twenty thousand to less than a thousand. Were they supposed to disappear altogether, proudly clinging to their principles, as a captain might cling to the mast of his sinking ship? His appointment had been intended to r
everse that decline and stem their losses. He’d succeeded. New churches had been built. Priests were trained rather than shot. He’d done what had been required, no more. His actions had never been malicious. And the Church had survived.

  Krasikov stood up, weary of these recollections. He picked up the photos and piled them on the fire, watching them curl, blacken, and burn. He’d accepted reprisals were a possibility. There was no way to govern an organization as complex as the Church, managing its relationship with the State, and not create enemies in the process. A cautious man, he’d taken steps to protect himself. Old, infirm, he was patriarch only in name, no longer involved in the day-to-day running of the Church. He now spent much of his time working in a children’s sanctuary he’d founded not far from the Church of the Conception of St. Anna. There were those who considered his sanctuary a dying man’s attempt at redemption. Let them think that. He didn’t care. He enjoyed the work: there was no more mystery than that. The hard graft was done by the younger members of staff while he provided spiritual guidance to the one hundred or so children they had space for, converting them from a path of chiffir addiction, a narcotic derived from tea leaves, to a life of piety. Having dedicated his life to God, a dedication which forbade him from having children of his own, this was compensation of a kind.

  He shut the door to his office, locking it, descending the stairs to the main sanctuary hall where the children ate and were schooled. There were four dormitories: two for the girls, two for the boys. There was also a prayer room with a crucifix, icons, and candles — a room where he taught matters of faith. No child could remain in the sanctuary unless they opened themselves to God. If they resisted, refused to believe, they were expelled. There was no shortage of street children to choose from. According to secret State estimates, which he was privy to, some eight hundred thousand homeless children were scattered across the country, mainly concentrated in the major cities— living in train stations or sleeping in alleyways. Some had run away from orphanages, some from forced-labor colonies. Many had traveled in from the countryside, subsisting in the cities like packs of wild dogs— scavenging and stealing. Krasikov wasn’t sentimental. He understood that these children were potentially dangerous and untrustworthy. He therefore employed the services of former Red Army soldiers to keep order. The complex was secure. No one could get in or out without his permission. Everyone was searched upon entry. There were guards inside, circling, and two always on the front door. Ostensibly these men were employed to keep the hundred children in check. However, these men provided a secondary service: they were Krasikov’s bodyguards.

  Krasikov surveyed the hall, searching the grateful faces for his newest intake, a young boy, perhaps only thirteen or fourteen years old. He hadn’t given his age, refusing to say very much. The boy had a terrible stammer and a peculiarly adult face as if each year on earth had aged him by three. It was time for the boy’s induction, to decide if he was sincere about his commitment to God.

  Krasikov gestured for one of his guards to bring the child over. The boy shied away like a mistreated dog, wary of human contact. He’d been found not far from the sanctuary, in a doorway, huddled in rags, clutching an earthenware figure of a man sitting on the back of a pig, riding the pig as though it were a horse. It was a comic piece of household porcelain, suggesting a provincial background. Once brightly colored, the paint had faded. Remarkably, it was unbroken except for the pig’s chipped left ear. The boy, sinewy and strong, never let it out of his sight and never let it go. It had some sentimental value, perhaps, an object from the boy’s past.

  Krasikov smiled at the guard, politely dismissing him. He opened the door to the prayer room, waiting for the boy to follow. The boy didn’t move, clutching his painted man on a pig as tightly as if it were filled with gold.

  — You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. However, if you can’t let God into your life, you can’t stay here.

  The boy glanced at the other children. They’d stopped what they were doing: watching to see what decision would be made. No one had ever said no. The boy tentatively entered the prayer room. As he passed by Krasikov asked:

  — Remind me of your name.

  The boy stammered:

  — Ser… gei.

  Krasikov shut the door behind them. The room had been prepared. Candles were burning. The afternoon light was fading. He knelt before the crucifix, not giving Sergei any instructions, waiting for the boy to join him, a simple test to see if the child had any religious background. Those with experience would join him: those with none would remain by the door. Sergei didn’t move, remaining by the door:

  — Many of the children were ignorant when they arrived. That is no crime. You will learn. I hope God will one day take the place of that toy figure you hold so dear.

  To Krasikov’s surprise the boy replied by locking the door. Before he could query the action, the boy strode forward, pulling a length of wire from the chipped pig’s ear. At the same time, he raised the earthenware figure above his head, throwing it down with all his strength. Krasikov instinctively turned away, expecting it to hit him. But the porcelain figure missed, smashing at his feet, breaking into several large, uneven pieces. Shocked, he peered at the porcelain fragments. There was something else beside the remains of the pig — cylindrical and black. He bent down, picking it up. It was a flashlight.

  Confused, he tried to get up, off his knees. Before he could, a noose slipped over his head, down around his neck — thin steel wire secured in a knot. The boy was holding the other end, coiled around his hand. He tugged: the wire tightened, Krasikov gasped as his breath was squeezed from him. His face turned red, the blood constricted. His fingers slipped over the wire, unable to get underneath. The boy tugged again, speaking in a cool, composed voice with no trace of his previous stammer:

  — Answer correctly and you’ll live.

  * * *

  AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE CHILDREN’S SANCTUARY, Leo and Timur were denied access, held back by two guards. Frustrated with the delay, Leo showed the men the photo of Lazar, explaining:

  — It’s possible that everyone involved in this man’s arrest is a target. Two men are already dead. If we’re right, the patriarch might be danger.

  The guards were unimpressed:

  — We’ll pass the message on.

  — We need to speak to him.

  — Militia or not, the patriarch has given us instructions not to let anyone in.

  Commotion broke out upstairs: the sound of shouting. In an instant the guards’ complacency turned to panic. They abandoned their post, climbing the stairs, followed by Leo and Timur, bursting into a large hall filled with children. The staff had huddled around a door, shaking it, unable to get in. The guards joined the fray, taking hold of the door handle, listening to the overlapping explanations:

  — He went in there to pray.

  — With the new boy.

  — Krasikov’s not replying.

  — Something smashed.

  Leo cut through the discussion:

  — Kick the door down.

  They turned to him, unsure.

  — Do it now.

  The heaviest and strongest of the guards rushed forward, shoulder smashing against the frame. He charged again, the door broke apart.

  Clambering through the splintered opening, Leo and Timur entered the room. A young voice called out, authoritative, assured:

  — Stay where you are!

  The guards stopped moving, fierce men rendered helpless by the scene before them.

  The patriarch was on his knees, turned toward them, his face as red as blood, his mouth open — his tongue protruding, obscene, like a twisted slug. His neck was pinched: thin steel wire stretched to the hands of the young boy. The boy’s hands were wrapped in rags: the wire coiled around and around. A master with a dog on a leash, the boy exercised absolute and lethal control: he need only apply more tension and the wire would either choke the patriarch or slice into his skin.

 
The boy took a careful backward step, almost at the window, keeping the wire tight and ceding no slack. Leo emerged from the pack of guards who’d become paralyzed at their failure to protect. There were maybe ten meters between him and the patriarch. He couldn’t risk running forward. Even if he reached the patriarch there was no way to get his fingers underneath the wire. Addressing Leo, sensing his calculations, the boy said:

  — Any closer, he dies.

  The boy threw open the small window, clambering up onto the ledge. They were on the second floor, too great a height to jump. Leo asked:

  — What do you want?

  — This man’s apology for betraying priests who trusted him, priests he was supposed to protect.

  The boy was speaking words as if from reading from a script. Leo glanced at the patriarch. Surely the threat of death would make him compliant. The boy’s orders were to extract an apology. If those were his orders he’d obey them: that was the only leverage Leo had.

  — He’ll say sorry. Loosen the wire. Let him speak. That’s what you’ve come to hear.

  The patriarch nodded, indicating that he wanted to comply. The boy considered and then slowly loosened the wire. Krasikov gasped, a strangled intake of breath.

  Supreme resilience glistened in the old man’s eyes and Leo realized that he’d made a mistake. Summoning his strength, spraying spit with each word:

  — Tell whoever sent you… I’d betray him again!

  Except for the patriarch, all eyes turned to the boy. But he was already gone. He’d jumped from the window.

  The wire whipped up, the full weight of the boy catching on the old man’s neck, pulling the patriarch with such force that he rose up from his knees like a puppet jerked by strings before falling onto his back, dragged across the floor and smashing the small window. His body caught in the window frame. Leo darted forward, grabbing the wire around the patriarch’s neck, trying to relieve the pressure. But the wire had cut through skin, severing muscle. There was nothing Leo could do.