Sashenka

had never known?

“There’s no record of a sentence,” she said aloud. “Could they have survived? Could they be alive?”

“Does it say in the file that they died?” asked the colonel.

She shook her head.

“Well then…” He stood up and stretched.

“But there’s a lot missing from these files, Colonel. No details of sentencing. Perhaps the Palitsyns were sent to the Gulags and pardoned after Stalin’s death. I wish to apply for more files. I want to find out what happened to these people.”

“Is this a game, girl? Fa-la-la! Maybe you’ll be lucky. Maybe not. I’ll refer your request to my superior, General Fursenko. I’m just a cog in the machine.”

Katinka felt downcast suddenly. She had still not found out why Sashenka and her husband had been arrested. Captain Sagan’s confession was dated after their arrest. She did not believe Benya Golden’s story of his affair with Sashenka, let alone the conspiracy to assassinate the Party leaders, so perhaps this too was invented? And she still didn’t know if all this was in any way connected to Satinov.

As she slid the Sashenka file across the desk to the colonel, she accidentally bent back the blank list of those who had examined the file. On the other side were some scrawled names from 1956: her heart leaped. There it was: Hercules Satinov.

The Marmoset started to check if each document was present, wetting his fingertips with his tongue as he turned the pages.

Katinka saw she had another minute or two. She quickly reopened Ivan Palitsyn’s file—and something caught her eye.

There it was, on the State Security letterhead, a handwritten order dated May 4, 1939:

Top Secret.

Captain Zubenko, Special Technical Group, State Security Set up immediate surveillance in Moscow city limits only on Comrade Sashenka Zeitlin-Palitsyn, editor, Soviet Wife and Proletarian Housekeeping, 23 Petrovka, and set up listening equipment in room 403, Metropole Hotel, with immediate effect. Reports only to me, no copies.

Katinka stared at the signature. Vanya Palitsyn, Commissar-General of State Security, third degree.

Sashenka’s husband.

Afterward, Katinka walked through the Moscow streets, down the hill past the Bolshoi toward the Kremlin. She gripped her notebook and glanced at the stalls of the street vendors offering pirated CDs, sensationalist history pamphlets, American pornography, Italian showbiz magazines, even Peter the Great’s Book of Manners. But she was not really looking at them. Once she bumped into a man, who shouted at her, and another time she walked right into a Lada parked on the pavement. She was trying to make sense of what she had found in the file. Finally, she walked up the cobbled hill from the river, past the Kremlin’s ramparts and then round and round Red Square.

Perhaps Benya Golden’s confession had been true after all. Could Sashenka really have had an affair with a famous writer in room 403 at the Metropole Hotel? But it would have been such a dangerous thing to seduce the wife of a Chekist, who had all the weapons of the secret police—surveillance, bugging, arrest—at his disposal. Somehow Vanya seemed to have found out about the affair and he himself had set the ball rolling, unleashing the thunderbolt: a personal investigation without official sanction. Reports only to me, no copies. Palitsyn.

Jealousy, Katinka thought. Were they all ruined because of one man’s fear of being cuckolded? Did they all die because of his jealousy?

10

“So Vanya Palitsyn recorded his wife in bed with a writer?” said Maxy that evening, sitting on his motorbike in leathers, outside the nightclub near the British Embassy. “He gets the report: all the oohs and aahs of fucking…”

“…Vanya was outraged,” Katinka continued, “and ordered Benya Golden’s arrest.”

“No, no,” said Maxy. “Benya Golden’s a famous writer and Sashenka was well known, the niece of Mendel Barmakid, ‘Conscience of the Party.’ And if this just concerned adultery, why was Vanya himself arrested?”

“Benya was arrested and then denounced his mistress Sashenka who denounced her husband?”

“No, Katinka, you’re missing the point. They couldn’t have been arrested without Stalin’s approval.” Maxy lit a cigarette. “Besides, the dates don’t tally. You must realize the archives are full of lies and distortions. We have to read them like hieroglyphics.”

Katinka sighed. It was getting cold, and her miniskirt did not keep out the wind. “What shall I do now?”

“Don’t get upset about all this. You’ve done really well—better than I thought possible.” Maxy looked at his Red Army watch. “Wait—it’s only nine p.m.: why don’t you ring his eminence the marshal? You need his help to get the rest of the KGB files, the stuff they didn’t show you. And now you know more, you can ask more. We need him to confirm that the Palitsyn family are the ones to follow.”

Business concluded, he offered her a cigarette and struck a match. They both sheltered the flame with cupped hands. As their skin touched, his eyes narrowed, and she was conscious of him looking at her carefully.

“Tell me—are you spending all that oligarch’s money? On clothes? Or makeup? No, you’re too sensible, too serious. You’re not spending any of it. You should enjoy life more!” He laughed. “You’re too cute, Katinka, for a historian.” He leaned over and brushed the hair off her face.

“Not so fast,” she said coolly, allowing him to kiss her on the cheek. His stubble burned her skin.

Flicking his cigarette into the air so that it landed on the embankment by the Moskva, he pulled on his helmet, kick-started the bike and sped away toward the Stone Bridge.

Katinka watched him go then touched her cheek where he had kissed her and repeated his line mockingly to herself: You’re too cute for a historian. What a ridiculous gambit, she thought. You may be my teacher, but you’re a bit of a poser. I decide who kisses me and who doesn’t.

Then slowly, thoughtfully, with the eight red stars of the Kremlin sparkling above her, she walked over to the public telephone and dialed a number.

“I’m listening,” answered an old man with a Georgian accent.

“I won’t be dancing this time,” said Hercules Satinov with a wintry smile. He was sitting in his chair at Granovsky, surrounded as usual by the photographs of his family, beneath the portrait of himself as the bemedaled marshal. “I’m getting sicker.”

“No smoking, Father! He was showing off to a pretty girl,” said Mariko, bringing in the tea. “He had to go to bed afterward, you know.” She sounded angry, as if this were Katinka’s fault. “You shouldn’t have come now. It’s much too late. You should go.” Mariko banged the tray on the table and left the room, tossing a sour glare at the visitor.

“It’s all right, Mariko…” Mariko shut the door, though a creaking suggested she was never far away. “Well,” said Satinov, “I am rather ancient.” When Katinka sat in the same chair as last time and crossed her legs, the old man glanced at her approvingly. “You look as if you’ve been out dancing in nightclubs. Well, why not? Why should a flower as young and fresh as you waste her youth on dusty archives and ancient miseries?” He pulled out his cigarettes again, lighting up and closing his eyes.

“It’s what I do best, Marshal.”

“You might not have as long as you think for your research,” he said, “or are you getting fond of me?” He looked right at her. “Well, girl, what did you find?”

Katinka took a deep breath. “In 1956 you visited the Lubianka and examined the files of Sashenka and Vanya Palitsyn. They were old friends of yours from before the Revolution. They were the link with the past you wanted me to find.”

“You seem keener on the subject than you were before,” he observed.

“I am. These people—they seem so real somehow.”