The Impossible Journey (3 page)

There were tales of people who had disappeared, never to be heard from again. I would not allow that to happen to Mama and Papa. I had to know where they were. I didn't care what happened to me. Somehow I had to convince whoever was holding Mama and Papa to let them go. I had to make them believe that Mama and Papa would not assassinate a fly, much less Comrade Kirov.

“They'll keep us at the prison,” Georgi wailed.

“No they won't. I am going to find Mama and Papa, Georgi, but first I'll take you back to the apartment.”

“And leave me there?” Georgi asked.

“Yes, while I go to the Kresti.”

Georgi got his stubborn look. “I don't want to stay there by myself. What if you don't come back? Mrs. Zotov won't give me anything to eat but boiled cabbage.”

I saw that Georgi would not back down without a scene, which would surely attract attention. “If I let you come with me, you must promise to keep quiet. You're not to get us into more trouble.”

As we crossed the city, I was relieved to see that the streets were filling up. In the crowds we would go unnoticed. People were gathered around the billboards where the Leningrad newspaper, the
Leningradskaya Pravda
, was posted. The headline read
KIROV ASSASSINATED
. The newspaper said that the assassin, Leonid Vasilevich Nikolaev, a thirty-year-old man, had been caught. The people around us read silently, not speaking to one another. Though I could find no mention of other arrests in the newspaper,
news of such arrests must be getting around, making everyone afraid.

The NKVD headquarters had looked like a house, while the Kresti looked like a prison. Much as I wanted to find Mama and Papa, I could not get up enough courage to go inside. Here there were no soldiers standing guard, for surely no one would want to break into such a place; it was a place that people went into but did not come out of. I was ready to turn back to the apartment. Even Mrs. Zotov was not as sinister as the sight of the huge building looming in front of us.

Georgi asked, “Are Mama and Papa really in there?”

I nodded.

“I want to see them. Mama needs to mend the hole in my sweater, and she promised to make
blini
for our Christmas Eve dinner, and Papa is going to buy me a present.”

I tried to think of a plan, but any plan seemed
foolish, so I took a deep breath and marched through the door.

A soldier, his face unshaven, his tunic unbuttoned, his cap pushed to the back of his head, looked up at us. I could see he was about to send us away.

Boldly I said, “Comrade Yakir at NKVD headquarters sent us here. He said you were to help us to see our parents.” Half the phones in Leningrad did not work, and those that did took forever to complete a call. I was betting that so sloppy-looking a soldier would not bother to check on what I was saying.

For a moment the soldier's hand wandered to the phone; then he shrugged and pushed a thick sheaf of papers toward me. “Fill these out,” he ordered.

I looked at all the fine print and my heart sank. To get a little time to think, I said, “I have no pen.”

He hunted about for a pen, which he reluctantly handed to me, keeping an eye on it all the while I was writing, as if I were there only to steal his pen. There were questions about the addresses of all the places we
had lived and birthdates of everyone in the family. I could only guess at many of the answers, but I tried to look as if I knew what I was writing.

Georgi was watching me impatiently. As I scratched away, he announced, “I can read and write. Why can't I write on those papers too?”

At that the soldier's face grew stern. “Hurry up. This is not a kindergarten. I have better things to do. I don't know what Comrade Yakir was thinking of. I've a mind to call him and tell him so.” But still he didn't make the call. I think he believed that we would never have been so foolish as to risk coming there unless we had some influence with the authorities. It made no difference that our parents had been arrested; important people were arrested all the time. He must have reasoned that our parents might be let go, and if he did not do what he was told, they would make trouble for him.

After giving the pages I had filled out a quick look, the soldier motioned us to follow him. We were taken
to a small room with a cement floor, no window, and a steel door. The room was bare of everything but two chairs, one on either side of a table. Empty as the room appeared, it pressed in on me until I felt I was being crushed, my whole body weighed down with things I imagined might have happened in that room. I didn't know what those things were, but their poison crept from the corners and filled the room. The ghosts of all the people Stalin had arrested were in that room. Georgi must have felt it too, for he left the other chair vacant and edged close to me.

At last the door opened. I reached for Georgi's hand, needing him as much as he needed me. A uniformed woman shoved Mama roughly into the room, slamming the door behind her. We heard a key turn in the lock. A moment later Mama's arms were around us and ours around her. I had never held on to anything so tightly in my life.

When she could catch her breath, she asked, “How in heaven's name did you find me?” A frightened look
came over her face. “They haven't arrested you?”

As I was telling her our story, with Georgi helping me along, I was looking at Mama. Her long brown hair, always neatly pinned up, was every which way. Her dress was crumpled, and there was a look of confusion about her. She listened to our story, but I think she hardly heard it. She was only looking and looking at us, continually drawing us to her and covering us with kisses. At last she gave herself a little shake.

“I must speak quickly. I don't know how much time we have. It was dangerous for you to go to the NKVD and even more dangerous for you to come here, but seeing you safe is everything to me. Who is looking after you?”

“The Zotovs have asked us to stay with them.”

“God bless them,” Mama said. “The worst part of all of this was the worry of what might become of you.”

Georgi said, “Mrs. Zotov is stealing things from our apartment.”

Mama shook her head. “Let her have them,” she
said. “It can make no difference. We will not need them.”

Her words frightened me. “Mama,” I said, “when will you and Papa come home?”

For the first time Mama cried. “I must tell you the truth. It makes no difference to them that we are innocent. Any day now we will be sentenced and exiled to some town in Siberia—or worse, sent to one of the camps there.

“Imagine, those evil men promised if I said Papa had something to do with the plotting of Comrade Kirov's death, they would let me go back to you. The very men who tore me away from you told me, ‘A mother should be with her children.' Marya, Georgi, I would do anything to be with you. How could I choose to leave my own children? But how could I accuse your papa of something he did not do?”

Mama gathered us in her arms. “Listen to me. You must promise to stay with the Zotovs. Somehow we will find a way to let you know where we are. Marya,
as soon as we get a letter to you, you must answer us and tell us how you are.”

“I can write to you as well as Marya,” Georgi said, “but you won't stay away more than a week or two. Otherwise you will miss Christmas. Mrs. Zotov will never make
blini
or buy us presents.”

I think Georgi nearly killed Mama with his words. Mama tried to explain. “Georgi, dear, Papa and I don't want to be away. They are making us go away. The place they will send us is very far. It's a journey of many days. I know you are disappointed about Christmas, but you are a big boy now. You will be very brave.”

Georgi's face was puckered, and I could see he was fighting his tears. In an angry voice he said, “I won't be brave. I don't want you to go away.”

“Georgi,” Mama said, “you're breaking my heart. I would give anything to stay here with you.” She turned to me and, taking my hands in hers, said, “Marya, you are only a child, but now you must give
up being a child. You must take care of Georgi.”

Georgi stamped his foot. “I don't want Marya to take care of me. She's too bossy.”

Mama put her arms around Georgi and drew him to her. “Listen to me, Georgi. I depend on you to take care of Marya.” She looked up at me, giving me a secret smile.

Georgi was quiet now. The idea of being in charge of me was pleasant to him. It almost made him forget that Mama and Papa were going away. He wiped his tears with his fist.

“When can we see Papa?” he asked.

At this Mama became very pale and still. After a moment she said, “Even I can't see him, Georgi. Tonight, when you say your prayers, you must say one for Papa.”

The door opened and the same woman strode in. A rough voice ordered us to leave. She reached out and took hold of Mama's arm, but Mama pulled away. She hugged Georgi to her and then gathered me
in her arms and whispered, “Marya, be patient with him—he is only a child.”

A moment later she was gone. I wanted to run after her. There had not been time enough to say all that had to be said.

The soldier who had given us the papers to fill out came to collect us. “You have to go now,” he ordered.

The prison with its dark hallways and iron doors frightened me. Still, as long as Mama and Papa were there, I did not want to leave. Georgi slipped his hand into mine.

“Come, Marya,” he said.

I looked down at him. He was looking up at me, and on his face was a protective look. As we left the prison, the soldier called after us, “Be sure to tell Comrade Yakir when you see him that I carried out his orders.”

When we returned to the apartment, Mrs. Zotov demanded to know where we had been. “I hope you have not made difficulties for us.”

In a bold voice I said, “We have been to NKVD headquarters and to the Kresti Prison.” I could not keep a little pride out of my voice.

She was horrified. “How could you do such a thing? It's a wonder they did not keep you there. What were you thinking?” Her face was pale.

I pretended that going to those places was the most natural thing in the world. “Everyone was very nice,” I lied, “and we saw Mama.”

At that her face softened. “How is she, and what of your papa?”

I told her of the visit. “But we didn't see Papa. Even Mama hasn't seen him.” I didn't tell her I planned on returning to the prison.

She was quiet, looking at us as if we were curious beetles to be examined for a moment and then stamped upon.

“You two will be nothing but trouble for us. Perhaps it would be best if you found another place to stay.”

I did not want to stay with the Zotovs, but if we left, we would never receive Mama's letter letting us know where she was. I did not dare say that such a letter was coming, for I knew that Mrs. Zotov wanted nothing more to do with my parents. They would think a letter from Mama a very dangerous thing. I took Georgi's hand and headed for the door. Halfway there I turned and said, “Mama said you could have everything in our apartment for keeping
us. Of course, if you don't keep us, we must sell everything to help us pay for somewhere to stay.”

Mrs. Zotov's face took on a greedy look, as if someone had just handed her a box of chocolates.

“Where can two children stay?” she asked. “It would be very difficult for you to find such a place. It's a great deal of responsibility for us, and cost as well, but I can't find it in my heart to send you away. Only promise me that you will have nothing more to do with the NKVD or with prisons. You can do your parents no good, and you will do yourselves and us great harm.”

“I promise,” I said, though I had no intention of keeping the promise. After that Georgi and I helped carry all our possessions into the Zotovs' apartment. The pots and pans were jumbled together with those of the Zotovs. The chair Papa settled into each night to read his books and the table Mama carefully polished each week were dragged into the Zotovs' apartment and wedged into the vacant spaces. Our quilts
were heaped onto the Zotovs' bed. Our curtains took the place of the worn and ragged ones that had hung over the Zotovs' windows. All I took for myself were my clothes and my paint set.

As we left the apartment, I longed to reach down for the books, which lay on the floor like wounded birds, their pages torn, their covers ripped. Mrs. Zotov stepped over them. “Let the books be,” she said. “I am sure they are dangerous. Just see how the police took them apart.”

But I could not leave all the books, and when Mrs. Zotov was not looking, I snatched up a few of the ones that Mama and Papa had read to us.

In the Zotovs' apartment Georgi watched as Mrs. Zotov made up beds for me and for him in a space no larger than a closet. All our things were stuffed into a small chest.

“Where will Mama and Papa sleep when they come back from Siberia?” Georgi asked.

At that the greedy look that had been on Mrs.
Zotov's face all the while she was filling her apartment with our things was replaced by a look of true pity.

“It will be a long time before they return, Georgi,” she said. “You must not worry about such things. Come, have something to eat. There was some jam in your kitchen, and you shall have it spread thickly on a big piece of bread.”

There was a piece of bread for me as well, but the jam on mine was spread very thinly. I was sure Mrs. Zotov did not trust me, for she watched all that I did; certainly I did not trust her.

That evening when Mr. Zotov returned home with his bear cub, he looked about with pleasure at the new furnishings and with disapproval at the two of us sitting on the sofa. “Well, well,” he said, in what I was sure he meant to be a cheerful voice, “so our little guests are still here. You are most welcome.” Seeing the miserable expressions on our faces, he added, “Come, your mama and papa will be with you soon.”

Even Georgi did not believe him. “No they won't,”
he said. “Mrs. Zotov says they will be gone a long while.” But in no time at all Georgi was so taken up with Russ, reaching his hand into the cage where the bear was kept and petting the fat cub, that he said nothing more about Mama and Papa.

All through dinner Mr. Zotov was kind to us, hunting about in the borscht for the best bits of beet and potato to ladle into our bowls. Later, though, after he thought we were asleep, I peeked into the sitting room and saw him try out Papa's chair, grinning with satisfaction at how comfortable it was.

In the morning Georgi and I set off for school. The moment Georgi was settled into his classroom, I vanished into the hallway and out the door. It took me a half hour of brisk walking to reach the Kresti Prison. I stood for many minutes at the entrance to the great gray building with its barred windows, trying to get up my courage.
Let them arrest me,
I thought. I wanted to go with Mama and Papa to wherever they were being sent. I did not let myself think of Georgi.

I marched up to the door and entered the prison, where the same soldier, his cap still on the back of his head, his tunic still unbelted, sat at the entrance, scribbling on a piece of paper. When he looked up and saw me, he shot out of his chair.

“You have no business here! We had a call from Comrade Yakir. He said under no circumstances are you to be allowed here.”

Taking a deep breath, I managed to get out, “I only want to see my mother for a moment.”

“You are too late. Your mother was shipped out to Siberia with a trainload of prisoners this morning.”

“But my papa. Where is he? Can I see him?”

The soldier's face became hard as a plank of wood. “No” was all he said, but his way of saying it made me hold on to the desk to keep from sinking to the floor. I felt tears start up.

When he saw my tears, the soldier said in a kinder voice, “Your papa is alive. Now, quickly, get out of here and nothing will be said.” His voice hardened
once again. “If you are not gone in sixty seconds, I'll call Comrade Yakir, and you will find yourself in prison.” He reached for the phone.

I turned and fled.

I did not know where to go with my worry over Papa. I could not tell Mrs. Zotov, who would only scold me for going to the prison. Sleepwalking, I turned toward school. It was nearly noon when I warily opened the door to my classroom. At the sight of me, the whole class became quiet. Comrade Tikonov stared coldly at me.

“So, here is our little troublemaker. Here is the girl who would destroy the revolution and all the great work Comrade Stalin has done. You honor us with your presence rather late in the day. No doubt you have been lolling about in the palace having coffee with the tsar and his family—that is, if they have risen from their graves.” At this she gave a cruel laugh. “As you see, your desk is where you put it last week, and there it will stay. As long as you are in this room,
I will see that no other pupil will have anything to do with you. It is people like you who are responsible for Comrade Kirov's death.”

I ran from the school. Out on the street I buttoned my coat against the cold and pulled my cap down over my ears. I didn't care about missing school. We had to spend hours learning the speeches of Comrade Stalin. All the books I loved most were forbidden. We studied only Russian scientists. It was Mama and Papa who read to us from the forbidden authors and taught us about the great scientists from other countries.

I wandered along the prospekt, past the Kazan Cathedral and the old Stroganov Palace, past the students selling their paintings, past the women sweeping up the snow. Someone called out, “Marya!”

There was Mr. Zotov with his cap pulled down over his ears and his coat collar turned up against the cold, stamping first one foot and then the other. Russ prowled about at the end of his leash, the wind ruffling his black fur.

“Why aren't you in school?” Mr. Zotov asked.

In my misery I poured out the truth. “My teacher hates me and shames me in front of the other students, and anyhow, I don't learn anything.” After making my sad little speech, I saw how foolish I had been. When Mr. Zotov told his wife, she would be more sure than ever that I was a troublemaker. Now that she had all our things, she might turn Georgi and me out onto the street. Anxiously I asked, “You won't tell Mrs. Zotov?”

Mr. Zotov regarded me with narrowed eyes and a sly smile. “You are right to keep your little secret to yourself. I don't believe my wife would want such a mischief-maker under our roof. I'll tell you what: If you stand here and hold on to Russ while I warm myself in the café for a half hour, I'll keep your secret.”

I had nothing better to do, and I was fond of the little cub. Mr. Zotov thrust the tin cup at me, first shaking out all but one of the coins into his hand.

“I've left a coin in the cup so that you can rattle it,” he said. “Don't stir from this spot. The space belongs to me, and if you move, some pushy student will take it. To make the cub dance, you must pull at the leash like this.” He gave several harsh tugs at the leash, and the little bear lumbered this way and that. It was no dance but a desperate shuffle to escape from his tormentor.

As soon as Mr. Zotov was out of sight, I knelt beside Russ and whispered into his ear that I would not pull on his leash. I felt under his collar where the fur was matted and rubbed gently. I scratched behind his ears. Russ made little grunting sounds and swiped playfully at me with his front paws.

A toddler and his mother were watching me. The toddler asked, “Can I pet the bear?” He reached down and patted Russ gingerly on the top of the head and then hurried back to his mother. The mother smiled and dropped a few kopecks into the cup. Some people passed, taking no notice of Russ. A few looked angry,
as if they knew the streets of Leningrad were no place for a bear.

A man came by who said he had once lived in Siberia. “The bears there are a thousand pounds,” he said, “and when they rear up, they are as big as a house.” He shook his head sadly. “To see a wild beast like that on a leash is a terrible thing.” He dropped some coins into the cup. “Promise me you will get him a nice fish for his dinner.” With one more regretful look at the bear he walked away.

The half hour stretched into an hour and then another. I hardly noticed the time passing or the cold breezes off the Moyki Canal. I could think only of Mama being sent away and not knowing what had become of Papa. I had to find them, but I did not know how to take the first step.

My nose was like a chip of ice. I couldn't feel my toes. Only my hands were warm, for I kept burying them in Russ's fur. At last a young man in the neighboring stall took pity on me. He had started a small
fire in a little metal burner.

“You with the bear,” he said. “Warm yourself.”

Gratefully I held my hands and face near his fire.

“My name is Igor. What's your name?” he asked.

“Marya.” I stole a look at him. He was thin, with high cheekbones and eyes that turned up at the corners. His long black hair hung about his shoulders. His black jacket was nearly green with age, and his fingers poked out of his gloves.

“That old man has left you to stand in the cold while he has his vodka in a warm café. Why don't you let that poor beast go and take off?”

“My brother and I live with that man and his wife. Anyhow, what good would it do to let Russ go? He couldn't get along by himself in the city, and someone would only steal him. They might even eat him.” Mrs. Zotov had poked Russ's fat belly and announced he would make a nice stew.

I looked at the paintings Igor was trying to sell. They were cheerful pictures of neat wooden houses in
a green and leafy countryside. Smiling peasants stood about grinning. The trees were full of apples and pears, and the fields were golden with grain. There were fat geese and woolly sheep. This reminded me of Mama's description of the countryside around the Oaks, the country house where Mama had gone as a child.

“Your pictures are very pretty,” I said. But I was thinking of how my grandmother and her friends had been forced from their land.

“I hate the pictures,” Igor said. “The truth is, the peasants in the countryside who are not already dead are starving. These pictures are nothing but a lie.”

“Then why do you paint such pictures?” I tried to make my own pictures as honest as I could.

“I paint the pictures to sell them, of course. Who would want to hang a picture of starving peasants on his wall?”

“There are things to paint besides starving peasants,” I said.

“What do you know about painting?”

“I paint a little myself.” I gave a quick look to see if he was laughing at me, but he only looked surprised.

“What training have you had?”

“Only in school, but there I had to paint what I was told.”

Igor said, “It was the same with me. I was a student at the Leningrad Art Academy. Two years ago I was expelled from the school because I refused to paint happy workers.” He gave me a cynical smile. “Now I paint something just as impossible, happy peasants.”

For someone who was out of favor with the government, Igor was very careless. He said what he pleased.

When he learned Mama and Papa had been arrested after Kirov's death, he said, “That is just like Stalin. He blames everyone else for what he has done himself.”

I looked hastily about to be sure no one had heard
him. “What are you saying?” I whispered. “Stalin and Kirov were friends.”

“Nonsense. Kirov was Stalin's competition for the head of the Communist Party. Now Stalin has gotten rid of Kirov, and he is using Kirov's murder to round up anyone who supported Kirov.”