Tatiana and Alexander

  “You want a smoke?”

  “Yes,” replied Alexander. “But can’t here. Not enough oxygen for a smoke.”

  Stepanov pulled Alexander up to his feet. “Stand for a few minutes,” Stepanov said. “Stretch your legs.” He looked at Alexander’s bent-sideways head. “This cell is too small for you. They didn’t expect that.”

  “Oh, they did. That’s why they put me here.”

  Stepanov stood with his back to the door, while Alexander stood across from him.

  “What day is it, sir?” asked Alexander. “How long have I been here? Four, five days?”

  “The morning of the sixteenth of March,” said Stepanov. “The morning of your third day.”

  Third day! Alexander thought with shock.

  Third day! Alexander thought with excitement. That would probably mean that Tania…

  He didn’t continue with his thoughts. Very quietly, almost inaudibly, Stepanov leaned forward and Alexander thought he said, “Keep talking loudly, so they can hear, but listen to me so that I can laugh with you when you come back in the clover field, and I will show you how to eat clover.”

  Alexander looked at Stepanov’s face, more drawn than ever, his eyes gray, his mouth turned down with sympathy and anxiety. “Sir?”

  “I didn’t say anything, Major.”

  Shaking off the hallucination in his head, of a meadow, of sun, of clover, Alexander repeated in a low voice, “Sir?”

  “Everything’s gone to shit, Major,” whispered Stepanov. “They’re already looking for your wife, but…she seems to have disappeared. I convinced her to go back to Leningrad with Dr. Sayers, just as you asked me. I made it easy for her to leave.”

  Alexander said nothing, digging his nails into the palms of his hands.

  “But now she’s gone. You know who else disappeared? Dr. Sayers. He had informed me he was going back to Leningrad with your wife.”

  Alexander dug his nails harder into his palms to keep himself from looking at Stepanov and from speaking.

  “He was on his way to Helsinki, but he was supposed to have gone to Leningrad first!” Stepanov exclaimed. “To drop her off, to pick up his own Red Cross nurse he had left in Grechesky hospital. Listen to me, are you listening? They never reached Leningrad. Two days ago his Red Cross truck was found burned, pillaged and turned over on the Finnish-Soviet border at Lisiy Nos. There was an incident with the Finnish troops and four of our men were shot and killed. No sign of Sayers, or of Nurse Metanova.”

  Alexander said nothing. He wanted to pick up his heart from the floor. But it was dark, and he couldn’t find it. He heard it roll away from him, he heard it beating, bleeding, pulsing in the corner.

  Stepanov lowered his voice another notch. “And Finnish troops shot and killed, too.”

  Silence from Alexander.

  “And that’s not all.”

  “No?” Alexander thought he said.

  “No sign of Dr. Sayers. But…” Stepanov paused. “Your good friend, Dimitri Chernenko, was found shot dead in the snow.”

  That was small comfort to Alexander.

  But it was some comfort.

  “Major, why was Chernenko at the border?”

  Alexander did not answer. Where was Tatiana? All he wanted to do was ask that question. Without a truck how could they have gotten anywhere? Without a truck what were they doing—walking on foot through the marshes of Karelia?

  “Major, your wife is missing. Sayers is gone, Chernenko is dead—” Stepanov hesitated. “And not just dead. But shot dead in a Finn’s uniform. He was wearing a Finnish pilot’s uniform and carrying Finnish ID papers instead of his domestic passport!”

  Alexander said nothing. He had nothing to hide except the information that would cost Stepanov his life.

  “Alexander!” Stepanov exclaimed in a hissing whisper. “Don’t shut me out. I’m trying to help.”

  “Sir,” Alexander said, attempting to mute his fear. “I’m asking you please not to help me anymore.” He wished he had a picture of her. He wanted to touch her white dress with red roses one more time. Wanted to see her young and with him, standing newly married on the steps of the Molotov church.

  The fear, the stabbing panic he felt prohibited Alexander from thinking of Tania past. That’s what he would have to learn to do: forbid himself from looking at her even in his memory.

  With trembling hands he made a sign of the cross on himself. “I was all right,” he finally managed to say, “until you came here and told me my wife was missing.” He began to shiver uncontrollably.

  Stepanov came closer to Alexander. He took off his own coat and gave it to him. “Here, put this around your shoulders.”

  Immediately he heard a voice from the outside yell, “It’s time!”

  In a whisper, Stepanov said, “Tell me the truth, did you tell your wife to leave with Sayers for Helsinki? Was that your plan all along?”

  Alexander said nothing. He didn’t want Stepanov to know—one life, two, three, was enough. The individual was a million people divided by one million; Stepanov did not deserve to die because of Alexander.

  “Why are you being so stubborn? Stop it! Having gotten nowhere, they’re bringing in a new man to question you. Apparently the toughest interrogator they have. He has never failed to get a signed confession. They’ve kept you here nearly naked in a cold cell, and soon they’ll come up with something else to break you; they’ll beat you, they’ll put your feet in cold water, they’ll shine a light in your face until you go mad, the interrogator will deliberately tell you things you will want to kill him for, and you need to be strong for all that. Otherwise you have no chance.”

  Alexander said faintly, “Do you think she is safe?”

  “No, I don’t think she is safe! Who is safe around here, Alexander?” Stepanov whispered. “You? Me? Certainly not her. They’re looking everywhere for her. In Leningrad, in Molotov, in Lazarevo. If she is in Helsinki, they’ll find out, you know that, don’t you? They’ll bring her back. They were calling the Red Cross hospital in Helsinki this morning.”

  “It’s time!” someone yelled again.

  “How many times in my life will I have to hear those words?” Alexander said. “I heard them for my mother, I heard them for my father, I heard them for my wife, and now I hear them for me.”

  Stepanov took his coat. “The things they accuse you of—”

  “Don’t ask me, sir.”

  “Deny them, Alexander.”

  As Stepanov turned to go, Alexander said, “Sir…” He was so weak he almost couldn’t get the words out. He didn’t care how cold the wall was, he could not stand on his own anymore. He pressed his body against the icy concrete and then sank down to the floor. “Did you see her?”

  He lifted his gaze to Stepanov, who nodded.

  “How was she?”

  “Don’t ask, Alexander.”

  “Was she—”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Do you remember when you brought my son back to me?” Stepanov asked, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “Because of you I had comfort. I was able to see him before he died, I was able to bury him.”

  “All right, no more,” said Alexander.

  “Who was going to give that comfort to your wife?”

  Alexander put his face into his hands.

  Stepanov left.

  Alexander sat motionlessly on the floor. He didn’t need morphine, he didn’t need drugs, he didn’t need phenobarbital. He needed a bullet in his fucking chest.

  The door opened. Alexander had not been given any bread or water, or any clothes. He had no idea how long he had been left undressed in the cold cell.

  A man came in who apparently did not want to stand. Behind him a guard brought in a chair and the tall, bald, unpleasant-faced man sat down and in a pleasant-sounding nasal voice said, “Do you know what I’m holding in my hands, Major?”

  Alexander shook his head. There was a kerosene lamp between them.
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  “I’m holding all your clothes, Major. All your clothes and a wool blanket. And look, I’ve got a nice piece of pork for you, on the bone. It’s still warm. Some potatoes too, with sour cream and butter. A shot of vodka. And a nice long smoke. You can leave this damn cold place, have some food, get dressed. How would you like that?”

  “I would like that,” Alexander said impassively. His voice wasn’t going to tremble for a stranger.

  The man smiled. “I thought you would. I came all the way from Leningrad to talk to you. Do you think we could talk for a bit?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Alexander replied. “I don’t have much else to do.”

  The man laughed. “No, that’s right. Not much at all.” His non-laughing eyes studied Alexander intently.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “You, mostly, Major Belov. A couple of other things.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Would you like your clothes?”

  “I’m sure,” Alexander said, “that to a smart man like yourself, the answer is obvious.”

  “I have another cell for you to go to. It’s warmer, bigger and has a window. Much warmer. It must be twenty-five degrees Celsius in there right now, not like this one, it’s probably no more than five Celsius in here.” The man smiled again. “Or would you like me to translate that into Fahrenheit for you, Major?”

  Fahrenheit? Alexander narrowed his eyes. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Did I mention tobacco?”

  “You mentioned it.”

  “All these things, Major—comfort things. Would you like any of them?”

  “Didn’t I answer that question?”

  “You answered that question. I have one more for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you Alexander Barrington, the son of Harold Barrington, a man who came here in December of 1930, with a beautiful wife and a good-looking eleven-year-old son?”

  Alexander didn’t blink as he stood in front of the sitting interrogator. “What is your name?” he asked. “Usually you people introduce yourselves.”

  “Us people?” The man smiled. “I tell you what. You answer me and I will answer you.”

  “What’s your question?”

  “Are you Alexander Barrington?”

  “No. What is your name?”

  The man shook his head.

  “What?” said Alexander. “You asked me to answer your question. I did. Now you answer mine.”

  “Leonid Slonko,” said the interrogator. “Does that make any difference to you?”

  Alexander studied him very carefully. He had heard the name Slonko before. “Did you say you came from Leningrad to talk to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You work in Leningrad?”

  “Yes.”

  “A long time, Comrade Slonko? They tell me you’re very good at your job. A long time in your line of work?”

  “Twenty-three years.”

  Alexander whistled appreciatively. “Where in Leningrad?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where do you work? Kresty? Or the House of Detention on Millionnaya?”

  “What do you know about the House of Detention, Major?”

  “I know it was built during Alexander II’s reign in 1864. Is that where you work?”

  “Occasionally I interview prisoners there, yes.”

  Nodding, Alexander went on. “Nice city, Leningrad. I’m still not used to it, though.”

  “No? Well, why would you be?”

  “That’s right, why would I? I prefer Krasnodar. It’s warmer.” Alexander smiled. “And your title, comrade?”

  “I’m chief of operations,” Slonko replied.

  “Not a military man, then? I didn’t think so.”

  Slonko bolted up, holding Alexander’s clothes in his hands. “It just occurred to me, Major,” he said, “that we are finished here.”

  “I agree,” said Alexander. “Thanks for coming by.”

  Slonko departed in such an angry rush that he left the lamp and the chair. It was some time before the guard came in and took them.

  Darkness again.

  So debilitating. But nothing so diminishing as fear.

  This time he didn’t wait long.

  The door opened and two guards came in and ordered him to come with them. Alexander said, “I’m not dressed.”

  “You won’t need clothes where you’re going.”

  The guards were young and eager—the worst kind. He walked between them, slightly ahead of them, barefoot up the stone stairs, and down the corridor of the school, out the back way to the woods, barefoot in the March slush. Were they going to ask him to dig a hole? He felt the rifles at his back. Alexander’s feet were numb, and his body was going numb, but his chest wasn’t numb, his heart wasn’t numb, and if only his heart could stop hurting, he would be able to take it much better.

  He remembered the ten-year-old Cub Scout, the American boy, the Soviet boy. The bare trees were ghostly but for a moment he was happy to smell the cold air and to see the gray sky. It’s going to be all right, he thought. If Tania is in Helsinki and remembers what I told her, then she would have convinced Sayers to leave as soon as possible. Perhaps they’ve gone already. Perhaps they’re already in Stockholm. And then nothing else matters.

  “Turn around,” one of the guards said.

  “Do I stop walking first?” Alexander said. His teeth chattered.

  “Stop walking,” said the flustered guard, “and turn around.”

  He stopped walking. He turned around.

  “Alexander Belov,” said the shorter guard in the most pompous voice he could muster, “you have been found guilty of treason and espionage against our Motherland during the time of war against our country. The punishment for military treason is death, to be carried out immediately.”

  Alexander stood still. He put his feet together and his hands at his side. Unblinkingly he looked at the guards. They blinked.

  “Well, now what?” he asked.

  “The punishment for treason is death,” the short guard repeated. He came over to Alexander, proffering a black blindfold. “Here,” he said. Alexander noticed the young man’s hands were shaking.

  “How old are you, Corporal?” he asked quietly.

  “Twenty-three,” replied the guard.

  “Funny—me too,” said Alexander. “Just think, three days ago I was a major in the Red Army. Three days ago I had a Hero of the Soviet Union medal pinned to my chest. Amazing, isn’t it?”

  The guard’s hands continued to shake as he lifted the blindfold to Alexander’s face. Alexander backed away and shook his head. “Forget it. And I’m not turning around, either.”

  “I’m just following orders, Major,” said the young guard, and Alexander suddenly recognized him as one of the corporals who had been in the emplacement with him three months ago at the storming of the Neva to break the Leningrad blockade. He was the corporal Alexander had left on the anti-aircraft gun as he ran out to help Anatoly Marazov.

  “Corporal…Ivanov?” Alexander said. “Well, well. I hope you do a better job shooting me than you did blowing up those fucking Luftwaffe planes that nearly killed us.”

  The corporal wouldn’t even look at Alexander. “You’re going to have to look at me when you aim, Corporal,” Alexander said, standing tall and straight. “Otherwise you will miss.”

  Ivanov went to stand by the other guard. “Please turn away, Major,” he said.

  “No,” Alexander said, his hands at his sides, and his eyes on the two men with rifles. “Here I am. What are you afraid of? As you can see I’m nearly naked and I’m unarmed.”

  He pulled himself up taller. The two guards were paralyzed. “Comrades,” said Alexander. “I will not be the one to issue you an order to lift your rifles. You’re going to have to do that on your own.”

  The other corporal said, “All right, lift your rifle, Ivanov.”

  They lifted their rifles. Alexander l
ooked into the barrel of one of the guns. He blinked. O God, please look after Tania all alone in the world.

  “On three,” said the corporal, as the two men cocked their rifles.

  “One—”

  “Two—”

  Alexander looked into their faces. They were both so afraid. He looked into his own heart. He was cold, and he felt that he had unfinished business on this earth, business that couldn’t wait an eternity. Instead of seeing the trembling corporals, Alexander saw his eleven-year-old face in the mirror of his room in Boston the day he was leaving America. What kind of man have I become? he thought. Have I become the man my father wanted me to be? His mouth tightened. He didn’t know. But he knew that he had become the man he himself wanted to be. That would have to be good enough at a time like this, he thought, squaring his shoulders. He was ready for “three.”

  But “three” did not come.

  “Wait!” He heard a voice shout from the side. The guards put down their rifles. Slonko, dressed in a warm coat, felt hat and leather gloves, walked briskly to Alexander. “Stand down, Corporals.” Slonko threw a coat he was carrying onto Alexander’s back. “Major Belov, you’re a lucky man. General Mekhlis himself has issued a pardon on your behalf.” He put his hand on Alexander. Why did that make Alexander shudder?

  “Come. Let’s go back. You need to get dressed. You’ll freeze in this weather.”

  Alexander studied Slonko coldly. He had once read about Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s similar experience with Alexander II’s guards who were ready to execute him. Dostoyevsky was spared at the last minute with a show of mercy from the emperor and exiled instead. That experience of looking death in the face and then being shown mercy transformed Dostoyevsky. Alexander, on the other hand, did not have time to look so deep into his soul as to be changed even for five minutes. He thought it wasn’t mercy they were showing him but a ruse. He was calm before, and he remained calm now except for an occasional shiver from his skin to his bones. Also, unlike Dostoyevsky, he had stared death in the face too often in the last six years to have been daunted by it now.

  Alexander followed Slonko back to the school building with the two corporals bringing up the rear. In a small, warm room he found his clothes and his boots and food on a table. Alexander got dressed, his body shaking. He put his feet into his socks, which had been—surprisingly—laundered, and rubbed his feet for a long time to get the blood flowing again. He saw some black spots on his toes and momentarily worried about frostbite, infection, amputation; but only momentarily because the wound in his back was on fire. Corporal Ivanov came and offered him a glass of vodka to warm his insides. Alexander drank the vodka and asked for some hot tea.