The Secret Speech

  Zoya is dead.

  Raisa had expected an outburst of grief, but Elena hadn’t reacted. Five months later, she still hadn’t reacted, not in any ordinary, outward sense.

  Raisa stood up, checking on the traffic, crossing the road and approaching the main entrance. The Serbsky Institute was a desperate measure, but she was desperate. Love wasn’t going to save them. Love simply wasn’t enough.

  Inside—stone floors, bare walls—nurses in crisp uniforms pushed steel trolleys equipped with leather restraints. Doors were bolted. Windows were barred. There could be no doubt that the institute’s reputation as the city’s foremost psychiatric center was a point of notoriety rather than acclaim. A treatment center for dissidents, political opponents were admitted for insulin-induced comas and the latest in pyrogenic and shock therapy. It was an improbable place to seek assistance for a seven-year-old girl.

  In their discussions Leo had repeatedly stated his opposition to psychiatric help. Many of those he’d arrested for political crimes had been sent into a psikhushka, a hospital such as this. While Leo agreed, as indeed he had to, that there might be good doctors working within a brutal system, he didn’t believe that the risk in searching for those men and women warranted the potential gain from their expertise. Declaring yourself unwell was tantamount to positioning yourself in the fringes of society, not a place any parent or guardian would want for their child. Yet his stance seemed less like caution and more like mulish stubbornness—a blind determination to be the one that fixed his family even as it crumbled in his hands. Raisa was no doctor, but she understood that Elena’s sickness was as threatening as a physical aliment. She was dying. It was primitive to hope the problem would merely pass.

  The woman behind the front desk glanced up, recognizing them from previous visits.

  —I’m here to see Doctor Stavsky.

  Working behind Leo’s back, talking to friends, colleagues, she’d secured an introduction with Stavsky. Despite a career in treating dissidents, with all that entailed, Stavsky believed in the value of psychiatry beyond the political sphere and disapproved of the excesses of punitive treatments. He was motivated by a desire to heal and he’d agreed to examine Elena without making any official record. Raisa trusted him much as a person lost at sea would put their faith in a drifting plank of wood. She had little choice.

  Upstairs, summoned in, Doctor Stavsky crouched down in front of Elena:

  —Elena? How are you?

  Elena didn’t reply.

  —Do you remember my name?

  Elena didn’t reply. Stavsky stood up, addressing Raisa in a whisper:

  —This week?

  —No change, not a word.

  Stavsky directed Elena to the scales:

  —Please take off your shoes.

  Elena didn’t respond. Raisa knelt down, taking her shoes off, guiding Elena onto the scales. Stavsky peered at the display, noting her weight. He tapped his pen against his pad, running his eyes across the numbers accumulated these past weeks. He stepped back, perching on his desk. Raisa moved forward to help Elena off the scales but Stavsky stopped her, indicating that she leave Elena where she was. They waited. Elena remained on the scales, facing the wall, doing nothing. Two minutes became five minutes became ten minutes and Elena still hadn’t moved. Finally, Stavsky indicated that Raisa should help Elena off the scales.

  Fighting back tears, Raisa finished tying Elena’s laces and stood up, about to ask a question, only to see Stavsky on the telephone. He hung up, placing his pad on the desk. She didn’t know how or why but she knew she’d been betrayed. Before she could react, he said:

  —You came to me for help. It is my view that Elena needs professional, full-time supervision.

  Two male orderlies entered the room, closing the door behind them like a trap slamming shut. Raisa wrapped her arms around Elena. Stavsky slowly approached:

  —I have arranged for her to be admitted to a hospital in the city of Kazan. I know the staff at the hospital well.

  Raisa shook her head, in disbelief as much to rebut his proposal:

  —This is no longer up to you, Raisa. The decision has been made in the interest of this young girl. You are not her mother. The State has appointed you her guardian. The State is taking back guardianship.

  —Doctor…

  She spat the word out with contempt.

  —You are not taking her.

  Stavsky moved closer, whispering:

  —I will tell Elena that she is going with these nurses to Kazan. I will tell her that she will not see you again. I am quite certain that she will not react. She will walk out of this room, with those two strangers, and she won’t even look back. If she does, will you then believe that you cannot help her?

  —I refuse to accept that test.

  Ignoring Raisa, Stavsky crouched down, speaking slowly and clearly:

  —Elena, you are going to be taken to a special hospital. They will try and make you better. It is possible that you may never see Raisa again. However, I will make sure that you are well looked after. These men will help you. If you do not wish to go, if you wish to stay, if you wish to remain here with Raisa, all you have to do is say so. All you have to do is say no. Elena? Do you hear me? All you have to say is no.

  Elena did not reply.

  SAME DAY

  INESSA, TIMUR’S WIDOW, opened the door. Leo entered the apartment. For several months after returning from Kolyma he’d expected that Timur would appear from the kitchen, explaining that he hadn’t been killed, he’d survived and found a way home. It was simply impossible to imagine this home without Timur. He’d been his happiest here, surrounded by his family. However, the designation of accommodation was a process without compassion. According to the system’s calculations Timur’s death meant, quite inarguably, that the family needed less space. Furthermore, their modern apartment had been a perk of his job. Inessa worked in a textile factory and the men and women she worked alongside made do with far more modest living arrangements. Using his blat, his influence, Leo had fought to keep the family where they were, requesting that Frol Panin intervene. Perhaps feeling a sense of responsibility for Timur’s death, Panin had agreed. Yet to Leo’s surprise Inessa had been tempted by the prospect of moving out. Every room was steeped in memories of her husband. They left her breathless, so sad she could barely function. Only when Leo had shown her the apartment block where she would be relocated to, a single room, shared facilities, thin walls, did she relent, and only then because of her two sons. Had she been alone, she would’ve moved out that same day.

  Leo gave Inessa a hug. Separating, she accepted the loaf of bread:

  —Where did this come from?

  —The bakery underneath our offices.

  —Timur never brought home bread.

  —The people who worked there were too scared to talk to us.

  —But not now?

  —No.

  Like the movement of a shadow, sadness passed across Inessa’s face. The homicide department had been Timur’s too. It was gone.

  Her two sons, Efim, ten years old, and Vadim, eight, hurried out of their bedroom to greet Leo. Though Timur had died working for Leo, his sons bore him no ill will. On the contrary, they were pleased by his visits. They understood that Leo had loved Timur and that their father had loved Leo. All the same, for Leo, their affection was a fragile pleasure, certain one day to break. They did not yet know the details of what had happened. They did not yet know their father had died trying to put right the wrongs of Leo’s past.

  Inessa ran her hand through Efim’s hair as he spoke excitedly about his schoolwork, the sports teams he was playing for. As the elder son, Timur’s watch would be given to him when he turned eighteen. Leo had replaced the cracked glass and the interior mechanism, which he’d kept for himself, unable to throw it away, occasionally taking it out and resting it on the palm of his hand. Inessa had not yet decided what story she would tell Efim about the watch’s origins, whether to lie about it bein
g a treasured family heirloom. That decision was for another day. Addressing Leo she said:

  —Will you eat with us?

  Leo was comfortable here. He shook his head:

  —I have to go home.

  ARRIVING BACK AT HIS APARTMENT, he discovered that Raisa and Elena weren’t home. The security officers on duty remarked that the pair had left for school in the morning, observing nothing out of the ordinary. Unaware of any plans, he couldn’t imagine what Raisa was doing out at this time of night with Elena. No clothes had been packed: no bags had been taken. Phoning his parents, they didn’t have any answers. His fear wasn’t that Fraera was involved. Zoya’s murder had been her last act of revenge against State Security personnel. After a five-month absence he doubted Fraera would return. There was no need. Leo had been hurt exactly as she desired.

  Hearing the noise of someone approach he rushed to the hallway, throwing open the door. Raisa staggered forward, catching the door-frame as if drunk. Leo supported her, taking her weight. He checked the corridor. It was empty.

  —Where’s Elena?

  —She’s… gone.

  Her eyes rolled, her head slumped. Leo carried her into the bathroom, placing her under the shower, running it cold.

  —Why are you drunk?

  Raisa gasped, shaken awake by the shock of the water:

  —Not drunk… drugged.

  Leo turned the shower off, wiping Raisa’s hair out of her eyes, sitting her on the side of the bath. Her bloodshot eyes were no longer rolling shut. She stared at the puddles forming around her shoes, her speech no longer slurred:

  —I knew you’d disagree.

  —You took her to see a doctor?

  —Leo, when someone you love is sick, you seek help. He said it would be unofficial, no paperwork.

  —Where?

  —Serbsky.

  At the sound of the name—Serbsky—Leo went numb. Many of the men and women he’d arrested had been sent there for treatment. Raisa began to cry:

  —Leo, he sent her away.

  Dumb incomprehension, then rage:

  —What is the doctor’s name?

  Raisa shook her head:

  —You can’t save her, Leo.

  —What is his name!

  —You can’t save her!

  Leo raised his hand, arching it back, ready to strike her across the face. In a flash, diverting his anger, he grabbed the mirror from the wall and smashed it in the sink. The shards cut his skin, drawing blood, red lines rolling around his wrists, down his arms. Leo dropped to the floor, bloody mirror fragments scattered around him.

  Taking a towel, Raisa sat beside Leo, pressing it against his injured hand:

  —You think I didn’t fight? You think I didn’t try and stop them? They sedated me. When I woke up Elena was gone.

  Leo turned the defeat over in his mind. It was complete. His hopes of a family had been destroyed. He’d failed to save Zoya’s life and failed to persuade Elena that life was worth living. Three years of honesty and trust between himself and Raisa had been wiped out. He’d lied to her, a lie forever preserved by the calamities that had followed from it. He didn’t feel any anger at Raisa for accepting Fraera’s offer, for agreeing to leave him. Raisa claimed it was tactical and nothing more, a desperate bid to save Zoya. She’d taken their family’s well-being into her own hands. The only mistake she’d made was waiting too long.

  The three-year pretense had come to an end. He was no father, no husband, and certainly no hero. He would join the KGB. Raisa would leave him. How could she not? There would be nothing between them except a sense of loss. Each day he’d know that Fraera had been right about him: he was a man of the State. He had changed, but far more importantly he’d changed back. He remarked:

  —There was a moment when I thought we had a chance.

  Raisa nodded:

  —I thought so too.

  SAME DAY

  LEO WASN’T SURE HOW MUCH TIME had passed. They hadn’t moved—Raisa by his side, the two of them on the floor, leaning against the bathtub, the tap dripping behind them. He heard the front door open yet still he couldn’t stand up. Stepan and Anna appeared at the bathroom doorway. No doubt concerned by Leo’s earlier phone call, his parents had traveled over. They took in the room, seeing the blood, the smashed mirror:

  —What happened?

  Raisa squeezed his hand. He answered:

  —They took Elena.

  Neither Stepan nor Anna said a word. Stepan helped Raisa to her feet, wrapping a towel around her, guiding her to the kitchen. Anna took Leo into the bedroom, examining the cut. She dressed the wound, behaving as she had done when he’d been a boy and had hurt himself. Finished, she sat beside Leo. He kissed her on the cheek, stood up, walked into the kitchen, stretching out his hand to Raisa:

  —I need your help.

  FROL PANIN WAS LEO’S MOST INFLUENTIAL ALLY, but he was unavailable, out of the city. Although they weren’t friends, three years ago Major Grachev had supported Leo’s proposal to create an autonomous homicide department. Leo had reported to him directly for the first two years until Grachev had stepped aside, making way for Panin. Since then Leo had seen the major infrequently. However, a proponent of change, Grachev believed that the only way to govern was by making amends, seeking to admit and readdress, in moderation, the wrongs perpetrated by the State.

  With Raisa by his side, Leo knocked on Grachev’s apartment door, instinctively checking the length of the communal corridor. It was late but they couldn’t wait until morning, fearful that if their efforts lost momentum a sense of crushing despondency would return. The door opened. Accustomed to seeing the major in a pristine uniform, it was a shock to see him scruffily dressed, his glasses smudged with finger-prints, his hair wild. Normally formal and restrained, he embraced Leo affectionately, as though reunited with a lost brother. He bowed affectionately before Raisa:

  —Come in!

  Inside there were boxes on the floor, items being packed. Leo asked:

  —You’re moving?

  Grachev shook his head:

  —No. I’m being moved. Out of the city, far away, I couldn’t even tell you where, really I couldn’t. They did tell me. But I’d never heard of the place. Somewhere north, I think, north and cold and dark, just to make the point even clearer.

  His sentences were tumbling one after the other. Leo tried to focus him:

  —What point is that?

  —That I am no longer a man in favor, no longer the man for the job, any job it seems, other than running a small office in a small town. You remember this punishment, Leo? Raisa? Exile. You both suffered it yourself.

  Raisa asked:

  —Where is your wife?

  —She left me.

  Preempting their condolences, Grachev added:

  —By mutual agreement. We have a son. He has ambitions. My relocation would ruin his chances. We have to be practical.

  Grachev stuffed his hands into his pockets:

  —If you came for my help, I am afraid my situation has deteriorated.

  Raisa glanced at Leo, her eyes asking whether it was worth explaining their predicament. Grachev spotted her reaction:

  —Talk to me, if not because I can help, then as conversation between like-minded friends.

  Embarrassed, Raisa blushed:

  —I am sorry.

  —Think nothing of it.

  She quickly explained:

  —Elena, our adopted daughter, has been taken from us and admitted to a psychiatric hospital in Kazan. She never recovered from the murder of her sister. I had arranged for her to see a doctor on an unofficial basis.

  Grachev shook his head, interjecting:

  —Nothing is unofficial.

  Raisa tensed:

  —The doctor promised not to make any records of her treatment. I believed him. When she didn’t respond to his treatment…

  —He committed her in order to protect himself?

  Raisa nodded. Grachev considered, before adding, as a
n afterthought:

  —I fear none of us will recover from Zoya’s murder.

  Surprised by this comment, Leo sought an explanation:

  —None of us? I don’t understand.

  —Forgive me. It is unfair to compare the wider consequences to the grief you must feel.

  —What wider consequences?

  —We needn’t go into that now. You’re here to help Elena—

  Leo interrupted:

  —No, tell me, what wider consequences?

  The major perched atop a box. He looked at Raisa, then Leo:

  —Zoya’s death changed everything.

  Leo stared at him blankly. Grachev continued:

  —The murder of a young girl to punish a former State Security officer, along with some fifteen or more retired officers hunted down and executed, several tortured. These events shook the authorities. They’d released this vory woman from the Gulags. What was her name?

  Leo and Raisa replied at the same time:

  —Fraera.

  —Who else might they have released? Many hundreds of thousands of prisoners are coming home; how will we govern if even a fraction of their number behave like her? Will her revenge start a chain reaction culminating in the collapse of rule and order? There will be civil war once more. Our country will be ripped down the middle. This is the new fear. Steps have been taken to prevent this from happening.

  —What steps?

  —An air of permissiveness has crept into our society. Did you know there are authors writing satirical prose? Dudintsev has written a novel— Not by Bread Alone. The State and officials are openly mocked, in print. What follows next? We allow people to criticize. We allow people to oppose our rule. We allow people to take revenge. Authority that once was strong suddenly seems fragile.

  —Have there been similar reprisals across the country?

  —When I spoke about wider consequences I wasn’t merely referring to incidents within our country. There are reprisals across all the territories under our rule. Look at what happened in Poland. Riots were precipitated by Khrushchev’s speech. Anti-Soviet sentiment is stirring throughout Eastern Europe, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia…