All at once there was another racket at the door. Bodies stiffened. Heads poked out of blankets. This time it was his name they were calling.
‘Alekseyev, A.M.!’
‘I’m over here.’
‘Get going, with your things!’
But unlike most of these prisoners, he had no bundle of personal possessions. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ they’d said when they came to take him away. Maybe that’s what they always say. Anna will find a way to get a parcel to him. He thought it might be possible for prisoners to receive money, but he hoped she wouldn’t send any. Without his pay, she would have little enough to keep herself and Kolya.
Eyes watched as he was bundled away. The guards seemed angry and agitated, as if this wasn’t part of their routine. Something must have gone wrong.
The guards marched him down the corridor and through a door which led to a set of stone stairs. They were back stairs, not like the big staircase he’d climbed earlier.
They went down flight after flight. Lights in wire cages were set into the walls, but there were no windows. Andrei counted the stairs, trying to remember how many he’d climbed before. Surely not as many as this. Now they were at the bottom. The guards opened a heavy door, and there was another corridor, with a low roof and dim lighting. They stopped at a cell door which had three steel panels set across it. One of the guards unlocked the door, and once again he was shoved inside.
The cell was very small, but clean, and filled with the same wan glow as the two-man cell. There was no window. The bed was a wooden bench, let down from the wall but even narrower than the one in the last cell. There was a thin straw mattress, and a pillow, which Andrei examined closely and then put down on the floor. At least the bucket on the floor had a cover.
He lay down on his back. The peephole cover rattled, and an eye examined him, unblinking. His heart began to race, but a few seconds later boots tramped away along the corridor.
He was alone now. It had been comforting to lie down with other men who were in the same boat, torn out of their lives just as Andrei had been. Andrei had spoken only a few words to Kostya, but the exchange seemed even more precious in retrospect than it had done at the time. ‘Where’s that doctor? Over here! Make way for him, can’t you?’
Those words held the breath of normal life. If a man was sick or in pain, he needed a doctor, and other people would move aside to make sure that the doctor reached him. A doctor was there, not to demean and humiliate, but to heal.
It was good that Kostya was the foreman, willing to organize things and make sure that people behaved as they should. Andrei wondered if the men in the cell had elected him. Again, that was comforting. You need someone to speak up for you.
Andrei realized now what the guards’ mistake had been, and why they were so jumpy. He wasn’t supposed to have been slung into that shared cell. Someone would probably pay for letting it happen. He was meant to be in solitary, in the bowels of the prison, not knowing what was happening, and above all not knowing that he wasn’t alone.
What was Kostya here for, he wondered. And all the rest of them? It made his own arrest seem more ordinary, rather than the extraordinary and terrible blow of fate which it had seemed since that very first telephone call telling him not to come into work. He hadn’t been singled out, as he’d thought. Plenty of others must have thought that they were decent, professional men, doing a good job, until that long ring on the doorbell, or the loud knocking that didn’t care if it roused the whole building. There were ten men in that cell which was meant only for two. They must be hauling in hundreds.
Footsteps came again. This time the guard tramped past without checking on him.
He would learn every footstep. He would find out who else was on this corridor. He was in solitary but he knew he wasn’t alone. There were many others, and even if he couldn’t see them he still knew they were there. Andrei closed his eyes. He thought he heard tapping, but it was so faint he was probably imagining it. He strained his ears, but the tapping faded into the beat of his pulse. Sleep rushed up to meet him as the ground rushes up to meet a man who jumps out of an aeroplane.
It’s Andrei’s third day on the conveyor belt. His legs and feet are so swollen that when the order comes to move, they will not obey him. Two guards take hold of him, one on each side, with their hands under his elbows. They run him out of the interrogation room and down a corridor. His head falls forward and his knees sag to the ground. He knows he must keep on his feet but although he makes a superhuman effort he can no longer do so. The guards drag him into another room, which also contains a desk, a shadowy man and a strong pool of light in which he must stand.
‘On your feet! On your feet, you filthy cock-sucking cunt!’
They swear at him, and hit him, but he still cannot remain upright. The interrogator gets to his feet, walks around the desk and picks up a heavy jug full of water. He comes over and hurls the water into Andrei’s face.
Andrei opens his mouth. A stream of water, mixed with blood, runs down his face. He puts out his dry, cracked tongue and licks the water. A guard punches him in the back.
‘Stand up! Stand up!’
They are all melting into one, the guards and the interrogators. Only the jug isn’t melting but doubling. Now there are two jugs, and now four, sharp-cut and glittering in the downward dazzle of light.
*
He is on the floor of his cell. He stretches out his fingers, and they move. They are fat, like sausages. His clothes are wet, with water, with blood and perhaps with urine. There is a bad smell. He has been asleep.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ says a voice mildly, ‘surely you realize, an intelligent man like you, that all this is completely unnecessary? You can stop it any time you like. You only have to say the word. All this fuss over something as petty as a signature. It’s really not all that important. The trouble is that my colleagues are not as understanding as I am. I’ve been doing my best to make them see reason, as I’m sure you appreciate, but I’m not going to be able to do so for much longer. Now, let’s have a look at this wretched document again. I simply don’t see what you’ve got to object to. Brodskaya’s already admitted the whole thing. She couldn’t spill the beans fast enough. Russov’s corroborated everything. We’ll be bringing you face to face with him later on. Pretty upsetting for a decent chap like Russov. But the fact is – and why not admit it? – you were putty in Brodskaya’s hands. She thought the whole thing up, didn’t she? We’re only asking you to admit your own share in it, which isn’t that significant, let’s face it. Once it’s all down on paper, with your signature on it, things will get a lot easier for you.
‘We’ve got most of it already, as you know, since you’ve read this. But there are just a few details which need tidying up. That Brodskaya! Well, I won’t say what I think of her, because it wouldn’t be very complimentary. It’s not your fault you fell for it. All you have to do is admit your own role, which, let’s face it, is only a very minor one, and then we can start to clear up this whole nasty business. And I can go home, and you can get a good night’s sleep, and then things will start to look better.’
The words patter around Andrei like rain. He thought he was still lying on the floor of his cell, but it seems that he is here, standing in front of Dmitriev’s desk. The guards have placed him much closer to Dmitriev this time. The light glares in his face and hurts his eyes.
Dmitriev takes a cigarette from the packet in front of him, lights it and breathes in the smoke luxuriously. ‘I’m sorry, how rude of me – do you smoke?’
Andrei stares ahead. He knows this man now. If he starts talking, Dmitriev will trip him up. At first Andrei tried to give his own account of Gorya Volkov’s treatment, but he soon realized that none of his interrogators was interested in that. The facts were an irritation that led to more blows. Kostya was right. Say nothing, and sign nothing. Spit out every word they try to put into your mouth.
Andrei sways. The guard shoves him upright. There
is a rushing sound in his ears, but he isn’t going to faint. He lost his balance, that was all. A blow to his left ear has affected the inner-ear fluid. It will only be temporary.
‘Come along. Have a cigarette. I know you want one. I’ll order some food to be sent up. How does chicken salad sound?’
It sounds like a lie, thinks Andrei. Chicken salad, in winter! He might at least have come up with something more convincing. Andrei licks his thick, dry lips.
‘A glass of wine, perhaps?’
Or perhaps Dmitriev himself has gone completely crazy, after years of this. The period of unconsciousness on his cell floor has done Andrei good. He can join things up in his mind again. He was beginning not to know what was real and what was not.
Dmitriev must have moved the light. It is pointing down, and without the glare Andrei can see Dmitriev’s face clearly. He is smiling. He looks clean, mannered, urbane. Perhaps he showers, when he takes a break from interrogation. No matter how wide his smile stretches across his face, his teeth never show.
‘All right, all right,’ he says to Andrei, with weary, tolerant humour, as if Andrei were a schoolboy in trouble with the authorities. ‘You don’t want any chicken salad. You don’t want a cigarette. Be off with you, then. You’ve got a visitor coming along later. A very important visitor. You’ll want to be at your best for him.’
The guards kick Andrei along the corridor. He knows this is all part of it. Dmitriev must be civilized and smell of cologne and excellent tobacco. The bald one, Bashkirtsev, must scream abuse in a high-pitched voice and end every session with the words, ‘I’ll have you, do you understand? I’ll wring your guts until you’re shitting blood.’ The third interrogator, Fokin, has to be as tenacious as a rat. He plants his finger on the statement, picks out a different sentence each time, and goes over and over it in a voice that drips through Andrei’s head like acid.
‘A very important visitor.’ Deliberately, Andrei shuts his mind. Here is the cell door. The guards push him through it and the floor comes up to meet him. He is off the conveyor belt. He falls down and down as the stone floor rocks under him.
Anna has scoured the apartment clean. She has tidied away everything that was tipped out on to the floor. She has folded the linen, rearranged the books, and put drawers and cupboards back in order. She has wiped every surface clean. All the smears and fingermarks are gone. Her feet tap, echoing.
Those men looked so sure of themselves as they emptied the drawers and swept books off the shelves to the floor, as if they were performing to an invisible, approving audience. This is still my home, she thinks. She looks around the room where she and Andrei have lived and worked and slept. She stares through the doorway at Kolya’s bed, and the piano. It has been badly out of tune since the men took it apart.
She feels nothing for the apartment or for what it contains. It’s finished as far as she’s concerned. One day she and Andrei will remake it, but until then she’ll eat and sleep here, and go through their possessions to make a list of what can be sold. She needs money to send to Andrei.
By the time Anna gets into bed she is so tired that she falls asleep almost at once, huddled on her own side of the bed.
She dreams that it’s summer, and she and Kolya are at the dacha. He’s sitting on a low wall, and she’s standing beside him so that his face is level with her own. He is barefoot, tanned, dusty. He leans against her and she smells his sun-warmed skin. He chatters about a story he remembers from kindergarten, and she praises him for remembering it so well. He is slightly offended by her praise.
‘After all, Mama, I am six,’ he says. She looks at his face in surprise, because Kolya never calls her by that name. But as she does so she realizes that this child is fairer than Kolya. There are sun-bleached streaks in his hair, and a scattering of freckles on his nose. His eyes are the colour of Andrei’s.
‘But, K-K-olya,’ she stammers, ‘what’s happened? Why have you changed like this?’
The boy doesn’t answer. Instead he gives her a quick, sweet smile before looking down as if the question embarrasses him. Suddenly she hears Andrei’s voice through the trees. It is strong, almost imperative.
‘Anna!’ he calls. ‘Hurry! There’s no time to lose. You must go now!’
The child looks up, with Andrei’s eyes. Anna stares through the trees but she can’t see Andrei anywhere. Again his voice comes, even stronger this time: ‘Go now, Anna! Go now.’
She wakes, gasping, and switches on the bedside light. It is ten past two. Her nightdress is stuck to her body with sweat. But it wasn’t a nightmare, it was just –
She sits bolt upright, listening. Down in the street a car slows. She hears its engine pulse, and then it accelerates again, driving away, turning the corner. She listens until the sound of the car’s engine has completely disappeared, then gets up and wraps her dressing-gown around her. She must calm herself. This is bad for the baby. She’ll make some camomile tea and then read until she is sleepy again.
‘Remember, there’s nothing easier than for them to arrest you as well. Don’t think it can’t happen.’
She feels the baby move in the cage of her pelvis. Not so much a fluttering any more. It’s imperative, like Andrei’s voice in the dream. Here I am. You can’t forget about me.
‘Anna! Hurry! There’s no time to lose. You must go now!’
It’s Andrei’s voice, coming from wherever he is through the dark of dreams. She won’t go back to bed. The dream has woken her for a reason, she knows that now. These hours have been given to her to get things ready. She will collect everything of value: her tablecloths and napkins, the photographs, the little gold chain Andrei gave her to replace her mother’s gold necklace, which they sold in the siege. Almost everything went then; books were burned and furniture chopped up for fuel. Her mother’s set of porcelain spoons fetched two candles, while her parents’ wedding rings and the little gold necklace went for a jar of lard.
It was worth it. You can’t eat gold.
It’s the same now. Time to get rid of everything in order to survive. If she had time she would even sell Kolya’s piano.
Anna fetches her bicycle panniers, and begins to pack them. She mustn’t make them too heavy, or she won’t be able to carry them downstairs.
She crosses to the window, lifts the blind, and peeps out. The moon is high and sharp. Snow has fallen, but not too heavily. They’ll clear the streets, and she’ll be able to push her bike even if she can’t ride it.
The baby kicks again, warningly.
No, you fool, you won’t be able to take the bike. In this weather you’ll be exhausted by the time you’ve gone a couple of kilometres. It’s no good loading up those panniers. You’ll have to take the train, and then walk at the other end. It’s a long walk, but you’ll manage it if you pace yourself. It’ll be quiet enough on the train on a weekday, but don’t make yourself conspicuous by trying to carry a big bundle. Everyone in the building knows Andrei’s been arrested. If they see you going off laden down with half your possessions, they might contact the police.
The thought of leaving the bike behind is agonizing. Without it, how will she get around? There’s Kolya’s bike, of course, which is already at the dacha. They’ll just have to manage, sharing it.
She looks around the room, frowning. Kolya’s music. He’ll never be able to replace it all. She must take the photographs, and her parents’ letters, and –
The things she has knitted for the baby fit into a small bag. She must take some linen at least, and as many clothes as she can carry. It’s so lucky that Kolya’s already got his stuff down at Galya’s.
Or no! – she has a better idea. She’ll put on layers so she doesn’t have to carry too many clothes. She can wear two or three jumpers and a couple of skirts at least. All her skirts are too tight now but she has stitched elastic into the plackets so she should be able to wear them for another month at least. She’ll put on a jacket under her coat. If she waits until the last moment to get dressed, she wo
n’t get too hot before she goes out into the freezing streets. She’ll just have to sweat it out on the train.
Darya Alexandrovna might want to buy these embroidered napkins – or, at any rate, exchange them for food. She loves pretty things. Andrei’s photograph of his parents has a silver frame; she’ll take that too. And the tea. There must be two hundred grams in the jar.
Anna treads lightly, opening drawers and cupboards without sound. She doesn’t want the neighbours to know she’s awake. Perhaps it’s just as well that the Blue-caps wrecked her food stores. The jars would have been too heavy to carry and it would have been agony to leave them. If only she could say to Julia: ‘Come round, help yourself, take anything you want. I know you’ll pay me back one day.’ But it’s not safe. If Julia were seen in this apartment, the wheels would begin to grind for her, too.
She will leave everything behind, as if she’s gone to work as usual. She’d be easy enough to trace if they tried to find her, but perhaps, if she’s not here, they’ll leave her alone. Surely things have changed a little since Yezhov’s time, when processions of wives and brothers and husbands and sisters followed every ‘political’ to prison.
Here are her lecture notes from the statistics course. She’ll leave those behind with pleasure. The cardboard folder with Kolya’s drawings and the first little stories he wrote, when he was little. That won’t take up much room.
She unties the ribbon and opens the folder. A portrait of herself stares up with manic smile and huge hands spread in welcome. He has even got the number of fingers right. ANNA, he’s printed underneath in careful capitals.
She will start drawing again, out at the dacha. There will be no excuse there. She’s spent too long filling up every moment of her day so as not to have to look at anything too closely.
Another car slows. Her heart accelerates, then eases as the car drives on.
‘Go now, Anna! Go now.’