Sam Eastland - Berlin Red

‘Inspector Pekkala is also . . .’ began Kirov.

The man held up one hand to silence him. ‘Do not speak to me of that barbarian! What he wears does not belong in Russia, or Germany, or anywhere else on this earth! His tailor ought to be shot. And even if he would agree to let me outfit him for this journey, which he wouldn’t, it is hopeless anyway. Pekkala will never fit in. Anywhere! It’s just who he is. There is no camouflage for such a man.’

At last, Kirov arrived at the records office on the fourth floor, to share the good news of his promotion with his wife.

Elizaveta was in her mid-twenties, head and shoulders shorter than Kirov, with a round and slightly freckled face, a small chin and dark, inquisitive eyes.

Few outsiders were ever permitted past the iron-grilled door which served as the entrance to the records office. But Kirov had that privilege. Thanks to Elizaveta, Kirov had been welcomed into their miniature tribe.

They retired to what had once been a storage room for cleaning supplies used by the maids at the hotel. The space had been converted by the three women who managed the records office, led by the fearsome Sergeant Gatkina, into a refuge where they could smoke and drink their tea in peace.

Elizaveta, wearing a tight-collared gymnastiorka tunic, dark skirt and navy-blue beret, sat upon a filing cabinet placed on its side against the wall.

Kirov paced about in front of her, animatedly describing his promotion. He expected that, at any moment, Elizaveta would leap up from her makeshift seat and embrace him.

But this did not happen.

All she said, at first, was, ‘Stalin is no fool.’

‘How strange,’ remarked Kirov. ‘That’s just what the Inspector told me!’

‘Stalin is not raising you up,’ she told him, leaning forward and lowering her voice, as people often did when mentioning the name of Stalin. ‘In fact, he might as well have sentenced you to death.’

‘You’re not making any sense!’ blurted Kirov. ‘I have been promoted!’

‘In order to do what?’ she demanded. ‘Give orders to Pekkala? That’s just not possible. As soon as you cross the border into enemy territory, that Finn will do exactly as he’s always done.’

‘Which is what?’

‘Whatever he chooses,’ she replied, ‘and if that choice is to simply vanish off the face of the earth like some phantom in a fairy tale, who will be held responsible?’ She raised her eyebrows, waiting for the answer which both of them already knew.

‘He wouldn’t do that,’ said Kirov. ‘He’s knows the kind of trouble I’d be in.’

‘Of course he does,’ answered Elizaveta, ‘and that’s what Stalin’s banking on. You are his insurance policy against Pekkala’s disappearance, but do not think for a minute that you are actually in charge of this mission.’

‘If that’s what you think,’ Kirov said indignantly, ‘then maybe I’ll surprise you.’

‘That may be so,’ she told him, ‘but there’s something I still don’t understand,’ she added.

‘And what is that?’ asked Kirov.

‘Even if you do find this woman, does Pekkala really think they stand a chance of getting back together?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he answered honestly. ‘I do know he still loves her.’

‘And how do you know that?’ she demanded. ‘Has he told you so?’

‘Not in so many words.’

‘Then what makes you think it is true?’

‘Pekkala used to send her money every month,’ explained Kirov. ‘You see, he knew exactly where she lived in Paris, at least until the war broke out. After that, he lost track of her.’

‘So they were communicating up to that point?’

‘No,’ Kirov told her. ‘He never told her where the money really came from.’

‘Well, where did she think it was coming from?’

‘It was transferred from a Moscow bank under the name of Rada Obolenskaya, the headmistress of the school where she had worked before the Revolution. According to Pekkala, Comrade Obolenskaya had always taken good care of Lilya and so she had no reason to doubt that Obolenskaya was actually the source.’

‘But why on earth wouldn’t he tell her?’ Elizaveta exclaimed in exasperation.

‘Until today, when Comrade Stalin told him otherwise, Pekkala was under the impression that Lilya had got married, and that she even had a family. He did not want to take the risk of damaging the new life she had made for herself. But he never fell out of love with her and I don’t think he ever will, whatever happens when we reach Berlin.’

‘If he thinks he can just pick up where he left off,’ said Elizaveta, ‘then he is just a dreamer.’

‘There are worse things to be,’ Kirov answered defensively, ‘and maybe he just wants to save her life. After all, that’s what I’d do for you.’

Only now did she rise to embrace him. ‘I want you to make me a promise,’ she said.

‘What would that be?’ asked Kirov.

‘If it comes down to you or Pekkala,’ she said, her voice muffled against the chest of his neatly pressed tunic, ‘promise you’ll make the right decision.’

‘All right,’ Kirov told her softly. ‘I will.’

When the money first started arriving in her account, back in the summer of 1933, Lilya Simonova thought that somebody had made a mistake. After receiving her statement in the mail, and seeing that there was considerably more in her account than should have been there, she went to the bank manager to find out what had happened.

‘Everything is in order,’ he assured her. ‘The money has been wired from Moscow.’

‘But by whom?’

‘Rada Igorevna Obolenskaya,’ replied the manager. ‘Does that name sound familiar to you?’

‘Why yes,’ said Lilya, still confused. ‘Yes, it does, but . . .’

‘I am given to understand,’ interrupted the manager, ‘that additional amounts will be deposited each month.’

‘For how long?’

The manager shrugged. ‘No limit has been set.’

‘And is there any message from Rada Igorevna?’

‘None that I know of.’

‘What should I do about this?’ Lilya wondered aloud.

‘I’ll tell you exactly what to do,’ said the manager. ‘Take the money. Take it and be glad.’

The next month, just as the manager had said, another deposit arrived from Moscow. And it continued to arrive, without fail, for the following eight years.

Lilya Simonova attempted to make contact with her former employer. She had no idea where the headmistress might be living but wrote to the address of the school where they had worked together, hoping that she might still be there or that someone who remembered her might be able to forward it. But she received no reply and, after many attempts, she finally gave up.

In 1937, at a place called the Cafe Dimitri, where expatriate Russians often gathered to drink tea, Lilya ran into someone she had known in Petrograd before the Revolution. Her name was Olga Komarova and her children had attended the school where Lilya taught. When Lilya mentioned to her the gifts which had been sent by Rada Obolenskaya, a strange look passed over the face of her friend.

‘But that’s impossible,’ said Olga Komarova. ‘The school was burned to the ground, right at the beginning of the Revolution. It couldn’t have been more than a day after you left.’

‘Well,’ replied Lilya, ‘that explains why no one got the letters I sent. But Rada was a woman of means. I don’t think she needed her job to survive financially. Even with the school gone, I’m sure she still had money tucked away.’

Olga Komarova reached across and rested her hand upon Lilya’s. ‘No,’ she said softly, ‘you don’t understand. The poor woman was in the school when the Red Guards came to burn it down. They told her to leave, but she refused, so they burned the school anyway, with her inside it. Lilya, she’s been dead for years.’