militia were nothing more than a lowly subsection of the Ministry of the Interior: poorly paid, poorly respected-a force comprised of secondary-school dropouts, farm workers kicked off the kolkhoz, discharged army personnel and men whose judgement could be bought with a half bottle of vodka. Officially the USSR’s crime rates were close to zero. The newspapers frequently pointed out the vast sums of money the United States of America was forced to waste on crime prevention with its need for gleaming police cars and police officers in crisp, clean uniforms visible on every street corner, without which its society would crumble. The West employed many of their bravest men and women fighting crime, citizens who could’ve better spent their time building something. None of that manpower was squandered here: all that was needed was a ragtag group of strong but otherwise useless men who were good for nothing more than breaking up drunken brawls. That was the theory. Leo had no idea what the real crime statistics were. He had no desire to find out since those who knew were probably liquidated on a regular basis. Factory production figures filled Pravda ’s front page, the middle pages and the back pages too. Good news was the only news worth printing-high birth rates, mountain-top train lines and new canals.
Taking this into account, Leo’s arrival was a striking anomaly. A post in the MGB held more blat, respect, more influence, more material benefit than almost any other job. An officer wouldn’t voluntarily step down. And if he was disgraced, why hadn’t he simply been arrested? Even disavowed from the MGB, he still carried its shadow- potentially a valuable asset.
Nesterov carried their cases to the car as effortlessly as if they’d been empty. He loaded them into the boot, before opening the back door for them. Inside, Leo watched his new superior officer as he climbed into the front passenger seat. He was too large, even for this impressive vehicle. His knees came up near his chin. There was a young officer seated behind the wheel. Nesterov didn’t bother to introduce him. In similar fashion to the MGB there were drivers responsible for each vehicle. Officers weren’t given their own car and didn’t drive themselves. The driver put the car into gear, pulling out into an empty road. There wasn’t another car in sight.
Nesterov waited a while, no doubt not wanting to seem like he was interrogating his new recruit, before glancing at Leo in the rear-view mirror and asking:
– We were told three days ago that you were coming here. It’s an unusual transfer.
– We must go where we’re needed.
– No one has been transferred here for some time. I certainly made no request for any additional men.
– The output of the factory is considered a high priority. You can never have too many men working to ensure the security of this town.
Raisa turned towards her husband, guessing that his enigmatic answers were deliberate. Even demoted, even tossed out of the MGB, he was still making use of the fear it instilled. In their precarious circumstances it seemed a sensible thing to do. Nesterov asked:
– Tell me: are you to be a syshchik, a detective? We were confused about the orders. They said no. They said you were to be an uchastkovyy, which is a significant demotion in responsibility for a man of your status.
– My orders are to report to you. I leave my rank in your hands.
There was silence. Raisa supposed the general didn’t like having the question pushed back at him. Uncomfortable with the situation he gruffly added:
– For the moment you’ll stay in guest accommodation. Once an apartment has been found it will be assigned to you. I should warn you that there’s a very long waiting list. And there’s nothing I can do about that. There are no advantages to being a militsioner.
The car stopped outside what appeared to be a restaurant. Nesterov opened the boot, picking up the cases and depositing them on the pavement. Leo and Raisa stood, awaiting instructions. Addressing Leo, Nesterov said:
– Once you’ve taken your cases to your room please come back to the car. Your wife doesn’t need to come.
Raisa suppressed her irritation at being spoken about as if she wasn’t present. She watched as Leo, mimicking Nesterov, picked up both their cases. She marvelled at this bravado but decided against embarrassing him. He could struggle with her case if he wanted to. Walking just in front she pushed open the door, entering the restaurant.
Inside it was dark, the shutters were closed and the air stank of stale smoke. Last night’s dirty glasses cluttered the table. Leo put the cases down and knocked on one of the greasy tabletops. The silhouette of a man appeared at the door.
– We’re not open.
– My name is Leo Demidov. This is my wife, Raisa. We’ve just arrived from Moscow.
– Danil Basarov.
– I’ve been told by General Nesterov you have accommodation for us.
– You mean the room upstairs?
– I don’t know, yes, I suppose.
Basarov scratched the rolls of his stomach.
– Let me show you to your room.
The room was small. Two single beds had been pushed together. There was a gap down the middle. Both mattresses dipped. The wallpaper was bubbled like adolescent skin, lined with some kind of grease, sticky to touch. Leo figured it must be cooking oil, since the bedroom was directly over the kitchen, which could be seen through cracks in the floorboards, cracks which ventilated the room with the smell of whatever had been or was cooking below-boiled offal, gristle and animal fat.
Basarov was put out by Nesterov’s request. These beds, and this room, had been used by his s taff, which is to say the women who worked his customers. However, he’d been unable to decline the request. He didn’t own the building. And he required the goodwill of the militia in order to function as a business. They knew he was making a profit and they were fine with it as long as they got a share. It was undeclared, unofficial-a closed system. If the truth was told he was a little nervous of his guests, having heard they were MGB. It stopped him being as rude as he would naturally have been. He pointed down the hall towards a door which was partly ajar.
– There’s the bathroom. We’ve got one indoors.
Raisa tried to open the window. It had been nailed shut. She stared at the view. Ramshackle housing, dirty snow: this was home.
Leo felt tired. He’d been able to handle his humiliation while it had remained a concept but now that it had a physical form-this room-he just wanted to sleep, to close his eyes and shut out the world. Obliged to go back outside, he put his case on the bed, unable to look at Raisa, not out of anger, but out of shame. He walked out without saying a word.
Driven to the town’s telephone exchange, Leo was led inside. There was a queue of several hundred people waiting for their allotted time, a couple of minutes. Since most of them had been forced to leave behind their families in order to work here, Leo could appreciate that these minutes were extremely precious. Nesterov had no need to queue, heading into a cubicle.
Once he’d set up the call, which involved a conversation Leo couldn’t hear, he handed the receiver to him. Leo put the receiver to his ear. He waited.
– How’s the accommodation?
It was Vasili. He continued:
– You want to hang up, don’t you? But you can’t. You can’t even do that.
– What is it you want?
– To stay in touch so you can tell me about life over there and I can tell you about life here. Before I forget, the pleasant apartment you’d arranged for your parents, it’s been taken back. We’ve found them somewhere more suitable to their status. It’s a little cold and crowded, perhaps. Dirty, certainly. They’re sharing with a family of seven, I think, including five young children. By the way, I didn’t know your father suffered from terrible back pain. Shame that he has to return to the assembly line floor only a year from retirement: one year can be made to feel like ten when you’re not enjoying your job. But you’ll soon know all about that.
– My parents are good people. They’ve worked hard. They’ve done you no harm.
– But I’m going to hurt them all the same.
– What do you want from me?
– An apology.
– Vasili, I’m sorry.
