The Secret Speech

  The three men stood up, running at the rear tank—they threw the bombs, perfect shots, all three hitting their target, covering the rear of the T-54 with burning fuel. Flames soared. They fled, glancing over their shoulders, expecting an explosion that would never come. The fire roaring on the tank’s armor was irrelevant. The men increased their pace, running to shelter. Leo ducked. The tank turned and fired. The café shook, the remaining glass shards in the window fell to the ground, smashing all around. Dust and smoke rolled in through the window. Shielded by the cloud, Leo pulled back, coughing, crawling through the smashed crockery to the kitchen where Raisa, Zoya, and Malysh were crouched behind the steel units:

  —The streets are impassable.

  Pointing to the roof, Malysh remarked:

  —What about the roofs? We can crawl across them.

  Leo considered:

  —If they see us, or hear us, they will still fire. Up there it will be much harder to escape. We’d be trapped.

  Raisa remarked:

  —We’re trapped down here.

  On the top-floor landing there were two windows: one onto the main boulevard, the other onto a narrow back street, not large enough for a T-54. Leo opened the back window, studying the climb. There was no drainpipe, no foothold, no easy way of reaching the roof. Malysh tapped his leg:

  —Let me look.

  Leo allowed Malysh onto the ledge. Briefly assessing the gap, he jumped up, his legs dangling as he hung from the edge. Leo moved to support him, but he said:

  —I’m okay.

  He pulled himself up, swinging a foot onto the edge, then the other foot. He said:

  —Zoya next.

  Raisa glanced down at the drop, some fifteen meters:

  —Wait.

  Raisa picked up the tablecloths that Leo had tied around his hands, knotting them together. She wrapped them round Zoya’s waist. Zoya was annoyed:

  —I survived for months without you.

  Raisa kissed her on the cheek, commenting:

  —Which is why it would be particularly embarrassing if you died now.

  Zoya suppressed a smile, squashing it into a frown.

  Standing on the window ledge, Leo lifted her up. She took hold of the roof:

  —You have to let go so I can swing my legs!

  Reluctantly Leo let go, watching as she swung her leg up onto the roof. Malysh caught her, pulling her up. The tablecloth safety cord was at full stretch.

  —I’m up.

  Raisa released the cloths, allowing Zoya to pull up her improvised safety line. Raisa was next. Leo was the last to make the climb.

  The roof rose to a narrow ridge, on which Malysh and Zoya were straddled. Raisa was behind, forming a single file. Clambering up, Leo’s feet slipped on the tiles, dislodging one—it rattled down the roof before falling off the edge. There was a pause before the tile could be heard smashing on the back street. The four of them froze, remaining flat against the roof. If a tile fell on the other side, onto the boulevard, their position would be given away to the patrolling tanks.

  Leo took in the view. Across the city, smoke rose in thick lines. Rooftops were smashed. There were gaps where buildings had once stood. Fighter jets—MIGs—cut low over the city, dropping into attack position, strafing targets. Even on the roof they were exposed. Leo commented:

  —We need to hurry.

  Crawling on all fours, bypassing the dangers below, they were, at last, able to make progress.

  Up ahead the houses came to an end: they’d reached the end of the block. Malysh commented:

  —We have to climb down, cross the street, and then climb back up on the other side.

  The tiles began to rattle. Leo moved to the edge of the roof, peering down at the main boulevard. Four tanks were passing directly underneath. One by one they turned off the boulevard. To Leo’s dismay the fourth tank stopped. It seemed to be guarding the crossroads. They were going to have to sneak around it.

  About to return with the bad news, Leo caught sight of movement in the apartment window directly below him. He craned his neck over the edge, watching as two women hung the modified Hungarian flag, the flag with the hammer and sickle cut out, from the top-floor window. The tank had seen the protestors. Leo bolted up the roof, gesturing to the others:

  —Move! Now!

  They scrambled as far from the boulevard as they could.

  The section of roof behind them mushroomed into the air, debris showering down. The shockwave caused all the tiles to slide. Malysh, closest to the edge, lost his foothold, slipping down, everything giving way beneath him. Zoya threw him the end of the tablecloth. He caught it just as the matrix of tiles avalanched off the roof, taking him with them.

  As Malysh fell Zoya was pulled down; she tried to grab on to something and found nothing. Leo reached out, missing her hand but snatching the trail of tablecloths. He managed to steady them—Zoya was on the edge, Malysh was hanging off. If the tank saw Malysh it would fire, killing them all. Leo heaved the sheets up. Raisa reached down:

  —Give me your hand!

  Grabbing Malysh’s hand, she pulled him up, the two of them lying side by side. Leo rolled over to the edge, glancing down at the tank. The turret was swinging toward them.

  —Get up!

  On their feet, they ran back across the roof, toward the collapsed apartment on the other side. The shell impacted behind them, at the spot where Malysh had slipped—the corner of the building. All four of them were thrown up and forward, landing on their hands and knees. Ears ringing, coughing in the dust, they studied the devastation in front and now behind them: two gaping holes as if a giant monster had taken two bites out of the building.

  Leo surveyed the shelled-out apartment in front of them. The first shell had hit high, causing the roof to crumble and fall, compressing the top floor with the floor below. They could climb down through the splintered roof beams. He took the lead, hoping the tank would presume them dead. Reaching the layer of ceiling that had crashed down, he saw the dust-covered hand of the woman who’d hung the flag. No time to linger, he searched for a way out. The stairway was at the back. He pulled at the remains of a door, trying to get access, but it was filled with rubble.

  At the front of the damaged apartment, looking out at the boulevard, Raisa said:

  —They’re coming around!

  The tank was returning. Trapped, they had nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.

  Leo doubled his efforts, trying to clear the stairs, the only way out. Zoya and Raisa joined him. Malysh was gone. He’d fled, saved himself—a vory to the end. Leo looked over his shoulder. The tank was taking up position directly outside, lining up a third shot. It would fire again and again, until both houses were rubble. Boxed into the shelled-out apartment, brick walls on either side, the stairway blocked, the only chance of escape was to jump down to the street below.

  Leo grabbed Zoya and Raisa, running straight toward the tank. At the edge he stopped. Malysh had already scampered down the broken building onto the street. He was making a beeline for the tank. There was a grenade in his hand.

  Malysh pulled the pin, nimbly scaling the front of the tank, clambering up. The tank lifted its turret toward the sky in an attempt to stop him from reaching the opening. But Malysh was too quick, too skilled, wrapping his legs around the gun barrel, pushing his way up. The hatch opened, an officer was going to shoot Malysh before he could drop the grenade.

  Leo drew his gun, firing at the emerging officer, bullets pinging off the armor. The officer was forced to retreat, closing the hatch. Malysh reached the end of the barrel, dropping the grenade down it. He let go, falling to the street.

  The grenade exploded, then a fraction later, the shell inside the turret exploded, a much larger blast—the force ripping through the tank. Malysh was picked off his feet and slammed down onto the street. Smoke rose from the tank. No one emerged from inside.

  Zoya had already climbed down the building, rushing forward, helping Malysh up. She smiled. Also climbi
ng down and catching up with Zoya, Leo said:

  —We need to get off the street…

  Malysh’s shirt turned dark red, a stain forming in the center.

  Leo dropped to his knees, ripping open Malysh’s shirt. There was a cut as long as his thumb, a slash across his stomach, a black line—two bloody lips. Checking the boy’s back, Leo could find no exit wound.

  SAME DAY

  WITH MALYSH IN HIS ARMS, Leo rushed into the Second Medical Clinic, Zoya and Raisa by his side. They’d reached the hospital, hurrying along the streets, risking the patrolling tanks. Several turrets had tracked them but none had opened fire. The hospital entrance was filled with injured people, some leaning on friends and family, others lying on the floor. There was blood on the walls, blood on the floor. Searching for a doctor or nurse, Leo saw a flutter of a white coat. He pushed forward. The doctor was surrounded by patients, unable to give each more than a couple of seconds of his time, examining the wounds, issuing orders as to where they needed to be sent, ushering only the most needy into the hospital. The rest remained in the corridor.

  Leo waited in the circle for the doctor’s judgment. Finally arriving at him, the doctor touched Malysh’s face, feeling his brow. The boy’s breathing had become faint. His skin was pale. Leo had used Malysh’s shirt to press against the wound, the material now soaked with blood. Removing the shirt, the doctor leaned close. His fingers touched the lip of the gash, opening it—blood seeping out. He checked the boy’s back, finding no exit wound. For the first time the doctor glanced at Leo. He said nothing, giving an almost imperceptible shake of the head. With that, he moved on.

  Zoya grabbed Leo’s arm:

  —Why aren’t they helping him?

  Leo, a soldier, had seen injuries like this before. The blood was black: shrapnel had penetrated Malysh’s liver. On the battlefield there was no hope of survival. Conditions in this hospital were little better than that. There was nothing they could do.

  —Why aren’t they treating him!

  There was nothing Leo could say.

  Zoya barged through the crowd, grabbing the doctor’s arm, attempting to pull him back toward Malysh. The other people scolded her. But she wouldn’t let go until eventually she was pushed back and shouted at. She tumbled to the floor, lost among their legs. Raisa lifted Zoya off the hospital floor.

  —Why aren’t they helping him?

  Zoya began to cry, putting her hands on Malysh’s face. She stared up at Leo, her eyes red, imploring:

  —Please, Leo, please, I’ll do anything you want, I’ll be your daughter, I’ll be happy. Don’t let him die.

  Malysh’s lips moved. Leo lowered his head, listening.

  —Not… in… here.

  Leo carried Malysh to the entrance, through the blood-soaked arrivals, out of the main doors, away from the reception area, finding a place where they could be alone. In the flowerbeds, where the plants had died back and the earth was frozen, Leo sat down, propping Malysh against his legs. Zoya sat beside him. She took hold of Malysh’s hand. Raisa remained standing, restless, pacing:

  —Maybe I can find something for the pain?

  Leo looked up, shaking his head. Twelve days into the conflict— there’d be nothing left in the clinic.

  Malysh was calm, sleepy, his eyes shutting and opening. He regarded Raisa:

  —I know that…

  His voice was faint. Unable to hear, Raisa sat beside him. Malysh continued:

  —Fraera lied… I know… you’re not… my mother.

  —I would’ve wanted nothing more than to be your mother.

  —I would have liked to… have been your son.

  Malysh shut his eyes, turning his head, resting it against Zoya. She lay beside him, her head close to his, as if they were both about to go to sleep. She wrapped her arm around him, whispering:

  —Did I tell you about the farm we’re going to live on?

  Malysh didn’t reply. He didn’t open his eyes.

  —It’s near a forest, that’s full of berries and mushrooms. There’s a river and in the summer, we’ll swim… We’re going to be very happy together.

  SAME DAY

  STANDING ON THE REMAINS of the roof, Fraera was no longer holding a gun but a camera, photographing the destruction: images that would soon be printed around the world. If this, her last reel of film, didn’t survive, it didn’t matter. She’d already accumulated many hundreds of photographs, smuggling them out of the city, using the families of the dissidents and insurgents as well as the international press. Her images of dead citizens, buildings destroyed, would be published for years to come under the title: source anonymous.

  Perhaps for the first time since her son had been taken from her nearly seven years ago, she was alone, no Malysh by her side, no men ready when she called. The gang that she’d spent years putting together had broken apart. The few remaining vory had fled. The band of insurgents had been broken. In the first wave of attacks this morning many had died. She’d photographed their bodies. Zsolt Polgar, her translator, had remained by her side. She’d been wrong about him. He’d died for his cause. As he lay dying, she’d photographed him with particular care.

  She had only three photographs left. In the distance a fighter jet circled, coming toward her. She raised the camera, bringing the jet into focus. The MIG dropped into an attack position. Tiles around her began to shatter. She waited until the jet was almost directly overhead. As the roof exploded, fragments of slate burning into her arms and face, she had no doubt her last photograph would be her greatest of all.

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  SOVIET UNION

  MOSCOW

  19 NOVEMBER

  HIS FIRST DAY AT WORK: Leo’s hands were covered in flour and his face was hot from the ovens. Taking out a batch of newly baked loaves, he heard Filipp call out:

  —Leo, you have a visitor.

  An immaculate Frol Panin entered the bakery. He surveyed the premises with condescending good humor. Leo observed:

  —No request we can’t accommodate: rye with coriander seeds, or sweetened with honey rather than sugar. Kosher, or oil-free…

  He took one of the still-warm loaves, breaking it, offering it to Panin, who accepted, taking a bite. The man who’d betrayed him and who’d collaborated with his enemies showed no embarrassment, no guilt or shame, chewing contentedly:

  —It’s very good.

  Panin put the bread down, dusting the flour off his fingers and checking that Filipp was out of earshot:

  —Leo, no one is going back to Stalinism. There will be no more mass arrests. The camps are closing. Interrogation cells are being ripped out. These changes are in progress. They will continue. But they must continue in secret, without any admission of wrongdoing. We shall go forward… without looking back.

  Despite everything, Leo couldn’t help but admire Panin. He could have arranged for Leo to have never made it out of Budapest. Yet Panin weighed up every decision on a purely practical basis. He did nothing out of malice or spite. With the uprising defeated and Fraera dead, Leo was an irrelevancy and so he’d been allowed to live.

  —Frol Panin, what do you want from me? You won.

  —I would argue that we all won.

  —No, I lost a long time ago. I’m just trying not to lose anymore.

  —Leo, whatever you may think of me, my decisions were always for—

  Leo interrupted:

  —The greater good?

  Panin nodded, adding:

  —I want you to work for me. We need men like you.

  —Men like me.

  Leo let the phrase hang before asking:

  —You’re going to reopen the homicide department?

  —No, we’re not ready for that yet.

  —When you are, I’ll be here.

  —Baking rye with coriander seeds?

  Panin smiled:

  —Very well, I hope one day I can be of some help to you.

  It was an apology of sorts: a secret apology. Leo accepted
the gesture:

  —There is one thing you could do for me.

  SAME DAY

  AT THE RECEPTION to the Moscow Conservatory, Leo asked for Piotr Orlov, one of the country’s most promising young violinists. He was directed to a rehearsal room. Orlov, in his late twenties, opened the double, soundproofed doors, remarking brusquely:

  —Yes?

  —My name is Leo Demidov. Frol Panin said you could help.

  Hearing Panin’s name the violinist became more amiable.

  The rehearsal room was small. There was a music stand, an upright piano. Orlov was holding his violin by the neck. His bow was on the stand, along with a stub of wax.

  —What can I do for you?

  Leo opened his folder, taking out a single sheet of paper, a hole burnt through the middle. The hole had been burnt seven years ago using a candle in Lazar’s church. As the paper had turned black, Leo had impulsively changed his mind. He’d placed it on the stone floor, stamping out the flames. The charred music—all that remained of the arrested composer’s work—had been stored in Lazar’s file, evidence of his counterrevolutionary associations.

  Orlov stepped up to the stand, examining the few surviving notes. Leo commented:

  —I can’t read music so I don’t know whether there’s even enough to get a sense of the whole piece. I wanted to hear it played aloud, as much as is possible.

  Orlov raised his violin to his chin, picked up his bow, and began to play. Leo was not in the least bit musically minded. He’d expected it to be slow and sad. But it was fast and fun and he liked it very much.

  It took him a moment to realize that there was no way Orlov could play for so long with the few notes he’d been given. Confused, he politely waited for Orlov to stop. Eventually, he did: