One Night in Winter полностью

Andrei touched his face. His right cheek and mouth were numb and swollen. And he was tired. He felt he would die if he didn’t get some sleep. The answer was obvious: Vasily Stalin. Perhaps there was something between Serafima and him? Vasily Stalin had picked her up, and she knew him. If NV – New Leader – was Vasily Stalin, wouldn’t they see this entire case as a harmless joke, instead of a conspiracy? But George Satinov had warned him: never mention Vasily Stalin, and he had left him out of his reports to the Organs. Anyway, who would believe him, the son of an Enemy? And what gruesome Caucasian vengeance would the Great Stalin himself take on a boy who dared to mention the Name in vain? Yet despite it all, the word Vasily danced on his lips.

Likhachev leaned over and put his jaw so close to the wounds on Andrei’s face that he could taste the sausage on his interrogator’s breath. ‘Come on, lover boy,’ he said. ‘Prove to me that Serafima’s whiter than white.’

At lunchtime, the inspector from the Education Sector of the Agitprop Department, Central Committee, arrived to hear Dr Rimm’s accusations.

‘Comrade director.’ Inspector Ivanov licked his finger as he turned some papers. ‘In the light of the Children’s Case, we have received four anonymous complaints about the direction of School 801.’

Kapitolina Medvedeva looked miserably at Rimm, who beamed jubilantly back at her. Who cares if she knew it was he who had written all four denunciations, he thought? Whoever had written them, they told the truth.

‘Therefore, I have been deputed to consult Comrade Rimm who has confirmed some of the accusations. Is that right, Comrade Rimm?’

‘Yes, Comrade Ivanov. But most reluctantly and with sincere sadness.’

Dr Rimm was delighted at the way things were going. It turned out he had quite a talent for undercover work. Demian had given him the Velvet Book and he had given it to an officer whom he knew in the Organs. Yes, Senka Dorov had been arrested thanks to him but Comrade Stalin often said, ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,’ and, besides, the Chekists had promised no harm would come to Senka and the shock might teach the runt some respect.

‘Good,’ said Ivanov, licking his fingertips repeatedly as he turned more pages. ‘Shall we take these one by one, comrade director?’

Kapitolina Medvedeva nodded.

‘Who accepted Andrei Kurbsky, the son of an Enemy of the People, into the school this term?’

Kapitolina looked a little surprised. ‘I did.’

‘Why?’

‘Comrade Stalin said we must not visit the sins of the fathers on to the children,’ she said.

‘True enough.’ Ivanov made a note. ‘Who is paying the fees?’

‘I am. Out of my own salary.’

‘Comrade director, did you permit’ – two licks of the fingertips – ‘the teaching of Pushkin against Communist ethics with a romantic-bourgeois sentimentality?’

‘If I suspected any teacher of bourgeois philistinism I would have dismissed them.’

He noted this.

‘I fear these petty accusations are wasting your time, inspector,’ Kapitolina continued. ‘In recognition of this, I propose that Comrade Rimm, with Comrade Noodelman, should investigate this and report in one month.’

This was a clever move. Even Rimm had to admit this, although he could see she was playing for time.

‘That seems a good idea,’ said Inspector Ivanov. ‘Perhaps for the moment that is the best solution, don’t you think, Comrade Rimm? The Central Committee would be satisfied with that.’

‘Thank you Comrade Ivanov,’ said Rimm. The director had foiled him – cunning bitch. Now he would have to prove his own accusations, which would be much harder than sending anonymous denunciations.

But he had held back his gravest accusation.

‘I have one question, Comrade Ivanov. You are doubtless aware of Teacher Golden’s biography and the role he played in the tragedy.’

Inspector Ivanov looked interested. ‘Pray tell us, comrade.’

Rimm leaned forward. ‘Golden created the poisonous ideology that inspired these children to kill. I propose you investigate why this two-faced mask-wearer is teaching at this school? Who hired him? And even more importantly, who is protecting him, even now?’

WHEN GEORGE WAS young, an aquaintance of his parents named Mendel Barmakid, a famous Old Bolshevik, had been arrested. His parents had whispered about it in the bathroom as parents did in those days – with the taps running.

‘Can he be guilty?’ asked Tamara.

‘Read this,’ answered his father.

Tamara quietly read out: ‘“Protocols of Interrogation of Mendel Barmakid…” But they could have used excessive methods,’ she said. ‘Excessive methods’ meant torture in Bolshevik language.

‘I doubt it,’ answered Satinov. ‘Look. He confesses everything and every page is signed by him. See? That’s convincing. If he wasn’t guilty, he wouldn’t confess. Confession is the mother of justice. The lesson is to tell the truth but never confess anything!’

George Satinov was repeating this to himself now.

‘Who is NV?’ Colonel Likhachev was asking. ‘And what was his relationship to Serafima Romashkina?’