They stopped at a coffee house on Mulberry Street, and Vikki and Edward sank into the sidewalk chairs. Tatiana remained standing, her hand on the carriage. She was looking at the bride and groom descending the church steps into the courtyard across the street. There were many people around them. They looked happy.
“You know she’s a tiny girl and looks deceptively as if she will fall down any second, but look at her, Edward. She’s not even out of breath,” said Vikki.
“I, however, have lost several pounds. I have not walked this much since my days in the army,” said Edward.
Ah, so Edward was a military man. “Edward, you walk this much through hospital beds every day,” Tatiana said, not turning away from the couple at the church. “But your New York, it is something.”
“How does it compare to the Soviet Union?” asked Vikki.
“Favorably,” Tatiana replied.
“Someday, you’ll have to tell me about it,” said Vikki. “Oh, look, peaches! Let’s go buy some.”
“New York is always like this?” said Tatiana, trying not to sound wide-eyed.
“Oh, no. It’s only like this because of the war. Usually it’s very lively.”
Two Sundays later, Tatiana went with Anthony and Vikki to Central Park to watch Edward play softball against the health officials at PHD, including Chris Pandolfi. Edward’s wife did not come. He said she was resting.
Tatiana smiled at the passers-by and at the fruit stand sellers. The birds were joyous overhead and life bustled forward in freshwater color spurts, and she bowed her head and held her son with one hand and the peaches in the other, and said, yes, these are ripe and smell sweet. She was contemplating taking a ride with Vikki and Edward up to Bear Mountain one Sunday, when Edward had a few gallons of rationed gasoline and his wife was home resting and the leaves were changing. But this Sunday Tatiana was in Central Park, in New York, in the United States of America, holding Anthony while the sun was bright and Edward played softball, and Vikki jumped up and down at every hit and every catch, and Tatiana was not dreaming.
But where is Anthony’s mom? What’s happened to her? Tatiana wanted that girl back, the girl before June 22, 1941, the girl who sat on the bench in her French-made, Polish-bought white dress with red roses and ate ice cream on the day war started for Russia. The girl who swam with her brother, Pasha, who read away her summer days, the girl with everything in front of her. With the Red Army first lieutenant in his Sunday best Class As standing across the sunlit street in front of her. She could have not bought the ice cream, she could have gotten on the earlier bus and hurtled across town in a different direction toward a different life. Except she had to have bought the ice cream. That was who she was. And because of that ice cream now she was here.
Now, wartime New York with its bustling fervor and Vikki with her brightest laugh and Anthony with his fiercest cry, and Edward with his gentle good humor were all trying to bring that girl back. Everything that had been in front of Tatiana was behind her now. The very worst and the very best, too. She lifted her freckled face at a loud and jumping Vikki on the baseline and smiled and went to the drink stand to buy some Coca Cola for her friends. Tatiana’s long blonde hair was in a long braid, as always. She was wearing a simple blue sundress that was too big for her, too long and too wide.
Edward caught up with her and asked if he could carry Anthony for a bit. Tatiana nodded. She bent her head low so she wouldn’t see Edward carrying Alexander’s boy, so the ancient ruins would stay in Rome where they belonged, far away from an afternoon in Sheep Meadow with Vikki and Edward.
He bought the Cokes, water and some strawberries, and the three of them slowly walked back to her blanket on the grass. Tatiana didn’t speak.
“Tania,” said Edward. “Look at how he’s smiling.” He laughed. “The infant smile, nothing quite like it, is there?”
“Hmm,” said Tatiana, not looking. She knew Anthony’s toothless ear-to-ear smile. She’d seen it in action in the infirmary at Ellis. The German and Italian soldiers worshipped Anthony.
“I bought something nice for you and him. You think it’s too early for him to eat strawberries?”
“I do, yes.”
“But look—aren’t they nice? I bought too many. Have some. Maybe you can cook them up or something.”
“I can,” Tatiana said quietly, taking a long drink of water. “I can make jam, I can make jelly, I can preserve them whole in sugar, I can make pie out of them, and crumble, I can cook them and freeze them for winter. I am queen of preserving fruit.”
“Tania—how many ways are there of cooking blueberries?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I’m already surprised. What are you making me now?”
“Blueberry jam.”
“I like the skim off them.”
“Come here and have some.”
She brings the spoon to his mouth and lets him taste. He licks his lips. “I love that.”
“Hmm.” She sees the look in his eyes. “Shura, no. I have to finish this. It needs to be stirred constantly. This is for the old women for the winter.”
“Tania…”
“Shura…”
His arms go around her. “Did I mention that I’m sick to death of blueberries?”
“You’re impossible.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Conversations with Slonko, 1943
“MAJOR!”
Instantly, Alexander opened his eyes. He was still in the interrogation classroom, still in the wooden chair, still guarded by Ivanov. In walked Slonko with grim strides.
“Well, Major, it looks like you’re going to have to stop playing games.”
“That’ll be fine,” said Alexander. “I’m not in a playing mood.”
“Major!”
“Why is everyone shouting?” Alexander rubbed his head. His skull was cracking.
“Major, do you know a woman by the name of Tatiana Metanova?”
It was harder for Alexander to stay composed. He kept still through willpower. If I can live through this, he thought, I can live through anything. If I can live through this, I will live through anything. He wasn’t sure whether to lie, whether to tell the truth. Slonko was obviously planning something.
“Yes,” said Alexander.
“And who would she be?”
“She was one of the nurses at Morozovo hospital.”
“Was?”
“Well, I’m not there anymore, am I?” Alexander said mildly.
“Turns out she is not there either.”
That was not a question. Alexander said nothing.
“She is more than just a nurse, though, isn’t she, Major?” said Slonko, producing Alexander’s domestic passport out of his pocket. “Why, right in here, it says that she is your wife.”
“Yes,” Alexander said. His whole life in one line. He steadied himself. He knew Slonko was not done by a long shot. He needed to be ready.
“Ah. And where is she at the moment?”
“I would have to be omniscient to know that,” Alexander said.
“She is with us,” said Slonko, bending forward. “We have her in our custody.” He laughed with satisfaction. “What do you think of that, Major?”
“What do I think of that?” said Alexander, not taking his gaze away from Slonko. He folded his arms around his chest and waited. “Could I have a smoke?” he asked, and was brought one. He lit it with steady hands. Before anyone spoke again, Alexander decided Slonko was bluffing. He decided to believe Slonko was bluffing. Just yesterday, was it, Stepanov had told Alexander that Tatiana was missing and no one could find her. Stepanov said Mekhlis’s men were all in a panic. Yet there was nothing about that from Slonko in their previous two conversations. Nothing at all, as if the matter were unknown to him. Suddenly now, he had pulled Tatiana out of his hat with the proud air of a peacock. He was bluffing. Had they caught her, Alexander would have been asked about her sooner. Slonko would have certainly brought up that they were looking
for her and could not find her. But there had been not a word from him about Dimitri, not a word about Sayers, and not a word about Tatiana.
Still, he was alone, and Slonko was with three guards. There was bright light shining directly into Alexander’s face, there was the feeling of weakness all over his body, of no sleep, of mental exhaustion, of an aching wound in his back, and there was his weighted-down heart. He said nothing, but the effort cost him considerable resources. How many resources did he have left? In 1936 when he was arrested he had all his resources and he had not been wounded. Why couldn’t he have met Slonko then? Alexander grit his teeth and waited for the rest.
“Your wife is being questioned at this very moment—”
“By someone other than you?” said Alexander. “I’m surprised, comrade, that you would entrust someone else with such an important job. You must have many qualified men working for you.”
“Major, do you remember what happened three years ago in 1940?”
“Yes, I fought in the war with Finland. I was wounded and received a medal of valor and was promoted to second lieutenant.”
“I’m not talking about that.”
“Ah.”
“In 1940, the Soviet government established rules for women who failed to renounce their husbands for crimes committed under Article 58 of the Penal Code. Failure to renounce your spouse was a crime punishable by ten years in a hard labor camp. Do you know anything about that?”
“Not much, comrade, thankfully. I was not married in 1940.”
“I’m going to level with you, Major Belov, because I’m tired of playing games. Your wife, Dr. Sayers, and a man named Dimitri Chernenko tried to escape—”
“Wait,” said Alexander. “Surely Dr. Sayers was not escaping? Wasn’t he with the Red Cross? They’re free to cross international borders, no?”
“Yes,” snapped Slonko. “But your wife and her companion were not. There was a border incident in which Private Chernenko was shot.”
“Was he your witness?” Alexander smiled. “I hope he wasn’t your only witness.”
“Your wife and Dr. Sayers made it to Helsinki.”
Alexander remained smiling.
“But the doctor was gravely wounded. Do you know how we know that, Major? Because we called the hospital in Helsinki. We were told that the doctor died two days ago.”
The smile was frozen on Alexander’s face.
“We were also told by the very helpful Red Cross doctor that Sayers had come in with a wounded Red Cross nurse. She fits the description of Tatiana Metanova. Small, blonde, apparently pregnant? A gash on her face? That would be her?”
Alexander made no motion.
“I thought so. We had asked him to keep hold of her until our men got there. We met up with her in the Helsinki hospital and brought her back early this morning. Do you have any questions?”
“Yes,” said Alexander, struggling with himself to stand. He decided to remain sitting. He steeled his face and he steeled his arms and he steeled his entire body. But it was no use. His legs were shaking. Yet in a steely voice he said, “What do you want from me?”
“The truth.”
Time—what a funny thing it was. In Lazarevo, it had blinked through them; blink and gone. What was it doing now, standing still, as he tried to breathe through the seconds, as he tried to keep calm. For a moment as he looked down onto the dirty wood floor, he thought, to save her, I will tell him the truth. I will sign his fucking paper. From me, there actually is truth. I am who he says. But then he thought, what about Corporal Maikov? His truth was that he had known nothing; certainly he had not known me. What truth could he have given them before they shot him? To Slonko, lies are truth and truth is a lie. The answers we give, the answers we keep hidden, he knows it’s all a sham, yet his life’s achievement is measured by the success of how many lies he can get out of us. He doesn’t think I’m anymore Alexander Barrington than Stepanov is, than Maikov was. What he wants is for me to lie so he can declare his mission a success. What he wants is the seventeen-year-old boy he never got to question. The nerve—the audacity!—of a convicted agitator to escape and not die. That’s what he’s responding to. What he wants is for me to sign a piece of paper that will tell him it’s all right to kill me, now, seven years later, whether or not I’m Alexander Barrington. He wants absolution for killing me. With my confession I would give it to him.
Slonko was twisting the truth, trying to make Alexander weak. Tatiana had disappeared, that was true. They were looking for her—also true. Maybe they did call the Helsinki Red Cross. Maybe they did find out that Sayers had died. Poor Sayers. Maybe they did find out there was a nurse with him and without knowing her name, just from the description alone, they deduced it was Alexander’s wife. It had only been a few days. Could they really have gotten one of their operatives to Helsinki that quickly? They had trouble retrieving supply trucks from Leningrad barely seventy kilometers away. Helsinki was five hundred kilometers from here. Could they really have not just intercepted her, but brought her back, too?
Would Tania have stuck around Helsinki? True, Alexander had told her they couldn’t stay in that city, but in her abandoned distress, would she have remembered?
Alexander lifted his gaze back to Slonko, who was staring at him with the expression of a man who is rubbing his hands together before he digs into the feast in front of him. With the expression of a man who is about to witness the goring of the matador.
Coldly Alexander said, “Is there some truth you haven’t gotten from me, comrade?”
“Maybe, Major Belov, you don’t care for your own life, but surely you will talk to us when the life of your pregnant spouse is at stake?”
“I will repeat my question to you, comrade,” said Alexander, “in case you didn’t hear me the first time. Is there something you want I haven’t given you?”
“Yes, you haven’t given me the truth!” exclaimed Slonko, slapping Alexander very hard across the face.
“No!” Alexander’s teeth were grit. “What I haven’t given you is the satisfaction of knowing you were right. You think you’ve finally caught the man you’ve been chasing. I’m telling you, you are wrong. You will not take your impotence out on me. I need to be brought in front of a military tribunal. I am not one of your small-time Party prisoners you can bully into submission. I am a decorated officer in the Red Army. Have you ever served your country in a war, comrade?” Alexander stood up. He was a head taller than Slonko. “I didn’t think so. I want to be brought up in front of General Mekhlis. We will resolve this matter immediately. You want to get at the truth, Slonko? Let’s get to it. The war still needs me. While you,” Alexander said, “have to run back to your Leningrad jail.”
Slonko cursed. He ordered the two guards to restrain Alexander, which they did with difficulty.
“You’ve got nothing on me,” Alexander said loudly. “My accuser is dead, otherwise you would have brought him to me. The authority over me lies with my commanding officer, Colonel Stepanov, and with General Mekhlis who has ordered my arrest. They will tell you that I received an Order of the Red Star in front of five Red Army generals prior to Operation Spark. I was wounded in the storming of the river, and for my effort in the war I received the Hero of the Soviet Union medal.”
Slonko could barely get the words out. “Where is this medal, Major?”
“My wife took it for safekeeping. Surely, if you have her in your custody, you’ll be able to take a look at the medal.” Alexander smiled. “It will be the only time you’ll get a chance to look at one.”
“I am the interrogating officer!” Slonko yelled, red in the face and his bald head, striking Alexander again.
“Ah fuck!” Alexander yelled back. “You are not an officer! I am an officer. You have no power over me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Major,” said Slonko. “I do have power over you, and do you know why?”
When Alexander didn’t answer, Slonko leaned closer. “Because very soon I am
going to have power over your wife.”
“Really?” Alexander said, ripping his arms away from his guards, jumping up, kicking away the chair behind him. “Do you have power even over your own? I doubt you’ll have power over mine.”
Slonko did not back away as he replied, “Oh, be sure I will and I intend to tell you all about it.”
“Please do,” Alexander said, stepping away from the fallen chair. “Then I will instantly know you’re lying.”
Slonko snarled into his face.
“Comrade,” said Alexander, “I am not the man you’re looking for.”
“You are that man, Major. Everything you say and do only convinces me further of it.”
Back in his small cold cell, Alexander thanked God for his clothes.
They had left the kerosene lamp in his cell and the eye of the guard never left the porthole.
Alexander could not believe that what was happening to him came down not to ideology, not to communism, not to treason, or even to espionage, but to the pride of one small man.
Dimitri and Slonko were cut from the same cloth. Dimitri, petty-minded and small-hearted, was first cousin to Slonko who actually had some clout to back up his malice. Dimitri had nothing and his helplessness infuriated him all the more. Now he was dead. Not soon enough.
Alexander was sitting in the corner when he heard the lock turn. He sighed. They just weren’t going to leave him alone, were they?
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