Until today, when he found the other interrogator, Colonel Komarov, reading the sports pages of the newspaper with his boots on the desk and a cigarette in his mouth. Vlad waited silently, standing at attention. Komarov looked up, waved him into the chair and without a word offered him a cigarette. When Komarov tried to light it for him, Vlad jumped back from his chair, expecting a punch. When he was coaxed back into his seat, his hands were shaking so much that Komarov had to light it for him and then hand it back across the table – as if he was an adult, even a friend.
‘You’ve been very honest with us, Vlad. You’ll be going home soon. To see your parents.’
‘Oh, thank you, colonel.’ Vlad’s eyes filled with tears.
‘We don’t have to talk about this bullshit any more. We can talk about anything. Sport. Or home. I’m bored of talking about school pranks.’ He paused. ‘Where will your parents be at the moment?’
‘I don’t know… They go to the dacha at weekends.’
‘Your father is a very capable man, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does he want you to do?’
‘He wants me to be an engineer like him. But I’m not doing very well at school. He’s disappointed in me.’
‘How can that be? I was just saying to Colonel Likhachev that you’ll make a perfect Soviet man. You can do anything you want, you’re a patriot.’
‘Me? Oh, thank you, colonel.’
‘So your father should appreciate you a little more. But perhaps he’s too busy with his top job.’
‘Yes, and my mother thinks he’ll soon be promoted.’
‘Really? And why hasn’t he been?’
‘Well, they think he should be. They think he’s been overlooked because everyone’s so busy.’
‘Who’s everyone?’
‘Well, the authorities.’
‘The Central Committee?’
‘Yes, Papa thinks they haven’t noticed him, or he’d have a bigger job by now. My father’s very clever and hard-working, you know, a good Communist.’
‘But he says the Central Committee is to blame? You’ve heard him say that?’
‘Yes, but only to my mother in their room when they’re talking at night.’
‘She’s proud of him?’
‘Of course. She says without his planes, we couldn’t have won the war.’
‘And what did
‘He agreed.’
‘Have you ever seen the factory at Satinovgrad?’
‘Yes, Papa once took us just before the war.’
‘Did you hear there were many planes that crashed?’
‘Yes, but those weren’t the fault of my father.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He was worried about them but he said the problem was that the designs couldn’t be changed.’
‘Why not?’
‘That wasn’t his job.’
‘He talked about it with you?’
‘Well, yes…’
Komarov leaned forward, biting his shortened finger. ‘Whose job was it?’
‘Papa said it was Marshal Shako’s and he spoke to Shako about it, but they agreed they couldn’t change the designs.’
‘Did Papa say why?’
‘No. Just that the designs were approved at the top.’
‘The top of what?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You know Comrade Satinov, of course?’
‘Yes, he supervises my father’s ministry.’
‘Perhaps he blamed Comrade Satinov as the “top”. He’s in the Politburo and the State Defence Council.’
‘I think…’
‘Go on.’
‘I think Papa meant above Satinov.’
‘Who’s above Satinov?’
‘Well… Comrade Stalin.’
‘So your papa says it is the Head of the Soviet Government who approves planes that crash?’
‘Yes – well, no… yes… I’m not sure.’ Komarov raised his eyebrows but said nothing and sure enough Vlad filled the vacuum: ‘I think he meant that the top people don’t understand planes so they sign off designs that make planes crash.’
‘Who’re they? You mean the Head of the Soviet Government signs the plans?’
‘I think he signs everything.’
Vlad noticed that Komarov was writing fast. For a long time, he said nothing, just listened to the nib scratching paper.
‘You must sign this statement right now,’ Komarov said, pushing the paper over to him.
‘Will my parents come to collect me then?’ Vlad’s stomach clenched and cramped; he felt a burning hole in his chest and a rising fear in his gullet.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Komarov, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. ‘After everything you’ve shared with me, I’m just not sure.’
HERCULES SATINOV HAD arrived in Germany. The ZiS limousine that collected him from Tempelhof Airport raced and swerved through Berlin’s apocalyptic landscape. Lights flickered, illuminating momentary glimpses of figures eking out an existence: a woman carrying a jerrycan of water, packs of dogs, gangs of urchins running, running, a madman dancing around a fire.
Satinov peered out at the red and desperate eyes of humans and animals catching the lights of the convoy as they scurried amongst the burnt-out tank hulks, the mountains of rubble, the shattered shells of buildings. But each shadow, every ruin reminded him of Dashka, for here he’d held her, there they kissed, glimpses of beauty in a world on the other side of catastrophe.
