The Secret Speech (3 page)

– I’ll go first.

Maxim shook his head:

– No. I will.

She guessed his reason for offering: if Maxim got away then the chances were that she would too.

They unlocked the main door, lifting up the thick timber beam. Anisya sensed Maxim hesitate, no doubt afraid, the danger of his predicament finally sinking in. Lazar shook his hand. Over her husband’s shoulder, Maxim looked at her. Once Lazar was done, Maxim stepped toward her. She gave him a hug and watched him set off into the night.

Lazar closed the door, locking it behind him, reiterating the plan:

– We wait ten minutes.

Alone with her husband, she stood near the front of the church. He joined her. To her surprise, rather than praying, he took hold of her hand.

Ten minutes had passed, they moved to the door. Lazar lifted the beam. The papers were in a bag, slung over her shoulder. Anisya stepped outside. They’d already said good-bye. She turned, watching in silence as Lazar shut the door behind her. She heard the beam lowered back in place. Walking toward the street, she checked for faces at the windows, movement in the shadows. Suddenly a hand gripped her wrist. Startled, she spun around.

– Maxim?

What was he doing here? Where was the music he was carrying? From behind the back of the church a voice called out, harsh and impatient:

– Leo?

Anisya saw a man dressed in a dark uniform-an MGB agent. There were more men behind him, clustering like cockroaches. Her questions melted away, concentrating on the name called out: Leo. With the tug of a single word the knot of lies unraveled. That was why he had no friends or family in the city, that was why he was so quiet in lessons with Lazar, he knew nothing of scripture or philosophy. That was why he’d wanted to leave the church first, not for her protection but to alert the surveillance, to prepare for their arrest. He was a Chekist, a secret police officer. He’d tricked her and her husband. He’d infiltrated their lives in order to gather as much information as possible, not just on them but on the people who sympathized with them, dealing a blow against the remaining pockets of resistance within the Church. Had attempting to seduce her been an objective handed down by his superiors? Had they identified her as weak, gullible and instructed this handsome officer to form a persona- Maxim -to manipulate her?

He spoke quietly, intimately, as though nothing had changed between them:

– Anisya, I give you one more chance. Come with me. I’ve made arrangements. They’re not interested in you. They’re after Lazar.

The sound of his voice, tender and concerned, was appalling. The offer he’d made earlier, to leave with him, hadn’t been a naive fantasy. It hadn’t been romantic. It had been the calculations of an agent. He continued:

– Take the advice you gave me, denounce Lazar. I can lie for you. I can protect you. It’s him they want. You will achieve nothing by remaining loyal.

LEO WAS RUNNING OUT OF TIME. Anisya had to understand that he was her only chance of survival, no matter what she thought of him. She would gain nothing by clinging to her principles. His superior officer Nikolai Borisov walked toward them. Forty years old, he had the body of an aging weight lifter, still strong but slackening with an excess of drink:

– Is she cooperating?

Leo stretched out his hand, his eyes pleading with her to hand him the bag.

– Please?

In reply she cried out as loud as she could:

– Lazar!

Nikolai stepped forward, slapping her with the back of his hand. He called out to his men:

– Go!

Axes were brought against the church door.

Leo saw hatred in Anisya’s face. Nikolai pulled the bag from her.

– He tried to save you, ungrateful bitch.

She leaned forward, whispering into Leo’s ear:

– You genuinely believed that I might end up loving you? Didn’t you?

Officers grabbed her arms. Pulled back, she smiled at him, a vicious smile:

– No one will ever love you. No one!

Leo turned his back on her, desperate for her to be taken away. Nikolai put a consoling hand on his shoulder:

– It would’ve been complicated explaining how she wasn’t a traitor anyway. It’s much better this way. Better for you. There are other women, Leo. There are always others.

Leo had completed his first arrest.

Anisya was wrong. He was already loved-by the State. He didn’t want the love of a traitor: that was no love at all. Deception, betrayal- these were an officer’s tools. He had a legitimate right to them. His country depended upon betrayal. A soldier before he became an MGB agent, he’d experienced savage necessity in the defeat of fascism. Even the most terrible of things could be excused by the greater good that they served.

He entered the church. Instead of attempting escape Lazar was kneeling near the altar, praying, awaiting his fate. Seeing Leo his proud defiance melted away. In that moment of understanding he seemed to age several years:

– Maxim?

For the first time since they’d known each other he looked to his protege for answers.

– My name is Leo Stepanovich Demidov.

For several seconds Lazar remained silent. Finally he said:

– You were recommended to me by the patriarch…

– Patriarch Krasikov is a good citizen.

Lazar shook his head, refusing to believe it. The patriarch was an informer. His protege was a spy sent to him by the highest religious figure. He’d been sacrificed to the State just as the Church of Sancta Sophia had been sacrificed. He was a fool, warning others to take care, preaching caution when standing beside him, taking notes, was an MGB officer.

Nikolai stepped forward:

– Where are the remaining papers?

Leo gestured at the altar:

– Underneath.

Three agents pushed it aside, revealing the trunk. Nikolai asked:

– Did he give you any other names?

Leo answered:

– Martemian Syrtsov. Artiom Nakhaev. Niura Dmitrieva. Moisei Semashko.

He caught sight of Lazar’s face: shock turned to disgust. Leo stepped up to him:

– Keep your eyes on the floor!

Lazar didn’t turn away. Leo pushed his face down:

– Eyes on the floor!

Lazar lifted his head again. This time Leo punched him. Slowly, with his lip split open, Lazar lifted his head, dripping blood, looking up at him, disgust mingled with defiance. Leo replied, as if Lazar’s eyes had asked him a question:

– I am a good man.

Holding his mentor by the hair, Leo didn’t stop, punch after punch, continuing mechanically like a wind-up toy soldier, repeating the same action over and over until his knuckles hurt, until his arms ached and the side of Lazar’s face turned soft. When he finally stopped and released him, Lazar slumped to the floor, blood pooling around his mouth, shaped like a speech bubble.

Nikolai hung an arm around Leo’s shoulder, watching as Lazar was carried out, leaving a trail of blood from the altar to the door. Nikolai lit a cigarette.

– The State needs people like us.

Numb, Leo wiped the blood on his trousers, remarking:

– Before we go I’d like a moment to check the church.

Nikolai accepted the proposal at face value.

– A perfectionist, that’s good. But hurry up. Tonight we get drunk. You haven’t had a drink in two months! You’ve been living like a monk!

Nikolai laughed at his own joke, patting Leo on the back before heading out. Alone, Leo walked to the displaced stone altar, staring into the hole. Caught between the side of the trunk and the earth wall there was a single sheet of paper. He reached down, picking it up. It was a page of music. His eyes ran across the notes. Deciding that it would be better not to know what had been lost, he raised the sheet above the flame of a nearby candle, watching the paper turn black.

Manager of a small academic printing press, Suren Moskvin had become renowned for producing textbooks of the poorest quality, using ink that smeared and the thinnest paper, all held together with a glue spine that began to shed pages within hours of opening. It wasn’t that he was lazy or incompetent. Far from it, he’d start work early in the morning and finish late at night. The reason the books were so shabby was due to the raw materials allotted by the State. While the content of academic publications was carefully monitored, they were not a resource priority. Locked into a quota system, Suren was forced to produce a large number of books from the lowest grade of paper in the shortest period of time. The equation never changed and he was at its mercy, acutely embarrassed that his reputation had sunk so low. There were jokes-with ink-stained fingers, students and teachers quipped that Moskvin’s books always stayed with you. Ridiculed, he’d been finding it difficult getting out of bed. He wasn’t eating properly. He was drinking throughout the day, bottles stashed in drawers, behind bookshelves. Aged fifty-five, he’d discovered something new about himself: he didn’t have the stomach for public humiliation.

Inspecting the Linotype printing machines, brooding over his failures, he noticed a young man standing at the door. Suren addressed him defensively:

– Yes? What is it? It’s not normal to stand there unannounced.

The man stepped forward, in typical student attire, a long coat and a cheap black scarf. He was holding a book, outstretched. Suren snatched it from his hands, bracing himself for more complaints. He glanced at the cover: Lenin’s The State and Revolution. They’d printed a new volume only last week, distributed a day or so ago, and this man, it would seem, was the first to spot something amiss. A mistake in a seminal work was a grave matter: during Stalin’s rule it would be enough to warrant arrest. The student leaned forward and opened the book, flicking to the front. Printed on the title page was a black-and-white photo. The student commented:

– The text at the bottom says it’s a photo of Lenin but… as you can see…

The photo was of a man who looked nothing like Lenin, a man standing against a wall, a stark white wall. His hair was wild. His eyes were wild.

Suren slammed the book shut and turned to the student:

– You think I could have printed one thousand copies of this book with the wrong photo! Who are you! What is your name! Why are you doing this? My problems are due to the limits of my materials, not carelessness!

Pushed back, the book jabbed at his chest, the scarf around the student’s neck came loose, revealing the edge of a tattoo. The sight made Suren pause. A tattoo was incongruous with the otherwise typical appearance of a student. No one, except the vory, the professional criminals, would mark their skin in such a way.

With the impetus taken out of Suren’s indignation, the man exploited his hesitation and hurried out. Halfheartedly, Suren followed, still holding the book, watching the mysterious figure disappear into the night. Uneasy, he shut the door, locking it. Something bothered him: that photograph. He took out his spectacles, opened the book, and scrutinized the face a little more closely: those terrified eyes. Like a ghost ship slowly emerging from dense sea fog, the identity of the man appeared to him. His face was familiar. His hair and eyes were wild because he’d been arrested and dragged from his bed. Suren recognized the photograph because he had taken it.

Suren hadn’t always run a printing press. Previously, he’d been employed by the MGB. Twenty years of loyal service, his career with the secret police had spanned longer than many of his superiors. Fulfilling a variety of banal tasks-cleaning cells, photographing prisoners-his low rank had been an asset and he’d been savvy enough not to push for more responsibility, never getting noticed, evading the cyclical purges of the upper echelons. Difficult things had been demanded of him. He’d done his duty unswervingly. Back then he’d been a man to be feared. No one made jokes about him. They wouldn’t have dared. Ill health had forced him to retire. Though well remunerated and comfortable, he’d found idleness impossible. Lying in bed with no purpose to his day, his mind had wandered, drifting over the past, remembering faces like the one now stuck into this book. The solution was to remain busy, appointments and meetings. He needed an occupation. He didn’t want to reminisce.

Closing the book, he slipped the volume into his pocket. Why was this happening today? It couldn’t be mere coincidence. Despite his failure to produce a book or journal of any quality, he’d unexpectedly been asked to publish an important State document. He hadn’t been told the nature of the document. However, the prestige of the assignment meant high-quality resources-good paper and ink. Finally he’d been given the opportunity to produce something he could be proud of. They were to deliver the document this evening. And someone with a grudge was trying to undermine him just as his fortunes were about to change.

He left the factory floor, hurrying to his office, carefully smoothing his wispy gray hair to the side. He was wearing his best suit-he only had two, one for everyday use and one for special occasions. This was a special occasion. He hadn’t needed help getting out of bed today. He’d been awake before his wife. He’d shaved, humming. He’d eaten a full breakfast, his first for weeks. Arriving at the factory early, he’d taken the bottle of vodka from his drawer and poured it down the sink before spending the day cleaning, mopping, dusting-wiping away the flecks of grease from the Linotype machines. His sons, both university students, had paid him a visit, impressed by the transformation. Suren reminded them that it was a matter of principle to keep the workplace spotless. The workplace was where a person took their identity and sense of self. They’d kissed him good-bye, wishing him luck with the enigmatic new commission. At last, after the many years of secrecy and the recent years of failure, they had reason to be proud of him.