Tom Smith - The Secret Speech

— The son ends up digging more coal than anyone has ever dug before, becomes a national hero, and dedicates his prize to the memory of his father.

Leo shut the book.

— You’re right. It’s not very good. But Zoya, while it’s okay for you to say whatever you please in this house, be more careful outside. Expressing critical opinions, even about trivial matters, like a children’s story, is dangerous .

— You going to arrest me?

Zoya had never accepted Leo as her guardian. She’d never forgiven him for the death of her parents. Leo didn’t refer to himself as their father. And Zoya would call him Leo Demidov, addressing him formally, putting as much distance between them as possible. She took every opportunity to remind him that she was living with him out of practical considerations, using him as a means to an end — providing material comforts for her sister, freeing her from the orphanage. Even so, she took care that nothing impressed her, not the apartment, not their outings, day trips, or meals. As stern as she was beautiful, there was no softness in her appearance. Perpetual unhappiness seemed vitally important to her. There was little Leo could do to encourage her to shrug it off. He hoped that at some point relations would slowly improve. He was still waiting. He would, if necessary, wait forever.

— No, Zoya, I don’t do that anymore. And I never will again.

Leo reached down, picking up one of the Detskaya Literatura journals, printed for children across the country. Before he could start, Zoya cut in:

— Why don’t you make up a story? We’d like that, wouldn’t we, Elena?

When Elena had first arrived in Moscow, she’d been very young, only four years old, young enough to adapt to the changes in her life. In contrast to her older sister, she’d made friends and worked hard at school. Susceptible to flattery, she sought her teachers’ praise, trying to please everyone, including her new guardians.

Elena became anxious. She understood from the tone of her sister’s voice that she was expected to agree. Embarrassed at having to take sides, she merely nodded. Leo, sensing danger, replied:

— There are plenty of stories we haven’t read, I’m sure I can find one we like .

Zoya wouldn’t relent:

— They’re all the same. Tell us something new. Make something up.

— I doubt I’d be very good .

— You’re not even going to try? My father used to make up all kinds of stories. Set it on a remote farm, a farm in winter, with the ground covered in a layer of snow. The nearby river is frozen. It could start like this. Once upon a time there are two young girls, sisters…

— Zoya, please.

— The sisters live with their mother and their father and they’re as happy as can be. Until one day a man, in a uniform, came to arrest them and—

Leo interrupted:

— Zoya? Please?

Zoya glanced at her sister and stopped. Elena was crying. Leo stood up.

— You’re both tired. I’ll find some better books tomorrow. I promise.

Leo turned the light off and closed the door. In the hallway, he comforted himself that things would get better, eventually. All Zoya needed was a little more time.

ZOYA LAY IN BED, listening to the sound of her sister sleeping — her slow, soft intakes of breath. When they’d lived on the farm with their parents, the four of them shared a small room with thick mud walls, warmed by a wood fire. Zoya would sleep beside Elena under their coarse, hand-stitched blankets. The sound of her little sister sleeping meant safety: it meant their parents were nearby. It didn’t belong here, in this apartment, with Leo in the room next door.

Zoya never fell asleep easily. She’d lie in bed for hours, churning thoughts before exhaustion overcame her. She was the only person who cherished the truth: the only person who refused to forget. She eased herself out of bed. Aside from her little sister’s breathing, the apartment was silent. She crept to the door, her eyes already adjusted to the darkness. She navigated the hallway by keeping her hand on the wall. In the kitchen, street lighting leaked in through the window. Moving nimbly, like a thief, she opened a drawer and took hold of the handle, feeling the weight of the knife.

PRESSING THE BLADE FLAT against her leg, Zoya walked toward Leo’s bedroom. Slowly she pushed open the door until there was enough space that she could sidestep inside. She moved silently over the wood floor. The curtains were drawn, the room dark, but she knew the layout, where to tread in order to reach Leo, sleeping on the far side.

Standing directly over him Zoya raised the knife. Although she couldn’t see him, her imagination mapped the contours of his body. She wouldn’t stab him in the stomach: the blankets might absorb the blade. She’d plunge the blade through his neck, sinking it as far as she could, before he had a chance to overpower her. Knife outstretched, she pressed down with perfect control. Through the blade she felt his arm, his shoulder — she steered upward, making small depressions until the knife tip touched directly onto his skin. In position, all she had to do was grip the handle with both hands and push down.

Zoya performed this ritual at irregular intervals, sometimes once a week, sometimes not for a month. The first time had been three years ago, shortly after she and her sister had moved into this apartment from the orphanage. On that occasion she’d had every intention of killing him. That same day he’d taken them to the zoo. Neither she nor Elena had been to a zoo and, confronted with exotic animals, creatures that she’d never seen before, she’d forgotten herself. For perhaps no more than five or ten minutes, she’d enjoyed the visit. She’d smiled. He hadn’t seen her smile, she was sure of that, but it didn’t matter. Watching him together with Raisa, a happy couple, imitating a family, pretending, lying, she understood that they were trying to steal the place of her parents. And she’d let them. On her way home, on the tramcar, her guilt had been so intense she’d thrown up. Leo and Raisa had blamed the sweet snacks and the motion of the tram. That night, feverish, she’d lain in bed, crying, scratching her legs until they bled. How could she have betrayed the memory of her parents so easily? Leo believed he could win her love with new clothes, rare foods, day trips, and chocolate: it was pathetic. She’d vowed that her lapse would never happen again. There was one way to make sure: she’d taken the knife and resolved to kill him. She’d stood, as she stood now, ready to murder.

The same memory that had driven her into the room, the memory of her parents, was the reason she hadn’t killed him. They wouldn’t want this man’s blood on her hands. They would want her to look after her sister. Obedient, silently crying, she’d allowed Leo to live. Every now and then she’d come back, creeping in, armed with a knife, not because she’d changed her mind, not for revenge, not to murder, but as a memorial to her parents, as a way of saying she had not forgotten them.

The telephone rang. Startled, Zoya stepped back, the knife slipping from her hand, clattering to the floor. Dropping to her knees, she fumbled in the pitch-black frantically trying to find it. Leo and Raisa were stirring, the bed straining as they moved. They’d be reaching for the light. Working by touch alone, Zoya desperately patted the floor-boards. As the telephone rang for the second time she had no choice but to leave the knife behind, hurrying around the bed, running toward the door, slipping through the gap just as the light came on.