Red Shadow (5 page)

Then there were the friends they made. All at once the apartment seemed to be full of glamorous people, like the Usatovs. He was a naval attaché at the Kremlin, a very charming man from Leningrad, who had travelled all over the world and regaled them with tales of the splendours of New York and Tokyo and Paris. He had a beautiful younger wife. Mama had loved her company. She often came round for coffee and they would laugh all the time as they talked. Under the couple’s influence Mama and Papa began to enjoy the best French wines and would look down their noses at the ‘sweet stuf
f
’ from Rostov or Stavropol.

But then people they knew inside the Kremlin began to disappear in the middle of the night. It wasn’t just the workers and the peasants from the
kommunalka
s who disappeared in the Great Purges. Being at the heart of power didn’t protect you at all.

Out of the blue, Mama and Papa stopped buying expensive food and Mama went back to wearing her peasant dresses and headscarf. All of a sudden they no longer seemed so carefree. The dinner parties his parents hosted became more serious affairs, without the riotous laughter that had kept Misha awake until the early hours. Then Mama was taken away.

There were a few things he remembered which he hadn’t been able to make any sense of. Just before Mama disappeared, his parents had had a terrible row. He had heard them both shouting. They had made up by the morning, but he still wondered what they had fallen out about. And just after Mama disappeared he had found an envelope in a cupboard stuffed with thousands of roubles. He knew it must have had something to do with his mama’s disappearance, but he could never imagine what, and he hadn’t dared mention it to Papa.

Chapter 6

The following Day Four, when he returned to the Stalin Automobile Plant for his early evening class, Misha’s study group was missing a member. Although he felt that familiar knot of fear in his stomach, he could not say he was surprised. In the Soviet Union retribution was often swift and Misha had expected there might be trouble in store for Vladlen.
He
would never have said anything to the authorities. But there were always others who would. Maybe Vladlen had an apartment worth nabbing? Maybe someone coveted his position as supervisor at the plant? Now he was gone. Misha looked over the group of workers and wondered if it was worth asking where he was – just in case he had the flu or something like that. But his courage deserted him. He tried not to think of what might be happening to Vladlen and moved on to the text they were studying. ‘Here we are:
Richard II
. Act three, scene two.’

The class seemed rather flat that evening and Misha was glad when it ended. As he was gathering his notes to leave, the Political Organiser of the factory came into the room. Misha had seen him before. A dumpy figure in an ill-fitting suit with a pasty white face, he reminded Misha of the Komsorg back at school. Leonid Gribkov would probably look like that in twenty years’ time.

The man did not introduce himself; perhaps he felt the Communist Party badge on his lapel was all he needed to establish his authority. ‘Citizen, I have heard good reports from the comrades in your class.’ He paused. ‘But I also hear you are a known associate of the anti-Soviet saboteur Vladlen Melnikov.’

Misha could feel his legs weakening. All of a sudden he felt sick.

‘Comrade, I spoke only once with Citizen Melnikov, in the company of other comrades after a class.’ Misha felt a mixture of indignation and a queasy sense of betrayal. ‘He was a student, and a very able one too,’ he said, recovering his courage.

The Political Organiser grabbed his arm and drew him closer. Misha tried not to recoil from the halo of stale sweat and ashtray breath. ‘You show poor judgement, Citizen Petrov, and I understand your mother is an enemy of the people. But I am also concerned about your choice of subject matter for this class.
Richard II
could be considered counter-revolutionary, could it not? It was politically naive of you not to notice this.’

Misha’s mind was racing. How did this man know about his mother? And it had never occurred to him that a play about the murder of a medieval English king might be counter-revolutionary. He felt an overwhelming urge to tell the Political Organiser that Shakespeare must have been able to see into the future, to write counter-revolutionary propaganda four hundred years ago, but he bit his tongue and waited to hear what this man would say next. Visions of smashed porcelain on his apartment floor and his terrified neighbour being dragged away from the
kommunalka
flooded into his head.

The grip on his arm loosened. ‘You are young,’ the Political Organiser said indulgently. ‘
Much Ado About Nothing
would be a better text to study. I saw it in the Realist Theatre a year or two ago. It was very funny.’

Misha breathed again and nodded his head rapidly. ‘I am sorry for my political naivety, Comrade Organiser,’ he said, trying to sound as calm and sincere as he could. The man smiled coldly and then left.

Misha hurried back to the metro and home. The mention of his mother had shaken him more than the warning about what he was teaching. If the Political Organiser knew, who else knew? He wanted to tell Valya about what had happened but he hadn’t seen her all week. In fact, the last time he had seen her was the evening of the banquet. On an impulse, he dropped by the Golovkins’ apartment at the Armoury and banged on the door. No one answered.

Maybe she was ill? He had been left to collect Galina Zhiglov on his own for several days and missed Valya’s cheery ability to make conversation with the solemn little girl as he walked to her school.

He hadn’t seen Valya around school either, so that night he asked his papa if he had seen Anatoly Golovkin at work.

‘He’s been away this week,’ said his father.

‘Is he all right?’ asked Misha.

Yegor Petrov sounded increasingly impatient. ‘It’s nothing unusual. The
Vozhd
takes secretarial staff with him when he visits the republics. I expect Anatoly has gone too. I go sometimes, as you know. Why do you ask?’

Misha felt sheepish. ‘I haven’t seen Valya for several days. I wanted to know if she’s all right.’

His father sighed. ‘Valentina is a lovely girl. Of course she is. But you are like a little lamb trotting after its mother with that girl. You are too young for her. The sooner you realise that, the happier you will be.’

Misha blushed bright red. ‘Papa!’ he said indignantly. ‘Valentina is just a good friend, but she likes me too. Can’t you see that?’

Yegor’s face hardened. ‘Mikhail, you do not talk to me like that. Go to your room.’

Misha couldn’t help himself. His anger boiled over. ‘Maybe if you had cared as much for Mama, you would have done more to help her when she was arrested.’

His papa sprang to his feet and cuffed Misha hard on the side of his head, sending him stumbling backwards. ‘Go to your room,’ he said again, his cold, calm voice an eerie contrast to his violent action.

Half an hour later, as Misha was reading on his bed, still fighting back tears, there was a knock on his door. His father came in without waiting for a response. He was carrying a bowl of cold water and a small sponge, which he put on the bedside table. Then he sat down on the bed. Much to Misha’s surprise he put an arm round him.

‘I am sorry I hit you. This is not the way a respectable communist should behave.’

He felt the side of his son’s head and wrung out the sponge. ‘There is a little lump. Hold this here for a while. It will help. Do you want an aspirin?’

Misha shook his head. His anger was gone now and he just felt sad for them both. ‘I’m sorry I made you angry,’ he said.

‘Never mind. It’s forgotten.’

‘I think of Mama often,’ said Misha. ‘Every time I open the front door I hope she’ll be here.’

His papa hugged him tight. ‘Mikhail, for both our sakes we should not speak of your mama.’

He got up to leave, then paused by the door. ‘You should go to sleep now, Misha. I’m also sorry I hurt your feelings when I spoke about Valentina, but please think about what I said. She’ll never be more than a big sister to you.’

Misha felt himself getting angry again and tried to hide it. He knew that if he tried to kiss her their friendship would end in an instant. But he wasn’t going to talk to his papa about that. It was too embarrassing. He nodded and turned his gaze back to his book.

After reading a little longer, his eyes grew heavy and he switched off his reading light. As he drifted towards sleep, a sudden thought brought him rapidly awake. Had the NKVD come for Valya? She and he had often shared dangerous opinions. He dismissed the idea but it stayed there to nag at him. He would never betray her, but maybe there were others with whom she was just as indiscreet? And if they had arrested her, what would she say about him when she was interrogated?

He heard noises outside the door and his heart started to beat hard in his chest.
Don’t be stupid, Misha
, he told himself.
That’s just Papa.

There was no sense in this at all. But then there was no sense in a lot of what the NKVD did.

He woke again in the early hours after a horrible dream. He was talking to Valya at the school gates and she was being pleasant but distant with him. Then, as she adjusted her hairband, he noticed all the nails were missing from her fingers. She carried on talking about an exam she was taking and he was desperate to ask her what had happened but the words would not come out. And when he looked at his own hands, the nails were missing from them too.

Chapter 7

Valya was not at school the following day either and no one he asked seemed to know what had happened to her. Again he knocked on her apartment door on the way home from school and again there was no answer. That evening he fretted alone with his thoughts and went to bed without seeing his papa.

Yegor Petrov came into the kitchen the next morning as Misha was preparing his breakfast. He looked exhausted.

Last night’s meeting had ended at 2.30 in the morning, he told Misha. They had been caught up in an argument about German planes flying over Soviet territory. The subject seemed to bore the
Vozhd
but some comrades who were present seemed to think it was serious. Afterwards, Yegor was not asked to go on to Stalin’s nearby
dacha
at Kuntsevo with the others. Stalin often asked his associates to go over there when the business of the day was completed. There was usually drinking and feasting and maybe a film, until at least four or five in the morning.

Yegor said he didn’t mind being left out. ‘I think Comrade Stalin could see how tired I was. You know, I felt sorry for the ones that were asked.’ He told him the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, Vyacheslav Molotov, looked especially grey and fatigued, but no one in their right mind would refuse an invitation.

‘He keeps such late hours at the
dacha
,’ Yegor continued. ‘Half the time it’s just vodka drinking and farting contests. And he doesn’t turn up at his desk at nine like the rest of us. We don’t usually see him until the middle of the afternoon.’

Misha liked it when his papa told him these little secrets. He wondered if Yegor was making an effort to be nice to him after their argument a few days ago. He would try too.

‘I shall fry you an egg,’ said Misha and they sat and ate breakfast together.

As Misha drained his coffee cup, his papa asked if he would lend him a hand tidying the
Vozhd
’s office before he got on with his homework. Yegor had told him several times he would be able to get him a secretarial job at the Kremlin. Misha wasn’t sure he’d like that. He admired his papa for doing the job he did but he didn’t envy him. He was always pleased, though, when his father asked him to help him with his work. There was something exciting about being in the great rooms where the Soviet leaders directed the lives of millions of Russia’s citizens.

The office in the Little Corner was barely a couple of minutes away from their apartment. Yegor and Misha passed through the various layers of guards and office staff with little more than a nod.

They set about tidying the papers and filling the inkwells round the great baize-covered table in Stalin’s office. Misha had helped his papa like this several times before but Yegor never left him alone with Stalin’s papers. This time his father seemed distracted with tiredness. Misha couldn’t quite believe it when his papa went into the room next door, leaving Misha on his own. He noticed a handwritten note with kisses by the signature in among the official government documents. For a fleeting moment he wondered if this was a note from a lover. The official story was that Stalin hadn’t had a relationship since his wife had died ten years before. But there were rumours of a liaison with his maid at the Kuntsevo
dacha
. There were other rumours too, that his wife Nadya had not died of appendicitis, as reported, but had actually shot herself.

Making sure his papa was busy in the next room, he looked again more carefully:

Daddy,