One Night in Winter (27 page)

‘Innokenty Rimm? Come with us, please. Just a formality. A couple of hours and we’ll have you back in class. Nothing to worry about . . .’

As he was frogmarched out of the hall, Rimm glanced back, expecting to see a smirk of triumph from Benya Golden – but instead he saw only deep sympathy, and this from a man who had every reason to despise him.

And he wondered in that fearsome moment of freefalling if he had been wrong about Golden, about the headmistress, about
everything
, all along.

WAS IT MORNING
or midnight, midsummer or the dead of winter? The days and nights were blurred together: interrogations that started in the middle of the night seemed to last into the afternoon. But the very fact that Senka had settled into the almost reassuring routine of the Grey Granite Mountain proved that a great deal of time had passed. More than a week. Maybe even two weeks. How could he tell? All Senka Dorov knew was that he was very tired and very hungry, and back in the interrogation room that had become his entire world, facing Colonel Likhachev.

I am cleverer than you, you ugly old bully, he thought as he looked at the Lobster. Senka had confessed to taking the Velvet Book but in innocence. When he saw the notebook, there on the bridge, he had grabbed it. When he read all that nonsense about the Romantic Politburo and Minister of Love after lights-out in his bedroom, he grasped that he must hide the book. But he had made two grievous mistakes: the first was not destroying it, and the second was telling his snitch brother. But in that all-important session, he had managed to find something to give the Chekists a new strand of investigation: ‘Once we were walking down Gorky and we saw Serafima, and a hundred metres behind her, we saw Dr Rimm following her.’ Yes, he’d offered up the grotesque Rimm as Serafima’s secretly besotted admirer, and wondered if they had arrested him too.

The stench of Likhachev brought him back to earth. Senka analysed the Lobster (after all, he had spent hours with the horrible man). He identified: cologne, sweat, salami, garlic, too much vodka and wee – yes, not unlike the odour of the school lavatories. However, he felt a tremendous urge to please this thug, to win his favour. This man had absolute power over him and his family, yet he was determined that he would not tell anyone anything, not anything important anyway. He remembered that his papa often said, ‘Discretion is one of the cardinal Bolshevik virtues.’ Comrade Genrikh Dorov was a clever and important man (if lugubriously solemn – did he never laugh?). Yes, even his mama admitted with a laugh that Papa was a curmudgeon. And how he loved his mama. Even here, he could will her presence: her lovely scent (it came all the way from Paris, she said), which he could identify quite separately from the sweet way her skin and hair smelled. But his daddy understood Bolshevism and politics better than his mama: Genrikh Dorov had been one of Stalin’s own secretaries and Papa said, ‘The Party is always right.’ But why did his parents whisper things if the Party was always right? There was an inconsistency there, thought Senka, an inconsistency that could not be explained, not even by his parents.

One thing was clear amidst all the esotheric mysteries of the Lobster’s questions: he would be a lot more comfortable in his professorial suit than these pyjamas. And now his chance came.

‘So,’ said the Lobster in a new amused tone. ‘I hear you wear a suit all the time and sweep up leaves instead of doing school gymnastics. A weird little boy, aren’t you?’

‘Comrade colonel,’ Senka burst out, encouraged by this lugubrious affability, ‘when my mama comes, please can you ask her to bring my suit?’

The smirk hovered around Colonel Likhachev’s mouth. ‘A Soviet child should wear socks and shorts.’

‘Yes. But my dignity depends on a suit.’

‘Your dignity? A suit?’ Likhachev pulled out his bullystick and thumped the table.

Senka lowered his head, his eyes fixed on the truncheon. He was afraid of course but he was clever enough to
appear
even more afraid, and he saw that his fear pleased the Lobster.

‘Quick question for you tonight, Senka. Which of you really knows Pushkin’s
Onegin
?’

Senka sighed. Could it be part of a code? There were often codes within ordinary things: he liked to read the Fables of Aesop, and Papa had explained to him that the Party leaders often used a special secret language that was Aesopian, with lots of double meanings, so Senka was always aware of the Aesopian language when he read the newspapers or listened to the news on the radio, and here in Lubianka he constantly examined each question with the diligence of a cryptographer.

So Senka turned the Lobster’s literary question over in his mind: how could that hurt his mama and papa? He could not imagine that it would. How could it hurt his sister Minka? No, he could not see that either. He was puzzled. It appeared to be a question that he could answer but what was its meaning in Aesopian language? Was Pushkin, in this case, national poet (good) or romantic nobleman (bad)?

‘Get a fucking move on, boy, or you’ll feel this across your face.’ The Lobster brandished the bullystick. ‘Who knows
Onegin
best of your sister’s friends?’

He chose the boy whom he hoped would do the least harm. ‘Andrei Kurbsky. You could ask him.’

Kapitolina Medvedeva was suspended. Even though her chief accuser, Rimm, was under arrest, her decisions on Andrei Kurbsky and Benya Golden were under investigation. At home that night, she wondered if she was going to be destroyed. She was being called before a judgement tribunal of the Education Sector of the Agitprop Department, Central Committee, at Old Square. Most likely, she would be sacked and then arrested. She would never teach again. The Gulags were likely. Even execution was possible. At the very least: exile. It was time to make a plan. A plan for survival.

I know who I am, Serafima told herself as Likhachev interrogated her. I know I love and am loved. Nothing else matters. And she touched her scar, the mark she called her snakeskin with her hand, and heard his voice reciting their poem. But Likhachev was asking her something again.

LIKHACHEV
Who was your lover, you whore? Who was NV? Name the New Leader.

SERAFIMA
There was no New Leader and I don’t know what NV means.

LIKHACHEV
Don’t play the saint with me, girl. You prostituted yourself to a counter-revolutionary conspiracy and your hot tail attracted tomcats from all over town. Now answer the questions or you’ll be sorry. Was George Satinov your lover? Vlad Titorenko? Or Andrei Kurbsky?

SERAFIMA
No. Andrei wanted to protect me. George is a friend. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

LIKHACHEV
Kurbsky is the son of an Enemy of the People. Was Innokenty Rimm your lover?

SERAFIMA
No! Dr Rimm is really old. He’s about forty! I don’t think any girl could be in love with Dr Rimm.

LIKHACHEV
A degenerate traitor who is capable of conspiring to overthrow the Soviet Government is capable of sexual intercourse with Dr Rimm. Don’t lie to the Party! We have the letters! We found them in your bedroom. Let me read this one:
My darling ‘Tatiana’, I know it is you, Serafima Constantinovna – your letters have reached the throbbing heart of this Bolshevik lover, your handsome pedagogue. In my Communist ethics lessons I gaze upon you. I sing for you in the school corridors! Your ‘Onegin’ (yes, of course it is I, Innokenty).
Prisoner, your friends have told us that they saw Rimm following you in the streets. Confess this teacher seduced you. What depravity did he demand? Sodomy? If you lie to me, you’ll rot in the camps! Confess!

SERAFIMA
No. He sent me those letters but I was bewildered. Then I laughed. That’s all.

LIKHACHEV
Why didn’t you report them?

SERAFIMA
I wasn’t sure what to do. If I reported him, would I be blamed? He was important at the school, and I’m leaving soon. I thought it best just to keep them and ignore him.

LIKHACHEV
You are a lying prostitute. When we searched his home, we found
your
love letters to him! Look read this one.
Tuneful singer . . . sweet Onegin . . . Kiss me like a true Communist. ‘Tatiana’
.
You’re lying to the Organs of the Communist Party. Take this!

SERAFIMA
Please don’t hurt me. God, I’m bleeding.

LIKHACHEV
Confess or I’ll smash your teeth in. You’ll be like a toothless hag, sucking your gums. Are these your letters to him?

SERAFIMA
I’ve never seen these before. I didn’t write them, I swear to you. Someone was playing a prank on Dr Rimm. You know everything and I’m sure you even know who was teasing Dr Rimm. Perhaps one of his pupils?

LIKHACHEV
The Organs know everything. What about Teacher Golden? Was he your lover too?

SERAFIMA
No!

LIKHACHEV
You were his favourite pupil?

SERAFIMA
Why are you asking me these questions?

LIKHACHEV
Because you’re a pretty girl and he’s a fornicator. [Pause.] I have to ask you a question that is sensitive because of its relation to the Head of the Soviet Government. You were acquainted with General Vasily Stalin? Did you and he ever have immoral relations?

A stark, white villa in Babelsberg, Berlin. Stalin lay on a divan identical to the one in his Nearby Dacha in a library filled with the same books and journals. His first meetings with Churchill and Truman were set for later that day and he wore his new generalissimo’s uniform: a white tunic with a single star and golden epaulettes, creased blue trousers with a red stripe, and laced bootkins, instead of the baggy trousers tucked into high boots he generally favoured.

Outside the room, he heard the hum of the headquarters of an empire: motors revved, phones rang, boots clipped on marble floors, young officials bustled, typewriters clattered.

He was not quite alone, however: his son Vasily stood before him in full uniform, almost to attention, as if he was not family at all but a lowly air force general.

‘Sit, sit,’ said Stalin.

Vasily sat nervously.

‘How are you, Vaska?’ Stalin said softly. He was about to ask how Vasily’s poor wife and child were doing but it seemed a waste of time. He knew exactly how they were, and they were not happy.

‘Fine, Father.’

‘As you can see, I’m busy. No one can do a thing on their own, you know. You tell them what to do and they either ignore you or screw it up.’

‘Of course, Father. Only you can decide anything.’

‘You can see I’m weary. Not quite well.’

‘You look very well to me, Father. Congratulations on the new rank, generalissimo.’

‘Pah!’ Stalin waved this aside disdainfully. ‘We’ve got a lot to do here.’ He knew from his British agents that Truman would tell him in the next two days that America had its nuclear bomb and that they would now drop it on Japan. He would pretend that he knew nothing about it. If its awesome power was not exaggerated, he would have to accelerate the Soviet nuclear programme to get his own bomb at breakneck speed. A titanic endeavour. Only his best organizer, Beria, could pull it off . . . Stalin had won the war, he had toiled sixteen hours a day for four years, sometimes, in the early crises, sleeping on a campbed in his office for days on end. But now he had defeated Germany and conquered half of Europe. And just when he had triumphed, the Americans had got this new bomb and he would have to start all over again. His enemies were still strong and he would have to be harsher, stronger, more vigilant than ever. No one must find out how ill he was.

‘Father . . .’ Vasily started and Stalin, whose mind had been far away, focused on the sickly, grey face of his son. It was the face of an alcoholic. Like Stalin’s father.

‘Vaska,’ said Stalin, suddenly colder and businesslike. He didn’t have much time and the boy bored, shamed and irritated him in equal measure. What would his late wife Nadya have thought of this pathetic ne’er-do-well? She’d have blamed him, of course. ‘You’ve been mentioned in connection with the Children’s Case. The Chekists say you were chasing Sophia Zeitlin’s daughter. You’re a general now, and a married man. I’ve already cashiered you and demoted you once. Stop chasing skirt, stop drinking. You’re making a fool of yourself and me. They’ll ask you some questions. Answer them properly so I don’t have to hear about this again.’

Vasily hung his head. ‘Yes, Father, I promise. But this case involves Marshal Shako’s daughter, Rosa, and I wanted to talk to you about him.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s about our fighter planes and how they crash far too often.’

Stalin sat up abruptly: ‘What are you saying?’ Military technology was his own speciality, so if things went wrong, it meant either incompetence or sabotage. Both were crimes.

‘Our planes, specially Yak and MiG fighters, crash seven times more frequently than American Hurricanes or British Spitfires. Many pilots have been killed and there is considerable anger in the air force.’

‘Why haven’t you told me this before?’ Now Stalin was paying Vasily his fullest attention, and Vasily, who seconds earlier had been no more than a delinquent weakling, now basked in the blazing sunlight of his focus.

‘I reported this in full to Marshal Shako and Aircraft Production Minister Titorenko.’

‘Their reaction?’

‘They basically suggested that I conceal the evidence from you. To push ahead with production. To sacrifice more machines and pilots.’