SAME DAY
In the back of the car Zoya glared at the militia officers, following their every movement as if imprisoned with two venomous snakes. Though the officer in the passenger seat had made a cursory attempt at being friendly, turning around and smiling at the girls, his smile had smashed up against a brick wall. Zoya hated these men, hated their uniforms and insignia, their leather belts and steel-capped black boots, making no distinction between the KGB and the militia.
Glancing out the window, Raisa approximated where they were in the city. Evening had set in. Streetlights flickered on. Unaccustomed to being driven home, she slowly pieced together her location. This was not the way to their apartment. Leaning forward, trying to smooth out the urgency in her voice, she asked:
– Where are we going?
The officer in the front passenger seat turned around, his face expressionless, his back creaking against the leather upholstery:
– We’re taking you home.
– This isn’t the way.
Zoya sprang forward:
– Let us out!
The guard scrunched up his face:
– What?
Zoya didn’t ask twice. With the car still in motion she unlocked the latch, throwing the door wide open into the middle of the road. Bright headlights flashed through the window as an oncoming truck swerved to avoid a collision.
Raisa grabbed hold of Zoya, clutching her waist, pulling her back inside just as the truck clipped the door, smashing it shut. The impact crumpled steel and shattered the window, showering the interior with glass. The officers were shouting. Elena was screaming. The car thumped into the curb, running up onto the pavement, before skidding to a stop by the side of the road.
A stunned silence elapsed, the two officers turned round, pale and breathless:
– What is wrong with her?
The driver added, tapping his temples:
– She’s not right in the head.
Raisa ignored them, examining Zoya. Unharmed, her eyes were blazing. There was a wildness about her: the primeval energies of a feral child brought up by wolves and captured by man, refusing to be tamed or civilized.
The driver got out, examining the damaged door, scratching and shaking his head:
– We’re taking you home. What’s the problem?
– This isn’t the way.
The officer pulled out a slip of paper, handing it to Raisa through the gap where the window once was. It was Leo’s writing. She stared blankly at the address before recognizing that it was the address of Leo’s parents’ apartment. Her anger evaporated:
– This is where Leo’s parents live.
– I didn’t know whose apartment it was. I just follow orders.
Zoya wriggled free, climbing over her sister and out of the car. Raisa called after her:
– Zoya, it’s okay!
Unappeased, Zoya didn’t return. The driver moved toward her. Seeing him about to grab her, Raisa called out:
– Don’t touch her! Leave her! We’ll walk the rest of the way.
The driver shook his head:
– We’re supposed to stay with you until Leo turns up.
– Then follow behind.
Still seated on the backseat, Elena was crying. Raisa put an arm around her:
– Zoya’s okay. She’s not hurt.
Elena seemed to absorb those words, checking on her older sister. Seeing that she was unhurt, her tears stopped. Raisa wiped the remaining few away:
– We’re going to walk. It’s not far. Can you manage that?
Elena nodded:
– I don’t like being driven home.
Raisa smiled:
– Nor do I.
Raisa helped her out of the car. The driver threw up his hands, exasperated at the exodus of passengers.
Leo’s parents lived in a low-rise modern block to the north of the city, home to numerous elderly parents of State officials, a retirement home for the privileged. In the winter, residents would play cards in each other’s living rooms. In the summer they’d play cards outside, on the grass strip. They’d shop together, cook together, a community with only one rule-they never spoke about their children’s work.
Raisa entered the building, leading the girls to the elevator. The doors closed just as the militia officers caught up, forcing them to take the stairs. There was no chance Zoya would remain in a confined space with those two men. Reaching the seventh floor, Raisa led the girls down the corridor to the last apartment. Stepan-Leo’s father-answered the door, surprised to see them. His surprise quickly transformed into concern:
– What’s wrong?
Leo’s mother, Anna, appeared from the living room, equally concerned. Addressing both of them, Raisa answered:
– Leo wants us to stay here.
Raisa gestured at the two officers approaching from the stairway, adding:
– We have an escort.
There was fear in Anna’s voice:
– Where is Leo? What’s going on?
Raisa shook her head:
– I don’t know.
The officers arrived at the door. The more senior of the two, the driver, out of breath from climbing the stairs, asked:
– Is there any other way into the apartment?
Anna answered:
– No.
– We’ll remain here.
But Anna wanted more information:
– Can you explain?
– There have been reprisals. That’s all I can say.
Raisa shut the door. Anna wasn’t satisfied:
– But Leo is okay, isn’t he?
With gritted teeth, Zoya listened to Anna, watching the loose skin of her chin wobble as she spoke. She was fat with doing nothing all day long, fat with her son’s provision of rich and rare foods. Her worries about Leo were excruciating, her voice strangled with concern for her murdering son:
Is Leo okay? Leo is okay, isn’t he?
Are the people he arrested, the families he destroyed-are they okay? They doted on him as if he were a child. Worse than concern was their parental pride, excited by every story, hanging on every word he had to say. The displays of affection were sickening: kisses, embraces, jokes. Both Stepan and Anna were willing and eager participants in Leo’s conspiracy to pretend that they were a normal family, planning day trips and visits to the shops, the restricted shops, rather than those with long queues of people and limited supplies. Everything was nice. Everything was comfortable. Everything was designed to conceal the murder of her father and mother. Zoya hated
