The Secret Speech

  —We need to pick up Elena.

  As they walked toward the car, Zoya tugged her hand. Raisa lowered her head. Zoya’s voice was a whisper:

  —I don’t trust them.

  ALONE IN HIS OFFICE, Karl stared out the window.

  Times have changed.

  Maybe that was true, he wanted to believe and put the entire affair out of his mind, as they’d agreed. He’d always liked Raisa. She was intelligent and beautiful and he wished her well. He picked up the telephone, wondering how best to phrase the denunciation of her daughter.

  SAME DAY

  IN THE BACK OF THE CAR Zoya glared at the militia officers, following their every movement as if imprisoned with two venomous snakes. Though the officer in the passenger seat had made a cursory attempt at being friendly, turning around and smiling at the girls, his smile had smashed up against a brick wall. Zoya hated these men, hated their uniforms and insignia, their leather belts and steel-capped black boots, making no distinction between the KGB and the militia.

  Glancing out the window, Raisa approximated where they were in the city. Evening had set in. Streetlights flickered on. Unaccustomed to being driven home, she slowly pieced together her location. This was not the way to their apartment. Leaning forward, trying to smooth out the urgency in her voice, she asked:

  —Where are we going?

  The officer in the front passenger seat turned around, his face expressionless, his back creaking against the leather upholstery:

  —We’re taking you home.

  —This isn’t the way.

  Zoya sprang forward:

  —Let us out!

  The guard scrunched up his face:

  —What?

  Zoya didn’t ask twice. With the car still in motion she unlocked the latch, throwing the door wide open into the middle of the road. Bright headlights flashed through the window as an oncoming truck swerved to avoid a collision.

  Raisa grabbed hold of Zoya, clutching her waist, pulling her back inside just as the truck clipped the door, smashing it shut. The impact crumpled steel and shattered the window, showering the interior with glass. The officers were shouting. Elena was screaming. The car thumped into the curb, running up onto the pavement, before skidding to a stop by the side of the road.

  A stunned silence elapsed, the two officers turned round, pale and breathless:

  —What is wrong with her?

  The driver added, tapping his temples:

  —She’s not right in the head.

  Raisa ignored them, examining Zoya. Unharmed, her eyes were blazing. There was a wildness about her: the primeval energies of a feral child brought up by wolves and captured by man, refusing to be tamed or civilized.

  The driver got out, examining the damaged door, scratching and shaking his head:

  —We’re taking you home. What’s the problem?

  —This isn’t the way.

  The officer pulled out a slip of paper, handing it to Raisa through the gap where the window once was. It was Leo’s writing. She stared blankly at the address before recognizing that it was the address of Leo’s parents’ apartment. Her anger evaporated:

  —This is where Leo’s parents live.

  —I didn’t know whose apartment it was. I just follow orders.

  Zoya wriggled free, climbing over her sister and out of the car. Raisa called after her:

  —Zoya, it’s okay!

  Unappeased, Zoya didn’t return. The driver moved toward her. Seeing him about to grab her, Raisa called out:

  —Don’t touch her! Leave her! We’ll walk the rest of the way.

  The driver shook his head:

  —We’re supposed to stay with you until Leo turns up.

  —Then follow behind.

  Still seated on the backseat, Elena was crying. Raisa put an arm around her:

  —Zoya’s okay. She’s not hurt.

  Elena seemed to absorb those words, checking on her older sister. Seeing that she was unhurt, her tears stopped. Raisa wiped the remaining few away:

  —We’re going to walk. It’s not far. Can you manage that?

  Elena nodded:

  —I don’t like being driven home.

  Raisa smiled:

  —Nor do I.

  Raisa helped her out of the car. The driver threw up his hands, exasperated at the exodus of passengers.

  Leo’s parents lived in a low-rise modern block to the north of the city, home to numerous elderly parents of State officials, a retirement home for the privileged. In the winter, residents would play cards in each other’s living rooms. In the summer they’d play cards outside, on the grass strip. They’d shop together, cook together, a community with only one rule—they never spoke about their children’s work.

  Raisa entered the building, leading the girls to the elevator. The doors closed just as the militia officers caught up, forcing them to take the stairs. There was no chance Zoya would remain in a confined space with those two men. Reaching the seventh floor, Raisa led the girls down the corridor to the last apartment. Stepan—Leo’s father—answered the door, surprised to see them. His surprise quickly transformed into concern:

  —What’s wrong?

  Leo’s mother, Anna, appeared from the living room, equally concerned. Addressing both of them, Raisa answered:

  —Leo wants us to stay here.

  Raisa gestured at the two officers approaching from the stairway, adding:

  —We have an escort.

  There was fear in Anna’s voice:

  —Where is Leo? What’s going on?

  Raisa shook her head:

  —I don’t know.

  The officers arrived at the door. The more senior of the two, the driver, out of breath from climbing the stairs, asked:

  —Is there any other way into the apartment?

  Anna answered:

  —No.

  —We’ll remain here.

  But Anna wanted more information:

  —Can you explain?

  —There have been reprisals. That’s all I can say.

  Raisa shut the door. Anna wasn’t satisfied:

  —But Leo is okay, isn’t he?

  With gritted teeth, Zoya listened to Anna, watching the loose skin of her chin wobble as she spoke. She was fat with doing nothing all day long, fat with her son’s provision of rich and rare foods. Her worries about Leo were excruciating, her voice strangled with concern for her murdering son:

  Is Leo okay? Leo is okay, isn’t he?

  Are the people he arrested, the families he destroyed—are they okay? They doted on him as if he were a child. Worse than concern was their parental pride, excited by every story, hanging on every word he had to say. The displays of affection were sickening: kisses, embraces, jokes. Both Stepan and Anna were willing and eager participants in Leo’s conspiracy to pretend that they were a normal family, planning day trips and visits to the shops, the restricted shops, rather than those with long queues of people and limited supplies. Everything was nice. Everything was comfortable. Everything was designed to conceal the murder of her father and mother. Zoya hated them for loving him.

  Anna asked:

  —Reprisals?

  She repeated the word as if the concept were nonsensical and baffling, as if no one could possibly have any reason to dislike her son. Zoya couldn’t help herself, stepping into the discussion and directing her words at Anna:

  —Reprisals for arresting so many innocent people! What did you think your son was doing all these years? Haven’t you read the speech?

  In unison Stepan and Anna turned to her, shocked by the mention of the speech. They didn’t know. They hadn’t read it. Sensing her advantage, Zoya twisted her lips into a smile. Stepan asked:

  —What speech?

  —The speech about how your son tortured innocent victims, about how he forced them to confess, about how he beat them, about how the innocent were sent to the Gulags while the guilty lived in apartments like this.

  Raisa crouched down in front of h
er, as if trying to block her words:

  —I need you to stop. I need you to stop right now.

  —Why? It’s true. I didn’t write those words. I was read them as part of my education. I’m only repeating what I was told. It’s not for you to censor Khrushchev’s words. He must have wanted us to talk about it, otherwise he wouldn’t have allowed us to read it. It’s not a secret. Everyone knows. Everyone knows what Leo did.

  —Zoya, listen to me…

  But Zoya was in midflow, unstoppable:

  —You think they shouldn’t know the truth about their wonderful son? The wonderful son who found them this wonderful apartment, who helps them with the shopping—their wonderful murdering son.

  Stepan’s face went pale, his voice quivered with emotion:

  —You don’t know what you’re saying.

  —You don’t believe me? Ask Raisa: the speech is real. Everything I’ve said is true. And everyone is going to know your son is a murderer.

  Anna’s voice was a whisper:

  —What is this speech?

  Raisa shook her head:

  —We don’t need to talk about it right now.

  Zoya wasn’t about to back down, enjoying her newfound power:

  —It was written by Khrushchev and delivered at the Twentieth Congress. It says your son, and every officer like him, is a murderer. They acted illegally. They’re not police officers! They’re criminals! Ask Raisa, ask her if it’s true. Ask her!

  Stepan and Anna turned to Raisa:

  —There is a speech. In it there are some critical things about Stalin.

  —Not just about Stalin, it’s about the people that followed his orders, including your son, your murdering son.

  Stepan walked up to Zoya:

  —Stop saying that.

  —Stop saying what? Murderer? Leo the Murderer? How many deaths do you think he’s responsible for, aside from my parents?

  —That’s enough!

  —You knew all along! You knew what he was doing for a living and you didn’t care because you liked living in a nice apartment. You’re as bad as he is! At least he was willing to get blood on his hands!

  Anna slapped Zoya, a stinging blow:

  —Young girl, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You speak like that because you’ve been spoiled. For three years you’ve been allowed to get away with anything. You can do whatever you want and have whatever you want. You’ve never been told off. We’ve watched it happen and said nothing. Leo and Raisa have wanted to give you everything. Look at you now, look at what you’ve become—ungrateful, hateful, when all anyone is trying to do is love you.

  Where she’d been smacked, Zoya felt her skin burn hot, a sensation which spread through her body, every part of her stinging from her fingertips to the back of her neck. She reached out and scratched Anna, digging her nails in as deep as they could go, tearing as much skin as she could:

  —Fuck your love!

  Anna retreated, crying out. But Zoya wasn’t finished, lunging at her, fingers arched like claws. Raisa caught hold of her waist, spinning her away. Uncontrollable, Zoya’s anger sought a new target, redirected toward Raisa. She bit her arm, sinking her teeth as far as they’d go.

  The pain was so intense Raisa felt lightheaded, her legs about to buckle and give way. Stepan grabbed hold of Zoya’s jaw, prising it open as if dealing with a savage, rabid dog. Blood streamed from the deep teeth marks. Zoya was twisting and thrashing. Stepan threw her to the floor where she fell, teeth bared and bloody.

  A knock on the door: the guards had heard the commotion. They wanted to come in. Raisa examined the bite—it was bleeding heavily. Zoya was still on the floor, eyes wild but no longer seeking a fight. Stepan hurried to the bathroom, bringing back a towel, pressing it against Raisa’s arm. There was a second knock. Raisa turned to Anna, who was standing in almost exactly the same position as when she’d been attacked, dumbstruck, scratches down her face, four bleeding lines.

  —Anna, get rid of the officers, tell them they don’t need to interfere.

  Anna didn’t react. Raisa had to raise her voice:

  —Anna!

  Anna opened the door, turning her injured face away from view, ready to reassure the guards. Expecting to see two officers, she was startled to find four standing outside as if, like bacteria, they’d divided and multiplied. The two new officers were wearing different uniforms. They were members of the KGB.

  The KGB agents stepped into the apartment, taking in the scene before them, the girl on the floor with bloody teeth and bloody lips, the woman with a bleeding arm, the elderly woman with a scratched face:

  —Raisa Demidova?

  Despite the element of grim farce, Raisa tried to keep her voice steady and calm, the towel around her bite marks turning red:

  —Yes?

  —Your daughter needs to come with us.

  Their attention was fixed on Zoya.

  Raisa’s plan had failed. Iulia, or the director of the school, had betrayed her. Despite her injury, despite everything that had just happened, Raisa instinctively, protectively moved in front of Zoya.

  —Your daughter smashed a portrait of Stalin.

  —That matter is being taken care of.

  —She needs to come with us.

  —She’s being arrested?

  Seeing that the two KGB officers were determined to carry out their orders, Raisa addressed the timid militia, the officers Leo had sent to protect them:

  —They’re going to have to wait until my husband comes back, isn’t that correct?

  The older of the two KGB agents shook his head:

  —Our orders are to bring your daughter in for questioning. Your husband has nothing to do with this.

  —Those men have orders to make sure we stay here, together, until Leo gets back.

  The militia officer meekly stepped forward. Raisa’s heart sank.

  —These are KGB officers…

  —Leo won’t be long. We stay here, together, until he gets back—he can sort this out. She’s a fourteen-year-old girl. There’s no rush to take her anywhere. We can wait.

  The KGB man stepped closer, raising his voice:

  —She’s going to have to come with us right now.

  Something about their impatience was wrong. The dynamic of these agents was wrong. The older agent was doing all the talking, the other man merely stood in silence, uneasy, his eyes darting from person to person as if he expected someone to attack him. They were both awkward in their uniforms. How was it possible they were here so quickly? It would take hours for the KGB to put together a plan and authorize an arrest. Even more peculiar, why were they at this address? How would they have known Raisa wouldn’t be at home? Fueled by these discrepancies, Raisa’s eyes focused on the agent’s neck. A mark rose up above his shirt collar: the tip of a tattoo.

  These men weren’t members of the KGB.

  Raisa glanced at the militia officers, attempting to communicate the danger they were in. However, the militia officers were stupefied by the guise of these agents, scared at the very mention of the KGB. In her efforts to catch their attention, she caught the eye of the impostor. Whereas the militia were dumb to her signals, he was not. Before Raisa could raise her hand to warn the militia the tattooed man had drawn his weapon. Turning, he fired twice, a shot into the forehead of each officer. As they collapsed to the floor, the man turned the weapon on Raisa:

  —I’m taking your daughter.

  Raisa stepped closer to the barrel of the gun, in front of Zoya, who was still crouched on the floor:

  —No.

  The gun was turned on Elena.

  —Give me Zoya. Or I will kill Elena.

  A shot rang out.

  The bullet missed Elena, embedding into the apartment wall, a warning. Looking into his eyes, Raisa had no doubt this man would kill a seven-year-old as easily as he’d shot the two officers. She had to choose. She stepped out of the way, allowing them to take Zoya.

  The man scooped Zoya u
p in his arms:

  —Struggle and I’ll knock you unconscious.

  He threw her over his shoulder, carrying her toward the door and calling out:

  —Stay in the apartment!

  The keys were taken: the apartment door was shut and locked.

  Raisa ran to Elena, dropping to her side. Elena was on her knees, staring at the floor, her body shaking and her eyes vacant. Raisa took hold of her head, directing her eyes up, trying to get through to her:

  —Elena?

  But she didn’t seem to hear, didn’t respond.

  —Elena?

  Still no reply, no recognition or awareness, her body was slack.

  Transferring Elena to Anna’s care, Raisa stood up, taking hold of the front door handle, unable to get out. She pulled back, moving to the bodies of the dead officers, taking one of their guns and tucking it into the back of her trousers. She hurried through the living room, opening the door to the small balcony. Stepan grabbed her:

  —What are you doing?

  —Look after Elena.

  She stepped out onto the balcony, shutting the door behind her.

  They were on the seventh floor, some twenty meters above street level. There were identical balconies each directly below the other. They could serve as a step to the next. She could climb down from balcony to balcony. If she fell, thin heaps of snow would do little to break the fall.

  Kicking off her smooth-soled shoes, Raisa scaled the rail. She’d not taken into account the bite on her arm. It was still bleeding. The arm felt weak, her grip less secure. Unsure whether she could carry her weight, she lowered herself to the outer rim of the balcony. Gripping the freezing-cold concrete ledge, she hung by her fingers, blood dripping onto her shoulder. Even at full stretch her toes didn’t reach the sixth-floor balcony rail below. She hazarded a guess at the distance being no more than a couple of centimeters. There was no choice other than to let go.

  A split-second fall, her feet made contact with the rail below. Trying to keep her balance, rocking from side to side, she heard Zoya’s voice. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the men exiting the front entrance, one carrying Zoya. The other had his gun trained on her. Balancing on the narrow rail, she was helpless.