Child 44 (22 page)

—We’re here.

The train pulled into the station. They collected their cases, stepping down onto the platform. It was colder than Moscow–the temperature had dropped by at least a couple of degrees. They stood like two evacuee children arriving in the country for the first time, staring at their unfamiliar surroundings. They’d been given no instructions. They knew no one. They didn’t even have a number to call. No one was waiting for them.

The station building was empty except for a man seated at the ticket booth. He was young, not much more than twenty. He watched them intently as they entered the building. Raisa approached him.

—Good evening. We need to get to the headquarters of the militia.

—You’re from Moscow?

—That’s right.

The man opened the door of his ticket booth, stepping out onto the concourse. He pointed out of the glass doors towards the street outside.

—They’re waiting for you.

One hundred paces from the station entrance was a militia car.

Passing a snow-capped stone carving of Stalin’s profile, chiselled into a slab of rock like a fossilized impression, Raisa and Leo moved towards the car, a GAZ-20, no doubt one of the cars produced by this town. As they got closer they could see two men sitting in the front. The door opened, one of the men stepped out, a middle-aged man with broad shoulders.

—Leo Demidov?

—Yes.

—I’m General Nesterov, head of Voualsk’s militia.

Leo wondered why he’d bothered to meet them. Surely Vasili had given instructions to make the experience as unpleasant as possible? But it didn’t matter what Vasili had said–the arrival of a former
MGB
agent from Moscow was going to put the militia on their guard. They wouldn’t believe that he was merely here to join their ranks. They almost certainly suspected an ulterior agenda and presumed that, for whatever reason, he’d be reporting back to Moscow. The more Vasili had tried to convince them otherwise, the more suspicious they would’ve become. Why would an agent travel hundreds of kilometres to join a small-scale militia operation? It didn’t make sense–in a classless society the militia were near the bottom of the heap.

Every schoolchild was taught that murder, theft and rape were symptoms of a capitalist society, and the role of the militia had been ranked accordingly. There was no need to steal and no violence between citizens because there was equality. There was no need for a police force in a Communist state. It was for this reason that the militia were nothing more than a lowly subsection of the Ministry of the Interior: poorly paid, poorly respected–a force comprised of secondary-school dropouts, farm workers kicked off the
kolkhoz
, discharged army personnel and men whose judgement could be bought with a half bottle of vodka. Officially the USSR’s crime rates were close to zero. The newspapers frequently pointed out the vast sums of money the United States of America was forced to waste on crime prevention with its need for gleaming police cars and police officers in crisp, clean uniforms visible on every street corner, without which its society would crumble. The West employed many of their bravest men and women fighting crime, citizens who could’ve better spent their time building something. None of that manpower was squandered here: all that was needed was a ragtag group of strong but otherwise useless men who were good for nothing more than breaking up drunken brawls. That was the theory. Leo had no idea what the real crime statistics were. He had no desire to find out since those who knew were probably liquidated on a regular basis. Factory production figures filled
Pravda
’s front page, the middle pages and the back pages too. Good news was the only news worth printing–high birth rates, mountain-top train lines and new canals.

Taking this into account, Leo’s arrival was a striking anomaly. A post in the
MGB
held more
blat
, respect, more influence, more material benefit than almost any other job. An officer wouldn’t voluntarily step down. And if he was disgraced, why hadn’t he simply been arrested? Even disavowed from the
MGB
, he still carried its shadow–potentially a valuable asset.

Nesterov carried their cases to the car as effortlessly as if they’d been empty. He loaded them into the boot, before opening the back door for them. Inside, Leo watched his new superior officer as he climbed into the front passenger seat. He was too large, even for this impressive vehicle. His knees came up near his chin. There was a young officer seated behind the wheel. Nesterov didn’t bother to introduce him. In similar fashion to the
MGB
there were drivers responsible for each vehicle. Officers weren’t given their own car and didn’t drive themselves. The driver put the car into gear, pulling out into an empty road. There wasn’t another car in sight.

Nesterov waited a while, no doubt not wanting to seem like he was interrogating his new recruit, before glancing at Leo in the rear-view mirror and asking:

—We were told three days ago that you were coming here. It’s an unusual transfer.

—We must go where we’re needed.

—No one has been transferred here for some time. I certainly made no request for any additional men.

—The output of the factory is considered a high priority. You can never have too many men working to ensure the security of this town.

Raisa turned towards her husband, guessing that his enigmatic answers were deliberate. Even demoted, even tossed out of the
MGB
, he was still making use of the fear it instilled. In their precarious circumstances it seemed a sensible thing to do. Nesterov asked:

—Tell me: are you to be a
syshchik
, a detective? We were confused about the orders. They said no. They said you were to be an
uchastkovyy
, which is a significant demotion in responsibility for a man of your status.

—My orders are to report to you. I leave my rank in your hands.

There was silence. Raisa supposed the general didn’t like having the question pushed back at him. Uncomfortable with the situation he gruffly added:

—For the moment you’ll stay in guest accommodation. Once an apartment has been found it will be assigned to you. I should warn you that there’s a very long waiting list. And there’s nothing I can do about that. There are no advantages to being a
militsioner
.

The car stopped outside what appeared to be a restaurant. Nesterov opened the boot, picking up the cases and depositing them on the pavement. Leo and Raisa stood, awaiting instructions. Addressing Leo, Nesterov said:

—Once you’ve taken your cases to your room please come back to the car. Your wife doesn’t need to come.

Raisa suppressed her irritation at being spoken about as if she wasn’t present. She watched as Leo, mimicking Nesterov, picked up both their cases. She marvelled at this bravado but decided against embarrassing him. He could struggle with her case if he wanted to. Walking just in front she pushed open the door, entering the restaurant.

Inside it was dark, the shutters were closed and the air stank of stale smoke. Last night’s dirty glasses cluttered the table. Leo put the cases down and knocked on one of the greasy tabletops. The silhouette of a man appeared at the door.

—We’re not open.

—My name is Leo Demidov. This is my wife, Raisa. We’ve just arrived from Moscow.

—Danil Basarov.

—I’ve been told by General Nesterov you have accommodation for us.

—You mean the room upstairs?

—I don’t know, yes, I suppose.

Basarov scratched the rolls of his stomach.

—Let me show you to your room.

The room was small. Two single beds had been pushed together. There was a gap down the middle. Both mattresses dipped. The wallpaper was bubbled like adolescent skin, lined with some kind of grease, sticky to touch. Leo figured it must be cooking oil, since the bedroom was directly over the kitchen, which could be seen through cracks in the floorboards, cracks which ventilated the room with the smell of whatever had been or was cooking below–boiled offal, gristle and animal fat.

Basarov was put out by Nesterov’s request. These beds, and this room, had been used by his s
taff
, which is to say the women who worked his customers. However, he’d been unable to decline the request. He didn’t own the building. And he required the goodwill of the militia in order to function as a business. They knew he was making a profit and they were fine with it as long as they got a share. It was undeclared, unofficial–a closed system. If the truth was told he was a little nervous of his guests, having heard they were
MGB
. It stopped him being as rude as he would naturally have been. He pointed down the hall towards a door which was partly ajar.

—There’s the bathroom. We’ve got one indoors.

Raisa tried to open the window. It had been nailed shut. She stared at the view. Ramshackle housing, dirty snow: this was home.

Leo felt tired. He’d been able to handle his humiliation while it had remained a concept but now that it had a physical form–this room–he just wanted to sleep, to close his eyes and shut out the world. Obliged to go back outside, he put his case on the bed, unable to look at Raisa, not out of anger, but out of shame. He walked out without saying a word.

Driven to the town’s telephone exchange, Leo was led inside. There was a queue of several hundred people waiting for their allotted time, a couple of minutes. Since most of them had been forced to leave behind their families in order to work here, Leo could appreciate that these minutes were extremely precious. Nesterov had no need to queue, heading into a cubicle.

Once he’d set up the call, which involved a conversation Leo couldn’t hear, he handed the receiver to him. Leo put the receiver to his ear. He waited.

—How’s the accommodation?

It was Vasili. He continued:

—You want to hang up, don’t you? But you can’t. You can’t even do that.

—What is it you want?

—To stay in touch so you can tell me about life over there and I can tell you about life here. Before I forget, the pleasant apartment you’d arranged for your parents, it’s been taken back. We’ve found them somewhere more suitable to their status. It’s a little cold and crowded, perhaps. Dirty, certainly. They’re sharing with a family of seven, I think, including five young children. By the way, I didn’t know your father suffered from terrible back pain. Shame that he has to return to the assembly line floor only a year from retirement: one year can be made to feel like ten when you’re not enjoying your job. But you’ll soon know all about that.

—My parents are good people. They’ve worked hard. They’ve done you no harm.

—But I’m going to hurt them all the same.

—What do you want from me?

—An apology.

—Vasili, I’m sorry.

—You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.

—I treated you badly. And I’m sorry.

—What are you sorry for? Be specific. Your parents are depending on you.

—I shouldn’t have hit you.

—You’re not trying hard enough. Convince me.

Desperate, Leo’s voice was trembling.

—I don’t understand what you want. You have everything. I have nothing.

—It’s simple. I want to hear you beg.

—I’m begging you, Vasili, listen to my voice. I am begging you. Leave my parents alone. Please…

Vasili had hung up.

17 March

Having walked all night–his feet blistered, his socks sodden with blood–Leo sat down on a park bench, put his head in his hands and wept.

He hadn’t slept, he hadn’t eaten. Last night, when Raisa had tried to talk to him, he’d ignored her. When she’d brought him food from the restaurant he’d ignored that too. Unable to stay in their tiny stinking room any longer he’d gone downstairs, elbowed his way through the crowd, making his way outside. He’d walked without any sense of direction, too frustrated, too angry to sit still and do nothing although he realized that was exactly the nature of his predicament–he could do nothing. Once again he was faced with an injustice, but this time he was no longer able to intervene. His parents wouldn’t be shot in the back in the head–that would be too swift, too much an approximation of mercy. Instead they’d be persecuted drip by drip. He could imagine the variety of options open to a methodical, sadistic and petty mind. In their respective factories they’d be demoted, given the hardest, dirtiest jobs–jobs a young man or woman would struggle with. They’d be goaded with stories of Leo’s pitiful exile, his disgrace and humiliation. Perhaps they’d even be told that he was in a Gulag, sentenced to twenty years of
katorga
, hard labour. As for the family that his parents were forced to share an apartment with, there was no doubt that they’d be as disruptive and unpleasant as possible. The children would be promised chocolate if they made a lot of noise, the adults promised their own apartment if they stole food, argued and, through whatever means available, made home life intolerable. He didn’t need to guess the details. Vasili would enjoy reporting them, knowing that Leo wouldn’t dare hang up the phone since he was afraid that whatever hardships his parents were experiencing would double as a result. Vasili would break him from afar, systematically applying pressure where he was vulnerable–his family. There was no defence. With a little work Leo could discover his parents’ address but all he could do, if his letters weren’t intercepted and burnt, would be to reassure them he was safe. He’d built them a comfortable life only to have it ripped from under their feet at a time when they could least handle the change.

He stood up, shivering with cold. With some difficulty, and no idea what he was going to do next, he began to retrace his steps, back to his new home.