The Secret Speech

— When I type, the letter molds are collected in this assembly grid?

— Yes.

— There are no complete lines of text. You destroyed those. But in the assembly grid, there’s a partial line, a line that hasn’t been finished.

Leo was pointing at an incomplete row of letter molds:

— Your father was halfway through a line.

The sons peered into the machine. Leo was right.

— I want to print these words.

The eldest son began tapping the space bar, remarking:

— If we add spaces to the end of the line, it will be of complete length and ready to cast as a slug.

Individual space molds were added to the incomplete line until the assembly grid was full. A plunger depressed molten lead into the mold and a narrow rectangular slug dropped out — the last words Suren Moskvin set before taking his own life.

The single slug lay on its side, its letters tilted away from view. Leo asked:

— Is it hot?

— No.

Leo picked up the slug line, placed it on the tray. He covered the surface with ink and placed a single sheet of white paper over the top, pressing down.

SAME DAY

SEATED AT HIS KITCHEN TABLE, Leo stared at the sheet of paper. Three words were all that remained of the document that had resulted in Suren Moskvin taking his own life:

Under torture, Eikhe

Leo had read the words over and over again, unable to take his eyes off them. Out of context, their effect was nonetheless hypnotic. Breaking their spell, he pushed the sheet of paper aside and picked up his case, laying it flat on the table. Inside were two classified files. In order to obtain access to them he’d needed clearance. There’d been no difficulty regarding the first file, on Suren Moskvin. However, the second had prompted questions. The second file he’d requested was on Robert Eikhe.

Opening the first set of documents, he felt the weight of this man’s past, the number of pages accumulated on him. Moskvin had been a State Security officer — just like Leo — a Chekist, for far longer than Leo had ever served, keeping his job while thousands of officers were shot. Included in the file was a list: the denouncements Moskvin had made throughout his career:

Nestor Iurovsky. Neighbor. Executed

Rozalia Reisner. Friend. 10 years

Iakov Blok. Shopkeeper. 5 years

Karl Uritsky. Colleague. Guard. 10 years

Nineteen years of service, two pages of denouncements, and nearly one hundred names — yet he’d only ever given up one family member.

Iona Radek. Cousin. Executed

Leo recognized a technique. The dates of the denunciations were haphazard, many falling in one month and then nothing for several months. The chaotic spacing was deliberate, hiding careful calculation. Denouncing his cousin had almost certainly been strategic. Moskvin needed to make sure it didn’t look as if his loyalty to the State stopped at his family. To suffuse his list with credibility the cousin had been sacrificed: protection from the allegation that he only named people who didn’t matter to him personally. A consummate survivor, this man was an improbable suicide.

Checking the dates and locations of where Moskvin had worked, Leo sat back in surprise. They’d been colleagues: both of them employed at the Lubyanka seven years ago. Their paths had never crossed, at least not that he could remember. Leo had been an investigator, making arrests, following suspects. Moskvin had been a guard, transporting prisoners, supervising their detention. Leo had done his utmost to avoid the basement interrogation cells, as if believing the floorboards shielded him from the activities that went on below, day after day. If Moskvin’s suicide was an expression of guilt, what had triggered such extreme feelings after all this time? Leo shut the folder, turning his attention to the second file.

Robert Eikhe’s file was thicker, heavier, the front cover stamped CLASSIFIED, the pages bound shut as if to keep something noxious trapped inside. Leo unwound the string. The name seemed familiar. Glancing at the pages he saw that Eikhe had been a Party member since 1905—before the revolution — at a time when being a member of the Communist Party meant exile or execution. His record was impeccable: a former candidate for the Central Committee Politburo. Despite this, he’d been arrested on 29 April 1938. Plainly, this man was no traitor. Yet Eikhe had confessed: the protocol was in the file, page after page detailing his anti-Soviet activity. Leo had drafted too many pre-prepared confessions not to recognize this as the work of an agent, punctuated with stock phrases — signs of the in-house style, the template to which any person might be forced to sign their name. Flicking forward, Leo found a declaration of innocence written by Eikhe while imprisoned. In contrast to the confession, the prose was human, desperate, pitifully heaping praise on the Party, proclaiming love for the State, and pointing out with timid modesty the injustice of his arrest. Leo read, hardly able to breathe:

Not being able to suffer the tortures to which I was submitted by Ushakov and Nikolayev — especially by the former, who utilized the knowledge that my broken ribs have not properly mended and caused me great pain — I have been forced to accuse myself and others.

Leo knew what would follow next.

On 4 February 1940 Eikhe had been shot.

* * *

RAISA STOOD, watching her husband. Engrossed in classified files, he was oblivious to her presence. This vision of Leo — pale, tense, shoulders hunched over secret documents, the fate of other people in his hands — could have been sliced from their unhappy past. The temptation was to react as she’d done so many times before, to walk away, to avoid and ignore him. The rush of bad memories hit her like a kind of nausea. She fought against the sensation. Leo was not that man anymore. She was no longer trapped in that marriage. Walking forward, she reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder, appointing him the man she’d learned to love.

Leo flinched at her touch. He hadn’t noticed his wife enter the room. Caught unawares, he felt exposed. He stood up abruptly, the chair clattering behind him. Eye to eye, he saw her nervousness. He’d never wanted her to feel that way again. He should have explained what he was doing. He’d fallen into old habits, silence and secrets. He put his arms around her. As she rested her head on his shoulder, he knew she was peering down at the files. He explained:

— A man killed himself, a former MGB agent.

— Someone you knew?

— No. Not that I remember.

— You have to investigate?

— Suicide is treated as—

She interrupted.

— I mean… does it have to be you?