Tom Smith - Child 44

— They’d be so angry. Because that was the last time I ever saw him. Sir, we played nicely most of the time. And we would’ve played nicely again, we would’ve made up, we would’ve been friends again, I’m sure of it. But now I can’t make it up to him, I can’t ever say sorry.

Leo was hearing this boy’s confession. The boy wanted forgiveness. He’d begun to cry. Embarrassed, Leo patted his head, muttering, as though they were the words of a lullaby:

— It was no one’s fault.

Same Day

Anatoly Brodsky hadn’t slept in three days. He was so tired that even the most basic tasks required concentration. The barn door in front of him was locked. He knew he’d have to force it open. Even so the idea seemed far-fetched. He simply didn’t have the energy. Snow had begun to fall. He looked up at the night sky; his mind drifted and when he eventually remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing snow was settling on his face. He licked the flakes across his lips and realized that if he didn’t get inside he was going to die. Concentrating, he kicked the door. The hinges shook, the door remained shut. He kicked again. Timbers splintered. Encouraged by the sound he summoned the last sparks of energy and aimed a third kick at the lock. The wood cracked, the door swung back. He stood at the entrance, adjusting to the gloom. On one side of the barn there were two cows in an enclosure. On the other side there were tools, straw. He spread some of the coarse sacks on the frozen ground, buttoned his coat and lay down, crossing his arms and closing his eyes.

From his bedroom window, Mikhail Zinoviev could see that the barn door was open. It was swaying backwards and forwards in the wind and snow was swirling into his barn. He turned around. His wife was in bed, asleep. Deciding not to disturb her, he quietly put on his coat, his felt boots and went outside.

The wind had picked up, whipping loose snow off the ground and flinging it into Mikhail’s face. He raised his hand, sheltering his eyes. As he approached the barn, glancing through his fingers he could see the lock had been smashed, the door kicked open. He peered inside and after adjusting to the absence of moonlight he saw the outline of a man lying on the ground against the straw. Without any clear sense of what he was about to do, he entered the barn, took hold of a pitchfork, stepped up to the sleeping figure, raising the prongs above the man’s stomach, ready to jab down.

Anatoly opened his eyes and saw snow-covered boots centimetres from his face. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the man looming over him. The prongs of a pitchfork were directly above his stomach, quivering. Neither man moved. Their breath formed a mist in front of their faces which appeared and disappeared. Anatoly didn’t try to grab the pitchfork. He didn’t try to move out of the way.

They remained like this, frozen mid-frame, until a feeling of shame overcame Mikhail. He gasped as though he’d been punched in the stomach by some invisible force, dropping the pitchfork harmlessly to the ground, sinking to his knees.

— Please forgive me.

Anatoly sat up. The adrenaline had jolted him awake but his body ached. How long had he been asleep? Not long, not long enough. His voice was hoarse, his throat dry.

— I understand. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have asked for your help. You have your family to think of. I’ve put you in danger. It is I who should be asking for your forgiveness.

Mikhail shook his head.

— I was afraid. I panicked. Forgive me.

Anatoly glanced out at the snow and darkness. He couldn’t leave now. He wouldn’t survive. Of course he couldn’t allow himself to sleep. But he did still need shelter. Mikhail was waiting for an answer, waiting for forgiveness.

— There’s nothing to forgive. You’re not to blame. I might have done the same.

— But you’re my friend.

— I’m still your friend and I’ll always be your friend. Listen to me: I want you to forget that tonight ever happened. Forget that I ever came here. Forget that I ever asked for your help. Remember us as we were. Remember us as the best of friends. Do this for me and I shall do the same for you. By first light I’ll be gone. I promise. You’ll wake up and continue your life as normal. I assure you no one will ever know I was here.

Mikhail’s head dropped: he wept. Until tonight he’d believed he would’ve done anything for his friend. That was a lie. His loyalty, bravery and friendship had all been proved paper thin — they’d ripped at the first serious test.

When Anatoly had arrived unannounced that evening Mikhail had seemed understandably surprised. Anatoly had travelled to the village without warning. All the same he’d been welcomed warmly, offered food, drink, a bed. Only once his hosts had heard the news that he was making his way north to the Finnish border did they finally understand the reason for the sudden arrival. He’d never mentioned that he was wanted by the State Security Police, the MGB. He didn’t need to. They understood. He was a fugitive. As that fact became clear the welcome had evaporated. The punishment for aiding and abetting a fugitive was execution. He knew this but had hoped his friend would be prepared to accept the risk. He’d even hoped his friend might travel north with him. The MGB weren’t looking for two people and what’s more Mikhail had acquaintances in towns all the way to Leningrad including Tver and Gorky. True, it was an enormous amount to ask, but Anatoly had once saved Mikhail’s life and though he’d never considered it a debt that ever needed to be repaid, that was only because he’d never thought he’d need to call it in.

During their discussion it had become apparent that Mikhail wasn’t prepared to take that kind of risk. In fact, he wasn’t prepared to take any kind of risk. His wife had frequently interrupted their conversation asking to speak with her husband in private. At each interruption she’d glared at Anatoly with unmasked venom. Circumstances demanded prudence and caution as a part of everyday life. And there was no denying he’d brought danger to his friend’s family, a family he loved. Lowering his expectations sharply he had told Mikhail that he wanted nothing more than a night’s sleep in their barn. He’d be gone by tomorrow morning. He’d walk to the nearest railway station, the same way he’d arrived. In addition it’d been his idea to smash the lock to the barn. In the unlikely event that he was caught the family could claim ignorance and pretend there’d been an intruder. He’d believed that these precautions had reassured his hosts.

Unable to watch his friend cry, Anatoly leaned close.

— There’s nothing to feel guilty about. We’re all just trying to survive.

Mikhail stopped crying. He looked up, wiping his tears away. Realizing that this would be the last time they would ever see each other, the two friends hugged.

Mikhail pulled back.

— You’re a better man than me.

He stood up, leaving the barn and taking care to shut the door, kicking up some snow to wedge it in position. He turned his back on the wind and trudged towards the house. Killing Anatoly and reporting him as an intruder would have guaranteed the safety of his family. Now he’d have to take his chances. He’d have to pray. He’d never thought of himself as a coward, and during the war, when it had been his own life at stake, he’d never behaved as one. Some men had even called him brave. But having a family had made him fearful. He was able to imagine far worse things than his own death.