Tom Smith - Secret speech

A series of rusted bars blocked the way forward: the space between the bars was less than the width of his hand. The boy must have gone another way. About to turn back, Leo stopped. He was certain: there was no other way. Wiping off the grime, he examined the bars. Two of them were loose. He gripped them, tugging. They could be pulled free. The boy had scouted this route, that’s why he had the flashlight, that’s why he knew to wear the rags-he’d always intended to escape through the sewers. Even with the two bars removed Leo had trouble squeezing through the gap. Forced to take off his jacket in order to fit, he emerged into a cavernous chamber.

Lowering his feet, the floor seemed to move. He shone the light down. It was alive with rats, three or four deep-crawling over each other. His disgust was moderated by his curiosity that they were all traveling in one direction. He turned his light in the direction they were running from, scrambling away from a larger tunnel. Inside that tunnel Leo could see the boy, about a hundred meters’ distance between them. The boy wasn’t running: he was standing by the wall, his hand flat against it. Cautious, sensing something was wrong, Leo moved forward.

The boy swung around and, seeing his pursuer, set off again. He’d adapted his flashlight-which hung around his neck by a piece of string-enabling both hands to remain free. Leo reached out, feeling the tunnel wall. The vibrations were so intense his fingers trembled.

The boy was sprinting, water splashing around his ankles. Leo tracked his movements with his flashlight. Nimble as a cat, the boy used the curved walls, jumping and propelling himself off the side, leaping upwards. His target was the bottom rung of a ladder that emerged from a vertical tunnel overhead. The boy missed the lowest rung, landing with a splash on the floor. Leo ran forward. Behind him, he could hear Timur crying out in disgust, no doubt at the mass of rats. The boy was up on his feet, preparing himself for another jump at the ladder.

Suddenly the thin stream of stagnant water started to swell, surging, rising in volume. A tremendous rumbling filled the tunnel. Leo raised his torch upwards. The beam of light caught white foam: the breaking tip of a wall of water crashing toward them less than two hundred meters away.

With only seconds remaining, the boy made another run for the ladder, jumping at the wall and reaching for the bottom rung. This time he caught it, hanging by both hands. He pulled himself up, clambering into the vertical tunnel, out of the water’s reach. Leo turned around. The water was closing. Timur had just entered the main tunnel.

Arriving at the base of the ladder, Leo clamped the flashlight between his teeth and jumped, catching hold of the steel bar, his hands stinging as he pulled himself up. He could see the boy moving up above him. Ignoring the pain, he sped up, closing on the boy. He grabbed the boy’s foot. Keeping a lock as the boy tried to kick free, Leo directed the beam of light down. At the bottom of the shaft, frantic, Timur dropped his flashlight, jumped. He caught the bottom rung with both hands just as the water crashed around him, white foamy water exploding up into the vertical tunnel.

The boy laughed:

– If you want to save your friend you’ll have to let me go!

He was right. Leo had to let the boy go, scale down, and help Timur.

– 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.