Russian Roulette (6 page)

I
ENTERED KIRSK ON LEGS
that were tired and feet that were sore and remembered that the last time I had been here, it had been on a school trip. Lenin had once been here. That was what we were told. The great Soviet leader had stopped briefly in the town on his way to somewhere more important because there was a problem with his train. He made a brief speech on the station platform, then went to the local café for a cup of tea and, happening to glance in the mirror, decided that his beard and mustache needed a trim. Not surprisingly, the local barber almost had a heart attack when the most powerful man in the Soviet Union walked into his shop. The cup that he drank from and the clippings of black hair were still on display in the History and Folklore Museum of Kirsk. I saw them when I was there on my school trip.

As I entered the town, on foot, I remembered the museum. It was a large reddish brown building filled with rooms that were filled with objects, and after only an hour my head was already pounding. From the outside, it looked like a railway station. Curiously, Kirsk railway station looked quite like a museum with wide stairs, pillars, and huge bronze doors that should have opened onto something more important than ticket offices, platforms, and waiting rooms. I had seen it the last time I was here, but of course I couldn’t remember where it was. When you’ve been taken to a place in a coach and marched around shoulder to shoulder in a long line with no talking allowed, you don’t really look where you’re going. That hadn’t been my only visit. My father had taken me to the cinema here once—a long, boring film about a girl being bullied at school. And then there had been my visit to the hospital. But all these buildings could have been on different planets. I had no idea where they were in relation to one another.

After Estrov, the place seemed enormous. I had forgotten how many buildings there were, how many shops, how many cars and buses racing up and down the wide, cobbled streets. Everywhere seemed to have electricity. There were wires zigzagging from pole to pole, crossing each other like a disastrous cat’s cradle. But I’m not suggesting that Kirsk was anything special. I’d spent my whole life in a tiny village, so I was easily impressed. I didn’t notice the crumbling plaster on the buildings, the empty construction sites, the pits in the road, and the dirty water running through the gutters.

It was late afternoon when I arrived and the light was already fading. My mother had said there were two trains a day to Moscow, and I hoped I was in time to catch the evening one. I had never spent a night in a hotel before, and even though I had money in my pocket, the idea of finding one and booking a room filled me with fear. How much would I have to pay? Would they even give a room to a boy on his own? I had been walking for seven hours nonstop, leaving the forest behind me just after midday. I was starving . Since leaving the shed, all I’d had to eat were the lingonberries I’d collected. I still had a handful of them in my pocket, but I couldn’t eat any more because they were giving me stomach cramps. My feet were aching and soaking wet. I was wearing my leather boots, which had suddenly decided to leak. I felt filthy and wondered if they would let me onto the train. And what if they didn’t? I had only one plan, to get to Moscow, and even that seemed daunting. I had seen pictures of the city at school, of course, but I had no real idea what it would be like.

Finding the station wasn’t so difficult in the end. Somehow I stumbled onto the center of the town—I suppose every road led there if you walked enough. It was a wide area with an empty fountain and a Second World War monument, a slab of granite shaped like a slice of cake with the inscription
WE SALUTE THE GLORIOUS DEAD OF KIRSK
. I had always been brought up to respect all those who had lost their lives in the war, but I know now that there is nothing glorious about being dead. The monument was surrounded by statues of generals and soldiers, many of them on horseback. Was that how they had set off to face the German tanks?

The station was right in front of me, at the end of a wide, very straight boulevard with trees on both sides. I recognized it at once. It was surrounded by stalls selling everything from suitcases, blankets, and cushions to all sorts of food and drink. I could smell
shashlik
—skewers of meat—cooking on charcoal fires, and it made my mouth water. I was desperate to buy something, but that was when I realized I had a problem. Although I had a lot of money in my pocket, it was all in large notes. I had no coins. If I were to hand over a ten-ruble note for a snack that would cost no more than a few kopecks, I would only draw attention to myself. The stall holder would assume I was a thief. Better to wait until I was far away. And once I’d bought my train ticket, I would have change.

With these thoughts in my mind, I walked toward the main entrance of the station. I was so relieved to have gotten here and so anxious to be on my way that I was careless. I was keeping my head down, trying not to catch anyone’s eye. I should have been looking all around me. In fact, if I had been sensible, I would have tried to enter the station from a completely different direction, around the side or the back. As it was, I hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps before I found that my way was blocked. I looked up and saw two policemen standing in front of me, dressed in long gray coats with insignia around their collars and military caps. They were both young, in their twenties. They both had revolvers hanging from their belts.

“Where are you going?” one of them asked. He had bad skin, very raw, as if he had only started shaving recently and had used a blunt razor.

“To the station.” I pointed, trying to sound casual.

“Why?”

“I work there. After school. I help clean the platform.” I was making things up as I went along.

“Where have you come from?”

“Over there . . .” I pointed to one of the apartment blocks I had passed on my way into the town.

“Your name?”

“Leo Tretyakov.” My poor dead friend. Why had I chosen him?

The two policemen hesitated, and for just a moment I thought they were going to let me pass. Surely there was no reason to stop me. I was just a boy, doing odd jobs after school. But then the second policeman spoke. “Your identity papers,” he demanded. His eyes were cold.

I had used a false name because I was afraid the authorities would know who I was. After all, it had been my parents, Anton and Eva Gregorovich, who had escaped from the factory. But now I was trapped. The moment they looked at my passport, they would know I had lied to them. I should have been watching out for them from the start. Now that I looked around me, I realized that there were policemen everywhere. The entrance to the station was crawling with them. Obviously. The police would know what had happened at Estrov. They would have been told that two boys had escaped. They had been warned to look out for us at every station in the area . . . and I had simply walked into their arms.

“I don’t have them,” I stammered. I put a stupid look on my face, as if I didn’t realize how serious it was to be out without ID. “They’re at home.”

It might have worked. I was only fourteen and looked young for my age. But maybe the policemen had been given my description. Maybe one of the helicopter pilots had managed to take my photograph as he flew overhead. Either way, they knew. I could see it in their eyes, the way they glanced at each other. They were only in their twenties, at the start of their careers, and this was a huge moment for them. It could lead to a promotion, a pay raise, their names in the newspaper. They had just scored big-time. They had me.

“You will come with us,” the first policeman said.

“But I’ve done nothing wrong. My mother will be worried.” Why was I even bothering? Neither of them believed me.

“No arguments,” the second man snapped.

I had no choice. If I argued, if I tried to run, they would grab me and call for backup. I would be bundled into a police van before I could blink. It was better, for the moment, to stick with them. At least they weren’t armed. And if they were determined to bring me into the police station themselves, there might still be an opportunity for me to get away. The building could be on the other side of town. By going with them, I would at least buy myself a little time to think of a way out of this.

We walked slowly and all the time I was thinking, my eyes darting about, adding up the possibilities. There were plenty of people around. The working day was coming to an end and they were on their way home. But they wouldn’t help me. They wouldn’t want to get involved. I glanced back at the two policemen, who were walking about two steps behind me. What was it that I had noticed about them? They had clearly been pleased they had caught me, no question of that—but at the same time they were nervous. Well, that was understandable. This was a big deal for them.

But there was something else. They were nervous for another reason. I saw it now. They were walking very carefully, close enough to grab me if I tried to escape but not so close that that could actually touch me. Why the distance between me and them? Why hadn’t they put handcuffs on me? Why were they giving me even the smallest chance to run away? It made no sense.

Unless they knew.

That was it. It had to be.

I had supposedly been infected with a virus so deadly that it had forced the authorities to wipe out my village. It had killed Leo in less than twenty-four hours. The soldiers in the forest had all been dressed in biochemical protective gear. The police in Kirsk—and in Rosna, for that matter—must have been told that I was dangerous, infected. None of them could have guessed that my parents had risked everything to inoculate me. They probably hadn’t been told that an antidote existed at all. There was nothing to protect the young officers who had arrested me. As far as they were concerned, I was a walking time bomb. They wanted to bring me in. But they weren’t going to come too close.

We continued walking, away from the station. A few people passed us but said nothing and looked the other way. The policemen were still hanging back and now I knew why. Although it didn’t look like it, I had the upper hand. They were afraid of me! And I could use that.

Casually, I slipped my hand into my pocket. Because the two men were behind me, they didn’t see the movement. I took it out and wiped my mouth. I sensed that we were drawing close to the police station. Our pace had quickened and there were police cars parked ahead.

“This way!” One of the policemen pointed. We were going to enter the station at the back, down a wide alley and across a deserted parking lot with overflowing trash cans lined up along a rusting fence. We turned off and suddenly we were on our own. It was exactly what I wanted.

I staggered slightly and let out a groan, clutching hold of my stomach. Neither of the policemen spoke. I stopped. One of them prodded me in the back. Just one finger. No contact with my skin.

“Keep moving,” he commanded.

“I can’t,” I said. I put as much pain as I could manage into my voice.

I twisted around. At the same time, I began to cough, making horrible retching noises as if my lungs were tearing themselves apart. I sucked in, gasping for air, still holding my stomach. The policemen stared at me in horror. There was bright blood all around my lips, trickling down my chin. I coughed again and drops of blood splattered in their direction. I watched them fall back as if they had come face-to-face with a poisonous snake. And as far as they knew, my blood
was
poison. If any of it touched them, they would end up like me.

But it wasn’t blood.

Just a minute ago, I had slipped some of the berries from the forest into my mouth and chewed them up. What I was spitting was red berry juice mixed with my own saliva.

“Please help me,” I said. “I’m not well.”

The two policemen had come to a dead halt, caught between two conflicting desires: one to hold on to me, the other to be as far away from me as possible. I was overacting like crazy, grimacing and staggering about like a drunk, but it didn’t matter. Just as I’d suspected, they’d been told how dangerous I was. They knew the stakes. Their imagination was doing half the work for me.

“Everyone died,” I went on. “They all died. Please . . . I don’t want to be like them.” I reached out imploringly. My hand was stained red. The two men stepped back. They weren’t coming anywhere near. “So much pain!” I sobbed. I fell to my knees. The juice dripped onto my jacket.

The policemen made their decision. If they stayed where they were, if they tried to force me to my feet, it would kill them . . . quickly and unpleasantly. Yes, they wanted their promotion. But their lives mattered more. Maybe it occurred to them that the very fact that they had come into contact with me meant that they themselves would have to be eliminated. As far as they could see, I was dying anyway. I was lying on my side now, writhing on the ground, sobbing. My whole face was covered in blood. One of them spoke briefly to the other. I didn’t hear what he said, but his colleague must have agreed, because a moment later they were gone, hurrying back the way they had come. I watched them turn a corner. I very much doubted that they would report what had just happened. After all, dereliction of duty would not be something they would wish to advertise. They would probably spend the rest of the day at the bathhouse, hoping that the steam and the hot water would wash away the disease.