Child 44 (29 page)

—That’s enough.

He circled the suspect, weighing up his words.

—I’m disappointed to catch you doing this. I would never have thought it of you.

Aleksandr spat blood on the floor but he didn’t reply. Nesterov continued.

—Tell me why.

—Why? I don’t know why.

—You’ve committed a very serious crime. A judge would give you five years minimum and he wouldn’t care how many times you said you were sorry.

—I haven’t said sorry.

—Brave, Aleksandr, but would you be so brave if everyone found out? You’d be humiliated, disgraced. Even after serving your five years in prison you wouldn’t be able to live or work here. You’d lose everything.

Leo stepped forward.

—Just ask him.

—There is a way to avoid this shame. We need a list of every man in this town who has sex with other men, men who have sex with younger men, men who have sex with boys. You will help us create this list.

—I don’t know any others. This is my first time…

—If you choose not to help us we’ll arrest you, put you on trial and invite your parents to court. Are they getting ready for bed right now? I could send one of my men to find out, bring them down.

—No.

—Work for us and maybe we won’t need to mention anything to your parents. Work for us and maybe you won’t need to go to trial. Maybe this disgrace can stay a secret.

—What is this about?

—The murder of a young boy. You’ll be doing a public service and making amends for your crime. Will you make this list?

Aleksandr touched the blood running out of his mouth.

—What will happen to the men on the list?

29 March

Leo sat on the edge of his bed contemplating how his attempt to re-launch an investigation had instead precipitated a city-wide pogrom. Over the past week the militia had rounded up one hundred and fifty homosexuals. Today alone Leo had arrested six men, bringing his count to twenty. Some had been taken from their place of work, escorted out in handcuffs while their colleagues watched. Others had been taken from their homes, their apartments, taken from their families–their wives pleading, convinced that there must be some mistake, unable to comprehend the charges.

Nesterov had reason to be pleased. Quite by chance he’d found a second undesirable: a suspect he could call
murderer
without upsetting the social theory. Murder was an aberration. These men were an aberration. It was a perfect fit. He’d been able to announce that they were now instigating the largest murder hunt ever launched by the Voualsk militia, a claim that would’ve cost him his career if he hadn’t been targeting such an unacceptable subgroup. Short of space, offices had been converted into makeshift holding cells and interrogation rooms. Even with these improvised measures it had been necessary to lock several men in each cell with guards given clear instructions that the men needed to be watched at all times. The cause for concern had been the possibility of spontaneous incidents of sexual deviancy. No one quite knew what they were dealing with. But they were certain that were such sexual activities to take place within the militia headquarters they would undermine the establishment. It would be an affront to the principles of justice. In addition to this high level of scrutiny every officer had been timetabled to work twelve-hour shifts, with suspects questioned constantly, twenty-four hours a day. Leo had been obliged to ask the same questions again and again, picking through answers for even the smallest variation. He’d carried out this task like a dull automaton, convinced even before they’d made a single arrest that these men were innocent.

Aleksandr’s list had been trawled through name by name. On producing the list he’d explained that he could create it not because he’d been promiscuous, at least not to the extent of having sexual encounters with a hundred or so men. In fact, many of the names on the list were people he’d never even met. His information came from conversations with the ten or so that he’d had sex with. Each man recounted liaisons with different men so that, added together, it was possible to draw a sexual constellation with each man knowing his place in relation to each other. Leo had listened to this explanation, a hidden world opening up, a hermetically sealed existence constructed within society at large. The integrity of the seals was critical. Aleksandr had described how men on the list met by chance in routine situations, standing in a food line buying bread, eating at the same table in a factory canteen. In these everyday surroundings casual conversation was forbidden, a glance was the most that was allowed and even that needed to be disguised. These were rules that had come about not by agreement or decree, no one needed to be told them, they arose out of self-preservation.

As soon as the first wave of arrests had begun, news of a purge must have spread throughout their ranks. The secret meeting places–no longer a secret–were abandoned. But this desperate counter-measure had been to no avail. There was the list. The seals around the world had broken. Nesterov didn’t need to catch anyone in a sexually compromising act. Seeing their names in print, one after the after, and realizing that their ranks had been broken, most of the men succumbed to the pressure of this betrayal. Like U-boats which had for so long remained unseen under the water’s surface, suddenly they found all their positions had been given away. As they were forced to the surface they were presented with a choice, not much of a choice but a choice all the same: they could reject the charges of sodomy and face public prosecution, certain conviction, imprisonment, etc. Or they could identify the homosexual among them responsible for this terrible crime, the murder of a young boy.

As far as Leo could ascertain, Nesterov seemed to believe that all these men suffered from a sickness of some kind. While some were sick in the mildest sense, plagued by feelings for other men as a normal person might be racked by persistent headaches, others were dangerously ill, symptoms which expressed themselves in the need for young boys. This was homosexuality in its most extreme form. The murderer was one such man.

When Leo had shown photos of the crime scene, photos of the young boy with his guts cut open, all the suspects had reacted in exactly the same way–they were horrified–or at least they appeared to be. Who could’ve done such a thing? It wasn’t one of them, it wasn’t anyone they knew. None of them had any interest in boys. Many of them had children of their own and so on the answers had gone. Every man was resolute: they knew of no killer amongst them and they wouldn’t protect him if they did. Nesterov had expected a prime suspect within a week. After a week they had nothing to show for their work except a longer list. More names were added, some merely out of spite. The list had become a brutally effective weapon. Members of the militia were adding the names of their enemies onto it, claiming the person had been mentioned in confession. Once a name was on the list it was impossible to claim innocence. So the number in custody had grown from a hundred to nearly one hundred and fifty men.

Frustrated with the lack of progress, the local
MGB
had suggested they take over the interrogations, shorthand for the use of torture. To Leo’s dismay Nesterov had agreed. Despite floors flecked with blood there’d been no breakthrough. Nesterov had been left with little choice but to initiate prosecutions against all one hundred and fifty men, hoping this would make one of them speak. It wasn’t enough that they were humiliated and disgraced and tortured: they needed to understand that they would lose their lives. They would, if the judge was so instructed, receive twenty-five years for political subversion rather than a mere five years for sodomy. Their sexuality was considered a crime against the very fabric of the nation. Faced with this prospect three men had cracked and begun pointing the finger. However, none of them had picked the same person. Refusing to accept that his line of investigation was flawed, Nesterov considered himself up against a kind of perverse, criminal solidarity–honour amongst deviants.

Exasperated, Leo had approached his superior officer.

—These men are innocent.

Nesterov had stared at him, puzzled.

—All these men are guilty. The question is which one is also guilty of murder.

Raisa watched as Leo kicked the heels of his boots together. Dirty chunks of snow fell to the floor. He stared down, unaware that she was in the room. She found his disappointment impossible to bear. He’d believed, sincerely believed, that his investigation stood a chance. He’d pinned his hopes on a fanciful dream of redemption: a final act of justice. It was an idea she’d mocked that night in the forest. But it had been mocked far more cruelly by the turn of events. In the pursuit of justice he’d unleashed terror. In the pursuit of a killer, one hundred and fifty men would lose their lives, if not literally, then on every other level–they’d lose their families, their homes. And she realized, seeing her husband’s hunched shoulders and drawn face, that he never did anything without believing in it. There was nothing cynical or calculating about him. If this was true then he must also have believed in their marriage: he must have believed it was built on love. Steadily all the fantasies he’d created–about the State, about their relationship–had been shattered. Raisa was envious of him. Even now, even after everything that had happened, he was still able to hope. He still wanted to believe in something. She stepped forward, sitting beside him on the bed. Tentatively, she took his hand. Surprised, he looked at her but said nothing, accepting the gesture. And together they watched as the snow began to melt.

30 March

Orphanage 80 was a five-storey brick building with faded white lettering painted on the side:
WORK
HARD
LIVE
LONG
. On the roof there was a long line of chimney stacks. The orphanage had once been a small factory. Dirty rags hung across the barred windows, making it impossible to see inside. Leo knocked on the door. No response; he tried the handle. It was locked. Moving to the windows he tapped on the glass. The rags were jerked back. The face of a young girl appeared for little more than a second, an apparition of filth, before the rags fell back into place. Leo was accompanied by Moiseyev, a militia officer who Leo had pegged as little more than a uniformed thug. After a long wait the main door opened. An elderly man with a fist full of brass keys stared at the two officers. Seeing their uniforms his expression changed from irritation to deference. He dropped his head slightly.

—What can I do for you?

—We’re here about the murdered boy.

The main hall of the orphanage had once been the factory floor. All the machinery had been cleared and it had been converted into a dining room, not by the addition of tables and chairs, for there were none, but by the fact that the entire floor was covered with children sitting cross-legged, pressed up against each other and trying to eat. Every child clutched a wooden bowl filled with what appeared to be a watery cabbage soup. However, it seemed only the eldest children had spoons. The rest either sat waiting for a spoon or drank straight from the bowl. Once a child had finished, they licked the spoon from top to bottom before passing it onto the next child.

This was Leo’s first experience of a State orphanage. He stepped closer, surveying the room. It was difficult to guess how many children there were–two hundred, three hundred, aged from four to fourteen. None of the children paid Leo any attention: they were too busy eating or watching their neighbours, waiting for a spoon. No one spoke. All that could be heard was the scraping of bowls and slurping. Leo turned to the elderly man.

—Are you the director of this institution?

The director’s office was on the first floor, looking out over a factory floor covered with children as though they were being mass-produced. In the office were several teenage boys, older than the children downstairs. They were playing cards on the director’s desk. The director clapped his hands.

—Continue this in your room, please.

The boys stared at Leo and Moiseyev. Leo could only suppose that their irritation came from being told what to do. They had intelligent eyes, experience beyond their years. Without a word they moved together, like a pack of wild dogs, collecting up their cards, their matches–used as chips–and filed out.

Once they’d left, the director poured himself a drink and gestured for Leo and Moiseyev to take a seat. Moiseyev sat down. Leo remained standing, studying the room. There was a single metal filing cabinet. The bottom drawer had been dented by a kick. The top drawer was partially open and crumpled documents jutted out at all angles.

—There was a young boy murdered in the forest. You’ve heard about this?

—Some other officers were here showing me photos of the boy, asking if I knew who he was. I’m afraid I don’t.

—But you couldn’t say for sure if you were missing any children?

The director scratched his ear.

—There are four of us looking after three hundred or so children. The children come and go. New ones arrive all the time. You must forgive our failings regarding the paperwork.

—Do any of the children in this facility resort to prostitution?

—The older ones do whatever they want. I can’t keep tabs on them. Do they get drunk? Yes. Do they prostitute themselves? Quite possibly, although I don’t sanction it, I’m not involved in it and I certainly don’t profit from it. My job is to make sure they have something to eat and somewhere to sleep. And considering my resources I do that very well. Not that I expect any praise.

The director showed them upstairs towards the sleeping areas. As they passed a shower room he commented:

—You think that I’m indifferent to the children’s welfare? I’m not, I do my best. I make sure they wash once a week, I make sure they’re shaved and deloused once a month. I boil all their clothes. I will not have lice in my orphanage. You go to any other orphanage and the children’s hair will be alive with them, their eyebrows thick with them. It’s disgusting. Not here. Not that they thank me for it.