Child 44 (47 page)

—I’m sure you can imagine the kind of things that happened to women refugees. Soldiers, they had needs, they were risking their lives–they were owed. We were their payment. After one time–and there were several–I hurt so much, I swore if it ever happened again, if it ever looked like happening again, I’d rub that paste across his gums. They could kill me, hang me, but maybe it would make them think twice about doing it to another woman. Anyway, it became my lucky coin because as soon as I started carrying it I never had any problems. Maybe men can sense a woman with cyanide in her pocket. Of course, it didn’t cure the injuries I’d sustained. There was no medicine. That’s the reason I can’t get pregnant, Leo.

Leo stared into the darkness, at the place where he imagined his wife must be. During the war women had been raped during the occupation and then raped again by their liberators. As a soldier he knew such activity had been sanctioned by the State, considered part of the fabric of war and an appropriate reward for a brave soldier. Cyanide had been used by some to take their own lives in the face of impossible horrors. Leo supposed that most men might’ve checked the woman for a blade or a gun but a coin–that would’ve slipped their attention. He rubbed the palm of her hand. What else could he do? Apologize? Say he understood? He’d framed that newspaper clipping, hung it on the wall, proud, oblivious to what the war meant to her.

—Leo, I have another secret. I’ve fallen in love with you.

—I’ve always loved you.

—That’s not a secret, Leo. You’re three secrets behind.

Leo kissed her:

—I have a brother.

15 July

Nadya was alone in the house. Her mother and sister had gone to visit their grandmother and although Nadya had initially accompanied them, as they’d approached her grandmother’s apartment block she’d feigned a stomach ache and begged to be allowed to return. Her mother had agreed and Nadya had hurried back home. Her plan was simple. She was going to open the basement door and find out why her father spent so long downstairs in what must be a dark cold room. She’d never been down there, not once. She’d walked around the building feeling the damp bricks and imagining what it must be like inside. There were no windows, just a ventilation hole for the stove. It was strictly forbidden, out of bounds, an unbreakable rule of the house.

Her father was on a work trip at the moment. But he’d be back soon, perhaps as early as tomorrow, and she’d heard him talk about improving their home, which included building a new door for the basement. Not the front door, not the door that everyone used and which kept the warmth in. His first priority was the basement door. Admittedly it was flimsy but all the same. Why was it so important? In a couple of days he’d have fitted a new door which she wouldn’t be able to open. If she wanted to break in, if she wanted answers to her questions, she had to do it now. The lock was a simple latch. She’d studied it carefully and tested it to see if a knife could be squeezed in between the door and the frame, lifting up the latch. It could.

The latch raised, Nadya pushed the door open. Excited, afraid, she took a step down. She released the door and it swung shut. Some light crept in behind her, under the door and around the sides. Other than that the only light came through the ventilation hole downstairs. Adjusting her eyes to the gloom she reached the bottom of the stairs and surveyed her father’s secret room.

A bed, a stove, a small table and a chest–there was nothing mysterious. Disappointed, she snooped around. An old lamp hung on the wall and pinned up beside it were a series of newspaper clippings. She walked towards them. They were all the same: a photograph of a Russian soldier standing beside a burning tank. Some of the photographs had been cropped so that all you could see was the soldier. He was handsome. She didn’t recognize him. Puzzled by this collage she picked up a tin plate which had been left on the floor, no doubt for the cats. Turning her attention to the chest, she put her hands on the top and lifted, just a little, just to see if it was locked. The wooden lid was heavy but it wasn’t locked. What was inside? She lifted it a little more; suddenly she heard another noise–the front door.

There were heavy footsteps, too heavy for her mother. Her father must have returned early. Light appeared as the door to the basement was opened. Why was he back so soon? Panicking, Nadya lowered the lid, trying not to make a noise, listening to her father’s footsteps coming down the stairs. With the lid closed she dropped to her knees and clambered under the bed, squeezing herself into the small space, watching the bottom step. There they were–his big black boots, coming right towards her.

Nadya closed her eyes, expecting when she opened her eyes to see his furious face inches away from her. Instead, the entire bed creaked and sank. He was sitting on it. Opening her eyes she had to scramble out of the way. With the gap between the bed and the floor even smaller she watched as he began to untie his bootlaces. He didn’t know she was here. The latch must have locked after she’d shut it. She hadn’t been caught, not yet. What was she going to do? Her father could spend hours down here. Her mother would return and be alarmed that Nadya wasn’t home. Perhaps they’d think she was missing and go looking for her. If they did she’d be able to sneak upstairs and tell some lie about where she’d been. That was her best hope. Until then she had to remain where she was and keep very quiet.

Her father pulled his socks off and stretched his toes. He stood up, the bed rising with him, and fired up the lamp, which gave out a weak light. He walked towards the chest. Nadya could hear the top of the chest being opened but couldn’t see what he’d taken out. He must have left the lid open because she didn’t hear it close. What was her father doing? Now he was sitting at one of the chairs, tying something around his foot. It was a strip of rubber. Using string and rags he seemed to be making some kind of homemade shoe.

Aware of something behind her, Nadya turned her head and saw the cat. It had seen her too, its back was arched, its fur stuck out. She didn’t belong down here. It knew that much. Scared, she turned to see if her father had noticed. He dropped to his knees, his face appearing in the gap under the bed. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t dare move. He said nothing, standing up, lifting the entire bed upright, exposing her curled up in a ball.

—Stand up.

She couldn’t move her arms, her legs–her body didn’t seem to be working.

—Nadya.

Hearing her name, she stood up.

—Step away from the wall.

She obeyed: stepping towards him, her head down, staring at her father’s one bare foot and his other foot wrapped in rags. He lowered the bed, putting it back in position.

—Why are you down here?

—I wanted to know what you do.

—Why?

—I want to spend more time with you.

Andrei could feel that urge again–they were alone in the house. She shouldn’t have come down here: he’d told her that for her own sake. He was a different person. He was not her father. He stepped away from his daughter until his back was pressed against the wall, as far from her as the room would allow.

—Father?

Andrei raised a finger to his lips.

Control yourself.

But he could not. He took his glasses off, folding them up and putting them in his pocket. When he looked at her again she was nothing more than a blurred outline, no longer his daughter–just a child. Indistinct, fuzzy, any child he chose to imagine.

—Father?

Nadya stood up, walking right up to her father and taking his hand.

—Don’t you like spending time with me?

She was too close now, even without his glasses on. He could see her hair, her face. Wiping his brow, he put his glasses back on.

—Nadya, you have a younger sister–why don’t you like playing with her? When I was your age, I spent all my time with my brother.

—You have a brother?

—Yes.

—Where is he?

Andrei pointed at the wall, the photos of the Russian soldier.

—What’s his name?

—Pavel.

—Why doesn’t he visit us?

—He will.

16 July

They were seated on an
elektrichka
, travelling towards the outskirts of the city, edging closer to their destination–the centre of Rostov-on-Don. The truck driver hadn’t betrayed them. He’d taken them through several checkpoints and dropped them at the town of Shakhty where they’d spent the night with the driver’s mother-in-law, a woman called Sarra Karlovna, and her family. Sarra, in her fifties, lived with some of her children, including a daughter who was married with three children of her own. Sarra’s parents also lived in the apartment, a total of eleven people in three bedrooms; a different generation in each bedroom. For the third time Leo had told the story of his investigation. Unlike the towns in the north they’d already heard of these crimes–the child-murders. According to Sarra there were few people in this oblast who weren’t aware of the rumours. Even so, they knew no facts. When confronted with the estimated number of victims the room had fallen silent.

It had never been a question of whether or not they’d agree to help: this extended family had immediately set about making plans. Leo and Raisa had decided to wait until dusk before travelling into the city since there’d be fewer people at the factory at night. There was also a greater chance the killer would be at home. It had also been decided that they shouldn’t travel alone. For this reason they were now accompanied by three small children and two energetic grandparents. Leo and Raisa were playing the parts of a mother and father while the real mother and father remained in Shakhty. This semblance of a family was a precautionary measure. If the hunt for them had reached Rostov, if the State had guessed that their objective wasn’t to flee the country, then they’d be looking for a man and woman travelling together. It had proved impossible for either of them to change their appearance to any significant degree. They’d both cut their hair short, they’d been given a new set of clothes. Even so, without the family surrounding them, they would’ve been easy to spot. Raisa had expressed concerns about using the children, worried she was putting them in danger. It had been decided that if something should go wrong, if they were caught, then the grandparents would claim that Leo had threatened them and that they feared for their lives if they didn’t help.

The train stopped. Leo glanced out of the window. The station was busy: he could see several uniformed officers patrolling the platform. The seven of them got off the train. Raisa was carrying the smallest child; a young boy. All three children had been instructed to behave boisterously. The older of the two boys understood the nature of the deception and played their part, but the youngest boy was confused and merely stared at Raisa, his lips downturned, sensitive to danger and no doubt wishing he was at home. Only the most observant of officers would suspect that this family was a fraud.

There were guards dotted around the platform and concourse, too many for an ordinary day in an ordinary station. They were looking for someone. Though Leo tried to reassure himself that there were many people being hunted and arrested, his gut told him that they were looking for them. The exit was fifty paces away. Concentrate on that. They were almost there.

Two armed officers stepped in front of them.

—Where you are travelling from and where are you travelling to?

For a moment Raisa couldn’t speak. The words evaporated. In order not to appear frozen, she moved the young boy from one arm to the other arm and laughed.

—They get so heavy!

Leo stepped in.

—We’ve just visited her sister. She lives in Shakhty. She’s getting married.

The grandmother added:

—To a man who’s a drunk, I disapprove. I told her not to do it.

Leo smiled, addressing the grandmother.

—You want her to marry a man who only drinks water?

—That would be better.

The grandfather nodded before adding.

—He can drink but why does he have to be so ugly?

Both grandparents laughed. The officers did not. One of them turned to the little boy.

—What’s his name?

The question was directed at Raisa. Once again her mind went blank. She couldn’t remember. Nothing was coming to her. Plucking a name from her memory.

—Aleksandr.

The boy shook his head.

—My name is Ivan.

Raisa laughed.

—I like to tease him. I’m always getting the brothers’ names muddled and it drives them mad. This young man I’m carrying is Ivan. That is Mikhail.

That was the middle child’s name. Raisa now remembered that the eldest was called Aleksei. But for her lie to work he would have to pretend his name was Aleksandr.

—And my eldest boy is called Aleksandr.

The boy opened his mouth to contradict but the grandfather quickly stepped in and rubbed his head affectionately. Annoyed, the boy shook his head.

—Don’t do that. I’m not a child any more.

Raisa struggled not to let her relief show. The officers stepped out of their way and she led her imitation family out of the station.

Once they were out of sight of the station they bade farewell to the family, splitting up. Leo and Raisa got into a taxi. They’d already given Sarra’s family all the information pertaining to their investigation. If Leo and Raisa failed for whatever reason, if the murders continued, then the family would inherit the investigation. They’d organize others in an attempt to find this man, making sure that if any one group failed there would be another ready to take their place. He mustn’t be allowed to survive. Leo appreciated that it was a mob execution, no court, no evidence or trial–an execution based upon circumstantial evidence–and that in trying to exact justice they were forced to imitate the very system they were up against.