‘I bet you like football, eh? I bet you’re a real footballing man.’
‘Well…’ Senka considered whether to humour him or whether to tell him the truth about his attitude to sports. If the Lobster had asked him, he might have lied, but this one seemed kinder. ‘Actually, I don’t like football.’
‘I thought all boys like football?’
‘Not all,’ replied Senka proudly.
‘So I bet you like basketball then? Are you a bit of a basketball kid?’
‘No,’ said Senka.
‘Camping?’
‘Are you joking? I hate cold and discomfort.’
‘So what do you like?’
‘Opera. Ballet. Fiction. Poetry.’
Komarov shook his head, so Senka added, ‘I’m serious. I hate all sports.’
‘You’re very grown up for your age,’ Komarov said.
Where was this going? What were they after now? Senka thought. Play along until you find out. ‘Not really, but I do prefer to wear a suit at all times.’
Komarov suddenly put out his cigarette. ‘Tell me about your papa.’
Prepare all defences, Senka told himself. Man the fortifications. Load the cannons. Sharpen your cutlasses. Something’s not right.
‘He works very hard on the Central Committee. He doesn’t laugh at my jokes like Mama does and he doesn’t cuddle me. He’s very strict, but Mama says that’s because his job is very important.’
‘Does he ever talk about politics?’
‘Never.’
‘What stories does he tell about work?’
‘None. He says his work is secret and if I asked him about it, he might smack me. Very hard.’
‘Quite right. Does he ever mention Comrade Stalin, for example?’
Senka concentrated hard in order to say the right thing. ‘No, except to say, “Today we’ll celebrate the Great Stalin’s birthday,” and, every night, before we eat at dinner, he thanks “the Great Stalin”.’
‘Do your parents like your apartment?’
‘Yes, they love the apartment.’
‘How many dachas do you have?’
‘Two. Like everyone else.’
‘Most people have no dacha at all,’ Komarov replied. ‘Is two excessive? Does your mother want more dachas?’
‘No.’ Where was
‘Your mother’s very well dressed, isn’t she?’
‘She’s the most beautiful mama in the world.’ Your love for mama is your
‘Does she talk about where she gets her perfumes and clothes?’
‘Mama’s very hard-working. She’s a doctor.’
‘But she likes the good things in life, doesn’t she? How many fur coats does she have?’ Komarov asked.
‘I don’t know but she looks so beautiful in them.’
‘I’d like to hear more about your mother. Will you tell me?’
How strange, Senka thought, that there were no questions about them any more, the schoolchildren.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Do your parents ever talk about politics?’ Komarov asked again.
Not in front of us, Senka thought. Only when they whisper in the bathroom (though I sometimes hear things I shouldn’t). He was about to say this, and then thought that if they were whispering, it would be because they didn’t want anyone to hear, so he decided not to.
‘They talk about what’s for dinner, what films to see, the weather.’
Komarov reached over and stroked Senka’s cheek; then he followed the line of his jaw all the way to his chin, which he tilted up a little with the stump of his finger. Senka sat very still, and tried not to shiver.
‘You must help us. If you don’t, you won’t see your mama. Ever again’
‘I will. I promise,’ Senka whispered.
‘Now,’ said Komarov, straightening up and speaking normally. ‘Did you hear your father boasting how his “Genius Boss” used to trust him, but that now he didn’t appreciate his talents?’
Senka was instantly alert, adrenalin pumping. His father worshipped Stalin, everyone knew this – but he had once, after Stalin had sacked him early in the war, criticized his master. But how did Komarov know this? It had been in the garden at the dacha. No one had been there except his parents and him. Minka was away. But he remembered now that Demian had been present. Demian had heard it.
‘These are just tiny things,’ said Komarov affably. ‘Nothing really. But you probably remember the occasion? Do you?’
‘Criticizing the Head of the Soviet Government would be very out of character for my father,’ said Senka.
‘Don’t fool with me, kid. Don’t lie. And there’s another little thing. Do you remember the time your mother said, “After all they’ve been through, our Jewish compatriots round here need some place of their own?” Presumably she meant a Jewish homeland? A Zion in the Soviet Union. She’s Jewish, isn’t she? Before she was married, wasn’t she called Dashka Moiseivna Diamant?’
