The Secret Speech

  —We offer a collective judgment. We must perform a collective punishment.

  Guns were drawn. The lawyer stepped clear. The commander cried out:

  —One last thing…

  Handguns, rifles, and bursts from a machine gun—the commander fell back, as if flicked over by a giant finger. Villainous in life, in the face of death he had achieved a kind of dignity. The prisoners resented him for it. They would allow him no more words.

  The mood in the makeshift court transitioned from excitement to solemnity. Clearing his throat, the lawyer asked:

  —What shall we do with the body?

  Someone said:

  —Leave it there, for the next one to see.

  It was agreed. The body would be left.

  —Who is next?

  Leo tensed. Georgi declared:

  —Leo Stepanovich Demidov.

  The lawyer peered out over the guards:

  —Who is this? Who is Leo?

  Leo didn’t move. The lawyer called out:

  —Stand up or you will forfeit your trial and we will execute you immediately!

  Slowly, not entirely sure that his legs wouldn’t give way, Leo stood up. The lawyer ushered him to the bottom step, where he turned to face his court. The lawyer asked:

  —Are you a guard?

  —No.

  —What are you?

  —I am a member of the Moscow militia. I was sent here undercover.

  Georgi called out:

  —He’s a Chekist!

  The crowd, his jury and judge, burst into a flurry of anger. Leo glanced at his accuser. Georgi was acting independently. Lazar was reading a sheet of paper, a list of Leo’s crimes perhaps. The lawyer asked:

  —Is this true? Are you a Chekist?

  —In the past, I was a member of the MGB.

  The lawyer called out:

  —Examples of his crimes!

  Georgi replied:

  —He denounced Lazar!

  The prisoners jeered. Leo took a step up. Georgi continued:

  —He beat Lazar! Smashed his jaw!

  Leo was guided up the next step.

  —He arrested Lazar’s wife!

  Leo was now standing on the fourth step.

  —He arrested members of Lazar’s congregation!

  As Leo stood on the fifth step, Georgi had run out of things to say. No one else in the compound knew Leo. No one else could name his crimes. The lawyer declared:

  —We need more examples! Seven more!

  Frustrated, Georgi called out:

  —He’s a Chekist!

  The lawyer shook his head:

  —That is not an example.

  According to the rules of their system, no one knew him well enough to convict him, no one, that is, except Leo himself. The prisoners were dissatisfied. They were rightly certain that, as a Chekist, there must be many more examples unknown to them. Leo sensed that the system would not protect him. Had he not witnessed the commander’s execution, he might have climbed to the top and admitted his wrongdoings. But he had no speech more eloquent than the commander’s. His life depended upon the rules of their system. They would need seven more examples. They did not have them.

  Georgi, refusing to give up, cried out:

  —How many years were you a Chekist?

  After serving in the army, Leo had been recruited into the secret police. He had been a Chekist for five years.

  —Five years.

  Addressing the assembled convicts, Georgi asked:

  —Is it not easy to believe that he wronged at least two people each year? Is that so hard to believe of a Chekist?

  The crowd agreed: two steps for each year. Leo turned to the lawyer, hoping he would overrule this amendment. The lawyer shrugged, the suggestion became law. He ushered Leo to the top. He had been sentenced to death.

  Unable to comprehend that this was the end, Leo didn’t move. A voice cried out:

  —To the top or we’ll shoot you where you stand!

  Lightheaded, Leo climbed to the top, standing over the commander’s bullet-ridden body, an array of guns pointed at him.

  A voice, the man who hated him, Georgi, cried out:

  —Wait!

  Leo watched as Lazar spoke into Georgi’s ear. Unusually, Georgi wasn’t translating simultaneously. When Lazar had finished Georgi looked at him, questioning. Lazar indicated that he repeat his words. Georgi turned to Leo, asking:

  —My wife is alive?

  Georgi took the paper from Lazar’s hand, carrying it to Leo and offering it to him. Leo crouched down, recognizing the letter written by Fraera, proof that she was alive and containing information only she could’ve known. Timur had been carrying it. Before he’d been killed, the guards must have stripped him of all his belongings:

  —It was found in the pocket of a guard. You were not lying.

  —No.

  —She is alive?

  —Yes.

  Lazar indicated that Georgi return, whispering into his ear. With reluctant obedience Georgi announced:

  —I request that he be spared.

  MOSCOW

  SAME DAY

  LIKE TWO MONGREL CATS, Zoya and Malysh sat side by side on the roof of Apartment Block 424. Zoya remained close to Malysh, keen to reassure him that she didn’t want to escape. After the exertion of traveling several kilometers through sewer systems, climbing ladders, sidestepping slime-thick walls, both of them were damp with sweat and it was pleasant being on the rooftop, fanned by a cool night breeze. Zoya felt invigorated. Partly that was due to the exercise after many sedentary days and nights. Mostly it was because she was with him. This felt like the childhood stolen from her—mischievous adventure with a kindred spirit.

  Zoya glanced at the photo pinched between Malysh’s fingers:

  —What is her name?

  —Marina Niurina.

  Zoya took the photo from him. Niurina was a woman in her thirties, stern and prim. She was wearing a uniform. Zoya returned the photo, asking:

  —You’re going to kill her?

  Malysh gave a small nod of his head, as if someone had asked him if they could have a cigarette. Zoya wasn’t sure whether she believed him or not. She’d seen him attack the vory who’d tried to rape her. He was skilled with a knife. Reticent and moody, he didn’t seem like someone who made idle brags.

  —Why?

  —She’s a Chekist.

  —What did she do?

  Malysh looked at her quizzically, not understanding. Zoya expanded the question:

  —Did she arrest people? Did she interrogate them?

  —I don’t know.

  —You’re going to kill her but you don’t know what she did?

  —I told you. She’s a Chekist.

  Zoya wondered how much he knew about the secret police. She remarked, cautiously:

  —You don’t know much about them, do you, the secret police? Not really, I mean?

  —I know what they did.

  Malysh thought about this for a while before adding:

  —They arrested people.

  —Don’t you need to know a little more about a person before you kill them?

  —Fraera has given me orders. I don’t need any other reason.

  —That’s what they would say, the Chekists, about the things they did: that they were just following orders.

  Malysh became irritated:

  —Fraera has said you can help. So you can help. She didn’t say anything about asking a lot of stupid questions. I can take you back to your cell, if that’s what you want.

  —Don’t get angry. I would’ve asked why, that’s all. Why are we killing this woman?

  Malysh folded the photo in half and put it back in his pocket. Zoya had pushed him too far. She’d been excited and she’d stepped over the line, her brashness getting the better of her. She remained silent, hoping she hadn’t ruined everything. Expecting peevish irritation, she was surprised when Malysh spoke in an almost apologetic tone:

  —Her cri
mes were written down on a list. I didn’t want to ask anyone to read it aloud.

  —You can’t read?

  Scrutinizing her reaction, he shook his head. She was careful to keep her face blank, alert to his insecurity:

  —Didn’t you go to school?

  —No.

  —What happened to your parents?

  —They died. I grew up in train terminals, mostly, until Fraera came along.

  Malysh asked:

  —You think it’s bad that I can’t read?

  —You’ve never had the opportunity to learn.

  —I’m not proud of it.

  —I know.

  —I’d like to read, and write too. I’m going to learn, someday.

  —You’ll learn quickly, I’m sure.

  They sat in silence for the next hour or so, watching as the lights in the surrounding buildings around went dark, one by one, the occupants turning in to bed. Malysh stood up, stretching, a nocturnal creature that only stirred when everyone else slept. Out of the pockets of his baggy trousers, he took a reel of stiff wire, unfolding it. At the end of the wire he fastened a shard of mirror, wrapping the wire round and round until it was secure. He carefully tilted the mirror so that it was at a forty-five-degree angle. Walking to the edge of the building, he lay on his stomach and lowered the wire until the mirror was in line with the bedroom window. Zoya joined him, lying by his side and glancing down. The curtain was closed but there was a small gap. In the dark room he could make out a figure in bed. Malysh pulled the wire up, taking the mirror off the end, folding the wire up and putting the items back in his pocket.

  —We enter the other side.

  Zoya nodded. He paused, muttering:

  —You can stay here.

  —On my own?

  —I trust you not to run away.

  —Malysh, I hate Chekists as much as Fraera. I’m with you.

  Taking off their shoes, leaving them neatly side by side on the roof, they scaled down the brickwork, holding on to the drainpipe for support. It was a short descent: a meter or so. Malysh reached the windowsill as easily as if there’d been a ladder. Zoya followed tentatively, trying not to look down. They were on the sixth floor and any fall would be fatal. Flicking out a knife, Malysh lifted the catch, opening the window and entering the apartment. Wary of Zoya making a noise, he turned around, offering his hand. She waved it aside, gingerly lowering herself to the floorboards.

  They’d broken into the living room, a large room. Zoya whispered in Malysh’s ear:

  —Does she live alone?

  He nodded curtly, not appreciating the question—any question. He wanted silence. The size of the apartment was remarkable. By adding up the square meters of empty floor space, Zoya could guess the scale of this woman’s crimes.

  Up ahead the bedroom door was closed. Malysh reached out, taking hold of the handle. Before he opened the door, he indicated that Zoya stay behind, out of sight, in the living room. Although she wanted to follow, he wasn’t going to allow her any farther. She nodded, pulling back, waiting while Malysh opened the door.

  MALYSH STEPPED INTO THE DARK ROOM. Marina Niurina was in bed, lying on her side. Readying his knife, stepping up to her, he paused, as though balancing on the brink of a cliff. The woman in bed was much older than the woman in the photograph—she had gray hair, a wrinkled face, she was at least sixty years old. He hesitated, wondering if he had the wrong address. No, the address was correct. Perhaps the photo had been taken many years ago. He leaned closer, taking out the folded photo to compare. The old lady’s face was in shadow. He just couldn’t be sure. Sleep made everyone seem innocent.

  Suddenly Niurina opened her eyes and lifted her arm from under the covers. She was holding a gun, leveling it between Malysh’s eyes. Her legs swung out of bed, revealing a floral nightgown.

  —Step back.

  Malysh obeyed, arms raised, knife in one hand, photo in the other, calculating if he was fast enough to disarm her. She guessed his thoughts, cocking the gun and firing at the knife in his hand, taking off the tip of his finger. He cried out, clutching the injury as the knife clattered across the floor. Niurina said:

  —That gunshot will bring up the guards. I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to let them torture you. I might even join in myself. I’m going to find out where your companions are. Then we’re going to kill them too. Did you really think we were going to roll over and let you and your mob kill us one by one?

  Malysh pulled back. She stood up, off the bed:

  —If you suppose that by running away you’ll have an easy death, a bullet in the back, think again. I’ll shoot your foot off. In fact, better to shoot your foot off now, just to be sure.

  HER HEART THUMPING, barely able to breathe, Zoya had to act quickly, not stand in the middle of the room, dumbstruck like a stupid child. The old woman couldn’t possibly have seen her. Looking around, there was nowhere to hide except under the writing desk. Wounded, Malysh was retreating from the bedroom toward her, his hand dripping blood. He was careful not to look at her, not to give her away. She was his only chance. The woman was almost at the door. Zoya darted under the desk.

  From her hiding place Zoya caught sight of the woman for the first time. She was much older than the photograph but it was the same woman. She was smiling, or sneering, enjoying the power of her gun, following Malysh closely. If Zoya did nothing, if she remained under the desk, the guards would come, Malysh would be arrested—she would be saved, reunited with Elena and Raisa, reunited with Leo. If she did nothing, her life would return to normal.

  Zoya leapt up, crying out, charging for the gun. Taken by surprise, Marina Niurina turned the gun in her direction. Zoya grabbed the woman’s wrist, sinking her teeth as far in as they would go. A shot was fired, defeaningly loud beside her ear, the bullet smashing into the wall—Zoya felt the vibrations of the recoil through her teeth. Using her free hand, the woman struck Zoya and struck her again, knocking her to the floor.

  Helpless, Zoya looked up as the woman aimed the gun at her. Before she could fire, Malysh scampered up her back, sinking his fingers into her eyes. She screamed, dropping the gun, scratching at his hands, only causing him to press harder. Malysh looked down at Zoya:

  —The door!

  With the woman screaming, spinning round and round, Zoya ran to the front door, locking it at the same time as the guard thumped up the stairs. When Zoya turned, Niurina dropped to her hands and knees, Malysh still riding her back. He pulled his fingers free, leaving a bloody mess where her eyes had once been. Malysh picked up the gun, gesturing for Zoya to follow him, running to the window.

  Behind them the guards kicked at the door. Malysh fired through the wood, halting their progress. With the chamber empty, he dropped the gun, following Zoya out onto the window ledge. Using a spread of machine-gun fire, the guards replied in kind, bullets hitting all sides of the living room. They began climbing the outside wall. Zoya reached the roof first, pulling herself up. She heard the door to the living room being smashed down, the guards exclaiming at the bloody scene before them.

  Zoya leaned down, helping Malysh up. With both of them on top of the roof, she grabbed her shoes, about to run off. Malysh caught hold of her wrist:

  —Wait!

  Hearing the guards on the window below, Malysh picked a slate from the roof, readying himself. A guard’s hand grabbed the ledge. As the guard lifted himself up, Malysh smashed the slate into his face. The guard let go, falling to the side street below. Malysh cried out:

  —Run!

  They ran across the roof, jumping the gap to the adjacent building. Looking down, they saw swarms of officers in the street below. Malysh remarked:

  —It was a trap. They were watching the apartment.

  They’d expected Niurina to be a target.

  With their original escape route blocked, they were forced to enter the new apartment block, climbing into a bedroom. Malysh called out:

  —Fire!

  In the overcrowded bui
ldings, ancient timber structures, with faulty electrics, fire was a constant fear. Grabbing Zoya’s hand, he ran out into the corridor, both of them now shouting:

  —Fire!

  Even without smoke, the corridor was crowded within seconds. Panic quickly spread through the building, feeding off itself. On the stairs Zoya and Malysh dropped to their hands and knees, crawling between people’s legs.

  Outside, on the street, inhabitants surged out of the building, merging with the KGB and the militia. Zoya grabbed hold of the arm of a man, pretending to be distraught. Malysh did the same and the man, sympathetic, guided the two of them past the officials, who presumed them to be a family. As soon as they were free, they let go of the man’s arm, slipping off.

  Reaching the nearest manhole, they pulled the steel cover back, climbing down into the sewers. At the bottom of the ladder Zoya ripped off a portion of her shirt, wrapping it around Malysh’s bleeding finger, round and round, until it became as thick as a sausage. Catching their breath, both of them began to laugh.

  KOLYMA

  GULAG 57

  12 APRIL

  THE MORNING LIGHT WAS AS CLEAR and sharp as Leo had ever seen—a perfect blue sky and white plateau. Standing on the roof of the administration barracks, he raised the burnt, twisted remains of the binoculars to his eyes. Salvaged from the fire, only one cracked lens was usable. Searching the horizon, like a pirate at the bow of his ship, Leo saw movement at the far end of the plateau. There were trucks, tanks, and tents—a temporary military encampment. Alerted by yesterday’s flaming towers, beacons of dissent, overnight the regional administration had established a rival base for its counteroperations. There were at least five hundred soldiers. Though the prisoners were not outnumbered they were vastly outgunned, having only collected together two or three heavy machine guns, several clips of ammunition, an assortment of rifles and handguns. Against long-range weaponry, Gulag 57 was hopelessly exposed, while the wire fence would offer no protection against advancing armor. Completing his bleak assessment, Leo lowered the binoculars, handing them back to Lazar.