busty figure neatly shown off in one of those tweed suits worn by Marlene Dietrich in the forties and a hairstyle to match, she suited the room so well she might have been posed there by a fashion photographer. Katinka guessed she was well over eighty, yet with her strong eyebrows and thick hair dyed black she held herself like an actress on her very last tour.
“I’m Mouche Zeitlin,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “Come on in and I’ll show you round. This was my father’s study…” She led Katinka into a small room still heaped with papers and books, pointing out a wall of volumes. “These are all his works. You probably remember some of them—or maybe you’re too young…”
“No, I knew his name,” answered Katinka. “In my father’s bookcase we have all the Gideon Zeitlin books along with Gorky, Ehrenburg and Sholokhov…”
“A giant of the Soviet era,” said Mouche, who spoke the noble Russian of a trained actress. “Here!” She pointed at the large black and white photographs on the wall that showed a beaming black-eyed man with a grey- black beard and the same eyes and smile as his daughter. “That’s my father with Picasso and Ehrenburg in Paris, and that’s him with Marshal Zhukov at Hitler’s Chancellery in 1945. Oh, and that’s him with one of his many girlfriends. I used to call him
“No, actually, that’s not why I came see you…” Katinka blushed but Mouche Zeitlin waved it away.
“Of course not, why should you, dear? You’re the new generation. But you said you were a historian.” She lit up a Gauloise, which she smoked in a silver holder, offering a cigarette to Katinka.
“No, thanks,” said Katinka. Then she told Mouche about meeting Roza and Pasha, and the story up to the previous day with Lala. “Lala sent me to you. She had your address; I think she must have kept it when Samuil died. And now we know that my client Roza Getman is Snowy, Sashenka’s daughter.”
“God! Snowy!” Mouche lost her brashness and suddenly she dissolved in tears. “I can’t believe it! How we longed to find that child. And what about Carlo?”
“I hope we can find him somehow.”
“But Snowy’s alive and well? I can’t believe it!” Mouche held out her arms to Katinka as if the visitor herself were long-lost family. “You’re a messenger bringing us blessings! Can I phone her? When can I meet her?”
“I hope very soon,” replied Katinka. “But there’s still so much to discover. I came to tell you this good news but also to ask you—did you ever look for Sashenka and Vanya?”
“Right up until his death, my father tried to find out what had happened to them and the children. There were many times during Stalin’s reign when my father was close to destruction himself, even though he was one of the dictator’s pet writers. At the end of the war, my father traveled down to Tbilisi to meet up again with his elder brother Samuil—and Lala Lewis, of course. They were very happy together. It was such a joyous reunion, the two brothers hadn’t seen each other for so many years. Anyway, Samuil made my father promise that as soon as he could, he would find out about Sashenka and her family.”
“Did you find anything?” asked Katinka, taking out her notebook.
“Oh yes. Even during Stalin’s lifetime, Papa inquired of the Cheka and was told that Sashenka and Vanya had received ten years in the camps in 1939. We applied again in 1949, when Sashenka was due to be released, but were told that she had received another ten years without rights of correspondence. During the Thaw after Stalin’s death, we were told that they had both died of heart attacks in the camps during the war.”
“So there’s really no hope for her.”
“We thought not,” said Mouche. “But in 1956 a female ex-prisoner, a newly released Zek, called on us here and told us that she’d been with Sashenka in the Kolyma camps, that she’d last seen Sashenka very recently, and she was alive when Stalin died in March 1953.”
Katinka’s heart leaped.
Later that day, a black armored Mercedes collected Katinka from the Moskva Hotel and drove her to Pasha Getman’s headquarters, a former prince’s mansion off Ostazhenka Street. Katinka was curious to see “The Palace,” as it was known in the press. It was said to be a hive of political and financial intrigue so she was almost disappointed when they drove through the security gates and stopped in front of a graceful but small two-story residence in white marble with curling oriental-style pilasters. Inside, the hall was decorated, decided Katinka, like a Turkish sultan’s harem, with many divans and fountains. She was met by a beautiful black-haired secretary, a Russian girl not much older than she, in a little black suit with a tiny skirt and colossal high heels, all set off by a clinking gold belt. Katinka knew at once, just from the girl’s proprietorial slink, that this “Versace girl” was not exclusively Pasha’s typist.
With her heels clicking on the marble floors, the assistant led Katinka, feeling dowdy in her denim skirt, past a room filled with electronic equipment and television screens, watched by guards in blue uniforms; then a dining room where a young man was checking place settings, flowers and cutlery; and then an airy modern office, all glass and chrome, where Pasha Getman waved at her.
He was on the phone but Roza was sitting on the sofa beneath some pieces of expensive (and hideous, in Katinka’s view) modern art.
“Dear girl, you’ve done so well already,” said Roza, kissing Katinka thrice and holding on to her warmly. “I just can’t believe that you’ve found all this. I’m going to call Mouche right away…As soon as you mentioned the name Palitysn, Sashenka and Vanya, it was as if I already knew them.”
“You didn’t mention you also had a brother.”
“I wanted to start with my parents, and even now I find it hard to say his name, to talk about him…” Roza stopped and closed her eyes for a second. “Anyway, I wasn’t sure what you’d find. But oh, Katinka, I just can’t thank you enough. You’ve given me back a slice of myself, my identity.” Now that those violet eyes were open again, Katinka saw how hard Roza was fighting not to break down.
“Do you want me to go on?” Katinka realized she very badly wanted to find out what had happened to the rest of Roza’s family, especially Carlo, but she felt guilty too. Was she becoming addicted to the drama of someone else’s tragedy?
“Yes—and here’s the cash for the KGB,” said Pasha Getman, coming around the desk to embrace her. He handed her an envelope. “I knew I’d hired the right person.” Katinka caught Roza’s eye as he said this, and they exchanged a conspiratorial smile. “But now, go and find the other Palitsyns. If any of them are alive…”
Katinka felt very nervous about carrying the money in her handbag. She had never held so much and was sure it would be stolen, or she would drop it. She was relieved when she entered the Cafe-Bar Piano near the Patriarchy Ponds to meet the two KGBsti, the Marmoset and the Magician.
She played with the thick envelope for a minute, then opened it in front of them to show the U.S. greenbacks.
“For this much cash, we’d like the files fast. You said tomorrow, didn’t you?”
“It’s all there?” asked the shiny-cheeked Marmoset, eyeing the envelope.
“Yes, against my advice,” said Katinka, “Mr. Getman insisted on paying.”
“All in Abraham Lincolns?” asked the Magician.
“I have no idea,” she said, disdainful of this gangster jargon.
“An angel of the north Caucasus! You’ll learn the way things work!” The Magician laughed and stroked his coarse gingery hair. As she pushed the envelope across the table, he slapped his hand onto hers. “Beautiful, girl. Beautiful, like you.”
Katinka removed her hand quickly, and shuddered.
“Tomorrow, in my office, you’ll have the files on Sashenka and Vanya as well as Mendel and Golden,” promised the Marmoset. “Everything we have.”
Katinka stood up but the Magician took her hand again in a clammy grip.
“Hey, girl, wait, what’s the hurry? Please tell Mr. Getman we hope this is the start of a relationship. And for you as a historian. We have some espionage materials about the Cold War period that would interest the Western media and publishers. Now you know Londongrad, you flew there. We would share a commission with you if you could interest newspapers or publishers in London…”
“I’ll tell Mr. Getman.”
“A little taste of a malt whiskey much favored by the royal families of Europe? It’s Glenfiddich, a famous
