Peter Higgins - Truth and Fear

‘Vesna!’ called Elena gently. ‘It’s OK. They’re friends.’

The dog padded forward and inspected them. Lom offered his hand to be sniffed. The dog ignored it and went out into the garden.

‘This is a big place,’ he said.

‘It’s Sandu Palffy’s house,’ said Elena. ‘Count Palffy. He and Ilinca have an apartment at the back. The rest is let out. But it is Count Palffy’s house. At least, morally it is his, as he is morally a Count.’

There was a warm fug in the kitchen. Black and white tiles on the floor. Curtains drawn. A hefty old stove against the wall, its fire door open, shedding the heat of fast-burning logs. Two girls at the scrubbed deal table–thick black curly mops of hair and bright clever eyes–looked up when they came in. The older was about thirteen, school books spread in front of her amid the remains of their supper. The younger, who must have been ten or eleven, had a piece of reddish wood and a big clasp knife. She was carving something. An animal. A cat maybe. Lom thought it was probably good.

‘Galina, Yeva, this is my friend Maroussia from the city,’ said Elena. ‘And this…’

‘Vissarion,’ said Lom. ‘I’m Vissarion. That’s a good cat.’

‘It’s a lynx,’ said Yeva. ‘Not a cat.’

‘Oh yes. Of course. Sorry.’

‘There’s rassolnik on the stove,’ said the older girl. Galina. ‘We got pigeons from Milla’s. It was four kopeks for two, and Ilinca gave us a loaf of black bread. And kvass. There’s plenty left.’ She looked doubtfully at Lom and Maroussia. ‘I think.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ said Maroussia. ‘Thanks.’

‘You girls need to go and see to the pony,’ said Elena. ‘Then go upstairs. Both of you. Go and sit with Ilinca. You could get her to put the phonogram on.’

Yeva made a sour face.

‘Oh, but we haven’t—’

‘Upstairs,’ said Elena. ‘Now. I need to talk to Maroussia in private. Tell Sandu there’ll be people in the attic tonight. Don’t forget that.’

Elena brought a big iron pot from the oven. On the table she set out plates, a loaf of bread and a small blue jug of soured cream, and spooned out the thin rassolnik. Onions and cucumber. A few scraps of grey meat.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Maroussia. ‘We should never have come. We’ll go tomorrow.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Elena. ‘It makes no difference.’

‘You’re not safe while we’re here. The girls—’

‘Safe?’ said Elena. ‘Nobody is safe . Not anywhere. One day they come for you, and that’s it. That’s all. Every day the girls go to school and I never know if they’ll come back. Last week they shot thirty people at the Red Cliff. They lined them up in the rain and shot them. Buried the bodies in the ditch. A reprisal . Reprisal for what? Who knows? They didn’t care who they took. Old men. Women. Children . They took their clothes first and then they shot them. They made them stand naked . Then they burned the houses.’

‘Who?’ said Lom. ‘Who did that?’

‘What difference does it make?’ said Elena. ‘Police. Militia. Gendarmes. Army. What’s the difference? Uniforms did it. And it’ll be worse now. Much worse.’

‘Why?’

She stood up and went across to the sideboard, took a piece of paper from a drawer and shoved them across the table towards him.

‘See this? Look at this.’

‘Colloquium Communiqué No. 3’. Its corners were torn as if it had been ripped off a notice board or a telegraph pole.

Men and women of the Vlast!

Again the counter-revolution has raised its criminal head. Revanchists are mobilising their forces to crush us. The bloodstained pogrom-mongers, having slaughtered our beloved Novozhd, intend to cause more killing and terror in the streets of Mirgorod! They have deluded the minds of certain weaker elements within our army and navy and betrayed the heroic sons and daughters to the Archipelago. Staunch resistance is needed. Now is the time for action and clear-eyed sacrifice.

Justified by angels, the Colloquium for the Protection of Citizens and the Vlast agrees to take upon itself the defence of Perpetual Revolution. The Administrative Government of the CPCV is hereby declared.

People of the Lezarye cannot be citizens of the Vlast. They have no rights in law.

It was signed with four names. Dukhonin. Khazar. Chazia. Fohn.

‘See?’ said Elena Cornelius. ‘They’re blaming us for the death of the Novozhd. They’ll come for us all. No rights in law. You know what that means? It means anyone can do anything to us. Put us out of our houses. Loot our shops. Kill us, kill our children. Any time they want to, any time at all, and no police to protect us. The police are for citizens.

‘And that is not all. Look at what happened to the men at the Saltworks Foundry. They took them all, hundreds of men, and their families. All of them.’

‘Took them?’ said Lom. ‘Took them where?’

‘Who knows? The Saltworks Foundry was the first. They come for more every day–whole factories and whole streets every time. They put them on trains and we never see them again. One day they will come here. It is only a matter of time. You should run, Maroussia. Get away from the city while you can. Don’t tell me what trouble you’re in, it doesn’t matter. If the Vlast wants to kill you, then they will kill you. You have to get far, far away from here.’ She looked at Lom. ‘Take her away,’ she said. ‘If you are her friend, get her out of Mirgorod. Go to the exclave. Go to the ice. Go to the forest. Find a ship to the Archipelago. Go anywhere. There’s nothing to keep you here. You should run.’

‘No,’ said Maroussia. ‘I’m not going to run.’

Chazia left General Secretary Steopan Dukhonin alone for most of the night in the interrogation room where Bez Nichevoi had put him. Let him stew. Let him think. Let him wonder. She had other work to do. And she wanted to prepare for the interview: get the facts and figures straight in her head. Dukhonin was a sly little shit, but she would skewer him. She was going to skewer them all one by one: Dukhonin, Khazar, Fohn, all the vicious, patronising, conspiring little men who thought they could use her and keep power for themselves. The men who did not know her and did not see who she was. She would start with Dukhonin. Industrious, cautious, greedy, tiny, frightened Dukhonin. He was the worst. Start with him.

When she went down for him he was sitting at the table in his shirt and carpet slippers. The skin of his face was grey and patched with sparse white stubble. He smelled faintly of urine.

‘Lavrentina, what the fuck…’ he said. ‘What the fuck is this? Am I arrested ? That… that thing of yours killed my people . My fucking housekeeper ! Fohn will destroy you for this. Destroy you!’

His small watery eyes glared at her, sour with fear. His thin little face was tight and full of bone. Chazia sat down across the table from him.

‘We need a little talk, Steopan Vadimovich,’ she said. ‘Just a little talk.’

‘You want to talk, make a fucking appointment.’

‘Let’s start with the steel from Schentz.’

‘Does Fohn know I’m here?’ said Dukhonin. ‘He doesn’t, does he? You’re finished, Lavrentina. You’re nothing. We should never have let you in. I told Fohn… I told him you were—’

‘Fohn?’ said Chazia. ‘What does Fohn matter? Look around you, Steopan. Where is Fohn? Is he here?’

‘You’ve overreached yourself, Lavrentina. You’re dead. Finished. What is this situation? It is preposterous, that’s what it is. I am the General Secretary . I am one of the Four . You don’t question me and I certainly don’t fucking answer.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going home and you’re fucking dead.’