food, grease and piss. She had a plentiful supply of rubles for food, but Snowy and Carlo, delicate eaters, were used to fine cooking and hated the watery vegetable soup, black bread and dumplings in thin tomato sauce that were the only things available in the canteen. They were already losing weight. During the day they played with other children but Carolina could never relax because some of these urchins had become feral tricksters who were capable of anything. She had to watch the suitcases too. At night they slept together, hugging one another, on their rolled-up mattress under a blanket and some coats. Snowy and Carlo cried in her arms and asked about Mummy and Daddy. When would they see them again? Where were they going?
The actual departure from Moscow had been easy enough: Vanya’s parents had reserved seats for Carolina and the children. The train had left on time; and although the journey had taken a day longer than scheduled, a kind Red Army soldier and his young wife, on their way to a new posting on the Turkish border, had taken pity on them and brought them ice creams and snacks from the stations where the train stopped. But the children knew something was terribly wrong. They wanted their mother. Carolina longed to comfort them but did not want to lie, or to encourage them to say dangerous things that might draw attention. It was agony. As they traveled away from their former life, from their parents, from Moscow, Snowy and Carlo clung to her.
“Will you be with us, Carolina? You’re staying with us, aren’t you? I miss Mama!”
After their visit to Comrade Stepanian, they went for their daily snack in the canteen. They sat at one of the greasy Formica tables. Carolina found that she was shaking. Weary and dispirited, she tried to fight off an attack of naked panic. The Palitsyns were gone. Perhaps Comrade Satinov had forgotten his plan? Perhaps he too had been destroyed? She counted her money in her mind: she had twenty-five rubles in her hand and the large sum of four hundred rubles in her brassiere, for emergencies. If there was no message soon, she would have to make a difficult decision. She had already decided there was no question of leaving Snowy and Carlo at an orphanage of any sort, especially not an NKVD one, but she had few connections in officialdom, and none that was independent of the Palitsyns. She would have to take the children home with her, to her German village not far from Rostov. This filled her with joy, for she loved Snowy and Carlo. They loved her too and she knew that in time she could heal the wounds of loss with her loving care. But she was too old to be their mother and how long would it be before the NKVD came to arrest the Palitsyns’ nanny—and where else would they search than in her own village?
That night, she could not sleep. She listened to the chug of locomotives and hiss of steam, the never-quiet rumble of people and machines in the station. Carolina looked down at the pale faces of the children, at Snowy pressing her pink cushion against her lips for comfort, and, for the first time since she left Moscow, she started to cry.
39
“Prisoner seven hundred seventy-eight, sit down. Now, did you sleep well?”
Sashenka, disheveled, pale, dehydrated and barely strong enough to speak, shook her head.
“Is your cell comfortable? How is the air circulating in this hot summer?”
Sashenka said nothing.
Investigator Mogilchuk swept a hand over his thick pompadour and stroked the papers in front of him. It was the same as yesterday and the day before and the day before that. Sashenka had spent three days on the so-called conveyor. No sleep in an overheated cell had broken stronger prisoners than her. After breakfast and slopping out, they brought her back to this interrogation room.
“Your cheek has come up with quite a bruise. It’s black and blue.”
Sashenka touched it gingerly. It was very painful. Perhaps her cheekbone was fractured, she thought.
“Let’s start again. Remember your uncle Mendel. Do not wait until we force you! Begin your confession! Then we’ll let you sleep and solve that heating problem in your cell. Would you like a night’s sleep?”
“I have nothing to confess. I am innocent.”
“Then how do you reconcile the fact of your arrest with that declaration of innocence? Do you think I’m a clown and Comrade Beria’s just passing the time of day?”
“I don’t understand it myself. I can only think it’s a mistake or the result of a misunderstanding caused by some coincidences.”
“The Party doesn’t recognize coincidences,” said Mogilchuk. “You saw Comrade Investigator Rodos in Comrade Beria’s office? He’s quite a man, a legend in the Organs, more like a dangerous beast: we have to stop him killing prisoners all the time. In fact, he’s damaged quite a few people close to you this very week. He says he gets a red mist before his eyes and forgets himself. He hates our sort, Sashenka. He hates intellectuals! You might have to meet him soon if you don’t disarm. But you’re in luck. I’m going to give you one more chance: I am going to introduce someone who might jog your memory.”
He picked up the telephone on his desk. “Deliver the package!” he said genially.
He smiled at Sashenka, removed and replaced his spectacles, and checked his pompadour. They waited in silence. The phone rang.
“Yes, yes, comrade, we’ll wait for you.”
Mogilchuk left the room for a moment and then returned. “Just making sure everything is just so.”
“Can I have a glass of water?” Sashenka repeated Vanya’s instructions to herself and then, under her breath but still moving her lips, she chanted, “Snowy, Carlo, Cushion, Bunny.”
Mogilchuk was pouring her out a glass when the door burst open and Kobylov pretended to creep in, raising his huge shiny hands with the many glistening rings.
“Pretend I’m not here, Comrade Investigator. I’ll hide over here in the corner!” Just like a headmaster sitting at the back to observe a teacher’s class, the fragrant giant leaned against the wall and crossed his boots.
There was a knock on the door.
“Your show!” Kobylov whispered and wrinkled his nose at Sashenka. She looked away. “Tired?” he hissed.
“Enter!” piped up Mogilchuk. “The confrontation starts now.” The door opened. The torturer from Beria’s office entered. “Welcome, Comrade Rodos,” Mogilchuk said.
Butterflies of physical fear fluttered in Sashenka’s belly. Rodos moved slowly as if made of rusty steel. He nodded at his comrades and then looked Sashenka straight in the eye. He sat down in the chair next to Mogilchuk and started to play with the long red hairs of the mole on his chin. This was the Sashenka team: Kobylov was in charge, with Mogilchuk and Rodos as the soft and hard men. Just to break her? No, they must be working on some bigger case, she thought; one that involved poor Mendel. Her natural optimism, barely still beating in her breast, told her she would survive this. No one had yet broken, that was clear.
So who were they bringing to surprise her? She had already seen Mendel—a heartbreaking, dreadful sight.
If it was Vanya, and he had told lies against her, she would understand that, under the ministerings of Rodos, he had crossed into the other world: she would still beam her love at him. She would not confess: she could still survive.
If it was Benya, darling Benya of the eight stars, of the seven thousand rubies, he was beyond blame now. She had rung him that day to say “I love you.” Now she loved him once more, convinced he was as innocent as she. If she never got out of the Lubianka, she would always be grateful that she had known such a love.
But she would not confess, whatever anyone said, because she was still innocent. And if she did not confess, she would one day be freed. And she would reclaim Snowy and Carlo. It was all for them now.
The door opened.
Sashenka looked down at her fingers with terrible foreboding. This was it.
She sensed, through her peripheral vision, a wizened figure hesitating in the doorway.
“Sit down, prisoner,” said Rodos, pointing at the chair facing Sashenka on the T-shaped conference table. “There!”
A skinny old man in blue prison overalls hesitated again, pointing at himself. “Yes, you! Sit there, prisoner. Hurry!”
A bolt of expectation hit her. Was it her father? She gulped. Was he alive? Had he testified against her? It did not matter: if he was alive, she would be jubilant.
