The Secret Speech - Страница 18

— We’re going home.

— Not my home.

No gratitude, just disdain. Close to tears, Raisa couldn’t manage any words.

Leaving the school building, Raisa stopped at the gates. Had they been betrayed so quickly? Two uniformed officers walked toward her:

— Raisa Demidova?

The eldest of the officers continued:

— We’ve been sent by your husband to escort you home.

They weren’t here about Zoya. Relieved, she asked:

— What’s happened?

— Your husband wants to be sure you’re safe. We can’t go into the details except to say there have been a series of incidents. Our presence is a precaution.

Raisa checked their identity cards. They were in order. She asked:

— You work with my husband?

— We’re part of his homicide department.

Since the department was a secret, even that admission went some way to satisfying Raisa’s suspicions. She handed back the cards, pointing out:

— We need to pick up Elena.

As they walked toward the car, Zoya tugged her hand. Raisa lowered her head. Zoya’s voice was a whisper:

— I don’t trust them.

* * *

ALONE IN HIS OFFICE, Karl stared out the window.

...

Times have changed.

Maybe that was true, he wanted to believe and put the entire affair out of his mind, as they’d agreed. He’d always liked Raisa. She was intelligent and beautiful and he wished her well. He picked up the telephone, wondering how best to phrase the denunciation of her daughter.

SAME DAY

IN THE BACK OF THE CAR Zoya glared at the militia officers, following their every movement as if imprisoned with two venomous snakes. Though the officer in the passenger seat had made a cursory attempt at being friendly, turning around and smiling at the girls, his smile had smashed up against a brick wall. Zoya hated these men, hated their uniforms and insignia, their leather belts and steel-capped black boots, making no distinction between the KGB and the militia.

Glancing out the window, Raisa approximated where they were in the city. Evening had set in. Streetlights flickered on. Unaccustomed to being driven home, she slowly pieced together her location. This was not the way to their apartment. Leaning forward, trying to smooth out the urgency in her voice, she asked:

— Where are we going?

The officer in the front passenger seat turned around, his face expressionless, his back creaking against the leather upholstery:

— We’re taking you home.

— This isn’t the way.

Zoya sprang forward:

— Let us out!

The guard scrunched up his face:

— What?

Zoya didn’t ask twice. With the car still in motion she unlocked the latch, throwing the door wide open into the middle of the road. Bright headlights flashed through the window as an oncoming truck swerved to avoid a collision.

Raisa grabbed hold of Zoya, clutching her waist, pulling her back inside just as the truck clipped the door, smashing it shut. The impact crumpled steel and shattered the window, showering the interior with glass. The officers were shouting. Elena was screaming. The car thumped into the curb, running up onto the pavement, before skidding to a stop by the side of the road.

A stunned silence elapsed, the two officers turned round, pale and breathless:

— What is wrong with her?

The driver added, tapping his temples:

— She’s not right in the head.

Raisa ignored them, examining Zoya. Unharmed, her eyes were blazing. There was a wildness about her: the primeval energies of a feral child brought up by wolves and captured by man, refusing to be tamed or civilized.

The driver got out, examining the damaged door, scratching and shaking his head:

— We’re taking you home. What’s the problem?

— This isn’t the way.

The officer pulled out a slip of paper, handing it to Raisa through the gap where the window once was. It was Leo’s writing. She stared blankly at the address before recognizing that it was the address of Leo’s parents’ apartment. Her anger evaporated:

— This is where Leo’s parents live.

— I didn’t know whose apartment it was. I just follow orders.

Zoya wriggled free, climbing over her sister and out of the car. Raisa called after her:

— Zoya, it’s okay!

Unappeased, Zoya didn’t return. The driver moved toward her. Seeing him about to grab her, Raisa called out:

— Don’t touch her! Leave her! We’ll walk the rest of the way.

The driver shook his head:

— We’re supposed to stay with you until Leo turns up.

— Then follow behind.

Still seated on the backseat, Elena was crying. Raisa put an arm around her:

— Zoya’s okay. She’s not hurt.

Elena seemed to absorb those words, checking on her older sister. Seeing that she was unhurt, her tears stopped. Raisa wiped the remaining few away:

— We’re going to walk. It’s not far. Can you manage that?

Elena nodded:

— I don’t like being driven home.

Raisa smiled:

— Nor do I.

Raisa helped her out of the car. The driver threw up his hands, exasperated at the exodus of passengers.

Leo’s parents lived in a low-rise modern block to the north of the city, home to numerous elderly parents of State officials, a retirement home for the privileged. In the winter, residents would play cards in each other’s living rooms. In the summer they’d play cards outside, on the grass strip. They’d shop together, cook together, a community with only one rule — they never spoke about their children’s work.

Raisa entered the building, leading the girls to the elevator. The doors closed just as the militia officers caught up, forcing them to take the stairs. There was no chance Zoya would remain in a confined space with those two men. Reaching the seventh floor, Raisa led the girls down the corridor to the last apartment. Stepan — Leo’s father — answered the door, surprised to see them. His surprise quickly transformed into concern:

— What’s wrong?

Leo’s mother, Anna, appeared from the living room, equally concerned. Addressing both of them, Raisa answered:

— Leo wants us to stay here.

Raisa gestured at the two officers approaching from the stairway, adding:

— We have an escort.

There was fear in Anna’s voice:

— Where is Leo? What’s going on?

Raisa shook her head:

— I don’t know.

The officers arrived at the door. The more senior of the two, the driver, out of breath from climbing the stairs, asked:

— Is there any other way into the apartment?

Anna answered:

— No.

— We’ll remain here.

But Anna wanted more information:

— Can you explain?

— There have been reprisals. That’s all I can say.

Raisa shut the door. Anna wasn’t satisfied:

— But Leo is okay, isn’t he?

With gritted teeth, Zoya listened to Anna, watching the loose skin of her chin wobble as she spoke. She was fat with doing nothing all day long, fat with her son’s provision of rich and rare foods. Her worries about Leo were excruciating, her voice strangled with concern for her murdering son:

...

Is Leo okay? Leo is okay, isn’t he?

Are the people he arrested, the families he destroyed — are they okay? They doted on him as if he were a child. Worse than concern was their parental pride, excited by every story, hanging on every word he had to say. The displays of affection were sickening: kisses, embraces, jokes. Both Stepan and Anna were willing and eager participants in Leo’s conspiracy to pretend that they were a normal family, planning day trips and visits to the shops, the restricted shops, rather than those with long queues of people and limited supplies. Everything was nice. Everything was comfortable. Everything was designed to conceal the murder of her father and mother. Zoya hated them for loving him.

Anna asked:

— Reprisals?

She repeated the word as if the concept were nonsensical and baffling, as if no one could possibly have any reason to dislike her son. Zoya couldn’t help herself, stepping into the discussion and directing her words at Anna:

— Reprisals for arresting so many innocent people! What did you think your son was doing all these years? Haven’t you read the speech?

In unison Stepan and Anna turned to her, shocked by the mention of the speech. They didn’t know. They hadn’t read it. Sensing her advantage, Zoya twisted her lips into a smile. Stepan asked:

— What speech?

— The speech about how your son tortured innocent victims, about how he forced them to confess, about how he beat them, about how the innocent were sent to the Gulags while the guilty lived in apartments like this.

Raisa crouched down in front of her, as if trying to block her words:

— I need you to stop. I need you to stop right now.

— Why? It’s true. I didn’t write those words. I was read them as part of my education. I’m only repeating what I was told. It’s not for you to censor Khrushchev’s words. He must have wanted us to talk about it, otherwise he wouldn’t have allowed us to read it. It’s not a secret. Everyone knows. Everyone knows what Leo did.