The Secret Speech

— You’re risking your lives? If it’s worthless…

Lazar corrected him:

— We’re not protecting these papers; we’re protecting their right to survive.

Anisya found her husband’s assuredness infuriating. The young composer in question had come to her, not him. She’d then petitioned Lazar and convinced him to take the music. In the retelling of the story he’d smoothed over his doubts, anxieties — reducing her to nothing more than his passive supporter. She wondered if he was even aware of the adjustments he’d made to the history, automatically elevating his own importance, recentering the story around him.

Lazar picked up the entire collection of unbound sheet music, maybe two hundred pages in total. Included among the music were documents relating to the business of the church and several original icons that had been hidden, replaced with reproductions. He hastily divided the contents into three piles, checking as best he could that complete musical compositions were kept together. The plan was to each smuggle out a more or less equal share. Divided in three, there was a reasonable chance some of the music would survive. The difficulty was finding three separate hiding places, three people who’d be prepared to sacrifice their lives for notes on a page even though they’d never met the composer or heard his music. Lazar knew many in his parish would help. Many were also likely to be under suspicion of some kind. For this task they needed the help of a perfect Soviet, someone whose apartment would never be searched. Such a person, if they existed, would never help them.

Anisya threw out suggestions:

— Martemian Syrtsov.

— Too talkative.

— Artiom Nakhaev.

— He’d agree, take the papers and then panic, lose his nerve, and burn them.

— Niura Dmitrieva.

— She’d say yes but she’d hate us for asking. She wouldn’t sleep. She wouldn’t eat.

In the end, two names — that’s all they could agree upon. Lazar decided to keep one portion of the music hidden in the church, along with the larger icons, returning them to the trunk and pushing the altar back into position. Since Lazar was the most likely to be followed, Anisya and Maxim were to carry their share of the music to the two addresses. They would leave separately. Anisya was ready:

— 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: