Stuart Kaminsky - Death of a Dissident

“Out,” he ordered. She was wearing boots, coat, and a warm hat and he a jacket. He pulled his scarf from his neck and tied it over his head and ears.

“That way,” he ordered, pointing down the road with his scissors.

In ten minutes, the snow stopped and the moon came out. They walked. As steadily as the moon would guide him, they walked along the side of the road through the trees. Ilyusha led the way, feeling the chill patiently taking over his body. Behind him he could hear the light steps of the girl, who walked on numbly, allowing herself an occasional sob.

In Ilyusha’s mind was a crude map almost eighteen years old. He had no idea whether he would reach his goal, or die in the snow.

They were a pitiful sight against the sky, the one lean figure in front, a scarf around his head, and a thin figure in back, stumbling. Ilyusha was muttering and lurched forward, step after step, the scissors clinking open and closed in his hand and echoing through the trees.

When they broke through the woods into an open field, Natasha sagged against a birch tree, and Ilyusha was forced to abandon his reverie and turn his attention to the girl.

“I think we’re getting near,” he told her. “We’ll find a place to sleep.”

Ilyusha led the way again for twenty minutes until they found a small, darkened farm. They crept to a low barn and crawled through a wooden door. A cow snorted and rustled, ignoring the two intruders who fell heavily against the cold stone wall.

Ilyusha’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he could make out the cow, the walls, a small window, and finally the girl, who lay next to him with eyes open, afraid to sleep. She looked feverish to Ilyusha.

“You’re sick,” he whispered.

“Because of you,” she cried.

“I’m doing what I must,” he said. “

In the morning maybe I’ll milk the cow for you. Sleep. I won’t hurt you.”

Inside Ilyusha, vying with the bloody face of the cab driver on Petro street, was the vision of himself and the girl making their way to his destination. He would steal something to eat in the morning early and get going. Ilyusha fought down the image of his wife Marie dangling in their apartment, her face…

Suddenly, he did not want to die. He sat up quickly and looked around, afraid. The small barn threatened to grow large. He could kill the girl, that might stop the barn from growing, but then he would be alone and he did not want to be alone. The sound of the cow and the steady breathing of the girl soothed and blanketed his thoughts. He lay back and slept but did not dream.

With first light, the barn door flew open and so did Ilyusha’s eyes. The boy who looked at him was frightened, and for a moment Ilyusha did not know where he was. He had the feeling that the boy was himself eighteen years’ earlier, that he was looking at himself.

The boy stopped and turned.

“My name is Ilyusha,” Ilyusha shouted, and Natasha sat up suddenly. “This is my sister. Our automobile got stuck on the road last night, and we wandered in here.”

The boy stood about a step outside, framed in the sunlight and snow. Ilyusha made no move to rise and frighten him. He tucked the scissors carefully into his pocket and kept his hand on it. The boy’s black eyes were curious and traveled from the voice in the darkness of the small bam to the safety of his own house behind him.

“My sister is ill,” Ilyusha said softly. “We would be grateful for some water and maybe some bread.”

The boy turned and ran into the house. Ilyusha reached down and forced the girl up. She was dazed and ill, a weight without thought.

“Say nothing or you die,” he whispered. “You know I’ll do it.”

Ilyusha prodded her toward the door and looked back at the cow. The cow, he could see, had some kind of growth near its udder and Ilyusha shuddered, thinking that he had considered touching and taking milk from the animal. The world was indeed rotten.

The madman and the girl stood stiffly in the morning cold and sun. They turned to face the house and the voices inside. From the farmhouse, a one-story mud and wood building tilted slightly to the west from age, the boy and a man came out. The man held an axe. He was lean and wearing a cowhide jacket. His face was bearded and dark, and he did not squint into the sun.

“We’re from Moscow,” Ilyusha explained. “We’re on our way to visit relatives.”

“Come into the house,” the man said nodding his head. The little boy stepped back and allowed Ilyusha and Natasha to step in ahead of him. The lean man held tightly to his axe as he followed, watching them. The girl stumbled and Ilyusha led her to a chair where he took a position behind her.

The room was dark in spite of the windows letting in the morning light. A bed stood in the middle of the room against the wall, and on the bed lay a thin woman looking at them. Next to the bed was a set of crutches.

“My wife,” explained the man, putting his axe against the wall but staying near as he ordered his son to pour tea for the two young visitors. The woman on the bed did not speak or move. She watched Ilyusha for a second and then fixed her eyes on Natasha Granovsky. Then she turned to the window, where her eyes remained.

“You can have some tea and bread,” said the man. “We haven’t much at the moment.”

“We are grateful for whatever you can share with us, and I’m sure-”

“Are they coming here?” the man interrupted.

“Who?” asked Ilyusha, starting to pull out his scissor, trying to determine if he could get to the man before the man reached the axe.

“Whoever is after you. The girl’s parents, brothers?”

“I-” began Ilyusha.

“When you finish, you leave,” said the man, gesturing to the boy, who hurried to refill the visitors’ cups with tea.

They ate in silence and rose.

Ilyusha asked the man if he was on the right road to his destination. The man replied that he was.

“In an hour, maybe less if the road is clear, you’ll come to Nartchev Road. Take it left.”

“We thank you,” said Ilyusha, taking the girl’s arm and leading her out the door. The boy and man remained inside. He urged the girl to hurry. When they reached the road, Ilyusha goaded her into a trot. He began to smile again. The sun was out, and he knew where he was going.

The night had been long for Rostnikov and Tkach as they dozed in his office. However, Rostnikov thought, it had been a much longer night for Sonya Granovsky and her daughter-if she were still alive-and for Emil Karpo, and even for Ilyusha Malenko.

The sun had not yet come up, but Rostnikov’s watch told him it was five in the morning. He looked at Tkach and was surprised to see the stubble of a yellow beard that made the junior inspector look even younger.

“Let’s shave,” Rostnikov said, clearing his throat. “I have a razor in a drawer here someplace.”

Rostnikov leaned over to open a drawer and discovered that the pain in his leg had neither gone away nor eased. He found the razor and handed it to Tkach, who took it with a nod and left the room.

As soon as he was gone, Rostnikov picked up the phone and called his home. Sarah answered before the second ring.

“I’m still in the office,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t tell you last night, but I have reason to believe that Iosef may be on his way back to Kiev or possibly on his way here.”

“How could you…” she began and stopped. “I don’t care. Is it true?”

“I think so,” he said quietly. “We’ll know soon.”

“What did you have to do to get this information?” Sarah said with sympathy.

“Nothing I don’t have to do every day of my life,” he said. “Now I must go back to work. I’ll let you know if anything…if I learn more.”