them together and made them brothers. Leo should’ve put his arms around him and said: Me too. Had he forgotten their history so easily? No, they merely had different techniques for dealing with it. Leo had embarked on a new and noble career, scrubbing his bloody hands in a basin of warm, soapy respectability. Nikolai’s technique had been to drink until he blacked out, not for the thrill but as an attack on his memory.
Someone wouldn’t allow him to forget, sending him photographs of men and women taken against a white wall, cropped so that they were just a face. At first he hadn’t recognized the subjects although he’d realized that they were arrest photographs, the kind required by any prison bureaucracy. They arrived in batches, once a week, then once a day, every day, an envelope left at his home. Going through them he’d begun to remember names, conversations-tattered memories, a crude collage with one citizen’s arrest spliced with another’s interrogation and another’s execution. As the photographs accumulated, holding them heaped in his hands, he questioned if he’d arrested so many. In truth, he knew, he’d arrested far more.
Nikolai wanted to confess, to ask for forgiveness. But no demands were sent, no requests for an apology, no instructions on how to repent. The first envelope had been marked with his name. His wife had brought it to him. He’d opened it casually in front of her. When she’d asked what it contained he’d lied, hiding the photos. From then on, he’d been forced to open them in secret. Even after twenty years of marriage his wife didn’t know about his work. She knew he’d been a State Security officer. But she knew little more. Perhaps she was being willfully ignorant. He didn’t care whether it was willful or not, he cherished her ignorance-he depended upon it. When he looked into her eyes he saw unqualified love. If she knew, if she’d seen the faces of the people he’d arrested, if she’d seen their faces after two days of questioning, there would be fear in her eyes. The same was true for his daughters. They laughed and joked with him. They loved him and he loved them. He was a good father, attentive and patient, never raising his voice, never drinking at home-a home where he remained a good man.
Someone wanted to steal this from him. Within the last couple of days the envelopes were no longer marked with his name. Anyone could have opened them: his wife, his daughters. Nikolai had become afraid to go out in case something should arrive in his absence. He’d made his family swear to bring to him any package or letter whether it was marked with a name or not. Yesterday he’d gone into his daughters’ room to find an unmarked letter on their bedside table. He’d lost his temper, wild with anger, furiously asking if the girls had opened it. They’d cried, confused by the sudden transformation, assuring him they’d put it on the table for safekeeping. He’d seen fear in their eyes. It had broken his heart. It had been the moment he’d decided to seek Leo’s help. The State must catch these criminals that were senselessly persecuting him. He’d given many years of service to his country. He was a patriot. He’d earned the right to live in peace. Leo could help: he had an investigative team at his disposal. It would be in their mutual interests to hunt down these counterrevolutionaries. It would be just like old times. Except Leo hadn’t wanted to know.
The early morning workers were already arriving at the bakery. They stopped, staring at Nikolai in the doorway. He snarled:
– What?
They said nothing, remaining huddled, some meters away, not passing him.
– You judge me?
Their faces were blank, men and women waiting to bake the city’s bread. He had to get home, to the one place, the only place where he was loved and where his past meant nothing.
Living nearby, he staggered through the deserted streets, hoping that in his absence another package of photographs hadn’t arrived. He stopped walking: his breathing was shallow and heavy, like an old, unhealthy dog. There was something else, another noise. He turned around, looking behind him. Footsteps-he was sure of it, the tap, tap of hard heels on stone pavements. He was being followed. He lurched toward the shadows, searching for outlines, straining his eyes. They were after him, his enemies, stalking him: hunting him as he had once hunted them.
He was running now, home, as fast as he could. He stumbled before regaining his balance, his coat flapping about his ankles. Changing tack, he spun around. He’d catch them at this game. He knew these tricks. They were his tricks. They were using his methods against him. Staring at the dark corners, the murky enclaves, the hiding places where he’d trained MGB recruits to move between in, he called out:
– I know you’re there.
His voice echoed down the seemingly empty street. Empty to a layman, but he was an expert in such matters. His defiance was brief, melting away:
– I have children, two daughters. They love me! They don’t deserve this. You hurt me and you hurt them.
His children had been born while he was an MGB officer. After arresting fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, every night he’d gone home and kissed his own family good night.
– What about the others? There are millions of others; if you killed us all, there’d be no one left. We were all involved!
People were appearing at the windows, drawn out by his shouting. He could point to any building, any house, and inside there’d be former officers and guards. The men and women in uniform were the obvious targets. There were also the train drivers who took the prisoners to the Gulags, the men and women who processed paperwork, stamped forms, the people who cooked and cleaned. The system required the consent of everyone, even if they consented by doing nothing. Nothing was enough. They’d depended upon a lack of resistance as much as they’d depended on volunteers. He would not be a scapegoat. This wasn’t his burden alone. Everyone carried a collective guilt. He was prepared to feel remorse from time to time, to spend a minute each day thinking over the terrible things he’d done. The people hounding him weren’t satisfied with that. They wanted more.
Fearful, Nikolai turned and ran, wildly this time, as fast as he could. Tangled up in his coat, he fell over, crashing down into the slushy snow, his clothes soaking up the filthy water. Slowly getting up, his knee throbbing, his trousers ripped, he ran again, water streaming from his coattails. It wasn’t long before he fell again. This time he began to cry, exhausted, awful sobs. Rolling onto his back, he pulled himself free from his coat, now impossibly heavy. He’d bought it many years ago from one of the restricted stores. He’d been proud of it. It was proof of his status. He didn’t need it anymore: he’d never go out again, he’d stay at home, lock the door, and pull the curtains shut.
Reaching his apartment block, he entered the hallway panting and sweating-dirty water dripping from his clothes. Soaking wet, pressed against the wall, leaving an impression of his body, he checked the street, waiting to catch a glimpse of his pursuers. Unable to see anyone-they were too sly-he climbed the stairs, his feet slipping, then scrambling up on all fours. The closer he got to home, the more he relaxed. They couldn’t reach him through these walls, his sanctuary. As if he’d swallowed a soothing tonic he began to think rationally. He was drunk. He’d overreacted, that was all. Of course he’d made enemies over the years, people with grudges, bitter at his success. If all they could do was send him a couple of photographs he didn’t need to worry. The majority-society-respected and valued him. He breathed deeply, reaching his landing and groping for his key.
Outside his front door was a package, roughly thirty centimeters long, twenty centimeters wide, and ten centimeters deep, wrapped in brown paper, neatly bound with string. There was no name, no label, just an ink drawing on the paper, a crucifix. Nikolai dropped to his knees. His hands trembled as he pulled the string free. Inside was a box. The top of the box was marked: NOT FOR PRESS
He lifted the lid. There were no photographs. Instead, there was a stack of neatly printed pages, a substantial document, over a hundred pages long. On the top rested an accompanying letter. He picked it up, scanning the words. It wasn’t addressed to him: it was an official State letter declaring that this speech was to be distributed to every school, every factory, workers and youth group up and down the country. Confused, he put the letter down, taking up the speech. He read the first page carefully. He began shaking his head. This couldn’t be true. It was a lie, a malicious fabrication, intended to drive him insane. This could never have been published by the State: they would never distribute such a document. It was impossible.
INNOCENT VICTIMS TORTURE
These words couldn’t exist in black and white, printed, State-sanctioned, distributed to every school and factory. When he caught the perpetrator of this hoax, this well-informed hoax, he’d have them executed.
Involuntarily Nikolai scrunched up the page he was reading and tossed it aside. He began to tear at the next page, and the next, ripping them into shreds, tossing the scraps aside. He stopped, bending forward, curling into a ball, his head resting on the unread pages, muttering to himself:
– It can’t be true.
