William Ryan: The Twelfth Department

Korolev took up position just beside the engine’s coal tender, keeping his eyes peeled for a mop of blond hair and a smiling face, hardly able to contain his own excitement—but there was no sign of Yuri. The people kept coming but still his son didn’t appear, and now he was looking only at stragglers and railway workers. Where was he? There’d been youngsters among the crowd right enough, but they’d had parents and family in tow. Zhenia had sent the boy on his own, saying he’d be fine, that the journey wasn’t very long; but Korolev knew things he’d never tell Zhenia about what could happen on a Soviet train—even in the middle of the day with the sun shining. He found his hands had balled into fists and that dread was seeping through his veins.

Korolev moved forward along the length of train, his pace increasing with each step, checking each compartment and pushing aside anyone who got in his way. By the time he’d reached the fourth carriage he was almost certain something had happened to the boy. And by the time he’d checked the fifth carriage, and found it empty as well, he was convinced of it. It wasn’t until the very last carriage—by which time guards were shutting doors further up the train—that he found what he’d been looking for. A small head. Blonde hair pressed against a window.

Korolev swallowed hard and opened the door, fearing the worst. The young boy sat slumped in the corner of a bench seat, a suitcase on his knees nearly as big as he was. Deathly pale, his eyes shut. Yuri. Korolev reached forward to touch his son’s cheek, bracing himself; but the skin was warm. Korolev hadn’t even been aware he’d been holding his breath until he let it go.

The boy was fast asleep.

Korolev took the seat opposite, not sure quite what to do. Should he wake him? He examined him—a little over five feet tall now, he’d say—a good-looking child with a strong mouth and a firm chin. His hair was cut short at the sides but had a little length on top so his curls showed. Around his neck, above the white sleeveless shirt, hung a red Pioneer’s scarf—the brass ring that gathered it together underneath the boy’s chin looking as though it had been polished for the trip.

He’d changed, was the truth of the matter, his face was leaner and he’d grown an inch or two, but it was more than that. It seemed to Korolev almost as if he was looking at a version of the son he remembered. He’d only seen Yuri once in two years, for three days back in March, and even then they’d only been together in the evenings. Of course, he would have changed—he was young, it was what they did. Only middle-aged men like him stayed more or less the same.

Eventually he leaned forward and shook Yuri’s shoulder till his blue eyes opened in surprise. The boy shifted his focus rapidly from Korolev to the carriage, to the station he found himself in—sitting up as he did so.

Korolev heard him murmur a single word—“Moscow”—before he leaned back against the seat.

“Yuri,” Korolev said, softly, and expected to see the boy’s face break into a smile, for the suitcase to be tossed aside and for arms to reach around his neck, but instead his son’s expression remained melancholy, and he said nothing. Korolev leaned forward once again to ruffle the boy’s hair—careful to be gentle with him.

“Are you all right?”

Yuri nodded but it seemed to be an effort for him. Korolev looked at him for a long moment—there was something not right, that was certain. But like as not, tiredness was mostly what it was—that and the heat. He took the bag from the boy’s unresisting grip then slipped his arm around him.

“Come here, Yurochka,” he said and scooped the boy up to his shoulder, turning to climb down from the carriage and place Yuri on his unsteady feet.

“We’ll have to walk for a while, can you manage?”

The boy nodded.

“I’ll carry the suitcase then.”

They made their way along the platform in silence, Yuri’s eyes fixed on the ground in front of his feet, not once looking up at him. And Korolev felt almost as lost as the boy looked.

They traveled by tram back to Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky. Korolev managed to squeeze Yuri onto a seat and stood over him, protecting the boy from the late-afternoon crush. Yuri didn’t look at him or the other passengers, or even out the window at the city passing by. His stare was blank and seemed fixed on nothing. Korolev felt his hand instinctively reach forward to touch him, but he held it back. He’d take it slowly—there was time. They needed to get to know each other again was all.

It was only five minutes from the tram stop to the street Korolev lived in, but Yuri still hadn’t spoken—or even properly acknowledged him. Korolev stopped at the door to the apartment and crouched down in front of Yuri so that the boy couldn’t avoid looking at him. Even in the gloom of the stairwell, the boy’s blue eyes seemed unnaturally bright.

“Listen, Yuri. I know you’re tired, I can see that, but these are your neighbors for the next week and you’ll make an effort, yes? The woman is called Koltsova—Valentina Nikolayevna.” Korolev spoke distinctly—until the boy was better acquainted, it would be polite for him to use both Valentina’s name and patronymic. Yuri nodded to show he had it memorized.

“Her husband was that famous engineer I told you about, the one who died in the Metro accident.”

“I remember.” Yuri’s voice, when it came, was little better than a croak.

“Good. Now her daughter is Natasha—she’s a bit younger than you and a good person as well. A Pioneer, same as you are. They’re the best of people, both of them—I couldn’t ask for better. So I want you to speak up and speak strongly, as Comrade Stalin would expect from such a fine young specimen of socialist youth, and treat them as the good comrades they are.”

Yuri seemed to wake at that, and give Korolev his full attention for the first time.

“Of course.”

“Good.”

Korolev stood and put his key in the lock, knocking once on the door as he opened it.

“We’re here,” he called in.

“Come in, come in.” Valentina bustled out from the small kitchen area, wiping her hands on an apron, her cheeks rosy from the heat. It occurred to Korolev that he’d never seen her wear an apron before.

“We made a cake,” she said. “We wanted to do something nice for Yuri.”

“An apricot cake,” Natasha said, appearing beside her mother, a smile on her face. “I queued for them. The apricots that is.”

“We didn’t get everything we needed.” Valentina put a finger to her chin as she considered this. “But it worked out, I think.”

“It smells good.”

“It does smell good,” Yuri agreed, and Korolev was pleased to see his son was smiling along with everyone else.

“Yuri.” Valentina stepped forward to embrace him. “We’re pleased to have you here.”

“Thank you. I’m pleased to be here.”

Yuri looked up toward Korolev, who nodded his approval.

“Yes, Comrade Yuri—fellow Pioneer.” Natasha took Yuri’s hand in hers, shaking it vigorously. “Welcome to Moscow.”

It was strange to spend a night with another human being so close by, and periodically Korolev found himself waking, just about, and listening—though for what, he couldn’t quite remember at first. A dark silence surrounded him. Then, his ears attuning, he might hear a car’s engine a few streets away, or perhaps some mysterious metallic grinding from down near the river, or a late-night walker’s footsteps. Nothing unusual, in other words. It was like that, Moscow—it moved around in its sleep.

Finally, however, Korolev would detect the quiet rhythm of Yuri’s breathing only feet away. The boy was sleeping on a borrowed couch on the other side of the bedroom and Korolev felt a warm happiness at his proximity. But even in his half-awake state, he remembered that all wasn’t well. Yuri had cheered up when they’d come back to the apartment, but until then—well—he’d been strange and silent. And, remembering that, worry would gnaw away at Korolev—until he slipped back into unconsciousness once again.