Trans-Siberian Express (39 page)

“We will beat his thing together, you and I,” Dimitrov had said.

“It is formidable.”

“Everything is formidable.”

The impossible is only impossible because of ignorance, he told himself, still holding out the idea of somehow getting off the train and heading back to the dacha. But he was offended by his own smugness. There is no escaping now, he admitted, watching the landscape slide by. A small boy slogged along the track with a heavy package on his back, his face raised to the passing train. A stray dog barked a greeting, his spindly hind legs stiff with effort, yearning for recognition from the train, which moved on relentlessly.

He imagined he understood what Anna Petrovna might be thinking. That he had somehow failed to understand the implications of what she believed. To him it was only a piece of the earth flashing by outside the window. To her it was ground hallowed by her vision of life. In her mind the boy, the dog, the pinpoints of light in the distance, the lines of babushkas, the train, the taiga, the rivers gorged with ice, all would be atomized, sacrificed to forces beyond her control. And he was committed to prolonging the life of the man who would command those forces.

Was it possible that he agreed with Dimitrov, that somehow he sanctioned the act? Was he a victim of Dimitrov’s magnetism?

“Two powers,” Dimitrov had said, that day in the oak forest near the dacha. “Two opposing systems would be quite acceptable. Not three. Not more than two. America and the Soviet Union. We will divide the world up and disarm everyone but ourselves.”

He had looked at Alex and pointed a blunt forefinger. “You will take half and we will take half, like two halves of an apple.”

“Why not take the whole?” Alex had said.

“That would not do. One must have the example of the other. What good is the critical faculty if there is no one to criticize? Everything is like the earth. Two poles. Two sexes. The competition would be healthy.”

“And would people choose between the two?”

“Of course.” He put his arm on Dimitrov’s shoulder. “And which would you choose, Kuznetsov?”

He had not answered.

“In the end there are only two basic choices,” Dimitrov had said.

The memory faded. Alex stirred again, stood up and put his hand on Anna Petrovna’s hair, stroking it, feeling the softness against his fingers.

“I’ve disappointed you,” he said softly.

Apparently she had been waiting for him to speak. She turned toward him, her eyes hard, her lips tight. “You are either a fool or a coward.”

“Probably both.” He thought a moment. “But not a murderer.”

“A murderer?” Her cheekbones flushed. “One life for millions. You have a distorted view of morality.”

How could he explain it to her? She continued to let him stroke her hair. Perhaps she was just indifferent.

“It would have been quite simple,” she said. “It would have required little effort. An overdose of something. Who would have been the wiser? You knew what was contemplated. Now we have to continue this stupid uncertainty. I would have gladly changed places with you.” She paused again, breathing deeply. “If it was your land, your home, you would have reacted quite differently, I am sure.”

“Perhaps.” He admitted the possibility to her, but not to himself. She would think I was smug, self-righteous, pompous.

“He will probably die in any event, and quickly,” he said.

“Perhaps not quickly enough.”

She moved her head away from Alex’s hand.

“In any event, you would have had his ear. You might have reasoned with him.”

“With Dimitrov?”

“Of course.”

“Then you don’t know him.”

“You could have done something. You could have found a way. If you hadn’t told Zeldovich what you knew about Grivetsky, we might have convinced him to let you go back now.”

“That is absurd. Zeldovich would never allow it.”

“We could have persuaded him.”

“How?”

“If you had sworn to destroy him. Your silly moral posturing was counterproductive. Zeldovich would have responded. He would have arranged for your return.”

So, even at this late hour, she was still clinging to the purity of Zeldovich’s motives. It was ridiculous. Zeldovich would never have let him return. Even his announcement of his desire to return had been an empty gesture.

“But I had no intention of destroying him. That was not my purpose.”

“Your purpose is to save lives.”

“His life.”

“And the others?”

He looked at her and shook his head.

“You really think it is moral posturing on my part?”

“Of course. If you were actually with Dimitrov, you would have made the only decision possible.”

“You think I would have killed him?”

“Yes. Or how could you live with yourself?”

He sighed. It was useless to debate the issue now. Despite the feeling of perpetual motion that vibrated his bones and rattled his teeth, and seemed now a permanent condition of his environment, the end of the journey was almost in sight. He lay down on the lower bunk and tried to calculate the remaining hours. His own watch read three o’clock, but it could have been early morning or midafternoon. The light was a uniform greenness that merged into the horizon. They had just passed Belgorsk.

“How much longer?” he asked quietly, talking to the underbelly of the bunk above him. He listened, felt her stir in the chair.

“In two days
you
will be in Nakhodka.
You
will have to change in Khabarovsk.” He caught the emphasis on the second person pronoun. “Foreigners must change there,” she said.

“And then?” He whispered the question, feeling the impending loss of her. Could the question have disturbed her?

It occurred to him then, as it must have occurred to her, that the whispered question had no logical answer. And then? What then? Would Zeldovich simply let them debark and go their way? Whatever Zeldovich’s motives might be—and Alex knew they were hardly in the general interests of mankind—he would not be foolish enough to let them go, not as long as Dimitrov was alive.

“We’ve got to get the hell off this train,” he said.

He sat up and looked at Anna Petrovna’s face silhouetted against the gray window. A cloud of smoke rose from the shadows, as she expelled cigarette smoke. She seemed resigned. He got up, walked past her and tried the window. It would not budge.

“This is obviously their specialty,” he said. His fingertips were numb from the effort. She did not respond. “They are experts in keeping people in. In the art of imprisonment.” He stood facing the window for a moment. It darkened suddenly as the train roared through a tunnel.

“We could bust out this window at the next stop,” he said.

She stirred. “And then?”

Could she be mocking him?

“I’ll get a message through somehow.”

“To whom?”

“The Americans, of course.” He paused for a moment, watching her. The train came out of the tunnel into the grayness. She was looking up at him, her eyes curious.

“And Dimitrov?” she asked.

“By now he is obviously reacting to the realization that he is gravely sick, perhaps dying.”

“You are still doubtful?”

“My place is with him.”

“Your place?”

He could detect the beginnings of renewed anger. Was he being self-righteous? He felt the affliction of loving her, yet not possessing her. You are hung up on geography, he wanted to scream out at her. What is so precious about your Siberia? It was time, he thought, to step out of his grandfather’s fantasy. It was vanity, pure vanity, an insidious brainwashing that his grandfather had undertaken on an unsuspecting innocent young mind.

“You don’t think that man in there”—he was pointing at Zeldovich’s compartment—“gives a damn about your goddamned Siberia?”

“I am fully aware of that.”

“You saw him kill a man. Do you think he would hesitate to kill me—or you?” He hesitated, stepped back from the edge of hysteria.

“Zeldovich is of no consequence,” she said calmly. “We are talking of a man who has the power to kill millions and fully intends to use that power. In the face of that, what is all this nonsense about Zeldovich? Or you? Or me?”

“You have no right to use me as the instrument of his murder.”

Had he misstated his conscience? he wondered. He admitted his confusion. The man was obviously dying now. Why persist? he wondered. The disease was terminal. In reality, the choice had been made for him. Perhaps that was the core of his resentment. He felt the full extent of his helplessness.

“You have no right to condemn those millions to death,” she said calmly, the chasm between them widening. They were investing him with the guilt of it. The pores of his body seemed to open, and perspiration soaked his shirt, his socks, the seat of his pants.

“And suppose the missiles were pointed in your direction? In the direction of America? Would you be such a martyr to personal integrity?”

He imagined that he could deduce the answer if he searched far enough in his mind. If only he were researching something other than himself. He was a scientist, he told himself. He could not draw conclusions so swiftly. There are only questions, he decided, feeling his own impotence. He climbed into the upper bunk and lay down.

“We all live in Siberia,” he shouted to himself, hoping that his grandfather might hear him.

AT
Kundur, Tania hopped from the metal step to the station platform and removed the suitcases of the inspector and the railway policeman. Between them, they guided the pale-faced Ginzburg down the steps. His hands were handcuffed behind him, making it difficult for him to balance himself as he shuffled downward.

Ginzburg’s teeth chattered, his lips turning blue quickly in the immense cold. A crowd of passengers surged toward the hard-class carriages, while debarking passengers fought their way outward, opposing armies filtering through each other’s lines. A statue of Lenin, finely polished, gleamed in the faltering light of late afternoon.

Sokolovich stepped aside and contemplated the two suitcases standing on the platform. He picked them up and balanced them in either arm as Voikov began to prod Ginzburg to movement. But Ginzburg resisted, angering the policeman.

“Please,” Ginzburg protested. His eyes rested on Tania, who looked away.

“Get along, you bastard,” Voikov said.

“Please,” Ginzburg said.

Tania stole a glance at him. He was looking toward the baggage car.

“You must let her off in Birobidjan,” he shouted, as the railway policeman dragged him away. But the instructions from Voikov were quite clear. Tania looked at him as if to reassure herself that she had understood correctly.

“At Khabarovsk, send her back to Moscow.” He had written out the instructions and handed her the woman’s passport. “Arrange for a box. She’ll stink up the place if you don’t. I’ll wire Moscow to find her family.”

Ginzburg had been sitting glumly on the lower bunk, handcuffed to a metal support. He had appeared not to be listening, lost in his own thoughts. Now she realized that he had heard it all.

“At Birobidjan,” Ginzburg shouted as Voikov dragged him into the station. They disappeared inside and Tania grabbed the handrail and lifted herself aboard. As she stood on the steps shivering, a little man came running out toward her. In his hand she could see the familiar envelope of a telegraph message. Another message, she thought. It was the third one. She had already delivered two of them to the KGB man, who sat brooding in his compartment.

“Zeldovich?” the little man asked.

“I’ll take it.”

The little man hesitated a moment, shivering violently. He had rushed out without his coat.

“It is urgent,” he said. “They are burning the wires from Moscow. The bosses are accusing us of inefficiency. There will be hell to pay if the message is not delivered. You will promise that he gets it?”

She watched him turn and run back to the warmth of the station. Holding the message in her hand, she continued to stand on the lower step as the train moved sluggishly out of the station.

She looked at her watch. They had finally made up the lost time. Loss of time reflected on all of them. Despite everything, she mused with satisfaction, they were adhering to the schedule. The idea had a calming effect, and she sensed that she had begun to make peace with herself over her indiscretions.

She had tried very hard to please Sokolovich and felt that she had won his approbation. He had even taken her aside after Ginzburg’s arrest and shared a confidence. She had been at the samovar, loading the charcoal from the pail to the heating bed. At first he had loitered around, waiting for a passenger to pass. Then he had touched her arm, startling her, but the unusually benign expression on his face told her that he was about to say something of special meaning.

He looked toward the KGB soldier, a brief glance. But Tania had seen it, and knew that what was coming was for her ears only. “We clean our own laundry, right, Tania?” He had even used her first name.

She understood at once, although she had, of course, shown no emotion. He could have been a KGB agent and, as she knew, he was capable of great subterfuge. She merely nodded her head to indicate that she had caught his meaning. And she had felt great pride in it. The trains move in spite of them, in spite of their foolishness, she might have said, but she kept silent.

In the passageway, she saw little Vladimir, standing with his eyes glued to the window as they pulled out of the station. He had been the instrument of Ginzburg’s arrest, and it frightened her to see him. She did not dwell on the matter. It is not my business, she told herself, even though she knew, from her own careful observation of the passengers, that Ginzburg had not left the train at Krasnoyarsk.

As Tania walked toward Vladimir, he looked up, then ran away and hid in the toilet at the far end of the carriage. She wondered if the boy sensed that she knew he had lied.

She passed the guard, deliberately ignoring him, and knocked on Zeldovich’s compartment door. She waited, tapping the envelope against the metal door, hearing someone stir within.