William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

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?

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.

Korolev had a lot on his mind as they walked through the trees toward the river. The more he thought about it the more it seemed a worrying coincidence that this news about Zhenia should arrive at the same time as the two men on the station platform. If they were State Security, then might they be following him because of Zhenia? They often worked like that—if suspicion fell on an individual it wasn’t long before it fell on their friends and family, their coworkers and even neighbors. Even if he hadn’t been with Zhenia for some time now, he could still be at risk. He needed to talk to her, yet he knew that might increase the risk. It was a dilemma.

At least Yuri had revived enough to now be whistling. He was walking beside Korolev and, even if he was avoiding his eye as he whittled his damned stick with that little pearl-handled pocket knife of his, he seemed cheerier. Maybe he’d believed him after all.

Was his behavior normal though? It seemed odd to be so upset and then, not an hour later, to be whistling tunelessly as if nothing had ever happened. Korolev scratched his head—he didn’t know much about small boys except what he remembered from his own youth. And since he’d left school at ten to work for a butcher in Khitrovka, he wasn’t sure his memories were that useful—boys grew up quickly in those days. Perhaps there was a book he could read.

They stepped out from the trees onto a grassy expanse that stretched down to the slow-moving river—the slope dotted with sunbathers and picnickers. There was a workers’ rest home on the other side of the bridge—at least some of them must be from there—and the lean youths gathered around the volleyball net by the far trees would be from the Komsomol camp past the cemetery. It was a complete cross-section of Soviet society, in any event. Some of the citizens had the trappings of relative prosperity—a crisp white shirt or a summer dress of a quality that couldn’t be bought in an ordinary store—while others looked as though they might be factory workers or the like. Children ran backward and forward, wet hair shining in the summer sun and watched over by women in white headscarves.

It occurred to him that most other people seemed part of a larger grouping, while Yuri and he were relatively unusual in their isolation among the hullabaloo. But Korolev was used to standing apart from things and, anyway, there were two of them—that was all he cared about.

Korolev picked a spot on a slight rise so that he could keep an eye on Yuri if he went swimming, and under a tree so that he wouldn’t be burned to a crisp. He spread out the blanket he’d brought from the house, rolled up his sleeves like all the other men, and eyed the curve of the tree’s trunk with the anticipation of a man who’d had an early start to a day that had turned out to be, well, not an easy one. He doubted he’d sleep but he might be able to empty his mind for a few minutes. And that would be as good as a holiday in itself, after the last couple of days.

“Off you go, Yuri. No need to wait around for me.” Korolev settled himself down. “Don’t swim out too far—there might be a current.”

In fact, the water looked sluggish as engine oil, and if Korolev hadn’t known better he’d have suspected it of being a long, meandering pond rather than a river. Still, he was sure this kind of caution was expected of fathers.

“I’ll just finish this off first,” Yuri said, looking at the group of youngsters who were splashing in the shallows, before resuming scraping at his stick.

“Go on,” Korolev said, moving his back from side to side to find the perfect spot. “They won’t bite.”

Yuri looked skeptical about that, and Korolev took a second look at the boys in the water—and had to admit Yuri might have a point. And now that he glanced around, he could see the other citizens were keeping a safe distance between themselves and this particular bathing spot and he couldn’t blame them—it was temporary home to as evil a gathering of rascally youth as he’d ever seen, certainly in the same place anyway. The orphans had hard thin faces and sharp yellow teeth and, on second thought, he wouldn’t put it past any of them not to bite—and probably infect you with something nasty when they did so.

Korolev was about to turn his attention back to his tree trunk when he realized one of the boys was showing just as much interest in him and, not believing it could be who he thought it was, he stood to get a better view. There, in among the mayhem, was the red-haired Kim Goldstein, onetime leader of the Razin Street Irregulars and now, it seemed, the ringmaster of a much hardier crew. He’d filled out a little and grown an inch or two—but there was no mistaking him.

With a word to some of his fellows, Goldstein swiped water backward over his skull and stepped up onto the pebble beach. He walked slowly over to where they were sitting—taking his time, confident and purposeful.

“Goldstein. I never thought they’d get you into an orphanage—I’m surprised.”

“Me too, Korolev—but it was a hard winter. I looked for you but you were off somewhere in the south—I thought you might have found us a better class of establishment.”

“I’d have done what I could,” Korolev said.

“I know it. Still, we made it through the winter alive—most of us anyway. That’s what’s important.”

Korolev had absentmindedly taken out his cigarettes when he caught Goldstein’s meaningful glance. He offered the packet without thinking, then became aware of Yuri, the boy’s expression caught somewhere between disapproval and fascination.

“This is my son, Yuri.”

Goldstein raised a finger to his forehead in a laconic salute to which Yuri responded in kind. For some reason, this amused Goldstein.