One Night in Winter

  It was already half past midnight. From Vladivostok in the east (where the Soviet armies were massing to attack Japan) to Berlin in the west, the Russians and their new subject peoples slept, but not their leaders. In Moscow, ministers, marshals and Chekists waited at their desks for Comrade Stalin to leave the office. Now that Stalin had summoned the Seven for dinner, Poskrebyshev would let a few favoured friends know that they could go home too.

  ‘Are you busy later, Comrade Beria?’

  ‘Didi madlobt, thanks so much,’ said Beria in Georgian. Busy later? Who dared be busy later? Not him, that was for sure.

  18

  AT ONE IN the morning, the Judas port on George Satinov’s cell door clicked open. He was sleeping properly for the first time because he was sure the interrogations were over. His interrogators had seemed satisfied with his answers and then he had been taken back to his cell and given a meal. Now suddenly he feared there was more. The clink of keyrings, the clip of boots on concrete, and then, moments later, the locks were grinding.

  ‘Get dressed. Now.’ He heard other doors opening, other locks turning and wondered who else from his school was there. As he was escorted along the corridors, he heard another prisoner coming behind him. Was it Vlad? Or Minka? He prayed that Minka was all right and that no one else was in trouble: not Serafima, not Andrei. He longed to see Minka, so that she would know he was nearby and that he had not betrayed her. I wonder if I am in love with her? he asked himself. How does one know?

  Lines of cell doors, detergent vying with sweat, metallic stairways. ‘Eyes straight ahead! No talking!’ snapped one of the warders.

  ‘Prisoner, step inside the box,’ said the other, and he was forcefully guided into a metal box like an upright coffin: its door was closed, a lock turned. Short of breath, George started to sweat. He heard another prisoner coming, the same way as he, and that prisoner too was ordered: ‘Eyes straight! No talking!’

  In the gait of the steps, in the breaths of the prisoner, he imagined it was Minka. For a moment he tensed his vocal cords and prepared to shout: ‘Minka! Is it you? I know you’re here!’ But soon the corridor was empty again, the coffin unlocked, and he was free to breathe. Up stairways and down, through more sealed doors. As he was marched towards the interrogation rooms, he thought of his father’s fury: ‘I’ll strangle you myself,’ he’d warned George and Marlen if he found they were involved in the shooting. And now George was. What would his father say?

  Inside the room, George found not just the gingery, bespectacled Mogilchuk but the giant Kobylov too. Both were tense, focused. There was going to be no more playing around.

  ‘We’re almost ready to send you home,’ Mogilchuk said. He held out a cup of coffee. ‘For you!’ and he placed it in front of him.

  ‘Thank you,’ said George. He sipped the coffee. ‘Do you always work at night?’

  ‘You know how it works from your father,’ answered Mogilchuk.

  ‘Now,’ said Kobylov, his bejewelled fingers drumming like cockroaches with diamonds on their backs. ‘Just tell us: what was the Game?’

  ‘The Game?’ George said, surprised.

  ‘We want the details,’ explained Mogilchuk.

  ‘It was a pantomime, really.’

  ‘Who ran it?’

  ‘Nikolasha and Vlad.’

  ‘And you wore fancy dress?’

  ‘Yes, but why does that matter? It has nothing to do with what happened.’

  ‘Let us be the decider of that,’ said Kobylov. ‘Continue.’

  Minka shook her head. ‘I never took it seriously. I thought it was absurd.’

  ‘But what was the Game about, Prisoner Dorova?’ Kobylov asked. Mogilchuk sat beside him, writing.

  ‘It was a re-enactment.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of literature or history.’

  ‘You’re losing me, girl, just spit it out. We need this fixed by dawn.’

  ‘Sometimes it was the death of Pushkin himself. We’d re-enact the duel in which he was killed—’

  ‘—and sometimes,’ continued Vlad in the third interrogation room, ‘it was the duel from Pushkin’s Onegin.’

  ‘Who decided?’ asked Mogilchuk.

  ‘Nikolasha.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We borrowed the costumes and turned up at the graveyard where Nikolasha led our rituals.’

  ‘Rituals?’ repeated Kobylov, who was by this time leaning against the wall, chain-smoking.

  ‘We would chant things.’

  ‘What things?’ Kobylov leaned over Vlad, breathing smoke in his face.

  ‘You’re frightening me,’ said Vlad.

  ‘I’ll really frighten you if you don’t get on with it.’

  ‘Well, first . . . Nikolasha checked who was there in his Velvet Book of Love and he’d say something like, “Comrade Romantics, we’re here to celebrate passion over science. Without love let us die young.” And everyone repeated: “Without love let us die young!”’

  Kobylov shook his head, and exhaled a lungful of smoke with a sticky cough. ‘Sounds to me like voodoo!’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Andrei agreed. ‘I only went once to this secret club. It worried me. It was un-Soviet. But no one took it seriously except Nikolasha, Vlad and Rosa.’

  ‘Did she chant with the others?’

  ‘Yes, and then she said, “Who dies tonight?”’

  ‘This is dark stuff,’ Kobylov said. ‘Carry on, Prisoner Kurbsky.’

  ‘Then Nikolasha decided who would play Onegin and Lensky. Onegin kills Lensky in the duel.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We played out the duel, reading the poetry.’

  ‘Using which guns?’

  ‘The duelling pistols from the theatre.’

  ‘And the duelling pistols fired blanks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So there were no real guns?’

  ‘Not that I ever saw.’

  ‘So they would choose their pistols from the cases and then, holding them up, they would take the steps,’ said George.

  ‘Like a real duel?’ said Mogilchuk, looking interested for the first time that night.

  ‘Yes, sometimes I did the counting.’

  ‘Count what?’

  ‘The steps in the duel. I had to say: “Approach at will!” That night, Nikolasha was playing Onegin, and Rosa was playing Lensky, and they started to take the steps at the far end of the bridge. In their costumes. It was crowded, but we always followed the poem exactly.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘I can’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Dammit, prisoner, I’m not here for a literature lesson.’

  ‘Lensky tried to aim, but Onegin – that’s Nikolasha – was quicker.’

  ‘So you saw the pistols?’ asked Kobylov.

  ‘Yes. Just the duelling pistols from the theatre,’ said Minka.

  ‘And what did they look like that night?’

  ‘Like they always did. We weren’t paying that much attention, general.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘We were drinking vodka. And laughing. George, Andrei, Serafima . . .’

  ‘You weren’t watching?’

  ‘The bridge was packed with people so I kept losing sight of George and Rosa and . . . Anyway, we thought it was a joke.’ Minka started to cry.

  ‘I took it seriously,’ admitted Vlad. He rubbed his eyes, fingers jiggling compulsively, and Kobylov could tell he was still in shock. ‘Some of the others were mucking around and ruining the evening. But the Game was a serious tribute to Pushkin. Nikolasha got angry when the others fooled about.’

  ‘Concentrate, Prisoner Titorenko. Tell us what happened.’

  ‘Because Rosa was Lensky, it meant she was the one who was going to die.’

  ‘How do you all prepare for your roles?’

  ‘I had the costume: frock coat, boots, tricorne hat. Whoever played Lensky, in this case Rosa, had fake blood from the theatre ready.’ br />
  Fake blood, wrote Mogilchuk.

  ‘They took the steps. Nikolasha cocked his pistol.’

  ‘And Rosa levelled hers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nikolasha aimed his?’

  ‘Yes, and he recited the verses from Pushkin that recount the duel: And that was when Onegin fired!’

  ‘I don’t want your fucking poetry!’ Kobylov banged the table. ‘Just get on with it!’

  ‘It was very dramatic. Nikolasha would fire his pistol and then Rosa would fall as we’d recite:

  ‘No earthly power

  Can bring him back: the singer’s gone,

  Cut down by fate at the break of dawn!’

  Mogilchuk leaned forward. ‘But he didn’t fire his pistol, did he?’

  ‘No,’ said Andrei. ‘Onegin was meant to kill Lensky. Then they were supposed to put:

  ‘The frozen corpse on the sleigh, preparing

  To drive the body home once more.’

  ‘But that didn’t happen?’

  ‘No, because some drunken sailors kept interfering, and the bridge was so crowded that most of us got separated . . .’

  ‘But Nikolasha and Rosa were still holding the pistols?’

  ‘I think so. We were looking for them. We’d all drunk vodka and we were fooling around. But I couldn’t see them and then I suddenly heard two shots.’ He put his hands to his ears, and looked at Kobylov, stricken. ‘I can still hear them. Boom! Boom! Even now!’

  ‘That was the Game?’ Kobylov scratched his kinky hair. It was 4 a.m. and they were taking a break outside the interrogation rooms. ‘That’s all it was?’

  ‘Ludicrous children,’ agreed Mogilchuk.

  ‘And they died for this childish pantomime.’ Kobylov rubbed his face wearily. ‘Come on, comrade. Before we report, we need one more piece of the puzzle.’

  ‘Now, George,’ persevered Mogilchuk. ‘We’re nearly there. But I need to ask you about the murder weapon. It was a Mauser service pistol and we found it on the ground. Now we know who killed who—’

  ‘Nikolasha killed Rosa, the bastard,’ George replied eagerly.

  ‘Just answer the fucking question, boy. Did Nikolasha have a pistol?’

  George leaned back in his chair. ‘I have no idea. I’m sure his parents have guns in the house.’

  ‘I’m sure they do too. But suppose it wasn’t Nikolasha who fired the Mauser at all. Suppose it was Rosa.’

  ‘Did you see Rosa with a Mauser pistol, prisoner?’ Kobylov asked Minka.

  ‘No. Nikolasha was the one obsessed with guns and death.’

  ‘So did you see Nikolasha with a pistol?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A duelling pistol?’

  Minka put her head in her hands to think. When she looked up again, Kobylov could see that she was so tired she wasn’t focusing properly.

  ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘It was a real pistol.’

  Kobylov smiled. At last they were getting somewhere. ‘Where did he get that?’

  Minka looked worried suddenly. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So how did you see the Mauser?’

  ‘I was watching Nikolasha as he took the duelling pistols out of their case before the Game started. He put the real pistol in their place.’

  ‘Did he plan to use the real pistol – but changed his mind at the last moment?’

  ‘Possibly. He believed all sorts of stupid things. He said the duel was the front line between ordinary life and extraordinary romance.’ Tears began to run down Minka’s face again. ‘He used to say things like that. Perhaps a real gun would have made it even more real.’

  ‘Don’t hide anything from us, Andrei,’ said Mogilchuk. ‘You know that your mother is all alone. She is worried, Andrei. You’re all she has left.’

  ‘How did Nikolasha get hold of that pistol?’ asked Kobylov.

  ‘After the dinner at Aragvi, in the car park, Nikolasha asked if any of us had a gun.’

  ‘Why would he ask that?’

  Andrei shrugged. ‘He said silly things all the time. He said, “Death is better than routine.” Total nonsense.’

  ‘And did anyone have a gun?’

  Andrei hesitated, staring down at the table.

  ‘I’d hate to see your mother on the trains for Norilsk,’ insinuated Mogilchuk. ‘Most people never arrive in the camps. They die on the way and when the train slows down, the other prisoners throw out the bodies. Did you know that, Andrei?’

  ‘No.’ He was shaking.

  ‘Think, Andrei – who is more important to you? Your mother or those rich kids?’

  Andrei sat up and looked directly at Mogilchuk. ‘Nikolasha asked George, who said he didn’t have a gun. But his father’s bodyguards did.’

  Kobylov sat down beside Vlad Titorenko and put his arm around him. ‘You see? This can be fun. Now, where did Rosa get the gun?’

  ‘Rosa? I never saw her with it.’

  ‘But you saw her open the gun case?’

  ‘Yes.’ Vlad was whispering.

  ‘Which Rosa picked up. That was how she got the gun,’ said Kobylov slowly.

  ‘But Rosa loved Nikolasha,’ said George. ‘She was never interested in guns. She never hurt a fly.’

  Kobylov and Mogilchuk were facing George. ‘Leave the detective work to us, George,’ said Kobylov, twirling the rings on his fingers. It was early morning and somewhere above the ramparts of Lubianka the horizon was glowing with light. Soon they’d have him and they could go home. ‘Who gave Nikolasha the Mauser in the first place?’

  A twitch. Like the first bite of a fish at the end of a line. Kobylov glanced at Mogilchuk and noticed his swollen jaw.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Kobylov leaned forward on his elbows so that George could almost taste his spicy breath – and feel his power.

  ‘Did you give Nikolasha that gun, prisoner?’

  George was sweating. His confidence, his entitlement, his very will to exist seemed to have melted away. He was just scared, a scared child in serious trouble, and Kobylov was pleased.

  ‘But you said Rosa shot Nikolasha. I never gave her a gun. I swear it!’

  ‘We know where Rosa got the gun. From the case. And we know how the gun got in the case. Nikolasha put it there. So how did Nikolasha get it?’

  George doubled up and began to sob. Kobylov leaned in for the kill.

  ‘Oh my God! My father’s going to kill me.’

  ‘Forget your father, George. We don’t care who your father is. He could be the King of England for all we care. We have orders from the Central Committee to grind you to camp dust if we have to. Now, let me ask you again: did you give—’

  ‘Yes,’ George shouted. ‘I gave Nikolasha that pistol. He asked for it and I thought nothing of it. My father has a pistol. My brother has a pistol. Half Moscow has them, I thought. He could have got one anywhere.’

  ‘But he didn’t get one from anywhere, did he, George? He got one from you.’

  George nodded, his face swollen from weeping.

  ‘And where did you get it? Did you go into your father’s office and take it? Does the Mauser that killed two children belong to him?’

  George sat very still, then he leaned across the desk and vomited.

  19

  FROM THE MOMENT he arrived at Stalin’s Nearby Dacha earlier that night, Satinov could only think of his son.

  Stalin, the Seven leaders and Poskrebyshev sat at the long table in the gloomy wood-panelled dining room. They were discussing the coming war against Imperial Japan, but all Satinov could think about was what George was doing. Sleeping? More interrogations? George, his impertinent son; his undutiful, un-Bolshevik son; yes, his favourite son.

  ‘May we come in?’ Valechka Istomina, Stalin’s cheerful housekeeper, and her assistants, plump ladies in white smocks like nurses, wheeled in the dinner: a Georgian feast with shashlik kebabs. They laid out the dishes on the side table. Valechka waddled right over to Stalin. ‘It’s all ready for you, J
osef Vissarionovich,’ she said indulgently. She was right at home with him. ‘Just as you like it!’

  ‘Thank you, Valechka. Go and pour yourself a glass of Telavi. You deserve it.’ Stalin treated the housekeeper like family, and Satinov sensed their bond was closer than anyone knew. ‘Come.’ Stalin raised his hands to Satinov and the others. ‘Help yourselves!’

  The leaders followed him to the sideboard.

  ‘Is everything well, bicho?’ Stalin was right beside him, ladling out the lobio and then soaking it up with bread.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he replied – except my son is in prison, as you very well know, he thought drily.

  ‘Tamriko’s on good form? Still teaching English?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘The family?’ Stalin gazed right into his eyes, challenging him to mention George, to beg for forgiveness, to intercede and break all the rules, to reveal some bitterness that would taint the whole family and bring about their total destruction. Don’t hesitate in a single answer, Satinov told himself. Don’t evade his eyes. You have nothing to hide from Stalin, not even a whisper of resentment.

  ‘Everything is as it should be,’ he answered steadily.

  Stalin’s hazel eyes did not leave him. ‘Good! Help yourself to dinner.’

  Satinov exhaled. Stalin’s cold, compressed ferocity never ceased to awe him.

  After food: toasts. Stalin mocked Beria for not eating the shashliks: ‘Still eating that grass? You’re turning into a breed of cow.’ Then he teased the triple-chinned Malenkov: ‘Eat less! I suggest calisthenics with Satinov.’

  ‘Or dancing?’ suggested Nikita Khrushchev. Satinov observed this squat confection, the warts on his face, teeth like a horse, his suit as baggy as a sack. He was a real peasant. ‘Isn’t Comrade Satinov an expert at the lezginka?’

  Stalin swivelled towards him. ‘I thought you were the great dancer, Nikita.’

  ‘Me? I can hardly take two steps.’

  ‘I think we need to see you dance, don’t we, comrades?’ suggested Stalin, eyes glinting.