Tom Smith - The Secret Speech

— He’s going to die!

Timur emerged from the water, gasping, lifting himself up, wrapping an arm around the next bar and pulling himself free of the foam. The bulk of his body was still submerged but his grip was good.

Relieved, Leo didn’t move, keeping a grip on the boy’s ankle as he kicked and thrashed. Timur pulled himself up to Leo’s position, taking the flashlight from Leo’s mouth and pointing it at the boy’s face.

— Kick again and I’ll break your leg.

The boy stopped: there was no doubting that Timur was serious. Leo added:

— We climb up together, slowly, to the next level. Understood?

The boy nodded. The three of them climbed up, slowly, awkwardly, a mass of limbs, moving like a deformed spider.

At the top of the ladder, Leo remained stationary, holding the boy’s ankle while Timur scrambled up over both of them, reaching the passageway above:

— Let him go.

Leo let go and climbed up. Timur had the boy’s arms pinned. Leo took hold of the flashlight, using his fingertips to avoid touching his bloody palms. He shined the light in the boy’s face:

— Your only chance of staying alive is by talking to me. You’ve murdered a very important man. A lot of people are going to be calling for your execution.

Timur shook his head:

— You’re wasting your time. Look at his neck.

The boy’s neck was marked with a tattoo, an Orthodox cross. Timur explained:

— He’s a member of a gang. He’d rather die than talk.

The boy smiled:

— You’re down here while up there… your wife… Raisa…

Leo’s reaction was instantaneous, stepping forward, grabbing the boy by his shirt, pulling him free from Timur and lifting him off his feet. It was all the opportunity the boy needed. Like an eel, he slipped out of his shirt, dropping to the floor and darting to the side. Left holding the shirt, Leo turned the flashlight, finding the boy crouched by the edge of the shaft. The boy stepped out, falling into the water below. Leo lunged but too late. Looking down he saw no sign of the boy — he’d fallen into the fast-flowing water, swept away.

Frantic, Leo assessed his surroundings: a closed concrete tunnel. Raisa was in danger. And there was no way out.

RISA WAS SEATED OPPOSITE THE SCHOOL’S DIRECTOR, Karl Enukidze — a kind man with a gray beard. Also with them was Iulia Peshkova, Zoya’s teacher. Karl’s fingers were knotted under his chin, scratching backward and forward, glancing at Raisa and then at Iulia. For the most part Iulia avoided eye contact altogether, chewing her lip and wishing that she was anywhere but here. Raisa understood their trepidation. If the smashing of Stalin’s portrait were to be investigated Zoya would be placed under the scrutiny of the KGB. But so would they. The question of guilt could be reconstituted: do they blame the child, or the adults who influenced the child? Was Karl a subversive, encouraging dissident behavior in his students when they should be fervently patriotic? Or perhaps Iulia’s lessons were deficient in Soviet character. Questions would arise as to what kind of guardian Raisa had been. Possible outcomes were being hastily calculated. Breaking the silence Raisa said:

— We’re still behaving as though Stalin were alive. Times have changed. There’s no appetite for the denouncement of a fourteen-year-old girl. You’ve read the speech: Khrushchev admits the arrests have gone too far. We don’t need to take an internal school matter to the State. We can deal with it. Let’s see this for what it really is: a troubled young girl, a girl in my care. Let me help her.

Judging from their muted reaction, a lifetime of caution was not wiped away by a single speech, no matter who was speaking and what was being said. Adjusting the emphasis of her strategy, Raisa pointed out:

— It would be best if this were never reported.

Iulia looked up. Karl sat back. A new set of calculations began: Raisa had tried to silence the matter. Her proposal could be used against her. Iulia replied:

— We’re not the only people who know what happened. The students in my class saw everything. There are over thirty of them. By now they will have spoken to their friends, the number will grow. By tomorrow I would be surprised if the entire school wasn’t talking about it. The news will travel outside the school. Parents will find out. They will want to know why we did nothing. What will we say? We didn’t think it was important? That is not for us to decide. Trust in the State. People will find out, Raisa, and if we don’t talk, someone else will.

She was right: containment wasn’t possible. On the defensive, Raisa countered:

— What if Zoya left school with immediate effect? I’d speak to Leo; he could speak to his colleagues. We’d find another school for her. Needless to say I would also leave.

There was no way Zoya could continue her education here. Students would avoid her. Many wouldn’t sit next to her. Teachers would resist having her in their classes. She’d be an outcast as surely as if a cross were daubed on her back.

— I propose that you, Karl Enukidze, make no statement about our leaving. We would simply disappear: no explanation given.

The other students and teachers would presume the matter had been taken care of. The sudden absence would be translated as the culprits being punished. No one would want to talk about it because the consequences had been so severe. The topic would close down, the subject would disappear — a ship sinking at sea while another ship passed by, all the passengers looking in the opposite direction.

Karl weighed up the proposal. Finally he asked:

— You’d take care of all the arrangements?

— Yes.

— Including discussing the issue with the relevant authorities? The Ministry of Education, you have connections?

— Leo does, I’m sure.

— I don’t need to speak to Zoya? I don’t need to have any dealings with her at all?

Raisa shook her head:

— I’ll take my daughter and walk out. You carry on as normal, as though I’d never existed. Tomorrow neither Zoya nor myself will attend classes.

Karl looked at Iulia, his eager eyes recommending the plan. It now depended on her. Raisa turned to her friend:

— Iulia?

They’d known each other for three years. They’d helped each other on many occasions. They were friends. Iulia nodded, saying:

— That would be for the best.

They would never speak to each other again.

OUTSIDE THE OFFICE, in the corridor, Zoya was waiting, leaning against the wall — nonchalant, as though she’d merely failed to hand in homework. Her hand was bandaged: the cut had bled profusely. With the negotiations concluded, Raisa shut the office door, exhaustion sweeping over her. Much would now depend upon Leo. Walking to Zoya, she crouched down:

— We’re going home.

— Not my home.

No gratitude, just disdain. Close to tears, Raisa couldn’t manage any words.

Leaving the school building, Raisa stopped at the gates. Had they been betrayed so quickly? Two uniformed officers walked toward her:

— Raisa Demidova?

The eldest of the officers continued:

— We’ve been sent by your husband to escort you home.

They weren’t here about Zoya. Relieved, she asked:

— What’s happened?

— Your husband wants to be sure you’re safe. We can’t go into the details except to say there have been a series of incidents. Our presence is a precaution.