One Night in Winter (22 page)

The lock groaned open and he was marched down the corridor back to the interrogation room. ‘No talking – or the punishment cell!’ he was told. ‘Eyes straight ahead.’

He was in the same room but a new interrogator was waiting for him.

‘Sit down, Prisoner Satinov,’ said a man who had a sharp face, sheer, flat cheekbones and a mouth and jaw that protruded like the muzzle of a dog. Prisoner? The words ‘prisoner’ and ‘Satinov’ did not go together at all. Satinov was usually mentioned with ‘hero’ or ‘Comrade Stalin’s closest . . .’

‘Answer the questions directly and truthfully. Hide nothing from us.’

‘But I’ve told you all I know.’

‘Me? You haven’t told
me
anything. I am Colonel Likhachev and we’re starting again, boy. When did you plan to seize power, Prisoner Satinov?’

‘Please, I’m confused. I’m a schoolboy. I’m not even interested in politics. I leave that to the Party.’

‘Insolence is not tolerated here, prisoner.’ Likhachev slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. Stars flickered behind George’s eyes; his mouth stung.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Don’t footle with me,’ Likhachev said, ‘or I’ll reduce you to a puddle of fluid on the floor.’

George’s stomach seized up. He was suddenly very afraid.

‘You were a member of a conspiracy to overthrow the Soviet Government, kill members of the Politburo and install a new ministry,’ Likhachev stated.

‘I want to answer but I don’t understand. I am utterly loyal to Comrade Stalin and the Soviet Government. I’m a Komsomol.’

‘What was your role in Nikolasha Blagov’s provisional government?’

‘Oh my God, that was a joke.’

‘Be careful, prisoner. A conspiracy against the Soviet Government is not a joke.’

‘But it wasn’t a conspiracy. It was Nikolasha’s idiotic game.’

‘Do you recognize this?’

‘Yes. Yes, it’s Nikolasha’s Velvet Book.’

‘Let me read you something:
Today I, First Romantic Secretary Nikolasha, will meet the members of the Central Romantic Committee to discuss the appointment of a new government.
You read this and agreed with it, did you not?’

‘No!’

‘But you signed it. Look – there’s your signature.’

‘I didn’t take it seriously. I thought Nikolasha was mad and ridiculous. We all did!’

‘You’re in deep trouble, boy. This is treason.’

‘I’ll tell you anything, anything at all. Just ask!’

‘Why were you to be Minister of . . .’ Likhachev looked down the list of appointments. ‘. . . Sport?’

‘That shows I wasn’t serious. Sport’s not important. I said I’d do it because I’m more into football than literature.’

‘You could be shot for this, prisoner.’

‘I’m only eighteen. Please, I don’t understand any of this.’

‘Whose idea was it to form an anti-Communist government?’

‘It was Nikolasha’s idea. It was all him.’

Likhachev cleared his catarrh. ‘That’s convenient since he’s dead. Who was behind him? Forget your father. Forget your fancy friends. Forget the Aragvi. Now it is just you against the almighty power of the Soviet State.’

George was exhausted. He wiped his face, tried to focus. ‘Vlad Titorenko was his best friend but I don’t think Nikolasha even showed him the notebook.’

‘But reading his notebook, it is clear that one person had to approve his ideas, his conspiracy, his government. Who was it?’

The shock was making George feel leaden. His eyelids were heavy and he wanted to yawn. ‘Sorry, I’m so tired . . .’

‘Concentrate, prisoner. It is clear that someone else was the brains behind this treason. Let me read you this:
NV has approved my ideas.
Or here:
NV must approve the government.
’

‘It was not about politics. It never has been. It was about love.’

Likhachev punched George in the mouth, throwing him across the room.

‘We have the written evidence of his notebook. And it is quite clear that this “NV” is the grey cardinal of his conspiracy. Who is “NV”?’

‘Prisoner Minka Dorova, the punishment for conspiracy under Article 158 is death. Were you a party to a terroristic conspiracy?’ asked Colonel Komarov. Soft-spoken with the habit of running his hands through his light-brown curly hair, he focused on Minka sitting opposite him. His forehead, she decided, had the rumpled frown lines that marked the sincerity of the truly stupid.

‘No.’ Minka closed her eyes. She never thought she would miss Kobylov and Mogilchuk, but now, each question made her feel sicker. She fought waves of giddy panic and told herself: Keep your head!

‘Then why is your name in the government as Minister of Theatre?’

‘But that’s a joke. Surely you can see from the title of the ministry?’

‘We believe that you and Nikolasha Blagov and your other friends were pawns in this vile plot. Someone is behind it. Someone important.’

‘I don’t know whom you mean.’

‘Answer the question. Who is really behind this conspiracy to form a new government?’

‘No one.’ Minka was conscious of the tears running down her cheeks.

‘In his notebook, Nikolasha says that “NV” approves all his decisions. Who is this “NV”?’

Concentrate, Minka, she told herself, confess nothing, and you will get through this. She shook her head.

Komarov lit a cigarette. ‘Come with me, prisoner,’ he said and pressed a button on the desk.

Two warders entered and took her by the arms.

‘Where are you taking me? What are you going to do to me?’

‘We’re going to show you something to concentrate your mind.’

She was marched into a room with a glass wall through which she could see an empty interrogation room, just like the one she’d been in. Table, lamp, two chairs.

‘You can see in but no one can see out,’ said Komarov. ‘And no one can hear you.’

The door opened into the neighbouring room, and a small boy with tousled hair and large brown eyes walked in, wearing blue silk pyjamas with red piping.

‘Senka!’ she cried, throwing herself against the glass. ‘
Senka!
’

ANDREI KURBSKY LAY
in his cell. He now knew he would never escape the curse of his tainted biography; he’d always be the son of an Enemy. But there was one consolation: he felt closer to his father.

His father must surely have been through the same registration, the same cells, perhaps even this one. Andrei looked at the marks on the walls: drawings, words, scratches. He read out the names, dates, messages. Some must have died here; some must have been shot in the cellars and they wrote their names here to be read. He searched for his father’s name and dreamed that he too would be sent out to the Gulags – and that one day, in a snowy forest clearing, he would meet his father chopping logs . . .

The night was lonely. Someone was shouting; someone was coughing. Andrei was tired and so afraid. It was the uncertainty that was the hardest thing. Who else was in the cells here? What had they said? What was it safe to say?

The clip of boots outside. Locks turning. The door opened, and he was on his way to the interrogation rooms but this time he found a new officer was waiting for him. One look at Colonel Likhachev’s sunken, broiling eyes and little yellow teeth and Andrei knew that the case had taken another twist.

‘Prisoner Kurbsky, you were a party to an anti-Party conspiracy with Nikolasha Blagov.’ Likhachev took a book from a beige folder – a book Andrei recognized all too well – and began to read: ‘
We in the Romantics
’
Club are no longer interested in that nonsense of the progression of history, the dialectic, class struggle: the passion of the individual is supreme.
How do you regard his views?
’

‘They are un-Leninist, un-Marxist: I was profoundly disgusted. As a Communist I reject it. Nikolasha was a clown, but a dangerous one nonetheless.’ It was a relief, thought Andrei, to see the book, and know how he should respond to these questions.

‘But you did nothing about this?’

‘I did do something . . .’

‘Don’t lie. Let me continue.
Serafima is appointed Minister of Love. NV must approve all appointments. Meet NV for instructions.
’

Andrei struggled to sit up straight and focus. ‘Look, I don’t know any “NV” but I was the last to join the Fatal Romantics’ Club. This is really nothing to do with me.’

‘I’m interested in this “Minister of Love”. It says here that Serafima Romashkina was elected to this position by the Politburo.’

‘I didn’t know.’ Andrei did not want to discuss Serafima at all. Don’t mention Serafima, he told himself. Stay awake! ‘You couldn’t take Nikolasha Blagov seriously about anything. He was unbalanced.’

Likhachev leafed through the notebook. ‘Even so, here he writes:
Minister of Love is supreme because love is supreme, higher than Gensec.
’

Andrei shivered. ‘Gensec’ was the acronym for ‘General Secretary’ of the Party and there had only ever been one Gensec: Stalin himself. This was treason.

Likhachev leaned across the desk, and Andrei was struck again by his bloodshot and yellow eyes, which reminded him of an egg with blood in the yolk. ‘You need to tell me who NV
is.’

‘I think NV is imaginary.’

Likhachev slammed his hands on the table. ‘Don’t dare to misdirect this investigation. We know that you, Prisoner Kurbsky, know who NV is. And you will tell us. Even if I have to scrape it with a scoop from the inside of your dead skull.’

Minka had lost all track of time. She was back in her interrogation room and trying hard not to panic. But the sight of her small brother had rattled her, especially as she now knew that if she fell, she would drag Senka and her parents to perdition with her. She closed her eyes, picturing herself and Senka being shot in the back of their heads. What should she do? What should she say?

‘Why is Senka here?’ she asked. ‘He’s ten. Please, I beg you, send him home. My mother must be frantic.’

‘Tell us about Nikolasha Blagov’s notebook. The one you call the Velvet Book of Love.’

‘I never knew what was in it. If I had known that he was doing something so evil, something against our great Soviet State, I would have informed against him. But I promise: I knew nothing of any conspiracy. Nothing.’

‘Who is “NV”?’

The walls seemed to lean in on Minka as she thought of Senka, her little brother. What was NV?
NV?
She must come up with something to free Senka, to free all of them. NV had to mean something. Perhaps she should invent a code, plant a red herring, a distraction to direct the Chekists away from herself and Senka, from George and Serafima. She presumed that because a code did not exist, they would not find it – and therefore nothing would come of it. Already an idea was ripening in her mind, taking shape at the tip of her tongue until the experienced Komarov could see it was coming.

‘Tell me,’ he coaxed.

‘I’ve never heard of NV. But can I suggest something it might be? Could “NV” stand for “New Leader”?
NV.
Novi Vozhd.
Someone that none us knew about?’

‘Go on?’

‘Perhaps it was Nikolasha’s candidate for a new Romantics’ leader?’ proposed Minka.

‘So you’re confirming that this was a conspiracy? For there can only be one Leader, the Father of Peoples, the Head of the Soviet Government.’

‘Well, no, I was just suggesting something . . .’

‘There are no suggestions here, girl. There is just evidence. We will find the so-called New Leader of this conspiracy.’

‘I was guessing,’ Minka said, beginning to feel unsure of herself again.

‘Are you telling me lies? Are you wearing a mask?’

‘No, of course not . . . I’d never lie to you.’

‘Good, then explain this. Here in the notebook, Nikolasha writes this:
Serafima and NV. NV and Serafima. Meeting to approve the Romantic government.
What was Serafima’s relationship with Nikolasha?’

‘There was no relationship. She didn’t even like him.’

‘So if Serafima Romashkina was not having a relationship with Nikolasha, who was she with?’ Komarov settled back in his chair. ‘She was with NV
,
wasn’t she? NV
is Serafima’s lover.’

‘No! She had no lover. I’m her best friend and I’d know if she did.’

Komarov opened his arms wide and stretched, like a diver leaping into a pool, and then he ran his hand through the fluffy hair that seemed alien to his uniform, his job, his lifeless eyes. ‘We’re going to have to start again. Tell me about Serafima and her relationship with NV
.
’

Minka felt the sweat start to shimmer through her skin; her jaw clenched, her shoulders tensed. She had meant to protect Senka, and Serafima. Now she realized that the sight of her little brother had distorted everything. To save him, she had made a terrible mistake and had placed Serafima at the centre of a conspiracy that had never even existed.

Too late, she saw that in this world, every breath had consequences.

‘
I’LL BE HONEST,
Madame Zeitlin, I’m a fan. So I had to come myself,’ said Victor Abakumov in his deep baritone. ‘I’m a movie buff. I watch everything. Of course I have some of Goebbels’s movies from Berlin. I have a movie director’s eye. But you in that movie
Katyusha.
I’d call it a masterpiece. Your husband’s script contributed to its success but your performance . . .’

It was early morning, and Serafima could hear Abakumov talking as she quickly packed a little bag under the eyes of the two uniformed Chekists who had already searched her bedroom and taken away books and letters.

‘Well, Comrade Abakumov, you are very kind but I wish we had met under other circumstances,’ her mother was saying. Her actress’s voice lacked its usual vigour but Serafima was grateful her mother was not howling in hysterics. She too hoped that if Sophia was civil to the Chekists, it would somehow help her.

‘Is that a poster from the movie I see over there?’

‘Yes, it is.’ A silence. ‘Would you like it?’

‘I would and I’d like it signed: “To Victor, with love”. Yes, that’ll impress my friends.’