Эльвира Барякина - White Ghosts

Levkin looked at her reproachfully. “The Soviet authorities will pay for everything.”

He took some papers out of his briefcase and slipped them to Nina, but she was unable to make out the writing, which swam before her eyes.

Levkin pushed the inkwell towards her. “I’d appreciate it if you could be a bit quicker. I still have to go to the men’s prison.”

Nina signed the first copy, then the second, and finally the third, but then suddenly noticed an inscription in pencil on the margin:

I’m here. We’ll figure something out.

It was Klim’s handwriting.

The pen fell from Nina’s hands.

“Is he really here?” she asked Levkin.

He motioned towards the guard standing at the door and quickly rubbed out Klim’s words with an eraser.

“Well, I have to run.”

Once he had left, Nina was taken to her cell and searched again. She could hardly wait to be left alone. She was brimming over with joy and, at the same time, disappointment that she hadn’t had a chance to write anything to Klim in reply.

Everything was the same—the gray cell, the bunk bed, and the shabby door. Nina was facing the death penalty or an indefinite prison term, but a few words from Klim had given her life new meaning.

Nina covered her face with her hands and wept with happiness.

Dear Kitty,

If you have received this letter, then that means that I have been arrested and, most likely, executed. It’s frightening to have to write such things, and I know that I’m risking not only my life, but your future as well. But the Aulmans have promised to take care of you if something bad happens.

I must do everything possible to save your mother, and unless I do my utmost to help her, she has no chance. The Chinese authorities and foreign diplomats are out for her blood: they want to punish the Soviet Russia that Fanya Borodina and her cronies represent, and nobody cares that your mother has never had anything to do with it.

Unfortunately, I have no choice but to be a pawn in a dirty political game. I don’t want to go into the details here but I will tell you the most important facts: as a result of the negotiations that have been started here, in Peking, Germany has lifted its support for the economic blockade of the USSR and in return received the right to test its chemical weapons in Russia.

A new leader, Joseph Stalin, is gaining momentum in the Soviet Union. In order to persuade him to become their ally, the Germans have decided to help release the Bolsheviks on death row here in Peking and send two hundred thousand dollars to bribe Huo Cong, the man judging their case.

Unlike most Chinese officials, Huo Cong is renowned for his probity. He has already had a number of people imprisoned who have dared to offer him a bribe, so no one from the Soviet Embassy staff is keen to approach him with this business proposal. We have also failed to find a local mediator, because, in the current political climate, everyone is afraid to have any dealings with Russians.

With each passing day, the court date looms ever closer, so I have volunteered to talk to the judge, and the embassy has agreed. Judge Huo Cong was born near Shanghai, and since I can speak Shanghainese, I can act without an interpreter, which spares us from looking for another person to get involved.

Once a week, Huo Cong goes to the Zhengyici Peking Opera Theatre, and I have decided to meet him there.

I’ve already been there on a scouting mission.

The actors were dressed in elaborate costumes playing scenes from ancient legends, and the auditorium was full of merchants and important officials drinking tea, along with curious foreigners who know nothing about Peking opera.

However, it wasn’t the performance but the judge, the man who holds your mother’s life in his hands, that I was watching. A beam of light from a dusty window fell right onto his table, and at times, I could see his parchment-thin, yellowing hand reach out to grasp his cup of tea. I desperately tried to get at least a glimpse of him, but every time he turned my way, his face was screened by a paper fan.

I’m going to try to approach him tomorrow. To say that I’m afraid would be a huge understatement. If I was faced with the prospect of a fight, I’d be inspired with rage or at least assessing my opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, but I feel as if I’m about to jump into a well.

I don’t know why I’m writing all this. You’re only three years old, and when you grow up, you won’t remember me. The idea that I might disappear from your life without a trace pains me intensely, but I have no other choice. I just want you to know what has happened to me.

Well, good-bye for now. It’s time to go sleep or rather to toss and turn in my bed and pray for help from a God whom I find it increasingly hard to believe in.

Levkin would regularly bring Nina new notes from her husband—words of encouragement and short silly poems that Klim had composed to keep her spirits up.

He never wrote about his feelings for her or made any mention of making up, and Nina still had no clue what his intentions were. Was Klim being so diffident because he didn’t want Levkin to learn about his feelings? Or was Klim just supporting his wife out of compassion? He had, nevertheless, given up his beloved radio station for her sake, so surely that suggested that he was seeking a reconciliation.

If I’m released, what is going to happen next? Nina asked herself. She knew that once this major threat was over, Klim would always be prone to suspicion, and the round of jealousy and rejection would start all over again.

They seemed to find it much easier to love each other in times of trouble when they weren’t faced with the small humdrum problems of everyday life. But Nina now realized that true happiness rested on the precious everyday trinkets that adorn our lives. Of course, a person could live without them, in much the same way as people could survive without books or music, but an existence without such things soon becomes a pale imitation of what life really should be.

Soon Levkin brought her another thing to ponder.

“Your Shanghai friend says hi to you,” he whispered into Nina’s ear during his next visit. “The one who helped you with the antiques. I saw him yesterday, and he asked me to convey his best wishes to you.”

Nina gasped. “Does Klim know that this man is here in Peking?” she asked.

Levkin nodded. “Yes, they came to our embassy together. I think they are good friends.”

Nina had no idea what it all meant.

Finally, the trial began. The recently renovated courtroom was empty except for the participants in the proceedings, the clerks, and the guards. As Levkin had predicted, it was essentially a closed hearing.

Before the session started, he gave the accused his instructions: “Please be sure to control your feelings—that’s the most important thing. And we,” he exchanged glances with his Chinese colleagues, “will see to everything else.”

“All rise!” the interpreter intoned coldly.

To Nina, the old judge with his embroidered coat, silk hat, and ethereal sallow complexion looked more like a dark spirit floating over the surface of the floor than a normal human being. His face was as blank and inscrutable as a death mask.

He interrogated the accused one by one.

“Declare your name and how long you’ve been living in China,” he said. However, it was unclear whether he was listening to the Russian “white ghosts” or their lawyers at all.

Nina stared intently at his waxen face, with its barely visible apertures for eyes. For an instant she imagined that the judge didn’t have any eyes at all and that she was staring straight into a black void. The man is completely hollow inside, nothing more than an empty wrinkled husk, she thought .