David Duffy - Last to Fold

She was watching for her mother’s return, out the hayloft window, when she saw another car pull in, a big limousine. She saw the driver shoot the caretaker as he came out to greet them. Now she was really scared. Then he got out of the car. The man her mother had taught her to fear above all others. “He hates you, as he hates me,” she told her whenever she mentioned his name. “Never trust him. Never trust any Chekist. He wants to see you boiled alive.”

She went looking for a better hiding place.

She was near the horse stalls on the main floor when the door opened and the light came on. The Chekist came in with Uncle Tolik. She saw the gun in his hand and ducked into a stall. She was afraid she’d been spotted, but he didn’t come to look.

The Chekist had a bottle, and he made Uncle Tolik drink. Again and again. He kept asking the same questions—“Where are the CDs? Where are the copies you made?”—over and over. Uncle Tolik wouldn’t answer. The Chekist got madder and madder. Uncle Tolik threw up. She could remember the smell. The Chekist hit him with the gun and kicked him on the floor. Then he came toward her.

She thought she’d been discovered. She climbed through a loose board into the stall next door. The gun fired. She heard the crack and the thud of the bullet as it sank into the wood—right where she’d been. He must have seen her. No. He walked on, into the garage. Terrified, she wanted to run, but even if she made it out of the barn without getting caught—a big if in her nine-year-old mind—where would she go? She huddled in a dark corner, behind an old hay trough. She couldn’t see what happened next. She heard the Chekist doing something, then smelled the petrol. He went back to the garage—she heard him go past a second time—and the petrol smell got stronger.

Finally, he spoke again, still asking about the CDs. Uncle Tolik’s voice was faint, but somehow she knew he wasn’t telling. After a minute, the Chekist said, “I’m going to light a match. I estimate you’ll have five minutes. Shout if you change your mind.”

She heard Tolik’s answer this time.

“Fuck off. You’re just another Cheka killer.”

She came out of her hiding place and saw the fire encircling the barn. She remembered that clearly—it was like a train, the fiery engine racing along an invisible track. Behind it flames climbed the old wooden walls. In seconds, she was surrounded.

She ran to Uncle Tolik, who was tied to one of the wooden columns supporting the barn’s roof.

“Eva! What the hell? Get out of here! Quick!”

She ignored him and pulled at the ropes. The heavy knots were too much for her little fingers.

“Eva! Find a knife or saw. Something sharp!”

She ran around the barn, but there was nothing she could use. The fire had already blocked off the workshop.

She went back to Kosokov and pulled at the knots again.

“Eva! Listen to me, you can’t do it. Run, while you still have time. Run!”

She ignored him. The fire had enveloped the walls. She remembered the searing heat as it started to spread across the roof. Kosokov must have used his hip to push her away as burning wood and shingle fell where she had stood. It exploded as it hit the ground, and a chunk landed in her lap. Her skirt was aflame in an instant. Panicked, she ran in circles, only serving to fan the flames.

“In the hay! Jump in the hay!” Kosokov called. She did as he said. The pain was like nothing she’d ever felt. When she stopped rolling around, she wasn’t burning anymore, but the hay was. There was nowhere that wasn’t aflame. She had no idea anything could be this hot.

“Eva! Do this for me. Please. For your mother. The shelter. Over there. The trapdoor. Go down there and close the door. It’s your only chance. Now, child! Please!”

Another piece of roof fell, this one striking Uncle Tolik on the head. He slumped sideways, the ropes holding him up as his clothes started to burn. Another load of burning wood and shingle fell next to her. The hay pile was a bonfire.

She did as Uncle Tolik said. She heard the roar of the roof giving way just after she pulled the door closed.

It was hot, but nothing like aboveground. Her legs felt like they were still aflame. She slipped on the stairs and fell, landing on the stranger’s body. His dead eyes stared at her. She screamed and screamed and screamed. There was no one to hear her but him.

She had no idea how long she was down there. All she remembered was her burning legs. She found some water and poured that on, which helped a little, but the pain wouldn’t let up. Eventually, she thought, she just passed out. She didn’t remember anything until the trapdoor opened and she screamed again, certain the Chekist had come back for her.

“Eva! Oh my God! Eva!”

It was her mother. Polina carried her up to the smoldering ruin, the snow, and the dark night above. Eva’s memory was of a full moon, dark gray and hostile behind the black clouds blowing across the sky.

Her mother took her to the house and tried to treat her with snow and creams, but the skin was already twisted and discolored, and it stank. Eva threw up.

The rest was a blur. Her mother gave her something to drink—doubtless laced—and they drove for hours. She didn’t get medical attention until two days later, the first of several attempts to deal with what must have been second- or third-degree burns to her thighs. Somewhere along their journey, Polina informed Eva that Lachko wasn’t her real father, that it was the man she hadn’t been able to save from the inferno. I don’t often give Polina credit for kindness, but I do believe she was trying to help. The main thing she accomplished, of course, was to pile an unbearable failure onto the already hopeless guilt of a nine-year-old child. She started stuttering a few months later.

He arrived at nine twenty-four. I heard the car pull in and stop, the engine cut off. One door opened and closed. A minute later, he stooped through the hole in the fence. He was wearing a suit and tie. His hands were empty. He stopped a few feet inside and tried to scan the building site. His eyes weren’t as well adjusted to the dark as mine. I let him look for a minute before I called from inside one of the pipe sections.

“Hello, Iakov.”

He turned and moved toward the noise, stumbling once or twice on the uneven ground. He couldn’t see me. When he was about twenty feet away, I said, “That’s far enough.”

He stopped. “Where are you? Show yourself.”

“Maybe in time.”

“What do you want?”

“An accounting, to begin with.”

“Accounting? Of what?”

“Apartment bombings, Kosokov, Polina, Eva, Rislyakov, last night. You choose where to start.”

“You’re talking rubbish. You said you have something.”

“That’s right. The file Rislyakov lifted from Polina’s computer. Kosokov’s Rosnobank file.”

Even twenty feet away in the dark, I could see him stiffen.

“You’ve examined this file?” he said.

“Yes. I also know about Gorbenko. He was wearing a wire that day, a CPS wire. You missed that, too. Sloppy.”

He swore under his breath. I moved two pipes away, staying in the shadows. I’d been right about the echo. My voice bounced all around.

“What do you want, Turbo? What’s the point?”

“An accounting, like I said. I want to hear what happened. In your words. You’re the only one who knows the whole story.”

“You mean, you want a confession?”

“The Cheka has always excelled at those. Why not? You and I both know there isn’t going to be any trial. The Cheka would never allow it. You’d never allow it.”

“Then I repeat—what’s the point?”