Child 44

by Tom Rob Smith

  She entered the bedroom and sat down beside Leo. His lips were moving as though in silent prayer. She leaned closer, trying to make sense of his words. They were barely audible, fragments which didn’t match up. He was delirious. He gripped her hand. His skin was clammy. She pulled her hand free and blew the candle out.

  LEO WAS STANDING IN SNOW, the river before him, Anatoly Brodsky on the opposite side. He’d made it across and was almost at the safety of the forests. Leo stepped after him only to see that under his feet, locked within the thick sheet of ice, were the men and women he’d arrested. He looked left and right—the entire river was filled with their frozen bodies. If he wanted to get to the forests, if he wanted to catch that man, he had to walk over them. With no choice—it was his duty—he quickened his pace. But his footsteps seemed to bring the bodies to life. The ice began to melt. The river came alive, writhing. Sinking into a slush, Leo now felt faces under his boots. It didn’t matter how fast he ran, they were everywhere, behind, in front. A hand caught his foot—he shook it free. Another hand grabbed his ankle, a second, a third, a fourth. He closed his eyes, not daring to look, waiting to be dragged down.

  When Leo opened his eyes he was standing in a drab office. Raisa was beside him, wearing a pale red dress, the dress she’d borrowed from a friend on the day of their wedding, hastily adjusted so that it didn’t look too big on her. In her hair she wore a single white flower picked from the park. He was wearing an ill-fitting gray suit. The suit wasn’t his: he’d borrowed it from a colleague. They were in a run-down office in a run-down government building, standing side by side, in front of a table where a balding man was hunched over paperwork. Raisa presented their documentation and they waited while their identities were checked. There were no vows, no ceremony or bouquets of flowers. There were no guests, no tears or well-wishers—there was just the two of them, wearing the best clothes they could manage. No fuss: it was bourgeois to make a fuss. Their only witness, this balding civil servant, entered their details into a thick, well-thumbed ledger. Once the paperwork was completed they were handed a marriage certificate. They were man and wife.

  Back at his parents’ old apartment, the place where they’d celebrated their wedding, there were friends, neighbors, all keen to take advantage of the hospitality. Elderly men sang unfamiliar songs. Yet there was something wrong with this memory. There were faces that were cold and hard. Fyodor’s family was here. Leo was still dancing but the wedding had become a funeral. Everyone was staring at him. There was a tap at the window. Leo turned to see the outline of a man, pressed up against the glass. Leo walked toward him, wiping away the condensation. It was Mikhail Sviatoslavich Zinoviev, a bullet through his head, his jaw smashed, his head battered. Leo stepped back, turned around. The room was now completely empty except for two young girls—Zinoviev’s daughters, dressed in filthy rags. Orphans, their stomachs were swollen, their skin blistered. Lice crawled across their clothes, their eyebrows, and in among their matted black hair. Leo closed his eyes and shook his head.

  Shivering, freezing cold, he opened his eyes. He was underwater and sinking fast. The ice was above him. He tried to swim upwards but the current was pulling him down. There were people on the ice, looking down at him, watching him drown. An intense pain burned in his lungs. Unable to hold his breath, he opened his mouth.

  LEO GASPED, OPENING HIS EYES. Raisa was seated beside him, trying to calm him. He looked around, confused: his mind half in the dream world, half in this one. This was real: he was back in his apartment, back in the present. Relieved, he took hold of Raisa’s hand, whispering in a hurried unbroken stream:

  —Do you remember the first time we saw each other? You thought I was rude, staring at you. I got off at the wrong metro stop just to ask your name. And you refused to tell me. But I wouldn’t leave until you did. So you lied and told me your name was Lena. For an entire week all I could talk about was this beautiful woman called Lena. I’d tell everyone Lena’s so beautiful. When I finally saw you again and convinced you to walk with me I called you Lena the entire time. At the end of the walk I was ready to kiss you and you were only ready to tell me your real name. The next day I told everyone how wonderful this woman Raisa was and everyone laughed at me saying last week it was Lena this week it’s Raisa and next week it’ll be someone else. But it never was. It was always you.

  Raisa listened to her husband and wondered at this sudden sentimentality. Where had it come from? Maybe everyone got sentimental when they were sick. She made him lie back, and before long he was asleep again. It had been almost twelve hours since Doctor Zarubin had left. A slighted, vain old man was a dangerous enemy. To take her mind off her anxieties she made soup—a thick chicken broth with strips of meat, not just boiled vegetables and chicken bones. It bubbled on a slow heat, ready for Leo when he was able to eat again. She stirred the soup, filling a bowl for herself. No sooner had she done so than there was a knock on the door. It was late. She wasn’t expecting visitors. She picked up the knife, the same knife, placing it behind her back before moving closer to the door:

  —Who is it?

  —It’s Major Kuzmin.

  Her hands shaking, she opened the door.

  Major Kuzmin was standing outside with his escort, two young, tough-looking soldiers:

  —Doctor Zarubin has spoken to me.

  Raisa blurted out:

  —Please, take a look at Leo for yourself—

  Kuzmin seemed surprised:

  —No, that isn’t necessary. I don’t need to disturb him. I trust the doctor on medical matters. Plus, and don’t think me a coward, I’m fearful of catching his cold.

  She couldn’t understand what had happened. The doctor had told the truth. She bit her lip, trying not to let her relief show. The major continued:

  —I’ve spoken to your school. I’ve explained that you’ll be taking leave in order to help Leo recover. We need him fit. He’s one of our finest officers.

  —He’s lucky to have such concerned colleagues.

  Kuzmin waved this comment aside. He gestured at the officer standing beside him. The man was holding a paper bag. He stepped forward, offering it to her:

  —This is a gift from Doctor Zarubin. So there’s no need to thank me.

  Raisa was still holding the knife behind her back. In order to accept the bag she’d need both hands. She slipped the blade down the back of her skirt. Once it was in place she reached forward, accepting the bag, which was heavier than she expected:

  —Will you come in?

  —Thank you but it’s late and I’m tired.

  Kuzmin bade Raisa good night.

  She shut the door and walked to the kitchen, putting the bag on the table and taking the knife from the back of her skirt. She opened the bag. It was filled with oranges and lemons, a luxury in a city of food shortages. She shut her eyes, imagining the satisfaction Zarubin was enjoying from her feelings of gratitude, not for the fruit, but for the fact that he’d merely done his job, for the fact that he’d reported that Leo was genuinely sick. The oranges and lemons were his way of saying she should feel indebted to him. Had another whim taken him, he might have had them both arrested. She emptied the bag into the bin. She stared at the bright colors before picking out every piece of fruit. She’d eat his gift. But she refused to cry.

  19 FEBRUARY

  THIS WAS THE FIRST TIME in four years that Leo had taken an unscheduled leave of absence. There was an entire category of Gulag prisoner convicted under violations of work ethic; people who’d left their station for an undue amount of time or who’d turned up for their shift half an hour late. It was far safer to go to work and collapse on the factory floor than to preemptively stay at home. The decision whether or not to work never resided with the worker. Leo was unlikely to be in any danger, however. According to Raisa he’d been checked on by a doctor and Major Kuzmin had paid him a visit, giving the okay to take time off. This meant that the anxiety he was feeling had to be about something else. The more he thought ab
out it the more obvious it became. He didn’t want to go back to work.

  For the past three days he hadn’t left his apartment. Shut off from the world, he’d stayed in bed, sipping hot lemon and sugar water, eating borscht and playing cards with his wife, who’d made no allowance for him being ill, winning almost every hand. For the most part he’d slept, and after that first day he’d suffered no more nightmares. But in their place he’d felt a dullness. He’d expected the feeling to fade, convinced that his melancholy was a side effect of the methamphetamine slump. The feeling had gotten worse. He’d taken his supply of the drug—several glass vials of dirty white crystals—and tipped them down the sink. No more narcotic-fueled arrests. Was it the narcotics? Or was it the arrests? As he’d grown stronger he found it easier to rationalize the events of the past few days. They’d made a mistake: Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky had been a mistake. He was an innocent man caught up and crushed in the cogs of a vital and important but not infallible State machine. It was as simple and as unfortunate as that. A single man didn’t dent the meaningfulness of their operations. How could he? The principles of their work remained sound. The protection of a nation was bigger than one person, bigger than a thousand people. How much did all of the Soviet Union’s factories and machines and armies weigh? Compared to this the mass of an individual was nothing. It was essential that Leo keep matters in proportion. The only way to carry on was to keep things in proportion. The reasoning was sound and he believed none of it.

  In front of him stood the statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky, in the center of Lubyanka Square, framed by a patch of grass and circled by traffic. Leo knew Dzerzhinsky’s story by heart. Every agent knew his story by heart. As the first leader of the Cheka, the political police created by Lenin after the overthrow of the Tsarist regime, Dzerzhinsky was the forefather of the NKVD. He was a role model. Training manuals were littered with quotes attributed to him. Perhaps his most famous and oft-referenced speech described how:

  An officer must train his heart to be Cruel.

  Cruelty was enshrined in their working code. Cruelty was a virtue. Cruelty was necessary. Aspire to cruelty! Cruelty held the keys that would unlock the gates to the perfect State. If being a Chekist was akin to following a religious doctrine then cruelty was one of their central commandments.

  Leo’s education had been centered on his athleticism, his physical prowess—a fact that had so far helped rather than hindered his career, giving him the guise of a man who could be trusted in the way that a scholar was to be suspected. But it did mean that he was forced to devote at least one night a week to writing out in laborious longhand all the quotes that an agent should know by heart. Burdened with a poor memory, a condition exacerbated by his drug use, he was not a bookish man. However, an ability to recall key political speeches was essential. Any slips showed a lack of faith and dedication. And now, after three days away, as he approached the doors to the Lubyanka and looked back at Dzerzhinsky’s statue, he realized that his mind was patchy—phrases came back to him but not in their entirety and not in their correct order. All he could remember exactly, out of the thousands and thousands of words, out of the entire Chekist bible of axioms and principles, was the importance of cruelty.

  Leo was shown into Kuzmin’s office. The major was seated. He indicated that Leo should take the chair opposite.

  —You’re feeling better?

  —Yes, thank you. My wife told me that you visited.

  —We were concerned about you. It’s the first time you’ve been ill. I checked your records.

  —I apologize.

  —It wasn’t your fault. You were brave, swimming in that river. And we’re glad you saved him. He’s provided some critical information.

  Kuzmin tapped a thin black file at the center of his desk.

  —In your absence Brodsky confessed. It took two days, two camphor shock treatments. He was remarkably stubborn. But in the end he broke. He gave us the names of seven Anglo-American sympathizers.

  —Where is he now?

  —Brodsky? He was executed last night.

  What had Leo expected? He concentrated on keeping his expression still, as though he’d just been told it was cold outside. Kuzmin picked up the black file, handing it to him:

  —Inside you have the full transcript of his confession.

  Leo opened the file. His eyes caught the first line:

  I—Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky—am a spy.

  Leo flicked through the typed pages. He recognized the pattern, opening with an apology, expressing regret before describing the nature of his crime. He’d seen this template a thousand times. They varied only in the details: the names, the places.

  —Would you like me to read it now?

  Kuzmin shook his head, handing him a sealed envelope.

  —He named six Soviet citizens and one Hungarian man. They’re collaborators working with foreign governments. I’ve given six of the names to other agents. The seventh name is yours to investigate. Considering you’re one of my best officers I’ve given you the hardest. Inside that envelope you have our preliminary work, some photographs, and all information we currently hold on the individual, which, as you will see, is not very much. Your orders are to collect further information and if Anatoly was right, if this person is a traitor, you’re to arrest them and bring them here, the usual process.

  Leo ripped open the envelope, pulling out several large black-and-white photographs. They were surveillance photographs taken at some distance from across a street.

  They were photographs of Leo’s wife.

  SAME DAY

  RAISA WAS RELIEVED to be nearing the end of the day. She’d spent the past eight hours teaching exactly the same lesson to all her year groups. Normally she taught compulsory political studies but this morning she’d received instructions posted to the school from the Ministry of Education ordering her to follow the enclosed lesson plan. It seemed these instructions had been sent to every school in Moscow and were to be implemented with immediate effect; ordinary lessons could resume tomorrow. The instructions stipulated that she spend the day discussing with each class how much Stalin loved his country’s children. Love itself was a political lesson. There was no more important love than the Leader’s Love, and consequently, one’s Love for the Leader. As part of that Love, Stalin wanted all of his children, no matter how old they were, to be reminded of certain basic precautions which they should make part of their daily life. They were not to cross roads without looking twice, they were to be careful when traveling on the metro, and finally—and this was to be emphasized particularly—they were not to play on the railway tracks. Over the past year there had been several tragic accidents on the railways. The safety of the State’s children was paramount. They were the future. Various faintly ridiculous demonstrations had been given. Each class had concluded with a short quiz to make sure all the information had been absorbed.

  Who loves you most? Correct answer: Stalin. Who do you love most? Correct answer: see above (wrong answers to be logged).

  What should you never do? Correct answer: play on the railway tracks.

  Raisa could only presume that the reason behind this latest edict was that the Party was worried about population levels.

  As a rule her classes were tiring, perhaps more so than other subjects. Whereas there was no expectation that students should clap at the completion of every mathematical equation, there was an expectation that every pronouncement she made regarding Generalissimo Stalin, the State of the Soviet Union, or the prospects for worldwide revolution be met with applause. Students were competitive with each other, none of them wanting to seem less dedicated than their neighbor. Every five minutes the class would come to a halt as the children rose to their feet, stamping their shoes on the floor or banging their desks with their fists, and Raisa was duty bound to stand and join in. In order to stop her hands chafing, she clapped in a fashion whereby her palms would barely touch, gliding over each other in the imitation of enthusiasm. Initiall
y she’d suspected that the children enjoyed this raucous behavior and exploited any opportunity to interrupt a class. She’d come to realize this was not the case. They were afraid. Consequently discipline was never a problem. She rarely needed to raise her voice and never made threats of any kind. Even from the age of six the children understood that to disrespect authority, to speak out of turn, was to take your life into your hands. Youth provided no protection. The age at which a child could be shot for their crimes, or their father’s crimes, was twelve. That was a lesson Raisa wasn’t allowed to teach.

  Despite the large class sizes, which would have been larger still had it not been for the war playing havoc with demographics, she’d originally set out with the objective of remembering every student’s name. Her intention had been to show that she cared about each student individually. Yet very quickly she’d noticed her ability to recall names struck a peculiar note of unease. It was as though there were some implied menace:

  If I can remember your name I can denounce you.

  These children had already grasped the value of anonymity and Raisa had realized they’d prefer it if she paid them as little individual attention as possible. After less than two months she’d stopped calling them by their names and reverted to pointing.

  Yet, comparatively, she had little reason to complain. The school she taught in, Secondary School 7—a rectangular building raised on stubby concrete legs—happened to be one of the gems of the State education policy. Much photographed and publicized, it was opened by none other than Nikita Khrushchev, who’d made a speech in the new gymnasium, the floor of which had been waxed to such an extent that his bodyguards struggled not to slip. He’d claimed that education must be tailored to the country’s needs. And what the country needed were highly productive, healthy young scientists, engineers, and Olympic gold-medal-winning athletes. The cathedral- sized gymnasium, adjacent to the main building, was wider and deeper than the school itself, equipped with an indoor running track and an array of mats, hoops, rope ladders, and springboards, all of which were put to good use by an extracurricular timetable that included an hour of training every day for every student regardless of age or ability. The implication of both his speech and the design of the school itself had been always very clear to Raisa: the country didn’t need poets, philosophers, and priests. It needed productivity that could be measured and quantified, success that could be timed with a stopwatch.