Red Shadow (6 page)

I am pleased to tell you that your housekeeper was awarded top marks for her essay. I send a thousand kisses. Housekeeper

The note could only have come from one person: Svetlana, Stalin’s fifteen-year-old daughter.

There was a reply on it too, in Stalin’s neat, instantly recognisable hand:
We send our congratulations to our housekeeper. Daddy, J. Stalin.

Misha felt uncomfortable intruding in this intimacy. But he couldn’t help feeling that the exchange seemed a bit childish too. Although Svetlana was well on the way to becoming a young woman, he’d noticed how Stalin still liked to pick her up and cuddle her and kiss her as if she were a young girl. It was one of the strangest things, seeing the all-powerful
Vozhd
cooing over his daughter. Maybe she sensed he still wanted her to be his little girl and played along with it. Misha had seen her flirting with Stalin’s bodyguards when her father wasn’t around. She could be disarmingly bold. Svetlana made Misha anxious. She walked the corridors of the Kremlin with the same assurance as Beria and even Stalin himself.

He continued to tidy the
Vozhd
’s large desk, thrilled at this peak into the inner workings of the great Soviet state. He was guiltily glancing over a report on the increasing instances of German warplanes flying over Soviet territory when something else caught his eye. Among other papers casually scattered across the desk there was a sheet marked with the NKVD stamp and filled with spidery black scrawl. He could hear his father in an ante-room speaking on a telephone so he picked it up. A quick scan revealed it to be a confession.
Between 1938 and 1940 I colluded with the arch traitor Trotsky, and counter-revolutionary forces, deliberately sabotaging aircraft designs for our Yakovlev Yak-4 bombers
. . .

As his eye drifted over the document, Misha noticed a mark along the right-hand side of the sheet which he was sure was dried blood, and recoiled in revulsion. He heard his papa put down the phone so he hurriedly replaced the sheet where he had found it and tried to compose himself.

‘You can go back to the apartment now, Misha,’ he called. ‘Get yourself ready for school.’

The afternoon passed in a blur. Misha felt too anxious to focus on his classes. The bloodstained confession kept intruding into his thoughts and he wondered if Valya had signed a similar one, full of traitorous things he had said to her over the last few weeks.

But when school finished at 8.00 that evening, she was there at the school gates waiting. He ran up to her and took her hand. ‘Valya! How are you?’

She looked pale and sullen. ‘I’ve been ill, Misha,’ she said. ‘Will you walk home with me?’

‘Of course,’ he said, trying to contain his pleasure in seeing her.

There were several things he wanted to tell her about – like poor Vladlen at the automobile plant, and Svetlana’s note to her papa – but not the confession. That was too dangerous.

Valya was so quiet he wondered if he’d done something to annoy her.

Eventually he told her about Svetlana and how she had got ‘top marks’ in her composition test. He thought that might catch her interest. ‘I suppose she’s spent her whole life being fawned over by people who want to get close to the
Vozhd
,’ he whispered.

Valya nodded. ‘I don’t envy her future husband, whoever he might be,’ she said in a monotone. ‘Stalin will never forgive him for taking her away.’

‘Yes,’ Misha agreed. ‘He wouldn’t dare to step out of line with either of them.’

‘Mind you, she likes you,’ said Valya, cheering up for a moment. ‘You’ve helped her out with homework a few times, haven’t you?’

Misha blushed. It was true. She came to him when she had an assignment on Shakespeare to write. ‘She’s all right really. She just doesn’t expect anyone to say no to her, and so far I haven’t had to.’

Valya gave a hollow laugh. ‘Play your cards right and she might be Mrs Petrov one of these days.’

Misha gave her a dig with his elbow. ‘I’ll start spreading rumours about you and Vasily Stalin, if you don’t watch out! I know you’ve always had your eye on him!’

Valya shuddered and for a moment Misha thought he saw a tear brim in her eye. Stalin’s youngest son, Vasily, was only a few years older than both of them but they had both heard awful stories about him propositioning girls on the secretarial staff.

She grew quiet again and their conversation ground to a halt. As they neared the Kremlin, she surprised him by hooking her arm around his, and they continued to walk the final kilometre home in silence.

She waited for Misha every day for the next week, although she did not call on him in the morning. She wasn’t unfriendly but she was still subdued. And she did that thing again – hooking her arm around his when they reached the streets near to the Kremlin.

Misha knew she would be angry with him if he asked her what was wrong. He was sure it hadn’t just been an illness. He wondered if she’d fallen out with a boyfriend – someone she hadn’t told him about. Or maybe there were arguments at home about her choice of university subject?

He tried a more oblique approach. ‘How did you get on with that aeronautics exam? Have you had the results yet?’

She shrugged and smiled for the first time that week. ‘Ninety-five per cent. Best in the class. Keep it up, they say, and I’ll definitely get a place at the university.’

So it wasn’t that.

Halfway up Ulitsa Serafimovicha she stiffened. ‘Keep walking,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t look round.’ Misha could feel how tense she was but said nothing.

After a minute, she glanced over her shoulder and Misha could feel the tension drain from her body. He looked at her expectantly. She swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Misha, let’s go and sit in Bolotnaya Square. Somewhere away from people. I have to tell you something.’

So they did, and she sat right next to him and began to talk in a low voice.

‘I was walking home the day after the banquet, one of the days when you were off teaching at the automobile plant, I think, and it was raining really heavily and I got soaked. Just as I got to Ulitsa Serafimovicha I noticed there was a big official car driving very slowly behind me. I ignored it but it stayed there matching my pace. Then it drew level and I could see a window opening. Someone said, “Get in the car,” like it was an order. I turned to look and was all set to tell them to get lost when I saw it was Comrade Beria. I don’t know if he’d realised it was me. Everything is a bit hazy when I think about it now. Maybe he thought I was just any young woman, but when he recognised me I think he decided he didn’t care that I knew him. “Comrade Golovkin,” he said. “It is a terrible afternoon,
devotchka
. May I offer you a ride back to the Kremlin?” Well, I was frightened of offending him, and I thought maybe he really did just want to give me a ride back, so I got in.

‘I asked him how he knew my name and he told me he had seen me waitressing at the banquet. That made me feel uneasy and I could tell he’d been drinking. He offered me a cigarette and of course I told him I didn’t smoke, then he grabbed my arm and tried to kiss me.’

Misha had seen this scene played out in films about life before the Revolution – most often with a beautiful peasant girl and a fat, lecherous landlord. The girl usually broke down in tears when she told the story to her brother or father, who would seek vengeance and end up being executed for defending her honour.

Valya continued her story in the same quiet monotone. ‘His hands were all over me. It was vile so I just froze like an icicle. I didn’t know what else to do. Maybe that made him think twice about what he was doing, or maybe it just put him off, and he stopped. We sat there in the traffic with the rain pounding on the roof. It was the longest five minutes of my life. Neither of us said anything. I could just hear him breathing. Long, angry breaths. Then shortly before the bridge he tapped the glass between the compartments and the car pulled into the side of the road. “You know what happens to anyone who tells state secrets, don’t you?” he said. “Off with their heads, is what happens.” Then he gave me the most horrible smile I’ve ever seen in my life and said, “Goodbye, Comrade Golovkin.
”
’

‘Oh, Valya,’ said Misha. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’ He was lost for words.

‘There’s more,’ she said. ‘When I got out of the car, I caught a glimpse of Kapitan Zhiglov at the wheel. He was looking away – probably didn’t want me to see him. But I was sure it was him. So that’s what he does when he isn’t beating up enemies of the people. I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.’

‘We can tell him your routine has changed. I can collect Galina and then we can call round at yours on the way to school?’

She leaned forward and kissed him on the side of the head. ‘Thank you, Misha. That would be very helpful. Now listen, you mustn’t tell a soul what happened. “Off with their heads” – remember.’

‘Have you seen Beria since?’ asked Misha.

She nodded. ‘I saw him in the corridor at the Armoury, later the same evening. He looked straight through me as if nothing had happened.’

Valya was shaking a little.

Misha took her hand. ‘Valya, I wished I had never asked you to do that waitressing job . . .’ he said.

‘Misha, he’s seen me around the Kremlin. He knows my father. He always gave me a creepy smile when he saw me. Honestly, it’s not your fault.’

They walked home in silence, still arm in arm.

Chapter 8

Late May 1941

As the school year came to an end, Misha was pleased to see Valya looking more relaxed. Her exams were over and she was certain she had a place at Moscow University that autumn. Valya’s dream of training to be a professional pilot, or even an aircraft designer, was becoming a distinct possibility. There had been no more trouble from Comrade Beria. She still wouldn’t go with Misha to pick Galina up, but she had managed to greet Kapitan Zhiglov with a pleasant smile when they ran into him one day, although Misha did notice her hands trembling a little afterwards.

The sun was getting hotter by the day and they had the school holidays and the brief summer ahead of them. So for now they could look forward to a lazy few weeks and trips down to the Petrov’s
dacha
at Meshkovo, to the south-west of the city. Maybe they’d even go swimming in the little lake there.

Misha and his papa had been getting along better too. In fact, Yegor Petrov had started telling Misha things he was sure should be confidential: odd things about the Germans, for example, and how the communiqués from the Nazi government were getting increasingly terse. Misha knew it must put them both at risk, but he supposed his papa told him because he did not have Mama around to talk to. He liked it though. It made him feel closer.

So now, as the spring turned to summer, he awaited his late-evening meals with Papa with a mixture of fascination and fear. What would he tell him next? In his heart he knew that Yegor Petrov was placing them both in danger by sharing these secrets with his son. Not that Papa wasn’t careful. Every time they sat down to eat, Yegor would turn the radio up loud. Sometimes the upstairs neighbours would knock on the door and complain that it was disturbing their evening tranquillity.

Yegor told Misha he was taking precautions in case they were being bugged. Then he would change his mind and say, ‘Why would they bother with a little minnow like me?’ But Misha was glad of his caution. He had never heard of this ‘being bugged’ before. Being overheard – everyone in the Soviet Union knew about that. But ‘being bugged’ was something completely new. He hoped, as they sat side by side at the dining table, that their conversation was too quiet for any little microphones to pick up over the sound of the radio.

Misha had even started to look around the apartment. Every day now, since Papa first mentioned it, he checked when he came home from school. A vase of flowers, a bowl of fruit, the book that lay on the big bureau in the dining room – all of them were inspected. Misha was going to make sure that he and Papa did not go the same way as Mama.

That evening’s meal brought further startling revelations. ‘The
Vozhd
has lost his ability to tell right from wrong,’ whispered Papa. ‘We had some high officials from the air force in today complaining about the training aircraft they have to use. They crash far more frequently than should be expected. One of the air marshals lost his temper and said Stalin was making his pilots fly in coffins. There was a long silence and the
Vozhd
paced around the room. I knew there would be trouble because his eyes were darting around more than they usually do. Then he lit his pipe and said, “You shouldn’t have said that.” The poor man went white. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again.

‘Then after they left, the
Vozhd
started ranting about saboteurs deliberately damaging the planes, meddling with the engines. It was ridiculous. Everything is saboteurs, wreckers, foreign spies. And nobody, nobody dares to question anything. Nobody will ask, “Are the planes badly designed? Have we spent enough time testing them?”’

Misha wondered what on earth he should say. He remembered the bloodstained confession he had seen on the
Vozhd
’s desk but thought it wise not to mention it. When he looked up, he saw that his father’s eyes were brimming with tears and he said, ‘Sometimes, often, I wish we were back at the
kommunalka
and Mama and me were both still teachers. Misha, I had wanted you to join me working here – you’re a bright boy after all – but I think you need to get as far away from here as possible. I don’t know how it’s going to end. I don’t like to think about how it’s going to end.’