They approached the enormous machines. At the front there was a typewriter-like device, a panel of letters. Leo addressed the sons:
—Right now you’re in need of friends. I can’t dismiss your father’s suicide. I can petition my superiors to stop his actions from impacting on your careers. Times are different now: the mistakes of your father need not reflect on you. But you must earn my help. Tell me what happened. What was your father working on?
The younger son shrugged:
—He was working on some kind of State document. We didn’t read it. We destroyed all the pages he’d set. He hadn’t finished. We thought maybe he was depressed because he was going to print another badly produced journal. We burned the paper copy. We melted the typeset pages down. There’s nothing left. That’s the truth.
Refusing to give up, Leo pointed at the machine:
—Which machine was he working on?
—This one.
—Show me how it works.
—But we’ve destroyed everything.
—Please.
Akvsenti glanced at his brother, evidently seeking permission. His brother nodded:
—You operate the machine by typing. At the back the device collects the letter molds. Each line is formed of individual molds grouped together with space molds in between. When the line is finished it’s cast from a mixture of molten lead and tin. It forms a slug. Those slugs are placed on this tray, until you have an entire page of text. The steel page is then covered in ink and the paper is rolled over—the text is printed. But, like we said, we melted all the pages down. There’s nothing left.
Leo walked around the machine. His eyes followed the mechanical process, the collection of letter molds to the assembly line. He asked:
—When I type, the letter molds are collected in this assembly grid?
—Yes.
—There are no complete lines of text. You destroyed those. But in the assembly grid, there’s a partial line, a line that hasn’t been finished.
Leo was pointing at an incomplete row of letter molds:
—Your father was halfway through a line.
The sons peered into the machine. Leo was right.
—I want to print these words.
The eldest son began tapping the space bar, remarking:
—If we add spaces to the end of the line, it will be of complete length and ready to cast as a slug.
Individual space molds were added to the incomplete line until the assembly grid was full. A plunger depressed molten lead into the mold and a narrow rectangular slug dropped out—the last words Suren Moskvin set before taking his own life.
The single slug lay on its side, its letters tilted away from view. Leo asked:
—Is it hot?
—No.
Leo picked up the slug line, placed it on the tray. He covered the surface with ink and placed a single sheet of white paper over the top, pressing down.
SAME DAY
SEATED AT HIS KITCHEN TABLE, Leo stared at the sheet of paper. Three words were all that remained of the document that had resulted in Suren Moskvin taking his own life:
Under torture, Eikhe
Leo had read the words over and over again, unable to take his eyes off them. Out of context, their effect was nonetheless hypnotic. Breaking their spell, he pushed the sheet of paper aside and picked up his case, laying it flat on the table. Inside were two classified files. In order to obtain access to them he’d needed clearance. There’d been no difficulty regarding the first file, on Suren Moskvin. However, the second had prompted questions. The second file he’d requested was on Robert Eikhe.
Opening the first set of documents, he felt the weight of this man’s past, the number of pages accumulated on him. Moskvin had been a State Security officer—just like Leo—a Chekist, for far longer than Leo had ever served, keeping his job while thousands of officers were shot. Included in the file was a list: the denouncements Moskvin had made throughout his career:
Nestor Iurovsky. Neighbor. Executed
Rozalia Reisner. Friend. 10 years
Iakov Blok. Shopkeeper. 5 years
Karl Uritsky. Colleague. Guard. 10 years
Nineteen years of service, two pages of denouncements, and nearly one hundred names—yet he’d only ever given up one family member.
Iona Radek. Cousin. Executed
Leo recognized a technique. The dates of the denunciations were haphazard, many falling in one month and then nothing for several months. The chaotic spacing was deliberate, hiding careful calculation. Denouncing his cousin had almost certainly been strategic. Moskvin needed to make sure it didn’t look as if his loyalty to the State stopped at his family. To suffuse his list with credibility the cousin had been sacrificed: protection from the allegation that he only named people who didn’t matter to him personally. A consummate survivor, this man was an improbable suicide.
Checking the dates and locations of where Moskvin had worked, Leo sat back in surprise. They’d been colleagues: both of them employed at the Lubyanka seven years ago. Their paths had never crossed, at least not that he could remember. Leo had been an investigator, making arrests, following suspects. Moskvin had been a guard, transporting prisoners, supervising their detention. Leo had done his utmost to avoid the basement interrogation cells, as if believing the floorboards shielded him from the activities that went on below, day after day. If Moskvin’s suicide was an expression of guilt, what had triggered such extreme feelings after all this time? Leo shut the folder, turning his attention to the second file.
Robert Eikhe’s file was thicker, heavier, the front cover stamped CLASSIFIED, the pages bound shut as if to keep something noxious trapped inside. Leo unwound the string. The name seemed familiar. Glancing at the pages he saw that Eikhe had been a Party member since 1905—before the revolution—at a time when being a member of the Communist Party meant exile or execution. His record was impeccable: a former candidate for the Central Committee Politburo. Despite this, he’d been arrested on 29 April 1938. Plainly, this man was no traitor. Yet Eikhe had confessed: the protocol was in the file, page after page detailing his anti-Soviet activity. Leo had drafted too many pre-prepared confessions not to recognize this as the work of an agent, punctuated with stock phrases—signs of the in-house style, the template to which any person might be forced to sign their name. Flicking forward, Leo found a declaration of innocence written by Eikhe while imprisoned. In contrast to the confession, the prose was human, desperate, pitifully heaping praise on the Party, proclaiming love for the State, and pointing out with timid modesty the injustice of his arrest. Leo read, hardly able to breathe:
Not being able to suffer the tortures to which I was submitted by Ushakov and Nikolayev—especially by the former, who utilized the knowledge that my broken ribs have not properly mended and caused me great pain—I have been forced to accuse myself and others.
Leo knew what would follow next.
On 4 February 1940 Eikhe had been shot.
RAISA STOOD, watching her husband. Engrossed in classified files, he was oblivious to her presence. This vision of Leo—pale, tense, shoulders hunched over secret documents, the fate of other people in his hands—could have been sliced from their unhappy past. The temptation was to react as she’d done so many times before, to walk away, to avoid and ignore him. The rush of bad memories hit her like a kind of nausea. She fought against the sensation. Leo was not that man anymore. She was no longer trapped in that marriage. Walking forward, she reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder, appointing him the man she’d learned to love.
Leo flinched at her touch. He hadn’t noticed his wife enter the room. Caught unawares, he felt exposed. He stood up abruptly, the chair clattering behind him. Eye to eye, he saw her nervousness. He’d never wanted her to feel that way again. He should have explained what he was doing. He’d fallen into old habits, silence and secrets. He put his arms around her. As she rested her head on his shoulder, he knew she was peering down at the files. He explained:<
br />
—A man killed himself, a former MGB agent.
—Someone you knew?
—No. Not that I remember.
—You have to investigate?
—Suicide is treated as—
She interrupted.
—I mean… does it have to be you?
Raisa wanted him to pass the case over, to have nothing to do with the MGB, even indirectly. He pulled back.
—The case won’t take long.
She nodded, slowly, before changing the subject:
—The girls are in bed. Are you going to read for them? Maybe you’re busy?
—No, I’m not busy.
He put the files back in the case. Passing his wife he leaned in to kiss her, a kiss that she gently blocked with a finger, looking into his eyes. She said nothing, before removing her finger and kissing him—a kiss that felt as if he was making the most unbreakable and sacred of promises.
Entering his bedroom, he placed the files out of sight, an old habit. Changing his mind, he retrieved them, leaving them on the sidetable for Raisa should she want to read them. He hurried back down the hallway on his way to his daughters’ bedroom, trying to smooth the tension from his face. Smiling broadly, he opened the door.
Leo and Raisa had adopted two young sisters. Zoya was now fourteen years old and Elena seven. Leo moved toward Elena’s bed, perching on the edge, picking up a book from the cabinet, a children’s story by Yury Strugatsky. He opened the book and began to read aloud. Almost immediately Zoya interrupted:
—We’ve heard this before.
She waited a moment before adding:
—We hated it the first time.
The story concerned a young boy who wanted to be a miner. The boy’s father, also a miner, had died in an accident and the boy’s mother was fearful of her son continuing in such a dangerous profession. Zoya was right. Leo had read this before. Zoya summarized contemptuously:
—The son ends up digging more coal than anyone has ever dug before, becomes a national hero, and dedicates his prize to the memory of his father.
Leo shut the book.
—You’re right. It’s not very good. But Zoya, while it’s okay for you to say whatever you please in this house, be more careful outside. Expressing critical opinions, even about trivial matters, like a children’s story, is dangerous.
—You going to arrest me?
Zoya had never accepted Leo as her guardian. She’d never forgiven him for the death of her parents. Leo didn’t refer to himself as their father. And Zoya would call him Leo Demidov, addressing him formally, putting as much distance between them as possible. She took every opportunity to remind him that she was living with him out of practical considerations, using him as a means to an end—providing material comforts for her sister, freeing her from the orphanage. Even so, she took care that nothing impressed her, not the apartment, not their outings, day trips, or meals. As stern as she was beautiful, there was no softness in her appearance. Perpetual unhappiness seemed vitally important to her. There was little Leo could do to encourage her to shrug it off. He hoped that at some point relations would slowly improve. He was still waiting. He would, if necessary, wait forever.
—No, Zoya, I don’t do that anymore. And I never will again.
Leo reached down, picking up one of the Detskaya Literatura journals, printed for children across the country. Before he could start, Zoya cut in:
—Why don’t you make up a story? We’d like that, wouldn’t we, Elena?
When Elena had first arrived in Moscow, she’d been very young, only four years old, young enough to adapt to the changes in her life. In contrast to her older sister, she’d made friends and worked hard at school. Susceptible to flattery, she sought her teachers’ praise, trying to please everyone, including her new guardians.
Elena became anxious. She understood from the tone of her sister’s voice that she was expected to agree. Embarrassed at having to take sides, she merely nodded. Leo, sensing danger, replied:
—There are plenty of stories we haven’t read, I’m sure I can find one we like.
Zoya wouldn’t relent:
—They’re all the same. Tell us something new. Make something up.
—I doubt I’d be very good.
—You’re not even going to try? My father used to make up all kinds of stories. Set it on a remote farm, a farm in winter, with the ground covered in a layer of snow. The nearby river is frozen. It could start like this. Once upon a time there are two young girls, sisters…
—Zoya, please.
—The sisters live with their mother and their father and they’re as happy as can be. Until one day a man, in a uniform, came to arrest them and—
Leo interrupted:
—Zoya? Please?
Zoya glanced at her sister and stopped. Elena was crying. Leo stood up.
—You’re both tired. I’ll find some better books tomorrow. I promise.
Leo turned the light off and closed the door. In the hallway, he comforted himself that things would get better, eventually. All Zoya needed was a little more time.
ZOYA LAY IN BED, listening to the sound of her sister sleeping—her slow, soft intakes of breath. When they’d lived on the farm with their parents, the four of them shared a small room with thick mud walls, warmed by a wood fire. Zoya would sleep beside Elena under their coarse, hand-stitched blankets. The sound of her little sister sleeping meant safety: it meant their parents were nearby. It didn’t belong here, in this apartment, with Leo in the room next door.
Zoya never fell asleep easily. She’d lie in bed for hours, churning thoughts before exhaustion overcame her. She was the only person who cherished the truth: the only person who refused to forget. She eased herself out of bed. Aside from her little sister’s breathing, the apartment was silent. She crept to the door, her eyes already adjusted to the darkness. She navigated the hallway by keeping her hand on the wall. In the kitchen, street lighting leaked in through the window. Moving nimbly, like a thief, she opened a drawer and took hold of the handle, feeling the weight of the knife.
SAME DAY
PRESSING THE BLADE FLAT against her leg, Zoya walked toward Leo’s bedroom. Slowly she pushed open the door until there was enough space that she could sidestep inside. She moved silently over the wood floor. The curtains were drawn, the room dark, but she knew the layout, where to tread in order to reach Leo, sleeping on the far side.
Standing directly over him Zoya raised the knife. Although she couldn’t see him, her imagination mapped the contours of his body. She wouldn’t stab him in the stomach: the blankets might absorb the blade. She’d plunge the blade through his neck, sinking it as far as she could, before he had a chance to overpower her. Knife outstretched, she pressed down with perfect control. Through the blade she felt his arm, his shoulder—she steered upward, making small depressions until the knife tip touched directly onto his skin. In position, all she had to do was grip the handle with both hands and push down.
Zoya performed this ritual at irregular intervals, sometimes once a week, sometimes not for a month. The first time had been three years ago, shortly after she and her sister had moved into this apartment from the orphanage. On that occasion she’d had every intention of killing him. That same day he’d taken them to the zoo. Neither she nor Elena had been to a zoo and, confronted with exotic animals, creatures that she’d never seen before, she’d forgotten herself. For perhaps no more than five or ten minutes, she’d enjoyed the visit. She’d smiled. He hadn’t seen her smile, she was sure of that, but it didn’t matter. Watching him together with Raisa, a happy couple, imitating a family, pretending, lying, she understood that they were trying to steal the place of her parents. And she’d let them. On her way home, on the tramcar, her guilt had been so intense she’d thrown up. Leo and Raisa had blamed the sweet snacks and the motion of the tram. That night, feverish, she’d lain in bed, crying, scratching her legs until they bled. How could she have betrayed the memory of her parents so easily? Le
o believed he could win her love with new clothes, rare foods, day trips, and chocolate: it was pathetic. She’d vowed that her lapse would never happen again. There was one way to make sure: she’d taken the knife and resolved to kill him. She’d stood, as she stood now, ready to murder.
The same memory that had driven her into the room, the memory of her parents, was the reason she hadn’t killed him. They wouldn’t want this man’s blood on her hands. They would want her to look after her sister. Obedient, silently crying, she’d allowed Leo to live. Every now and then she’d come back, creeping in, armed with a knife, not because she’d changed her mind, not for revenge, not to murder, but as a memorial to her parents, as a way of saying she had not forgotten them.
The telephone rang. Startled, Zoya stepped back, the knife slipping from her hand, clattering to the floor. Dropping to her knees, she fumbled in the pitch-black frantically trying to find it. Leo and Raisa were stirring, the bed straining as they moved. They’d be reaching for the light. Working by touch alone, Zoya desperately patted the floor-boards. As the telephone rang for the second time she had no choice but to leave the knife behind, hurrying around the bed, running toward the door, slipping through the gap just as the light came on.
LEO SAT UP, his thoughts sluggish with sleep, intermingled dreams and reality—there had been movement, a figure, or perhaps there hadn’t. The phone was ringing. It only ever rang because of work. He checked his watch: almost midnight. He glanced at Raisa. She was awake, waiting for him to answer the phone. He mumbled an apology and got up. The door was ajar. Didn’t they always close it before they went to sleep? Maybe not; it didn’t matter, and he headed into the hallway.
Leo picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end was urgent, loud:
—Leo? This is Nikolai.
Nikolai: the name meant nothing to him. He didn’t reply. Correctly interpreting Leo’s silence, the man continued: