Somehow she walked over to him, fifteen feet that seemed like a mile. Stalin kissed her hand: ‘Katyusha!’ he toasted. ‘An example to all Soviet womankind.’ How he had aged during the war, she thought as he stood before her. A paunchy old man, grey, grizzled, his skin yellow with pinpricks of red in his cheeks. But what a fine, noble head, what eyes.
When the toasts were over, Stalin and the Politburo filed out but Sophia realized she would never be able to sleep after so much wine, vodka and excitement. She couldn’t go home. She wanted to go on for a nightcap. Marshal Shako winked at her. And then she remembered Satinov’s tension, his question about Serafima, and, as a woman who listened to her instincts, she called for her driver and told him to hurry home.
Serafima was still in her blue dress with the white Peter Pan collar when Sophia and Constantin came in.
‘Mama!’
‘Aren’t you going to ask who toasted your mother tonight?’ Sophia started, but then she saw her daughter’s face. ‘What is it?’
‘Sit down and tell us,’ suggested Constantin, joining Serafima on the sofa and taking her hand. Sophia had to admit he was good at moments like this.
Sophia poured herself a cognac and lit a cigarette: ‘Come on, darling,’ she said, ‘You know nothing shocks me! I’m an actress, for God’s sake.’
‘Let her speak, Sophia,’ Constantin told her.
Then out it came – the Game, the bridge, the gunshots and the two dead children.
‘Oh my God,’ said Sophia, shocked yet relieved that Serafima was safe. ‘I always thought Nikolasha Blagov was a maniac. But dear Rosa, and her poor parents. What on earth were they doing?’
‘The Organs are investigating,’ Serafima said, wiping her eyes. ‘I just can’t believe that Rosa—’
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ said Sophia, looking at her husband to see if he was as worried as she was. She leaned over and put both her hands on Serafima’s face as if to keep her safe, and then straightened up and started to pace the floor. ‘I’m so sad about sweet Rosa but . . . Stalin kissed my hand tonight. You will be safe. No one would dare touch Sophia Zeitlin’s daughter!’
‘I wish that were true,’ said Constantin, kissing both Serafima’s hands. ‘How I wish that were true.’
Satinov didn’t get home until 4 a.m. the next morning. Stalin had invited him back to the Nearby Dacha after the dinner. The drinking had seemed interminable. All the time he’d been worrying about the children and Tamara.
She was waiting for him as he opened the front door.
‘You know what happened, don’t you?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘Those poor children,’ she said. ‘And oh, their mothers! I can’t bear to think what they must be going through.’
‘Tell me what you know,’ he said, and listened carefully. ‘Tamriko, I fear our boys have been foolish.’
Tamara sank wearily on to the divan. ‘I noticed the clique at school; we all did. And I warned George not to get mixed up with it. But, oh Hercules, they’re just children.’
‘It will probably be fine,’ he said, looking down at her in his serious way.
Tamriko – he always used the Georgian diminutive – was blonde with green-brown eyes and the most perfectly delicate bone structure. When he held her body in his arms, she felt vulnerable and soft as a little bird. Bolshevik wives were expected to work and he admired her career as a teacher at School 801. When he had wanted to bring his four grown-up sons by his late first wife up from Georgia, she had agreed, treating them as if they were her own. He couldn’t do without her, and the cosy household she’d created in her own image.
‘Hercules, what will come of this?’ she whispered.
He looked at her with unwavering vigilance in his cool, grey eyes that she understood meant that the apartment was probably bugged. But he could imagine a number of different scenarios including one in which everything was fine. ‘Can you speak to the children now? They’re terrified of what you’re going to say to them.’
‘It’s the middle of the night.’
‘But they’re still wide awake.’
He sighed and stood up. ‘Boys!’ he called out.
Seconds later, George and Marlen were standing in their pyjamas, almost at attention, in front of their father, who, still in his general’s uniform, himself stood rigidly upright, framed by the martial portrait of Stalin behind him. He was exhausted but, as he now examined his sons, flushed with the night and very anxious – the cheeky, genial George and the conventional, serious Marlen – he saw they were still really children, shocked by this tragedy, mourning their friends. He felt such love for them that suddenly it was all he could do not to take them into his arms.
‘You’ve been very stupid, you little fools,’ he said, knowing he had to be stern. It was his way, and he knew no other. ‘Tamriko’s told me what happened. If you’ve anything to do with this mess, I’ll strangle you myself. Now: bed and sleep!’
‘Thank you, Papa,’ said George.
‘Good night, Papa,’ said Marlen, who appeared to be fighting back tears.
Tamara followed them to their rooms and, making a calm sign with two open hands, she let them each know that it was over and their father was no longer cross. Then she kissed them both on the forehead as if they were still little.
When she came back to Satinov, he was sitting on the divan. He lit a cigarette and she sat next to him and patted her knee. ‘Come on then,’ she said, and he raised his legs on to her lap and she helped pull off his boots, unclicked his holster, unbuttoned his tunic.
When they went to bed, she went to sleep quickly for she found sleeping easy and it had been quite a day and an even more stressful night. But he lay with his eyes open playing out the possibilities, until the first birdsong of dawn.
13
‘CHILDREN, PLEASE!’ SAID Director Medvedeva the next morning, tapping the rostrum with her baton after the singing of ‘Thank You, Comrade Stalin’. Tap, tap. ‘As you all know, the school has suffered a tragic incident. We’ve lost two of our pupils. However, we Soviet people are strong. We have suffered much in the Great Patriotic War but the Great Stalin has taught us that toughness is a Bolshevik virtue. We are no different here at School 801. We are agreed’ – and here she looked down the row of teachers, and Dr Rimm, Teacher Golden and Miss Begbulatova nodded vigorously – ‘there’ll be no wailing here, no bourgeois sentiment. The self-indulgent folly of misguided youth is nothing compared to the sacrifices of our Soviet peoples.’
She was about to dismiss her pupils to their classes when the doors at the back of the gym swung open.
‘Can we help you, comrades?’ she asked, acutely aware of the slight tremor in her voice.
With the sound of dropped satchels and dragged chairs echoing on the gym’s wooden floor, the children turned around too, and their eyes grew wide. Three men in tidy blue suits stood at the back with the air of purpose, urgency and fearlessness that they all recognized. Absolute silence fell as the men walked down the aisle of the hall, looking into the faces of the children until they reached Vlad Titorenko, instantly recognizable with his white face and long black hair.
‘Titorenko, Vladimir?’ asked one of the men.
Vlad opened his mouth and tried to say yes but no sound came.
‘Come with us!’ But he could not move so the men lifted him under his arms and dragged him out. As they left, one of them turned back towards the teachers on the raised platform. ‘Carry on, comrade director,’ he called, and then they were gone down the corridor. Everyone could hear Titorenko’s sobs.
The children rushed to the windows and there, outside the Golden Gates, they saw Vlad being pushed into a grey Pobeda car, which drove off with the skidding of tyres.
There was an ominous calm in the staff common room during lunch break. Antique Dr Noodelman dozed in the deep armchair, but everyone else was only pretending to read their newspapers and mark their essays.
Golden looked over the top of his
copy of Pushkin’s stories at Agrippina Begbulatova, who was, as usual, brewing the chai in the Chinese teapot. He was not considering the silkiness of her thighs and the intoxicating taste of her excitement on his lips in spite of the deaths and Vlad’s arrest that morning but, on the contrary, even more intensely because of them.
Agrippina had the essential gifts for achieving happiness in life, and there was none greater than her boundless capacity for pleasure. Benya had long since realized that in sex, as in life, intelligence and technique counted for nothing; the capacity for pleasure was everything. She always said: ‘You’re old’ – Benya was forty-seven – ‘and I’m young so I must marry soon. But when I’m married, will you still fuck me once a month?’
Once again, the darkness had stepped closer to him. Golden, who had known unbearable torments already, knew that he had to enjoy the proximity of sensual joy while he still could. But actually he needed no excuse. He found himself entangled in delicious flirtations wherever he went, and since even at the best of times he suffered from Jewish fatalism and rampaging hypochondria, always believing death was imminent, he seized every opportunity with boyish enthusiasm.
When he heard the humming of ‘Comrade Stalin, thank you for . . .’, he turned towards the door. Dr Rimm came in, sat at the table and started to smooth out the crumpled pages of Komsomolsky Pravda. Then he threw it down and said: ‘Comrades and citizens, if I may have your attention. I need to say something.’
Do you? thought Benya Golden. I wish you wouldn’t.
‘In the light of the arrest of our pupil, I propose a vote – a unanimous show of support – for our esteemed director, Comrade Medvedeva, for the way in which she has run the Josef Stalin School 801.’ All the teachers raised their hands in agreement.
As Golden passed Agrippina in the corridor afterwards, he whispered: ‘Unanimous vote of support from Dr Rimm – now we know Director Medvedeva is in trouble.’
And she whispered: ‘Later, Benochka?’
That afternoon: frantic knocking on the door of the Satinovs’ apartment. When Leka the maid answered it, Irina Titorenka almost fell into the lobby and ran straight into the arms of Tamara Satinova. She was crying hysterically and seemed to be trying to get to Hercules Satinov’s study.
Tamara stopped Irina before she could burst through the double glass doors and led her into the kitchen, sitting her at the table and offering her some Georgian delicacies. Like Jewesses, Georgian housewives regard food as the best cure for unhappiness, and the sweetmeats earned Tamara a respite – but not for long.
‘I saw everyone at pick-up,’ Irina sobbed. ‘The children came out. But not mine. Then I’m told by Director Medvedeva: Vlad’s been with the Organs since nine a.m. No one rang me. No one knows where he is, or what he’s done. No one knows anything. What can I do? Comrade Stalin loves children. Comrade Stalin will put things right.’ Shouting now: ‘Tamara, I must ring Comrade Stalin!’
Tamara was sitting next to Irina. ‘Have you called your husband?’
‘Yes, yes, he’s distraught. He’s trying to ring Comrade Beria, anyone, but no one will take his calls. That’s why I came here. Comrade Satinov is my husband’s boss: no one is closer to Comrade Stalin than he is. Comrade Satinov will speak to Comrade Stalin, won’t he? Say he will!’
Tamara chose her words carefully: ‘The Organs only act with good reason, and the good reason in this case is that they are simply investigating the deaths of poor Nikolasha Blagov and Rosa Shako. That’s all. Your boy will tell them what he knows and then they will release him. You must calm down, Irina.’
‘No, no, they’ll beat him. He’s very sensitive and vulnerable. Anyone can see that. He could kill himself. They could kill him.’
‘No, that couldn’t happen.’
‘But they’re capable of anything. We both know this. I must speak to your husband. I know he’s here. He must call Comrade Stalin!’
Tamara took both of Irina’s hands and squeezed them hard. ‘Stay here. Quietly. I will speak to my husband now.’
As she said it, Tamara’s voice almost cracked. Hercules himself had gone to pick up the children that day. He planned to do so every day until the case had blown over. He’d told her that pick-up at the Golden Gates was buzzing with the news of Vlad’s arrest and gossip about Nikolasha’s weird games. But there was nothing particularly sinister about the Organs’ questioning of Vlad, he’d said. The deaths had to be investigated and Vlad was Nikolasha and Rosa’s best friend. There was nothing to worry about.
‘Hercules?’ Tamara said, softly knocking on the door, and coming in.
‘I’m working, Tamara.’
‘Irina Titorenka is here. She’s hysterical. She wants your help to appeal to the . . . the highest authority.’
Satinov raised his eyes from his papers and shook his head very slightly. ‘Take her for a walk in the yard and give her some advice. Tell her to trust in Soviet justice. That’s all.’
Tamara kissed the top of his head and was hurrying back to the kitchen when she saw George and Marlen peering down the corridor at Irina Titorenka, who was blowing her nose.
‘What’s going on, Mama?’ demanded George.
‘Is that Vlad’s mother?’ asked Marlen.
‘Hush! To your rooms – or your father will have something to say.’ And they were gone.
A few minutes later Tamara led Irina Titorenka downstairs to the yard. Losha Babanava and the other bodyguards were down there smoking. A couple of old people, Molotov’s aunt and Politburo member Andreyev’s father, in shorts and a string vest, were sitting in the sun playing chess. They knew. All of them whispered to each other when they saw the distraught mother.
When they could not be overheard, Tamara placed her hands on Irina’s shoulders. ‘Now listen to me,’ she said. ‘I know this is worrying. But you must say nothing of this to anyone. Do not ever mention Comrade Stalin. Never try to call him or any other leader. That will only delay Vlad’s release. The Organs will inform you of Vlad’s whereabouts when they’re ready. Take your younger child to school. Everyone is watching you. My husband says you must put your faith in Soviet justice. Do you understand me?’
But when Irina was gone, Tamara noticed that her own hands were shaking.
14
‘WHAT WAS YOUR role in the criminal conspiracy to murder the two schoolchildren Nikolasha Blagov and Rosa Shako?’
‘Conspiracy? Murder? I don’t understand.’ It was early the following morning, and Vlad was sitting in a grey room at a Formica table with a single light.
‘Let’s start again shall we? Your name?’
‘Vladimir Ivanovich Titorenko.’
‘Age?’
‘Seventeen and nine months.’
‘I am Pavel Mogilchuk. Special Case Section, Ministry of State Security, understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come on, Vlad, stop crying,’ Mogilchuk said, handing him a handkerchief. Vlad looked at him, at his round spectacles and reddish hair with a touch of grey. He looked a little like a teacher. ‘I know it’s been a tough couple of days and you’re worried but I want to reassure you.’
‘But I want to see my mother. Does she know where I am . . .?’
‘Do you know where you are, Vlad?’
Vlad’s romantic locks had been cropped, and without them, his face seemed long and forlorn. He shook his head.
‘It’s a state secret, boy, but I’ll tell you: you’re in Lubianka Inner Prison, Dzerzhinsky Square. Was it very frightening arriving?’ Vlad nodded. ‘It’s scary being processed here, stripped and searched inside and photographed. But it’s just routine. How did you sleep?’
‘They wouldn’t let me sleep. They kept the light on; they woke me up; they made me put my hands on top of the covers. I couldn’t sleep. Where’s my mother?’
Mogilchuk leaned forward across the plain table and re-directed the light so it was not shining into Vlad’s eyes. ‘Come on, boy. Show some Bolshevik toughness! I’m going to ask you questions an
d you’ll answer everything in full. Don’t lie about anything. If you lie, that will be worse for you. If you tell the truth about everything, you’ll go home soon. OK?’
Vlad nodded.
‘What was your role in the conspiracy to murder Nikolasha and Rosa?’
‘What conspiracy?’
‘Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? Or you’ll never go home.’
Vlad took a sharp breath, and looked at his hands. ‘Nikolasha Blagov had a club and he liked to play something called the Game.’
‘The Game? What was that? Whites and Reds? Cossacks and Tartars? Soccer?’
‘No, we dressed up in costumes.’
‘So it’s a theatre group?’
‘Yes, we pretended to be Pushkin . . .’
‘Go on,’ said Mogilchuk. ‘I understand. I’m a writer myself. We Russians love poetry, do we not?’
Vlad nodded. ‘We played characters from Onegin.’
‘What could be more normal than that?’ Mogilchuk opened his hands. ‘Where did you meet? At school?’
‘No. We usually met in the graveyard in the Sparrow Hills.’
‘The graveyard? Why?’
‘Because it was a secret club.’
‘And did this club have a name?’
‘Yes, the Fatal Romantics’ Club.’
‘And what did you do at these secret meetings?’
‘We talked about romanticism. Poetry.’
‘And politics?’
‘No.’
‘There’s something missing here. Come on, think!’ Mogilchuk clicked his fingers. ‘How did it go from poetry play-acting to the shooting of two children?’
Vlad gave a loud and unexpected sob. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘You were Nikolasha’s deputy in the club, weren’t you? So what did you debate?’
‘Love. Death. Nikolasha said that if you could not live with love, it was better to die. Like Pushkin.’