“Have you forgotten that I work in the Lubyanka? I have friends, I hear things, I read documents... They asked for your file a few days ago, maybe Pierre has told them something about you.”
“There’s nothing he can say, I’ve never known what he does, I only found out by accident that he was an agent.”
“People can confess anything in the Lubyanka.”
“What do you know about Pierre?”
“Little more than what I told you last week. They interrogate him, they take him back to his cell, they interrogate him again... Like that until he tells them what they want to hear.”
“He can’t tell them what he doesn’t know. Krisov didn’t say where he was going to hide.”
“Whatever the truth is, they’ll keep on interrogating him until they are bored.”
“What would happen if I went to the Lubyanka and asked for Pierre?”
“They could arrest you.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No, and I haven’t tried to see him. I know... well, I imagine that they will be torturing him and that he won’t be in a good state. We should go now. You go first, and I’ll stay here a while.”
“When will I see you again?”
“Never.”
“But...”
“I’ve already risked enough, I can’t do anything else. If things change I know where to find you.”
Pierre tried to protect his head with his hands in a vain attempt to escape the rubber truncheon that his interrogator was wielding with great accuracy.
How many blows had he been given that morning? The interrogator seemed particularly angry that morning. His breath smelled of vodka, mixed with the stench that came from his armpits every time the killer raised his arms for another blow.
“Speak, dog, speak!” he shouted.
But Pierre had nothing to say, and could only let out screams that sounded inhuman even to him.
When the interrogator grew tired of beating him with the rubber truncheon, he pushed him to the floor and put a long strip of cloth between his teeth; then, pulling this back over Pierre’s shoulders, he tied the ends to Pierre’s ankles.
This wasn’t the first time that they’d submitted him to this torture, which turned him into a wheel, with his back bent round as they furiously kicked him in his exposed stomach.
If he had known where Krisov was he would have told them, he would have told them anything at all, but they did not want to know about anything at all apart from the whereabouts of Krisov.
This was a name that hammered at his temples, and he cursed the day he met him. He cursed himself, too, for having believed in the God that Communism had been for him.
He had been two days without drinking water, and his mouth was dry and his tongue was swollen. This was not the first time that they had punished him by refusing him water. His jailers liked to feed their victims salted anchovies from the Azov Sea and then refuse them water for days.
He didn’t know if it was night or day, or what day it was, or how long he had lived in this hell, but he understood how infinite time could be now that he desired death. He prayed, yes, he prayed for one of his interrogator’s blows to leave him unconscious, never to wake again.
In the beginning he thought of Amelia and regretted having made her take up a cause that had become a hellish nightmare. But he didn’t care about Amelia anymore, he didn’t care about his aunt and uncle, or his parents, or anyone. All he wanted was to die, to stop suffering.
Uncle Georgi kept Amelia up to date with developments of the war in Spain. He had first-hand information, for the Soviet Union was helping the Republican forces. And so, at the end of April, Amelia found out that Franco had launched a great offensive along the valley of the Ebro to the Mediterranean, and that he had divided the area under Republican control in two. Uncle Georgi also explained that unfortunately Franco had a great advantage, and great superiority, in his air and naval forces, over the Republicans.
Amelia wondered what would have become of her parents, her aunts and uncles, and above all her son. Javier was always in her nightmares, crushed by collapsing houses. From time to time she wrote long letters to her cousin Laura, and gave them to Uncle Georgi, hoping that he would know how to get them to besieged Madrid.
She hated Franco and all those who had rebelled against the Republic with all her strength, at the same time as experiencing a cold disgust toward Communism.
She, who had professed that faith with as much ardor as innocence, who had abandoned her son, her husband, and her family for Pierre, yes, but also for the conviction that she was destined to contribute to the flowering of a new society, she had discovered the brutality of those who called themselves Communists. And she was not like Krisov, she did not separate men from ideas, because she had met with the unimaginable brutality of these ideas via fanatics such as Mikhail or Anushka, or even some of her work colleagues. But worst of all, she had seen with her own two eyes that the promised paradise was in fact a nightmare.
She had decided to leave, even though the situation with Pierre weighed heavily on her. She couldn’t do anything for him, but to leave Moscow seemed like an unpardonable betrayal with him still in the Lubyanka.
In June she was called to her supervisor’s office. Amelia went worriedly, asking herself what kind of mistake she could have made.
The man did not invite her to sit down, but just gave her an order.
“Comrade Garayoa, as you know, a great congress of intellectuals was planned in Moscow, and we decided to delay the congress until September. Several dozen journalists, writers, and artists from all over the world will come to our country, and we want to give them a real picture of how the Soviet Union is. They will go to visit factories, they will speak with Soviet artists, they will travel all over the country with complete freedom, but guided by suitable people who can explain to them all the achievements of the revolution. Comrade Anna Nikolaevna Kornilova has spoken highly of you. As you know, Comrade Kornilova is part of the organizing committee for the congress and has asked that you join the group of comrades who should support the committee in everything it does: accompanying our guests, providing them with the information they require, showing them whatever they want to see... with the prior approval of the committee, of course. You speak French, Spanish, and German, and your level of Russian is acceptable, so you are suited for this new task. You will work directly with Comrade Kornilova. Go to her office at the Ministry of Culture tomorrow.”
Amelia accepted what the man said, while hiding the terror that she felt in realizing that Anushka was an important figure in the Ministry of Culture. She had thought that Anushka was nothing more than an actress who was well connected in the party, but this showed that Anushka was an unknown quantity for her. Also, she would never have imagined that Anushka would speak out in her favor. Why would she have done this?
When she got back to the apartment she told Aunt Irina about the new job she had obtained via Anushka’s mediation.
“She’s a very special person. I don’t know much about what she does either. I think she used to be an actress, but now she runs the theater or something like that. I think she works in a department that decides which plays can be put on. I am pleased that she has spoken up in your favor, if she’s done that then it means that she has committed herself for you.”
Amelia thought that perhaps Anushka was not as bad as she seemed, but she couldn’t shake off her sense of mistrust.
That night Mikhail and Anushka seemed very excited, almost happy. Amelia thanked Anushka for speaking up for her, but the young woman seemed to laugh off her contribution.
“The congress is very important, we want the intellectuals to take the best picture of the Soviet Union away with them. We need people they can feel comfortable with, who speak their language. You’ll do a good job. I’ll give you the details tomorrow at work, I don’t like to talk shop at home.”
In the middle of September, Amelia found herself among a group of civil
servants waiting at the airport for the planes to arrive that would take them to the congress. She was nervous, desperate to meet these unknown people who were an open door back into a world she had abandoned, but to which she was keen to return.
The congress began on September 20 with speeches by several ministers and various members of the Central Committee. The plan was for the Russian and European intellectuals to spend a fortnight debating questions of music, art, theater, et cetera.
The foreign guests would go to theater and ballet productions, and visit factories and model farms. It was rumored among the assistants that at some point Stalin himself would make an appearance.
Amelia was required to accompany a group of journalists to a meeting with their Russian colleagues to debate on the limits of freedom of speech.
While she went with them to the room where they were to hold their meeting, she heard someone calling her by name.
“But is it... Amelia? Amelia Garayoa?”
She turned round and found herself face to face with a man who at first she did not recognize. He spoke to her in French and looked at her in surprise.
“I’m Albert James, we met in Paris, at La Coupole. Jean Deuville introduced us, and you were with Pierre Comte. Do you remember?”
“Yes, I remember now, I’m sorry if I didn’t recognize you right away, it’s just that you are the last person I would have thought to meet here,” Amelia explained.
“Well, I wouldn’t have thought to meet you in Moscow, especially not working for the Soviets. Have you seen Jean Deuville?”
“No, I haven’t, I didn’t even know he was invited to the congress.”
“Well, he’s a poet and a Communist, so he couldn’t well miss it, but tell me, what about Pierre? Is he here with you?”
Amelia grew pale. She didn’t know what to say. She saw that some journalists were looking at her, but more importantly, so were some of the Soviet functionaries, highly attentive to her conversation with Albert James.
“Yes, he’s here.”
“Great, I’m sure we’ll meet up. There are several friends of Pierre besides Jean who have been invited to the congress.”
Albert James was particularly combative during the meeting between the Russian and European journalists. In the face of his Soviet colleagues, who defended the intervention of the state in the media as a guarantee of the general interest, Albert James defended freedom of speech, unlimited and with no controls. His position upset the Soviets and the debate grew tense at points.
When the session was finished, Albert James came to find Amelia, who had not taken her eyes off him for a moment.
“Whose side are you on, theirs or mine?” he asked her, knowing that this was an awkward question.
“I prefer absolute freedom,” she replied, without ignoring the fact that the other functionaries were not missing a word of their exchange.
“Thank goodness. You’re not lost yet.”
“Come on, Mr. James, it’s time for lunch,” she said. “And then you have to carry on the discussion.”
“Oh, it’s all too much for me! I’d rather take a walk through Moscow. I’ve had too much discussion this morning. Why don’t you come with me?”
“Because you’re not scheduled to walk through the city today, you’re meant to continue your discussion after lunch, so it’s better if you stick with the program,” Amelia replied.
“Don’t be so rigid... You must understand that coming to Moscow is an opportunity I haven’t been able to pass up, but this congress is boring, and it’s already clear that it’s not going to be of any use.”
That night Amelia met Albert James again, in the theater during a performance of Swan Lake. He was with Jean Deuville and both men were looking for her.
Jean hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. He was pleased to see her, but was particularly keen to know about his friend.
“Where’s Pierre? I want to see him as soon as possible. When the performance is over we can go home with you, he’ll have the surprise of his life,” Jean suggested.
“No, it’s not possible, you’ll see him some other time,” Amelia replied, uncomfortable.
“I want to surprise him,” Jean insisted.
“Not today, maybe tomorrow.”
All the Soviet functionaries stared openly at Amelia’s familiarity toward these two men, she aroused so much interest that in the middle of the ballet Amelia felt a hand on her shoulder and turned around to see Anushka, who asked her to leave the box.
“Who are those men?” she asked.
“Albert James is a journalist and Jean Deuville is a poet, but you should know them, you invited them.”
“How do you know them?”
“They are Pierre’s friends and I met them in Paris. They insist on seeing him. But not just them, there are more people who know him at this congress and they’re all asking for him.”
Anushka regretted having chosen Amelia for this job, because her presence was now problematic.
“What have you told them?”
“They want to come home with me and surprise Pierre, but I’ve told them that it’s impossible, that they’ll see Pierre some other time.”
As she said this, Amelia realized that it might be a problem for the Soviets if Pierre’s friends insisted on seeing him but couldn’t.
“Tell them that he’s out of Moscow, that he’s gone back to Buenos Aires,” Anushka ordered.
“I’m sorry, I’ve told them he’s here, and that they’ll see him at some point, I couldn’t think of anything else,” Amelia said, trying to appear innocent.
When she got back to her box she stared at Albert James, trying to attract his attention. He saw her and smiled; he came to her box a little before the end of the performance. Anushka, who had not taken her eyes off them, came too. She didn’t know why, but the relationship between these two people worried her.
“Have you changed your mind, are you going to show me Moscow by night?”
“Impossible, I have to start work early tomorrow.”
“There’s something odd about you, Amelia, and I don’t know if...”
She tried to tell him everything just by looking at him, but Albert James did not grasp her meaning.
“Are you happy?” he asked suddenly.
“No, no I’m not.”
He was surprised by her response and didn’t know what to say. Anushka listened to them in a bad mood. She spoke French perfectly, as Amelia did, and had missed nothing of their conversation. She decided to interrupt.
“What strange things dear Amelia says! Of course she’s happy, we all love her so.”
Albert James turned to see who had interrupted them and came face to face with an attractive young blonde woman, tall and thin and with huge green eyes. He immediately realized that this must be one of the organizers of the congress.
“Ah, you are... !”
“Anna Nikolaevna Kornilova, Director of the Arts Division of the Ministry of Culture.”
“And an actress and theater director,” Amelia added.
“I’ve heard about you! I think that we’ll see a production you directed tomorrow evening, am I right?” Albert James asked.
“That’s right, it will be an honor for you to see my work.”
“Chekhov, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. And now that the ballet is over we have work to do, we have to take you back to the hotel. Amelia, I think that your group should be going to their buses right about now.”
“I’m in her group,” Albert James said.
“Well, don’t be late. I’ll meet you in the hotel, Amelia, and we’ll go home together. Mikhail will come with us. Is that alright?”
Amelia agreed and went to the lobby with Albert James and the rest of the journalists.
“An important woman, and very beautiful. I see you’ve got very good contacts here.”
“She’s married to Pierre’s cousin. We all live together.”
“Ah yes, Pierre’s mo
ther is Russian, is that right?”
“Yes, and her sister Irina is looking after us in Moscow.”
“I’m sorry for insisting, but I thought it was strange for you to say that you weren’t happy... I was surprised, to tell the truth.”
“I’d like to leave the Soviet Union but I can’t, maybe you can help me,” Amelia muttered, looking to one side and hoping that no one overheard them.
“What are you scared of?” he asked.
“I’d have to explain so many things for you to understand... Pierre told me that you are not a Communist.”
“I’m not. Don’t worry, I’m not a Fascist either. I like my freedoms too much to allow other people to control my life. I believe in individuals above all else. But I must admit I was curious to see the Soviet Union.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” Amelia announced.
“How can you be so sure?”
“You’ll see exactly what they want. But you don’t have a clue what’s going on here.”
They stopped talking to get on the bus. Amelia sat a long way from Albert James. She was afraid that if they saw her spending too much time with the journalist they would move her to another group, and she’d never be able to put into action the plan that was germinating in her mind.
On the way back to the apartment, flanked by Anushka and Mikhail, Amelia tried to control her nerves.
“Who is that journalist?” Anushka insisted.
“His name is Albert James, he’s an American antifascist friend of Pierre’s. They were inseparable in Paris,” Amelia lied, “and he’s insisting on seeing Pierre.”
“That’s going to be a problem,” Mikhail said.
“I know, but neither he nor the other congress participants are happy with the excuses that Pierre doesn’t want to see them because he’s working, or because he’s had to go on a trip. Things don’t happen like that in Europe, you’re going to have to do something.”
Anushka said nothing, aware that the Pierre problem could end up ruining the carefully constructed image campaign that the Foreign Affairs and Culture ministries had set up. She had an appointment planned with her superiors first thing the next morning, but she knew that she was ultimately responsible, as Pierre was Mikhail’s cousin, and she had recommended Amelia for this job.