The Twelfth Department cadk-3 Page 8

  Yuri pointed to the Lubyanka, the headquarters of State Security and Korolev felt his mind go blank for a moment, then he pointed at the corner the tram was just about to turn.

  “And this takes us down toward Teatralnaya Square, where the Bolshoi is. And the Metropol as well—now that’s a place. Luxury like you could hardly imagine.”

  Yuri looked up at him, a question in his eyes, and Korolev returned his gaze with what he hoped was a completely neutral expression—so neutral it might even work as a warning. It did.

  “The Metropol?” Yuri asked. “What’s that?”

  Korolev could see him looking back at the Lubyanka, his curiosity no doubt peaked. Perhaps he’d tell him about the place when they were safely out in Peredelkino where they wouldn’t be overheard by a tram full of who knew who.

  “It’s the big hotel, on the left. You should see inside it—they’ve a pool with beautiful girls swimming in it, a bar with white-jacketed waiters, and a band that plays music all day long. And past it, on the other side of the square, is the Hotel Moskva. They say it’s even grander still.”

  “A pool full of beautiful girls?” Yuri wrinkled his nose in amused disbelief.

  “I didn’t believe it either but I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” Korolev said, and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Anyway, you’re too young for that sort of thing.”

  “Better than being too old,” Yuri responded and Korolev felt obliged to give his ear a gentle clip.

  * * *

  They carried on like that all the way to Kievsky Station—sparring. They were getting to know each other. There had been awkward moments the day before—when Yuri had treated him almost as if he were a stranger—but they’d got past them and Korolev was relieved. After all, if something happened to Zhenia, Yuri would have to come to Moscow—and if they were to live together, they’d better find a way of getting on. And that thought, mixed with his nagging concern for Zhenia, stayed with him throughout the train journey.

  It took forty minutes or so to get out to Peredelkino and Korolev was surprised, as always, by how soon Moscow turned into countryside and the contrast between Peredelkino and the bustle and hustle they’d left behind. When they descended from the train, they took their time as they walked slowly along the platform toward the waiting ticket collector, looking around at the forest that surrounded them.

  “Is it far,” Yuri asked, “this dacha?”

  “Not too far.”

  The station building was tiny, a white cube with a tiled roof, painted green. Each carriage of the departing train was reflected in its single window as it pulled away. The ticket collector, a young woman who didn’t look much older than Yuri, sat on a stool beside the arched entrance. When the last of the train disappeared, it left silence behind it.

  At first Korolev thought they’d been the only passengers to descend but, as he reached for their tickets, he caught a glimpse in his peripheral vision of two men strolling behind them. He hadn’t heard any other doors opening and shutting when they’d got off the train but then he hadn’t been listening. There was something about these men though—something in the way they held themselves—that drew Korolev’s attention now. He made a show of emptying his pockets for the train tickets and used the opportunity to allow his gaze to wander back toward the strollers.

  The two men were young—late twenties would be his guess. The taller of the two had tousled brown hair, a dark complexion, and a fighter’s fist-flattened face—he looked like he could handle himself. The other was softer looking, with a round chin and a physique to match, but when he saw Korolev looking he didn’t avoid his gaze. Instead he seemed amused by it.

  Korolev turned to hand the tickets to the collector, and made the effort to smile, even though, if the truth were told, he was unsettled by the two men behind them.

  “Will we go swimming straightaway?” Yuri asked. Korolev took back the clipped tickets and pushed him forward gently.

  “As soon as we’ve unpacked. Not a moment later.”

  “Good, after we’ve unpacked then.” Yuri looked up at him and Korolev nodded to confirm his agreement. He was jumping at shadows—he had to be. The men couldn’t be who he thought they might be. After all, why follow him? If State Security wanted to know what he was up to they could just demand he tell them. And if they were worried about what he might do—well they could stop him doing anything ever again whenever they chose. And if the men were from State Security, they’d been surprisingly visible—almost as if they’d wanted to be seen. Why on earth would they want that? That wasn’t the way they did things.

  Korolev risked another look back as they neared the old monastery, where the road turned to the left—but the men had gone. Probably they’d just been ordinary citizens after all, coming back from a night with friends in Moscow, likely as not. That was it. That might make sense.

  He wasn’t so reassured, however, that he didn’t keep looking behind them from time to time—just in case.

  * * *

  Babel’s dacha was a fifteen minutes’ walk from the station—a fine house: a red-painted corrugated-iron roof topping the white-planked walls, and a solid concrete base for it all to stand on. It was only a couple of years old and sat in a small clearing in the forest. Behind the house was a garage that Babel had no car for, and a small cottage for Lipski, the caretaker, an old comrade of Babel’s from the writer’s years with the Red Cavalry. Korolev could think of worse places to spend a few days with his son, and he told himself to put all his irrational concerns aside. All was well, he was sure of it.

  Korolev stopped on the driveway and squeezed his son’s shoulder, determined to send his worries packing.

  “Hear that?” he asked.

  “What?” Yuri asked, looking around him.

  “The wind in the trees, Yuri. If we were in Moscow now, think of the hundred different noises there might be now—cars, trams, people, building work. Here it’s only the wind in the trees.”

  Yuri looked up at him and then at the house.

  “Your friend lives here?”

  “He’s away in the south. He told me to use it while he was away.”

  “He has a whole house to live in—on his own?”

  “No—he lives upstairs from us in Moscow. This is just his summer house. I told you about him—Babel. The writer.”

  “His summer house?” Yuri seemed to consider such luxury a mathematical problem. “And he has an apartment as well?”

  Korolev resisted the temptation to explain to the boy how some people were more equal than others in this socialist society of theirs.

  “Come on, let’s go inside.”

  Korolev directed the boy toward the side of the dacha where steps led up to a covered porch that ran around two sides of the house. The hollow sound of their footsteps brought a twinkle-eyed old man to the doorway—Lipski. When Babel had been allocated the house, he’d managed to wangle a job for the old Cossack.

  “Korolev? I wasn’t expecting you till later. So this is the boy? Let me look at him.”

  Lipski leaned forward so as to be able to examine Yuri on an equal level, his rosy cheeks seeming to glow with pleasure above his thick white beard.

  “So you’re the famous Yuri Korolev?” he said.

  Yuri considered the question for a moment before nodding his agreement.

  “A Pioneer as well, are you?” Lipski reached out to touch the red scarf tied around the boy’s neck. Yuri took a step backward to avoid the caretaker’s hand, but Lipski’s smile didn’t dim.

  “I never heard of a shy Pioneer. Did you, Korolev?”

  “I’m not shy,” Yuri said, looking at the caretaker’s boots.

  “That’s good to hear. Do you swim at all?”

  “I swim.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. That’s the best riverbank this side of Moscow, not a hundred meters away. What do you make of that?”

  Yuri said nothing.

  “We’re going for a swim later on,” Korolev sa
id—deciding some kind of intervention was necessary, unsure why Yuri had decided to clam up all of a sudden.

  “Good, good,” Lipski said, pushing himself up to his full height, no longer smiling so much as grimacing. He was still fit, the old cavalryman, Korolev could see, but age caught up with everyone’s bones in the end.

  “I’ve made up the beds for you and aired the place. If there’s anything else you need, you know where to find me.” Lipski glanced down at Yuri with a thoughtful expression. “I can pick up food from the shop for you if you need it—I’m going that way.”

  “We brought some,” Korolev began, but then he looked at Yuri and wondered if he’d brought enough. “But if you’re passing, we could probably do with more.”

  He found his wallet and handed him two five-rouble notes. There was no point in asking for anything in particular—Lipski would get them what was there. That was the way things worked in village shops.

  “I’ll bring you change, don’t worry about that.” Lipski nodded over his shoulder in the general direction of the river. “They’ve turned the old monastery into some sort of summer camp for children and they’ve been bringing orphanage kids out from Moscow the last few weeks. Not many of them Pioneers, I can tell you—as rough a bunch as I ever saw. A lot of people avoid the river when they bring them down to swim, just so you know.”

  Korolev thanked him for the tip and they said their farewells.

  “What was all that about?” Korolev asked Yuri, when they’d walked inside.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You went very quiet.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  Yuri’s expression seemed to be a mixture of stubbornness and uncertainty.

  “He was being friendly. Don’t they teach you to respect your elders at school?”

  Yuri considered this for a moment. “They teach us to respect those who strive for socialism and to judge each citizen on their merits. For all I know, that fellow could be a Fascist spy.”

  “A Fascist spy? I know him, Yuri. He fought for four years with the Red Cavalry. He’s a good comrade. He’s sure as hell no Fascist.”

  “Pavel Anatoliyevich says that the older comrades have to be watched no matter what they say they did.” Yuri spoke as if reciting something learned by heart. “He says that some of the old comrades were never real socialists. He says they just fought on our side to save their skins.”

  Korolev didn’t speak for a moment. When he did allow himself to say something he kept his voice low and even. “Who is this Pavel Anatoliyevich?” Korolev had to admit he didn’t like the sound of the fellow.

  “He’s the teacher who leads our school’s Pioneer detachment.”

  “And this Pavel Anatoliyevich—where did he fight? Back when fellows like Lipski and me were spilling our blood for the Revolution.”

  Yuri looked embarrassed on behalf of his teacher.

  “He didn’t fight—he was too young. But he’s a glider pilot.”

  “I see—a glider pilot.” Korolev didn’t mean to sound as dismissive as he did—but it was some sorry state of affairs when young whippersnappers with an aeronautical interest were allowed to criticize men who’d fought with Budyenny against all comers and lived to tell the tale.

  “He says many of the old comrades are contaminated by their past,” Yuri said, a stubborn look about him now. “He says they can never become real socialists. He says Soviet youth, who’ve grown up in a socialist society, will protect the Revolution in the future.”

  “You think I’m contaminated by my past, perhaps?”

  Yuri didn’t seem to hear the irritation in his voice, which was probably just as well. The boy shook his head.

  “They don’t give the Order of the Red Star to just anyone. Pavel Anatoliyevich said so.”

  A teacher, Korolev thought to himself, should teach—not express opinions on their student’s parents, even positive ones.

  “Whoever he is,” Korolev said, “you weren’t supposed to tell anyone about the medal, were you?”

  Yuri shook his head to indicate it hadn’t been a disclosure he’d made lightly.

  “I’m sorry—but I’m not allowed to keep secrets from Pavel Anatoliyevich. A Pioneer must always be honest with the leadership. And he wanted to know about you.”

  Korolev felt his attention sharpen.

  “When was this, Yuri? When was he asking you these questions?”

  “In March—after you visited. He wanted to know all about you. To make sure I came from a good Socialist background. When I told him you were a captain with the Moscow Militia and had been awarded the Order of the Red Star, he thought I was lying—but he must have investigated it, because later on he apologized to me in front of the whole class. He said you’d done the State a great service and promoted me to Team Leader on the spot.”

  “He did, did he?” Korolev wondered how a teacher of primary-school children from Zagorsk was able to find out what he’d done to earn the medal. Particularly when most of Moscow CID didn’t know—and didn’t dare ask either. “What other questions did he ask, when he was asking them?”

  “The same he asks all of us—about the loyalty of our parents. If our parents express opinions against Soviet Power. Whether our parents engage in antisocial behavior—whether they are cultists. We have to give a list of the books we have at home before we can even join.”

  It seemed that to Yuri this was as commonplace as being asked what your favorite color was. Not that Korolev was surprised—everyone knew that Pioneers were told their first loyalty was to the State, rather than their family. It was why adults were careful what they discussed in front of children—in case something might be misinterpreted by young ears or, even worse, not misinterpreted at all.

  “You had to give them a list of Zhenia’s books?”

  “Every single one. Some of the kids’ folks have no books at all—they’re the lucky ones.”

  It occurred to Korolev that they weren’t just lucky, but sensible as well. Who knew which writers might be out of favor at any one time—these things weren’t always announced. He sighed and Yuri looked up at him, his eyes wide and his mouth curving downward.

  “Is it because of the list that Mother’s in trouble?”

  Korolev had been waiting for an opportunity to discuss Zhenia’s situation, and this, it seemed, was it. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “What trouble, Yuri?”

  “I don’t know,” Yuri said, his face a picture of misery. Two fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “You probably know more than you think—tell me why you think she’s in trouble for a start.”

  Yuri pushed a hand across his face and looked up to meet Korolev’s gaze.

  “Some men came last week. They took away Mother’s papers and some of her books.”

  It came out little louder than a whisper. Korolev leaned forward.

  “These men, Yuri,” Korolev asked. “Who were they?”

  “They didn’t say—they only said they had a warrant. They brought the house manager and the old woman from the bakery with them, but they just sat around.”

  “Did the men have uniforms?”

  “No.”

  “I see.” The house manager and the old woman would be witnesses, required by Soviet law to be there during the search—which meant it was a formal investigation of some kind. The men had almost certainly been Chekists.

  “Tell me everything they did and said, Yuri. From the beginning. And everything about this Pavel Anatoliyevich fellow as well.”

  And, in between the sobs and the tears, Yuri did as he was asked, and Korolev liked little of what he heard. The search itself wasn’t likely to have come up with anything much—not in the papers anyway. Zhenia was no counterrevolutionary—on the contrary, she was a loyal Party member of twenty-odd years standing. But books could produce unforeseen problems—for all he knew, Lenin would end up on a forbidden list one of these days. Babel said there were librarians whose fulltime
jobs it was to burn banned works, and others who spent their days erasing references to the arrested and exiled from the books that were left.

  “And after they went,” Yuri said, finishing his story. “After they went, Grechko—the house manager—he spat on the floor. On our floor. He said we were saboteurs and Trotskyists—all of us. And Mother said nothing—just cleaned it up and carried on as if nothing had happened. And then Grandfather made tea.”

  Korolev took a deep breath. “Don’t worry about that fellow Grechko—he knows nothing. He’s like a dog barking to show he’s there.”

  No, Grechko was no threat—just another citizen keen to make sure he was the one spitting and not been spat on. The bigger worry was this damned teacher and what Yuri might have said to him—but the boy was in enough of a state without asking him further questions. At least for the moment.

  “I’ll bet he told stories, to those men—Grechko, I mean. I’ll bet he did.”

  There was a bitterness in Yuri’s voice that didn’t seem entirely natural and Korolev found that he was examining his son very carefully, an uncomfortable suspicion growing.

  What if Yuri had been the one telling the stories?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Of course, Korolev reminded Yuri that Zhenia was a Party member of long standing, and that everyone knew she was as true a comrade as ever breathed—that there was no possibility she could be considered disloyal to the State. What else was he supposed to do? Tell the boy his mother was, likely as not, in great danger?

  Perhaps Yuri believed him—he hoped so—but when the boy had dried his tears, it seemed as if he’d lost the power of speech. Maybe he was exhausted by the journey or their conversation, or both, or it could be he was embarrassed for having cried in front of him, or it might even have been something else altogether—Korolev couldn’t be sure and Yuri wasn’t telling. The boy just sat on the veranda steps, carving a stick he’d found lying on the grass, and showing no interest in anything else whatever.

  Korolev left him to it and tried to place another call to Zhenia in Zagorsk, but the operator told him a line was down somewhere between here and there, and that it would be the evening at least before he could get through. It made him feel like punching the wall but what was the point in that? He’d only add bruised knuckles to his troubles.