Raisa and the girls exited the station on the corner of Ostozhenka and Novokrymskiy, following a path dug through the snow on their way to their respective schools. Raisa had wanted to enroll both girls at the same school where, ideally, she also would have taught so that the three of them could have been together. However, the decision had been made, either by the school authorities or at a higher level, that Zoya would attend Lycee 1535. Since it only accepted secondary students Elena was forced into a separate primary school. Raisa had resisted since the majority of schools accepted both primary and secondary students and there was no need to split them up. Her request had been declined. Siblings were at school to create a relationship with the State, not to shelter within family ties. According to that rationale, Raisa was lucky to get a job at Lycee 1535 and so she’d relinquished the demand in order to preserve the advantage. At least this way she was able to keep an eye on Zoya. Although Elena was younger and had been more obviously nervous about the prospect of a new school in a large city, Zoya concerned Raisa far more. She’d fallen further behind academically, her village school not being up to Moscow’s standards. There was no question that she was intelligent. But it was unpolished, directionless, ill-disciplined, and, unlike Elena, Zoya steadfastly refused to make any efforts to fit in, as if it were a matter of principle that she remain isolated.
Outside the primary school, a converted prerevolutionary aristocratic town house, Raisa took an unnecessary amount of time tending to Elena’s uniform. Finally, holding her close, she whispered:
—Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.
For the first few months Elena had cried when she’d been separated from Zoya. Though she’d gradually adjusted to spending eight hours apart, at the end of every school day, without exception, she’d stand by the gates eagerly awaiting their reunion. Her excitement at seeing her older sister return hadn’t diminished, a reunion as full of joy as if a year had passed.
After Zoya had given her sister a hug, Elena hurried into school, pausing at the doors to wave good-bye. Once she was inside, Zoya and Raisa walked in silence toward the Lycee. Raisa resisted the urge to question Zoya. She didn’t want to agitate her before class. Even the simplest of inquiries risked putting her on the defensive, setting off a chain of disruptive behavior that rippled throughout the day. If she asked about schoolwork it was an implicit criticism of her academic achievements. If she asked about her classmates it was a reference to her refusal to make any friends. The only subject open to discussion was Zoya’s athletic abilities. She was tall and strong. Needless to say, she hated team sports, unable to take orders. Individual sports were a different matter—she was an excellent swimmer and runner, the fastest in the school for her age. But Zoya refused to compete. If entered into a competition she would deliberately forfeit the race, although she had enough pride not to come last. She’d aim for fourth, and since she occasionally mistimed it, or forgot herself in the heat of the moment, she might come in third or even second.
Built in 1929, Lycee 1535 was angular and stark in design, intending to embody an egalitarian approach to learning, a new kind of architecture for a new kind of student. Twenty meters from the gates Zoya stopped walking, remaining fixed to the spot and staring straight ahead. Raisa crouched down:
—What is it?
Zoya dropped her head, speaking under her breath:
—I feel sad. I feel sad all the time.
Raisa bit her lip, trying not to cry. She put a hand on Zoya’s arm:
—Tell me what I can do.
—Elena can’t go back to that orphanage: she can’t ever go back.
—No one is going anywhere.
—I want her to stay with you.
—She will. You both will. Of course you will. I love you very much.
Raisa had never dared to say that aloud. Zoya looked at her carefully:
—I could be happy… living with you.
They’d never spoken like this. Raisa had to be careful: if she said the wrong thing, gave the wrong reply, Zoya would close down and she might not get another chance.
—Tell me what you want me to do.
Zoya considered:
—Leave Leo.
Her beautiful eyes seemed to swell, soaking up every detail of Raisa’s reaction. Zoya’s expression was filled with hope at the notion of never seeing Leo again. She was asking Raisa to divorce Leo. Where could she have learned about divorce? It was rarely spoken about. The State’s initially permissive attitude had hardened under Stalin, making divorce more difficult, expensive and stigmatized. In the past, Raisa had considered a life without Leo many times. Had Zoya detected the remnants of that embittered relationship and drawn hope from it? Would she have dared ask if she didn’t think there was a chance Raisa would have said yes?
—Zoya…
Raisa was gripped by an intense desire to give this girl anything she wanted. At the same time, she was young—she needed guidance, she couldn’t make outlandish demands and expect them to come true.
—Leo’s changed. Let’s talk, you and me and him, together, tonight.
—I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to hear his voice. I want you to leave him.
—But Zoya… I love him.
The hope drained from Zoya’s face. Her expression became cold. Without saying another word she broke into a run, leaving Raisa behind, hurrying through the main gates.
Raisa watched as Zoya disappeared into the school. She couldn’t run after her: there was no way they could speak in front of the other students, and anyway, it was too late. Zoya would remain silent, refusing to answer. The moment had passed, the opportunity was gone, Raisa had given her reply—I love him. Words greeted with a grim stoicism, like a convict hearing a death sentence confirmed. Cursing herself for responding so definitively, Raisa entered the school grounds. Ignoring the students and teachers passing her, she considered Zoya’s dream—a life without Leo.
Inside the school building she entered the staff room, unable to concentrate, dizzy and distracted. She found a parcel waiting for her. There was a letter attached. She ripped it open, glancing at the contents. It contained instructions that she was to read the enclosed document to all her students, every year group. The letter was from the Ministry of Education. Tearing off the brown paper wrapped around the parcel, she glanced at the top of the box:
NOT FOR PRESS
She lifted the lid, taking out the thick stack of neatly typed pages. As a politics teacher she was regularly sent material and instructed to convey it to her students. Having read the covering letter, she tossed it into the bin, only to see that the bin was filled with identical letters. Copies must have been sent to every teacher, every class must be having the speech read to them. Already running late, Raisa picked up the box, hurrying out.
Arriving at class, she saw the pupils talking, making the most of her delay. There were thirty students, aged between fifteen and sixteen. She’d taught many of them for the full three years she’d been at the school. She put the pages down on the table, explaining that today they’d be hearing a speech by their leader Khrushchev. Waiting for the applause to die down, she read aloud:
—Special report to the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. By Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev, First Secretary, Communist Party of the Soviet Union.
It was the first congress since Stalin’s death. Raisa reminded her class that the Communist revolution was worldwide and that at these gatherings were emissaries from international workers’ parties as well as Soviet leaders. Braced for an hour of platitudes and self-congratulatory declarations, her thoughts focused on the unlikely hope that Zoya would make it through the day without getting into a fight.
Very quickly her attention was brought back to the material she was reading. This was no ordinary speech. It opened with none of the normal descriptions of startling Soviet successes. Midway through the fourth paragraph, her hands tight around the paper, she stopped, u
nable to believe the sentences set out before her. The class was silent. In an uncertain voice she read:
—… The cult of the person of Stalin has been gradually growing, the cult which became the source of a whole series of exceedingly serious and grave perversions of Party principles, of Party democracy, of revolutionary legality.
Amazed, she flicked forward, wondering if there was more, reading silently:
—The negative characteristics of Stalin, which, in Lenin’s time, were only incipient, transformed themselves during the last years into a grave abuse of power…
She’d spent her entire career propagandizing the State, teaching these children that the State was always right, good, and just. If Stalin had been guilty of fostering a cult, Raisa had been instrumental in that. She’d justified teaching such falsehoods since it was necessary that her students learn the language of adulation, the vocabulary of State worship without which they’d be vulnerable to suspicion. The relationship between a student and teacher depended upon trust. She believed she’d upheld that premise, not in the orthodox sense that she’d told the truth, but she’d told them the truths they needed to hear. These words made her a cheat. She looked up. The students were too confused to understand the implications immediately. But they would eventually. They would understand that she was not an enlightened role model but a slave to whoever happened to be in charge.
The door was flung open. Iulia Peshkova, a teacher, was standing in the doorway, her face bright red—her mouth open, startled, unable to speak. Raisa stood up:
—What is it?
—Come quickly.
Iulia was Zoya’s teacher. Fear struck Raisa. She put down the pages, telling her class to remain in their seats and following Iulia down the corridor, down the stairs, unable to get a sensible answer:
—What happened?
—It’s Zoya. It’s the speech. I was reading and she… you must see for yourself.
They reached the classroom. Iulia stood back, allowing Raisa to go in first. She opened the door. Zoya was standing on the teacher’s desk. The desk had been pushed up against the wall. All the other students were at the opposite end of the room, bunched up, as far away as possible, as if Zoya had some contagious disease. Around her feet were the pages of the speech and shards of glass. Zoya was standing proud, triumphant. Her hands were bloody. They clasped the remains of a poster taken down from the wall, an image of Stalin with the words printed underneath:
FATHER TO ALL CHILDREN
Zoya had climbed onto the table to take the picture off the wall: she’d smashed the frame, cutting her hand before ripping the poster in two, decapitating the image of Stalin. Her eyes were ablaze with victory. She raised the halves of the poster, streaked with her blood, as if brandishing the body of a vanquished foe:
—He’s not my father.
SAME DAY
IN THE COMMUNAL CORRIDOR outside Nikolai’s apartment were the remains of the speech. Seeing the ripped pages, glancing at the words, Leo drew his gun. Behind him, Timur did the same. Paper scrunching underfoot, Leo reached out, taking hold of the door handle. The apartment was unlocked. He nudged open the door, the two of them stepping into the empty living area. There was no sign of a disturbance. The doors to the other rooms were closed except for one—the bathroom door.
The bath was full to the rim, the bloody water’s surface broken only by the emergence of Nikolai’s head and the island of his plump, hairy stomach. His eyes and mouth were open, as if amazed that an angel and not a demon had welcomed him to death. Leo crouched beside his former mentor, a man whose every lesson he had spent the past three years trying to unlearn. Timur called out:
—Leo…
Noting his deputy’s tone, Leo stood up, following him to the adjacent bedroom.
The two girls appeared to be sleeping, the blankets pulled over their bodies up to their necks. Had it been night, the stillness of the room would’ve felt natural. But it was midday and sunlight was pushing through the gaps in the curtains. Both girls were facing the walls, their backs turned to each other. The eldest daughter’s long glossy hair was spread over the pillow. Leo swept it back, touching her neck. The faintest trace of warmth remained, preserved under the thick comforter that she’d been lovingly tucked under. There was no sign of any injury on her body. The younger daughter, no more than four years old, was positioned identically. She was cold. Her small body had lost its warmth quicker than that of her sister’s. Leo closed his eyes. He could’ve saved these girls.
Next door, Nikolai’s wife, Ariadna, was arranged, as her daughters had been, in a semblance of sleep. Leo had known her a little. Seven years ago, after an arrest, Nikolai used to insist that Leo eat with him. No matter how late, Ariadna had always made dinner, offering hospitality and civility after Leo and Nikolai’s mutual savagery. The dinners had been intended as demonstration of the value of domestic space where the details of their bloody employment did not exist, where they could maintain the illusion of being nothing more than an ordinary loving husband. Sitting at her dressing table, Leo regarded the ivory bone hairbrush, perfumes and powders—luxuries that Ariadna had accepted as payment for her unquestioning devotion. She hadn’t realized that ignorance wasn’t a choice: it was a condition of her existence. Nikolai wouldn’t tolerate his family in any other form.
Never tell your wife anything.
As a young officer Leo had interpreted that warning, whispered to him after he’d made his first arrest, as referring to the need for caution and secrecy, a lesson in not trusting even those closest to him. But that was not what Nikolai had meant at all.
Unable to stay in the apartment any longer, Leo stood up, unsteady on his feet. Leaving the bodies behind, he hurried to the communal hallway, leaning against the wall, breathing deeply and staring down at the remains of Khrushchev’s speech, delivered and positioned outside Nikolai’s front door with lethal intent. Returning home last night, Nikolai had read a small fraction; most of it was still untouched in the box. One page had been shredded. Had Nikolai believed he could destroy these words? If that thought had crossed his mind, the accompanying letter would’ve ended that hope. The speech was to be copied and distributed. The inclusion of the official letter was a message to Nikolai that the secrets of his past were no longer his to control.
Leo glanced at Timur. Before joining the homicide department he’d been a militia officer, arresting drunks and thieves and rapists. The militia had not been excluded from making politicized arrests. However, Timur had been fortunate, no such demands had been placed on him, at least not that he’d ever admitted to Leo.
A man who rarely lost control of his emotions, Timur was visibly angry:
—Nikolai was a coward.
Leo nodded. It was true. He’d been too scared to face disapproval. Nikolai’s life was his family. He couldn’t live without them. He couldn’t die without them either.
Leo picked up a page from the speech, regarding it as if it were a knife or a gun—the most effective of murder weapons. He’d read the speech this morning, after it had been delivered to him. Shocked at the outspoken attack, it had taken Leo very little time to realize that if he’d been sent the speech, Nikolai would have too. The intended target was clear: the people responsible for the crimes described.
The clump of footsteps filled the stairway. The KGB had arrived.
KGB OFFICERS ENTERED THE APARTMENT, regarding Leo with open contempt. No longer one of them, he’d turned his back on their ranks. He’d refused a job in order to run his homicide department, a department they’d been lobbying to shut down since its inception. Prizing loyalty above all else, in their eyes he was the worst of things— a traitor.
Taking charge was Frol Panin, Leo’s superior officer from the Interior Ministry, the office of Criminal Investigations. Some fifty years old, Panin was handsome, well tailored, charming. Though Leo had never seen a Hollywood movie, he imagined Panin was the type of man they’d cast. Fluent in several languages, he was a former ambassador w
ho’d survived Stalin’s reign by remaining abroad. It was rumored that he didn’t drink, that he exercised daily and had his hair cut once a week. In contrast to many officials who prided themselves on their modest background and indifference to anything as bourgeois as appearances, Panin was brazenly immaculate. Soft-spoken, polite, he was a new breed of official who no doubt approved of Khrushchev’s speech. Behind his back he was frequently badmouthed. It was claimed that no man as effete as him would have lasted under Stalin. His hands were too soft, his nails too clean. Leo was sure that Panin would have accepted it as a compliment.
Panin briskly studied the crime scene before addressing the KGB officers:
—No one leaves the building. Head count all the other apartments, check them against residential records and make sure every person is accounted for. No one goes to work; those who have already left, bring in for questioning. Interview everyone—find out what they saw or heard. If you suspect they’re lying, or holding back, take them into a cell and ask them again. No violence, no threats, just make them understand that our patience has limits. If they do know something…