Maybe there are no people who wish to undermine our work? Our job is to reveal guilt, not naively hope that it doesn’t exist.
Grigori considered, noting Leo’s anger. With unusual diplomacy, he modulated his response, no longer as confrontational but sticking by his conclusion:
– In Polina’s diary there are mundane observations about her daily routine. As far as my abilities allow I can see no case against her. Those are my findings.
The artist, whom Leo noted Grigori was informally referring to by her first name, had been commissioned to design and paint a series of public murals. Since there was a risk that she, or indeed any artist, might produce something subtly subversive, a piece of art with a hidden meaning, the MGB were running a routine check. The logic was simple. If her diary contained no secret subversive meaning, it was unlikely that her art would. The task was a minor one and suitable for a novice. The first day had gone well. Grigori had found the diary while Peshkova was at work in her studio. Completing his search, he’d returned the evidence to the hiding place in the chimney in order not to alert Peshkova that she was under investigation. He’d reported back and briefly Leo had wondered if there was hope for the young man: the use of the sooty fingerprint as a clue had been admirable. During the next four days Grigori maintained a high level of surveillance, putting in many more hours than necessary. Yet despite the extra work he made no more reports and offered no observations of any kind. Now he was claiming the diary was worthless.
Leo took the notebook from him, sensing Grigori’s reluctance to let the pages out of his hands. For the first time, he began to read. At a glance he agreed that it was hardly the provocative content they might expect from a diary so elaborately hidden near a fire. Unwilling to cede to the conclusion that the suspect was innocent, he skipped to the end, scouring the most recent entries, written during the past five days of Grigori’s surveillance. The suspect described meeting a neighbour for the first time, a man who lived in an apartment block on the opposite side of the road. She’d never seen him before but he’d approached her and they’d spoken in the street. She remarked that the man was funny and she hoped to see him again sometime, coyly adding that he was handsome. Did he tell me his name? I don’t remember. He must have done. How can I be so forgetful? I was distracted. I wish I could remember his name. Now he’ll be insulted when we meet again. If we meet again, which I hope we will.
Leo turned the page. The next day she got her wish, bumping into the man again. She apologized for being forgetful and asked him to remind her of his name. He told her it was Isaac, and they walked together, talking freely as if they’d been friends for many years. By happy coincidence Isaac was heading in the same direction. Arriving at her studio, she was sad to see him go. According to her entry, as soon as he was out of sight she began long opposheir next encounter. Is this love? No, of course not. But perhaps this is how love begins?
How love begins – it was sentimental, consistent with the fanciful temperament of someone who writes an inoffensive diary but hides it as carefully as if it contained treachery and intrigue. What a silly and dangerous thing to do. Leo didn’t need a physical description of this friendly young man to know his identity. He looked up at his protege and said:
– Isaac?
Grigori hesitated. Deciding against a lie, he admitted:
– I thought a conversation might be useful in evaluating her character.
– Your job was to search her apartment and observe her activities. No direct contact. She might have guessed you were MGB. She’d then alter her behaviour in order to fool you.
Grigori shook his head.
– She didn’t suspect me.
Leo was frustrated by these elementary mistakes.
– You know that only because of what she wrote in the diary. Yet she could have destroyed the original diary, replacing it with this bland set of observations, aware that she was under surveillance.
Hearing this, his brief attempt at deference broke apart, like a ship smashed against rocks. Grigori scoffed, displaying remarkable insolence:
– The entire diary fabricated to fool us? She doesn’t think like that. She doesn’t think like us. It’s impossible.
Contradicted by a young trainee, an agent deficient in his duties – Leo was a patient man, more tolerant than other officers, but Grigori was testing him.
– The people who seem innocent are often those we should watch the most carefully.
Grigori looked at Leo with something like pity. For once his expression did not match his reply.
– You’re right: I shouldn’t have spoken to her. But she is a good person. Of that I am certain. I found nothing in her apartment, nothing in her day-to-day activities that suggests she is anything other than a loyal citizen. The diary is inoffensive. Polina Peshkova does not need to be brought in for questioning. She should be allowed to continue her work as an artist, in which she excels. I can still return the diary before she finishes work. She need know nothing of this investigation.
Leo glanced at her photo, clipped to the front of the file. She was beautiful. Grigori was smitten with her. Had she charmed him in order to escape suspicion? Had she written about love, knowing that he would read those lines and be moved to protect her? Leo needed to scrutinize this proclamation of love. There was no choice but to read the diary line by line. He could no longer trust the word of his protege. Love had made him fallible.
There were over a hundred pages of entries. Polina Peshkova wrote about her work and life. Her character came through strongly: a whimsical style, punctuated by diversions, sudden thoughts and exclamations. The entries flitted from subject to subject, often abandoning one strand and leaving it unfinished. There were no political statements, concentrating entirely on the day-today motions of her life and drawings. Having read the entire diary, Leo couldn’t deny that there was something appealing about the woman. She frequently laughed at her mistakes, documented with perceptive honesty. Her candour might explain why she hid the diary so carefully. It was highly improbable it had been forged as a deceit. With this thought in mind, Leo gestured for Grigori to sit down. He had remained standing, as if on guard duty, for the entire time Leo had been reading. He was nervous. Grigori perched on the edge of the chair. Leo asked:
– Tell me, if she’s innocent, why did she hide the diary?
Seeming to sense that Leo’s attitude towards her was thawing, Grigori became excited. He spoke quickly, rushing through a possible explanation.
– She lives with her mother and two younger brothers. She doesn’t want them snooping through it. Perhaps they’d make fun of her. I don’t know. She talks of love, maybe such thoughts embarrass her. It’s nothing more than that. We must be able to distinguish when something is not important.
Leo’s thoughts wandered. He could imagine Grigori approaching the young woman. Yet he struggled to imagine her responding fondly to a stranger’s question. Why didn’t she tell him to leave her alone? It seemed wildly imprudent of her to be so open. He leaned forward, lowering his voice, not because he feared being overheard but to signal that he was no longer talking to him formally, as a secret-police officer.
– What happened between the two of you? You walked up to her and started talking? And she…
Leo hesitated. He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Finally, stumbling, he asked:
– And she responded…?
Grigori seemed unsure whether the question was put to him by a friend or by a superior officer. When he understood that Leo was genuinely curious, he answered:
– How else do you meet someone except to introduce yourself? I spoke about her art. I told her that I’d seen some of her work – which is true. The conversation continued from there. She was easy to talk to, friendly.
Leo found this extraordinary.
– She wasn’t suspicious?
– No.
– She should have been.
Briefly they’d been speaking as friends, about matters of the heart, now they were agents again. Grigori sank his head.
– Yes, you’re right, she should have been.
He wasn’t angry with Leo. He was angry with himself. His connection with the artist was built on a lie: his affection was founded on artifice and deception.
Surprising himself, Leo offered the diary to Grigori.
