Dead Men Living

Natalia had won another battle. It would not be difficult for him seemingly to let something slip, apparently to show Lestov to be making all the right moves. Charlie wondered if out of it all he’d be able to extract a little in return. He expected to, because he hadn’t wasted the intervening, personally unproductive days. He’d read quite a lot about specific war history.

Charlie Muffin was a diligent reader of body language, too, and believed there was initially a lot to be learned in the first few near-wordless moments of the encounter with Vadim Lestov. Charlie’simmediate impression was of the Russian colonel himself. Charlie knew from Natalia there had been further recognition from Dmitri Nikulin for Lestov achieving an identification by releasing Raisa Belous’s photograph. The change in Lestov was practically visible, as if he had grown in stature, filling out, becoming taller. There was nothing left of the earlier, close-to- overwhelmed reserve in the official surroundings of the ministry. Instead there was a smiled greeting, without any stammer, and tea-although no vodka-and the easy acceptance of Charlie’s congratulation at the quick discovery of Raisa Belous, without any acknowledgment that the picture-release idea had been Charlie’s. The Russian even wore a newer suit that didn’t shine with wear at the elbows.

Fyodor Ivanovich Belous’s did. The striped jacket had once been part of a long-ago-divided suit and the gray trousers were bagged and shapeless. But here again there was no awkwardness and, remembering the Moscow News details of the man’s Communist Party past, Charlie guessed the confidence lingered from Belous once having been part-albeit a very small cog-of the ruling machine. The handshake was firm, the eye contact direct through rimless spectacles. When Lestov complained, mildly, at Belous telling his story first to a media outlet, Belous at once said he’d explained his reason for doing that in the article and Charlie further guessed the man’s imperiousness would have exceeded his position in a mourned regime Belous would clearly have welcomed back. Charlie also suspected Belous’s going to a newspaper had as much to do with a personal protest against the supposed and resented new order as it did with establishing his unknown mother’s reputation.

There was a stenographer at a side table and Lestov carefully took the man through what, at the first telling, was virtually a repetition of his newspaper account. Belous also produced the originals of his now-much-copied souvenir photographs, along with Raisa Belous’s award citation.

“That’s all I can tell you,” concluded the man.

“Let’s see,” said Lestov.

The homicide colonel’s questioning was thorough although unimaginative and Charlie decided the man would make an excellent support deputy for Natalia; the lateral thinking might come with timeand encouragement. Belous was discomfited conceding that his mother’s personal belongings had been disposed of after her death-refusing to use the word sold when Lestov talked of jewelry and the hero medal itself-and insisted he didn’t know what his grandparents might have done with any letters or documents apart from the medal certificate. Certainly nothing had survived. Belous couldn’t remember any discussion, ever, about his maternal grandparents and had always assumed they’d died before he was born.

“Where did your father’s parents tell you she was buried?” demanded Lestov.

“They didn’t. I mean, they didn’t know. They said there’d just been a notification that she’d been killed.”

“Where?” persisted the Russian detective.

“I don’t know that, either. They never said.”

Charlie deferred to Miriam when Lestov invited them to join the questioning, as always wanting the benefit of everyone else’s input before making his own. And was disappointed, even wondering if Miriam was using the same ploy to hold back for his contribution before making hers.

Charlie took his time, actually repeating some of Lestov’s questions hopefully to lessen the slightest edge of resistance he detected in Belous’s response to the American.

“Your grandparents were extremely proud of your mother?” he asked, edging toward his own agenda.

“Rightfully so,” said Belous. He had wispy, receding hair and the pallor of a permanent indoor worker.

“Indeed,” agreed Charlie, wondering at the defensiveness. “But they were your father’s parents?”

Belous frowned. So did Lestov. Questioningly Belous said, “Yes?”

“Weren’t they proud of a son who died in one of the most heroic episodes of the Great Patriotic War?”

“Of course they were!” replied Belous, indignantly.

“None of your photographs show him with your mother.”

“The newspaper appeal was for information about her, not him.”

“So you do have photographs of them together?”

“Not now.”

“What happened to them?”

“I don’t know. My grandparents showed me some, when they were telling me about my parents. I don’t know what happened to them after my grandparents died.”

“What were they photographs of?” demanded Miriam.

“Their wedding.”

“When was that?”

“June 1941.”

“How many were there?” Charlie bustled in. He didn’t believe parents would dispose of photographs of their son but keep those of their daughter-in-law.

“Four, I think.”

“Doing what?”

The man shrugged. “They were wearing the same clothes in each, so I guess they were all taken at the same time. There was one I remember showing them relaxing; nothing in the background. It was dated June 1940. The other two showed the Catherine Palace behind them, so it had to be Tsarskoe Selo, where they worked.”

“They worked?” seized Charlie. “You hadn’t told us that. What did your father do?”

Belous flushed. “He was the senior restorer at the palace. That’s how they met, when my mother joined the curator’s staff.” The man shifted uncomfortably.

Charlie’s feet gave a psychosomatic twinge, a usual body and mind indicator that he was going in the right direction, even if he didn’t know what the destination might be. Lestov and Miriam sat unmoving, waiting, as if they expected to learn something, too. Cautiously Charlie said, “I think we might have gone too quickly over what you told the Moscow News. And us, earlier. I’d like to make sure I’ve got everything right. Your mother and father worked together at Tsarskoe Selo until the German invasion in 1941. Your mother escaped, rescuing a substantial amount of the Catherine Palace treasures, and your father stayed behind and died just before the siege lifted, in 1943 …?”

“No,” said Belous, shifting again. “The paper got that wrong; made it a better story, I suppose. My father was drafted into the army long before the invasion. He left St. Petersburg-or Leningrad, as it then was-almost immediately after he and my mother married.According to my grandparents, they got married because he was being moved.”

“So where did your father die?” came in Miriam, again.

“They were never quite sure. My mother never showed them the official notice. They thought it was somewhere near the Polish border, Lvov in the Ukraine or on the other side, near Lublin.”

“You told us your grandparents virtually brought you up by themselves, after your mother came to Moscow?” probed Charlie, hoping Miriam wouldn’t interrupt again too quickly.

“I believe so. I can’t remember my mother.”

“Not ever having been with you?”

“No.”

“What age would you have been when they told you about her and your father?”

“I’m not sure. Seven, eight, nine-something around that age.”

“Is that when you saw the photographs of your mother and father together?”

“That would have been the first time, I suppose, yes.”

Charlie was intrigued at the man’s apparent selective memory. This was turning out to be a far different encounter than he’d imagined. “They were proud of her? Talked about her a lot?”

“Yes.” Belous relaxed slightly.