The Secret Speech - Страница 65

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— I wouldn’t get too excited. I caught them trying to run off together, happy to leave you behind without so much as a good-bye.

Raisa stepped forward:

— Nothing you say makes any difference to the way we feel about Zoya.

Fraera retorted with mock sincerity:

— That does seem to be true. No matter what Zoya does, whether she holds a knife over your bed, whether she runs away, pretends to be dead, you still believe there’s a chance she’ll love you. It’s a kind of sentimental fanaticism. You’re right: there’s nothing I can say. However, there might be something I can say which will change the way you feel about Malysh.

She paused:

— Raisa, he is your son.

SAME DAY

LEO WAITED FOR RAISA TO DISMISS the notion. When Raisa finally spoke her voice was subdued:

— My son is dead.

Fraera turned to Leo, smug with secrets, gesturing with her knife:

— Raisa gave birth to a son. Conceived during the war, the result of soldiers rewarded for risking their lives and being allowed to take whomever they pleased. They took her, over and over, producing a bastard child of the Soviet army.

Raisa’s words were washed out, drained, but they were steady and calm:

— I didn’t care who the father was. The child was mine, not his. I swore I would love him even though he’d been conceived in the most hateful circumstances.

— Except that you then abandoned the boy in an orphanage.

— I was sick and homeless. I had nothing. I couldn’t feed myself.

Raisa had not yet made eye contact with Malysh. Fraera shook her head in disgust:

— I would never have given up my child, no matter how dire my circumstances. They had to take my son from me while I was sleeping.

Raisa seemed exhausted, unable to defend herself:

— I vowed to go back. Once I was well, once the war was over, once I had a home.

— When you returned to the orphanage they told you that your son had died. And like a fool, you believed them. Typhus, they told you?

— Yes.

— Having had some experience of the lies told by orphanages, I double-checked their story. A typhus epidemic killed a large number of children. However, many survived by running away. Those escapees had been covered up as fatalities. Children who run away from orphanages often become pickpockets in train stations.

His past rewritten with every word, Malysh reacted for the first time:

— When I stole money from you, in the station that time?

Fraera nodded:

— I’d been looking for you. I wanted you to believe our meeting was accidental. I had planned to use you in my revenge, against the woman who’d fallen in love with the man I hated. However, I grew fond of you. I quickly came to see you as a son. I adapted my plans. I would keep you as my own. In the same way, I grew fond of Zoya and decided to keep her by my side. Today both of you threw that love away. With only the thinnest of provocations, you drew a knife on me. The truth is that had you refused to draw that knife, I would’ve allowed both of you to go free.

Fraera moved to the door, pausing, turning back to face Leo:

— You always wanted a family, Leo. Now you have one. You’re welcome to it. They are a crueler revenge than anything I could have imagined.

SAME DAY

RAISA TURNED AND FACED THE ROOM. Malysh was standing before her, his chest and arms covered in tattoos. His expression was cautious, defensive, guarded against denial or disinterest. Zoya spoke first:

— It doesn’t matter if he’s your son. Because he’s not, not really, not anymore, you gave him up, which means you’re not his mother. And I’m not your daughter. There’s nothing to talk about. We’re not a family.

Malysh touched her arm. Zoya understood it as a reproach:

— But she’s not your mother.

Zoya was close to tears:

— We can still escape.

Malysh nodded:

— Nothing has changed.

— You promise?

— I promise.

Malysh stepped toward Raisa, keeping his eyes on the ground:

— I don’t care either way. I just want to know.

His question was offhand, childlike in its attempt to conceal the vulnerability. He didn’t wait for Raisa to answer, adding:

— At the orphanage I was called Feliks. But the orphanage gave me that name. They renamed everyone, names they could remember. I don’t know my real name.

Malysh counted on his fingers:

— I’m fourteen years old. Or I might be thirteen. I don’t know when I was born. So, am I your son, or not?

Raisa asked:

— What do you remember of your orphanage?

— There was a tree in the courtyard. We used to play in it. The orphanage was near Leningrad, not in the town, in the country. Was that the place, with the tree in the courtyard? Was that where you took your son?

Raisa replied:

— Yes.

Raisa stepped closer to Malysh:

— What did the orphanage tell you about your parents?

— That they were dead. You’ve always been dead to me.

Zoya added by way of conclusion:

— There’s nothing more to talk about.

Zoya guided Malysh into the far corner, sitting him down. Raisa and Leo remained standing near the window. Leo didn’t press for information, allowing Raisa to take her time. Finally, she whispered, turning her face away from Malysh’s view:

— Leo, I gave up my child. It is the greatest shame in my life. I never wanted to speak about it again, although I think about it almost every day.

Leo paused:

— Is Malysh…?

Raisa lowered her voice even further:

— Fraera was right. There was a typhus epidemic. Many children had died. But when I went back my son was still there. He was dying. He didn’t recognize me. He didn’t know who I was. But I stayed with him until he died. I buried him. Leo, Malysh is not my son.

Raisa crossed her arms, lost in her thoughts. Working through the events, she speculated:

— Fraera must have gone back, looking for my son in 1953 or 1954, after she was released. The records would have been shambolic. There was no way she could have found the truth about my son. She wouldn’t have known I was there when he died. She found someone close in age to him: maybe she planned to use him against me. Maybe she didn’t because she did love Malysh. Maybe she didn’t because she couldn’t be sure I’d believe her lie.

— It might be nothing more than a desperate attempt to hurt us?

— And him.

Leo considered:

— Why not tell Malysh the truth? Fraera is playing with him too.

— What will the truth sound like? He might not take it as a matter of fact. He might feel that I’m rejecting him, devising reasons why he couldn’t be my son. Leo, if he wants me to love him, if he’s looking for a mother…

* * *

WITH HER CHARACTERISTIC KNACK for manipulation, Fraera brought a single, oversized plate of hot stew. There was no option but to sit around, cross-legged, eating together. Zoya refused, at first, to join in, remaining apart. However, the food was turning cold, and heat being its sole redeeming quality, reluctantly she joined in, eating with them side by side, metal forks clattering as they spiked chunks of vegetable and meat. Malysh asked:

— Zoya told me that you’re a teacher.

Raisa nodded:

— Yes.

— I can’t read or write. I’d like to, though.

— I’ll help you learn, if you want.

Zoya shook her head, ignoring Raisa and addressing Malysh:

— I can teach you. You don’t need her.

The plate of food was nearly finished. Soon they’d split off and return to their separate corners of the room. Exploiting the moment, Leo said to Zoya:

— Elena wants you to come home.

Zoya stopped eating. She said nothing. Leo continued:

— I don’t want to upset you. Elena loves you. She wants you to come home.

Leo added no more details, softening the truth.

Zoya stood up, dropping her fork, walking away. She remained standing, facing the wall, before lying down on the bedding, in the corner, her back to the room. Malysh followed, sitting beside her, resting his arm on her back.

* * *

LEO AWOKE, SHIVERING. It was early in the morning. He and Raisa were huddled on one side of the room, Malysh and Zoya on the other side. Yesterday Fraera had been absent: food had been brought by a Hungarian freedom fighter. Leo had noticed a change. A solemnity had fallen across the apartment. There were no more drunk cheers and no more celebrations.

Standing up, he approached the small window. He rubbed a patch of condensation from the glass. Outside, snow was falling. What should have sealed the impression of a city at peace, clean white and tranquil, only compounded Leo’s sense of unease. He could see no children playing, no snowball fights. The year’s first snowfall, in a liberated city, but there was no excitement and no delight. There was no one on the streets at all.

4 NOVEMBER

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